"I'm Tris! I have psychic powers! I cast from Cunning but I'm more like a sorcerer, I don't prep in the mornings I just do whatever. Mostly stuff related to the mind but I can also make my crossbow shoot through walls and around corners. And I'm interested in" general gesture in the direction of the lighthouse "occult happenings".

"I'm Samora! I just graduated from seminary up in Lastwall and came down here because I heard there was adventuring to be done. I heal, I spellcast, I am and I quote 'not a complete embarrassment' with a sword."

Oh no. They're so small? Why has he been assigned these small and earnest children? They shouldn't be-- okay, no, there's no way, they're obviously going with or without him even if he tells them they shouldn't. 

Welp. Guess these are his small and earnest children now. 

"........A pleasure to meet you, miss Tris, miss Samora," says the suit of armor. To Samora's sight, he has a faint aura of Evil. "I know very little of magic, myself, but with any luck shan't need to, as I am for swords." Pause. "Well. I am not entirely sure I remember how to swing a sword, actually, but I suppose I will soon find out." He shrugs, and considers, and attempts, optimistically, "I am called--" 

"--Marshall." Huh. 

Well, that's probably auspicious on the remembering how to use a sword front. 

He had a family name, once, he thinks. Maybe that one will come back eventually too. 

"Why don't you remember if you can swing a sword? Did something happen to your memories? Can you tell me about it?"

Having constant Detect Evil is going to be very handy for adventuring, but it does mean that sometimes you learn that someone has done some things they regret and would like to make up for well before the natural point in the relationship for learning that sort of thing. And if he's telling the truth about the memory problems he might not even remember what it was. She ponders the awkwardness of this and sets it aside for later while Tris is asking her questions.

Ah, so it's the casting from cunning that makes you A Wizard and not the spell prep. Honestly pretty reasonable questions. "Would you like to spar with me before we go look at the lighthouse, see if it refreshes your memory a bit?"

"I suppose something must have happened to my memories, yes, but naturally I cannot remember what it was." Shrug. "It will return in time, or perhaps it will not. I would be happy to spar a bit, though we should not take too long at it and find ourselves forgetting to pursue our true objective." 

Marshall, it transpires, does not super remember how to use his sword. He moves like he's expecting his limbs to behave very differently than they do and every time he reaches for a specific trained move, the way Samora can do because she has been drilling on them daily for years, it's not there. He spends most of their sparring time grumbling to himself about how he is absolutely not in any way up to standard and this is embarrassing and he's very sorry. 

It will by about five minutes into this be obvious that his standards for himself are, actually, insane. If they were trying to have a real fight to the death in an antimagic field, he'd win. 

Well, memory problems or no memory problems he's clearly good enough to be an asset to the party. "I hope you get your memory back soon, not being able to remember things sounds really rough." And they can thank the astrologer for the introductions and go check out that cursed lighthouse!

Pharast (March) 21st, 4714 AR (Absalom Reckoning). 

The sound of frogs and mosquitoes mixes with water sloshing against muddy shores, all muffled by the ever-present mists that linger in the aptly named Fogfen. As the mists clear, a shadow looms from the cloying swamp vapors—a sprawling ruin of stone and wood squats atop an island in the soggy marsh. The upper floors have largely collapsed, leaving only the stone walls of the ground floor intact. Above these ruins towers an out-of-place monument—a colossal lighthouse whose painted walls and iron-cased crown have resisted the corrosive effects of the surrounding swamp.

(and as they get closer...) 

Swaths of mildew and mold cover the damp surfaces of this watchtower, appearing as green and black smears on the dull stone walls. The door frames in the walls to the north and south rotted long ago, while a few collapsed chairs lie on the floor amid small heaps of foul-smelling gray lumps. Thick sheets of dusty cobwebs hang from above, obscuring any view of the ceiling.

Well. Obscuring the view of ordinary people, anyway. 

Samora is both on the lookout for threats the normal way and has her Detect Evil up.

Tris has an even cooler trick: she can cast Message with a target of "someone nearby who's not either of my party members" and see if that hits anyone!

Three mitflits lurk above the cobwebs but can’t resist a chance to torment and trick the heroes once they enter the room below. By crouching down on the planks and vines and peering through the cobwebs, the three mitflits wait until at least two heroes have entered the room below before calling out in their best imitation of high-pitched pixie voices. They welcome the heroes into their parlor, warn them about the mean bugs that live in the nearby keep, and suggest the visitors partake of the “magic pixie mud” on the floor-- 

They're not Evil. (They are chaotic neutral gremlin creatures.) They are nevertheless spotted (and/or psychically detected) immediately and do not get to do any of that.

the mitflits shriek in anger and fear. 

Time for your first combat, baby adventurers! 

... are they ... attacking ... though ... or just yelling ... 

They're throwing rocks at him. 

Ah. In that case it is sword time, time for swords. 

Now there is one mitflit corpse and two mitflits. 

They run away! 

Attack of opport-- dangit the other ones are out of reach. 

"I guess . . . that's that problem solved for now?" They'll probably sneak around and try again later but she's not going to chase them down while they run when all they did was throw rocks.

"Nuts, I was hoping they'd talk to me." Shrug.

"Woulda been nice." That's gobliny-types for you.

"An admirable hope, if oft ill-advised." Through the gatehouse, then, with reasonable alacrity, in case they've gone to fetch the sort of backup that you don't want to have gotten much time to prepare. 

Past the gatehouse, there is: 

A wooden drawbridge, its timbers gray with age and decay, spans the twenty-foot gap between the outbuilding and sprawling ruin on the island. Rusty iron chains hang from the ruin’s northern wall to the drawbridge’s southern side. The chains look ready to fall apart, giving the drawbridge’s structural integrity an extra layer of dubiousness.

In the water, Tris can detect that there is Some Sort Of Mind, Possibly. 

"I don't trust that bridge as far as I could throw it. Marshall, hold the other end of a rope while I cross?" She'd ask Tris, but if the bridge gave out she'd just pull Tris into the drink with her.