Session 217: The Orlane Oracle: Shadows, Stones, and Greasy Bread

 Day 4-5 of Sunsebb CY 576

Gather ‘round, you wandering souls and tavern-sitters, for Vilma has seen the weary lot return once more! It was the afternoon of Sunsebb 4, when our local band of brave (or perhaps just lucky) souls faced the crushing weight of fate—specifically, a five foot diameter boulder that came barreling down a staircase. While most of them flew down the stairs like nimble elves to escape, poor Arnd, Armatzi, and Dwerom took a bit of a thumping. But the real tragedy, the one that brings a tear to an old woman’s eye, was the loss of the fishbowl and its resident carp during the chaos.

They’ve brought back more than just bruises, though. Young Armatzi has gone and draped himself in some unidentified black plate mail they found, a suit made for a human frame that he simply couldn't wait to test in battle. The rest of the lot—including that quick-eyed Feno and the ever-watchful Lhoss—spent their time poking and prodding at doors in the Crypt of Mahle Royc. Poor Chiki, that impulsive gnome, went racing down a hallway only to find himself at the bottom of a ten-foot pit. Luckily, it was a dry tumble with no spikes, just a bit of a jar to his dignity.

They didn't come crawling back to the Foamimg Mug Inn until nearly half-past ten at night, well after the kitchen had gone cold. Florin took pity on their haggard faces, though, and served up some complimentary bread with a bit of grease and butter—chicken fat. They didn't linger long in their cups, heading back out into the cold overcast morning by eight o'clock to return to the Barrow Marsh.

The woods are not kind these days. On their way, a glowing phantom was spotted lurking behind a large oak in the Dim Forest, though it vanished before Gnorcia could get a good look at it. They pushed on to a new entrance, a burial mound where a statue of Nerull lies defaced and toppled on its side.

Down in the dark, where the temperature dropped to a bone-chilling 20 degrees, they met a murmuring shade speaking in the black tongue. It was a short-lived haunting, however; between Feno’s holy water, Dwerom’s magic missiles, and the heavy strike of Arnd’s hammer, the creature was sent back to the void. Now they stand in a chamber of sarcophagi and burial alcoves waiting to see what else the darkness holds.

Keep your torches lit and your ears open, Orlane—there are secrets within secrets in those marshes.

Session 216: A Ball Trap

Day 4 of Sunsebb CY 576

Sit down, sit down, my dearies, and let old Vilma tell you what the wind whispered to her from the Barrowmaze on that cold Sunsebb afternoon. Our scrappy lot of wanderers — Dwerom, Niki the elf, Arnd, Gnorcia, Chiki the gnome, Armatzi, and Kyro found themselves deep in the muck and ancient stone.

They’ve been poking around things best left alone, I’d say, like that vial of blue liquid and a runic tablet they snatched up before a shrouded horror lunged at them from the dark. They spent quite some time scrubbing their boots of a peculiar-smelling muck in a room full of mossy, broken statues. Eventually, they climbed a staircase into a room where a statue of the god Nerull had been defaced, its face scratched out and covered in crude, incomprehensible sigils.

They even popped their heads out into the Barrow Marsh, discovering a new entrance, where the tall grass dies in the winter chill. Kyro thought the whole marsh looked like a "Scooby-Doo ghost" from above — whatever in the world that is! But the entry room the came from wasn't empty; five ravenous zombies followed them up from the depths, their eyes full of "ravenous glee" as they smelled blood. Armatzi’s gauntlet glowed with holy light to sear them, while Arnd threw his hammer. Armatzi was also using his new mace - I believe he calls it Margaret now—to crack their skulls.

But the real trouble, the delicious trouble, came later when they found a staircase of polished black basalt leading to a door: the Crypt of Mahle Royc. Above the door, the ancient words said: "Knock and pull to enter". There was some discussion, and Gnorcia examined the door carefully, and detected that there was a trap, and that it had something to with the number of knocks on the door. After much discussion, they knocked once, then pulled the ring, and — BOOM—the ceiling birthed a giant stone ball that came crashing down!

Oh, the chaos! They ran like mice, dancing and Armatzi was chanting as the boulder thundered behind them. Most escaped with their skins, but three - Arnd, Armatzi, and Dwerom - were crushed (not fatally) but their packs? Disaster! Five flasks of oil shattered, a precious healing potion was lost to the stone, and a bone case holding a scroll of "Animate Dead" was crushed into shards. But the saddest part—and let Vilma weep for this—were the six dead carp. Poor little fishies, their bowl was crushed on the stairs. A funeral in a crypt seems fitting, don't you think?

In the end, though, the brave (and very oily) souls found their prize inside a sarcophagus: the remains of a human clad in magical black plate mail. It’s a strange, light thing—weighs only 3 pounds and lets a man run as fast as if he were wearing common clothes.

They’re safe for now, resting their bruised bones, but the maze still has that faint, echoing cackle waiting for them in the dark. Keep your torches lit, travelers, and try not to get flattened by any more garden decor!

Session 215: The Whispers of the Barrowmarsh: A Tale of Shadows and Cinnamon

Day 4 of Sunsebb CY 576

Gather ‘round, ye restless souls of Orlane, for the winds of Sunsebb are blowing cold this year, and the tales coming out of the Barrowmarsh are enough to turn your milk sour. It is but the fourth day of the month, yet the air is thick with the smell of old stone and even older secrets. Our band of wanderers — you know the ones, that lot with the clanking armor and the plant that’s seen better days — have descended once more into the entry tomb.

They say poor Armatzi went looking for a bit of peace in the sanctuary of St. Cuthbert, but the maze has a way of eating peace for breakfast. He found only vile runes and gore, a place where the light had been squashed by a malice so thick it felt like a "pointy-haired boss" breathing down his neck. The poor lad took a literal beating from the air itself, slammed against the walls by an invisible rebuke that didn't care much for his prayers. It seems the Tablet of Chaos is still casting its long, wicked shadow over everything down there.

As they pushed deeper, they spoke of memories as holes as large as the ones in the floors — bless them, they can hardly remember what they did a month ago, let alone a year! They marched past dancing shadow figures, only a foot tall, shuffling on the walls like something out of a fever dream. Through the creaking of heavy portcullises and the flickering of guttering candles, they found their way by the grace of a burned scrap of parchment — a map to nowhere that led them right where they needed to be.

And oh, the things they find! Behind a hidden catch in the wall lay a room smelling of stale death, though some say there was a hint of cinnamon in the air. There was a blue liquid — magical, of course, because nothing in that maze is just a refreshing drink — and a runic tablet that holds the power of the Sepia Snake Sigil. Imagine, a serpent of amber force just waiting to freeze a body in time!

But the maze never gives a gift without a bite. When Gnorcia lifted a burial shroud, a zombie-like creature decided it was time for a jump-scare. It didn’t last long, though. Between the arrows and Chiki's "toffee blade"—named for a love of English toffee, if you can believe such a thing—the creature was nothing but dust before the echoes of its own screech had faded.

They rest now in the "room of the cursed dad," or so I’ve heard it called. What they’ll find when they wake, only the crows know. But keep your doors barred, Orlane. The maze is waking up, and it’s got a very long memory, even if our "heroes" don't

Session 214: A Winter’s Tale of Cheese and Gold

Day 3 - 4 of Sunsebb CY 576

Gather 'round the hearth, you weary travelers and local folk! The frost is biting deep into the eaves of Orlane tonight, but the air in the inn is thick with the scent of adventure and something... well, something quite pungent.

The Stink of Success: Our brave band of wanderers—you know them: the stern wood elf Feno, sturdy Armatzi with his holy symbols, the sneaky gnomes Gnorcia and Chiki, and the rest—have returned from the cold clutches of Iron Guard Motte. They didn’t come back empty-handed, oh no. They carried a special request for their guardian, that toothy chest Myr who keeps watch over their treasures here in Orlane. They brought him a great wheel of limber burger cheese! Mir was so delighted he sliced it up right there with his own fork and plate, though I wouldn't suggest a taste unless you’ve a very strong stomach.

Glimmer and Gold While in the Mott: the party spent their time counting coins and haggling over gems. I heard tales of a golden crown worth five hundred pieces of gold and an ivory comb that would make a queen weep. And remember those funerary urns Gnorcia insisted on dragging across the countryside? Everyone laughed, but the joke is on them—they fetched a tidy sum of over four hundred gold pieces!

Even the holy ones have been busy. Armatzi nearly let a gold symbol of St. Cuthbert go for scrap before deciding to buy it back himself to keep his god happy. He’s also found a scroll to animate the dead, claiming he’ll make "good" skeletons with happy smiley faces. We shall see what the heavens think of that.

A Turtle and His Hound: Now, the strangest sight of all is young Chiki. They call him "The Turtle," though he’s a gnome and has no shell to speak of. Perhaps he’s just slow of mind, or perhaps it’s an illusion. He’s no longer walking, though! He’s purchased a great beast of a dog—a German Shepherd named Crackle. Watching a gnome ride a dog across the winter mud is a sight that could cure the gloom of any season.

The Shadows in the Trees: But take heed, neighbors. As the party rode back through the Dim Forest, they felt a malice. The forest is dying, a dark presence creeping out from the Burial Marsh like a cold fog. They say the very creatures of the woods are frightful and disturbed.

Plans of Glass and Stone: Before they head back into the mists of the marsh, Nikki has sent a runner, Edric Vale, all the way to Hochoch. They’re looking for stone masons and glass-workers to build a greenhouse right here in our village. Imagine that! Growing things while the world freezes outside.

So, drink your ale and stay close to the fire. The vaults are full at the Temple of Merikka, the gold is being traded for platinum, and the dead are waiting in the marsh for their next visitors.

Until the next tale is spun, Vilma

Session 213: Iron Guard Motte

The Chronicles of the Crooked Spindle By Vilma of Orlane - Day 2 - 3 of Sunsebb CY 576

Gather ‘round, you weary travelers and moth-eaten scholars! Old Vilma has a tale that’s fresher than a winter frost and twice as biting. Our very own "Saviors of Orlane" have traded the damp gloom of the Barrel Marsh for the stiff-necked cobblestones of Iron Guard Motte.

They rode out at high noon, leaving behind the graves of companions to trek through the Dim Forest. But oh, the forest isn't what it used to be. It’s a dying thing, twisted and rot-touched by some fell, undead force that makes the very trees grow crooked as a crone’s finger. The birds have fled, and even the rabbits are gunshy—though I hear those elven folk felt the corruption right in their marrow.

When they finally popped out of the woods, they met the high walls of Iron Guard Mott—a place of wooden palisades and men-at-arms who look at a cheerful wave with more suspicion than a cat at a dog show. Before they could even tuck into a warm meal, they were hauled before the authorities and a man of the cloth to endure a "sooth tell"—a truth-telling spell to ensure they weren't just a pack of brigands in hero’s clothing.

And the laws! Gods preserve us from "structured" towns. In the Mott, you can’t even be "too silly"—meaning no dunking yourself in the town well—without risking a run-in with the law. They even tax the air you breathe—or at least any loot you're hoping to sell! Still, the city bigwigs gave them each an electrum medallion for their service to Orlane, though the things are enchanted so you can't go swapping them for ale money.

The party spent their time hobnobbing with the pious. They visited Frier Fergus at the Temple of St. Cuthbert, who was busy worrying about necromancers and ancient "Tablets of Chaos" hiding in the marsh. Then it was off to see Brother Titus at the Temple of Heironius—a man so handsome he’d make an elf double-take—who gifted them a scroll to remove curses.

But the real comedy, my dears, was the return of Chiki. He wandered back into the fold with his chicken, though I suspect the bird has more sense than he does. While the "sensible" heroes stayed at the Leaky Barrel, where the walls are clean and the guards are plenty, Chiki insisted on the Black Dragon—a seedier den of iniquity you’ll never find. He woke up nineteen gold pieces lighter for his trouble! Serves him right for sleeping in a room where the mice probably outnumber the blankets.

Before they rode back to us, they made sure to secure a ten-pound wheel of Limburger cheese for that greedy Myr. I can smell it from here! They’ll be back in Orlane soon enough, three-and-a-half hours by horseback, provided they don’t stop to argue with any more jewelers about tariffs.

Keep your hearths warm and your purses tucked tight—the Saviors are coming home.

— V.

Session 212: Frozen Sighs and Spectral Goodbyes

The Crone’s Chronicle: Day 1 - 2 of Sunsebb CY 576

Gather ‘round, if you can stand the biting winter air. It’s the first of Sunsebb, and the ground here in Orlane is as frozen as a miser's heart. You can see your own breath hanging in the pale sunlight like little ghosts trying to escape your lungs.

The village has been quite a theater lately. Our local band of "heroes" has been loitering at the merchants' stalls, haggling over baubles and trying to make sense of the junk they drag out of the dirt. I watched them whispering with that mysterious woman who identifies their treasures. She’s a sharp one—won’t use her own magic, oh no, she reads it all from scrolls, which is likely why she charges them enough platinum to make a king weep.

Speaking of weeping, poor Sergius has been out in the chill, training his dwarven bones until they probably rattle. He won’t be fit for anything but a warm hearth until at least the 8th of Sunsebb. Meanwhile, Gnorcia is busy scribbling away at her own book—The Book of Gnorcia, she calls it. I suppose if you don’t write your own legend, the crows will just pick it apart.

The real gossip, though, is what happened out at the Barrow Marsh. The party finally decided to do right by Sirius, who met her end some time ago. They hauled her poor, desiccated body—strapped to a horse, mind you—out to the burial place of Adelbertus. But the dead don’t always like company. A spectral dead rose from the mist, moving faster than a rumor.

It was quite the scuffle. Armatzi gave it a thumping with a newly identified mace they're calling "Skull Crusher". Gnorcia finished it off with a "stabby stab" that sent the spirit back to the ether. They eventually got Sirius into a crypt, though it cost them 50 gold pieces and a five-minute invocation to Saint Cuthbert to make sure she stays put.

What’s next for our wandering souls? They’re eyeing Iron Guard Mott. Is it for glory? For justice? No, it seems they’re going for cheese. Myr has a craving for a wheel of stinky Limburger from the north. Imagine facing down the spectral dead just to end up smelling like a foot!

In the meantime, Nikki is prepping a greenhouse on the frozen ground, which seems a bit optimistic given the frost. And Dwerom has developed a "taste for carp" while playing with magic.

Some say I’m a trickster, or worse, a demon from the netherworld. But me? I just tell the stories. And in Orlane, the stories are getting as cold and strange as the weather.

Stay warm, if the shadows let you.

— Vilma

Session 211: Worms, Whining, and a Whole Lot of Oil

Day 28 of Ready'reat - Day 1 of Sunsebb CY 576

Gather ‘round, you tavern-sitters and ale-soakers! Old Vilma has a fresh tune to sing, and if it’s a bit off-key, well, so was the screaming of that Spectre when the rangers finally put a magic arrow through its cold heart.

Our local "heroes"—you know the lot: Feno the elven fighter, Arnd the brave dwarf, Gnorcia the gnome, and that strange druid-ranger Niki —stumbled back into Orlane last night, smelling like napalm and greasy ash. They’ve been slogging through the Barrowmaze in the marsh, and by the looks of their muddy boots, the marsh was winning for a while.

They tell a foul tale of sons of chaos, disgusting wiggling things filled with worms that close their wounds even as you hack at them. Apparently, when these horrors showed up, half the party decided it was a grand time for a terror-fueled jog out of the dungeon. Even Sergius and Lhoss were seen booking it, though they claim it was a "strategic retreat". I call it running until you’re halfway to the exit.

But don't you worry, the little gnome Gnorcia and the ones who didn't lose their lunch held the line. They turned those worm-men into flaming popcorn with flasks of oil while the spectre watched on, held back by the heat. I’ve been singing about it all night in the common room, even if Myr is more interested in when they’re finally going to buy him that feast he was promised.

They didn't come back empty-handed, though. They found a glittering pile of treasure and a noted a strange four-foot plug with a ring made of cold iron in the floor. There was even a poem in ancient Elvish about "three souls' sweet breath" and "keys from ghosts set free". Sounds like a lot of work just to open a hole in the floor if you ask me.

The strangest bit? They brought back a silver crown that turns out to be a cursed crown of forgetfulness. Anyone who puts it on wanders off in a stupor, forgetting who they are. I told them they should’ve let a certain sneaky thief try it on, but they decided to play it safe.

So, if you see Sergius looking a bit taller today, it’s because he finally learned how to swing that specialized axe of his without hitting his own toes—he’s a third-level fighter now, though it cost him nearly every coin he had to get the training.

Stay tuned, Orlane. As long as there’s treasure to be lugged and spectres to be scorched, Vilma will have a story—and perhaps another round of Waterale if someone’s buying!