Session 221: Whispers from the Hearth: The Light and the Soot

Day 6 - 7 Sunsebb CY 576

Gather ’round, if your boots aren't too muddy and your ears aren't too full of the winter wind. Old Vilma has seen the shadows lengthening over Orlane, and oh, how the "watchful and strained" air of our little village ripples when the restless ones pass through.

The high-and-mighty ones have moved on, their horses’ breath steaming in the sharp morning light as they rode for Hochoch. But before they left, there was quite the stir at the Slumbering Serpent. The new one—the Paladin, Lalie, refused to share a roof with the "Fearsome Five". She says she detected a foulness in them, an evil that would not let her sleep. She’d rather tuck into the Golden Grain than breathe the same air as a black soul, and so she moved her retinue in the dead of Sunsebb.

They’ve reached the stone walls of Hochoch now, a place that feels stable, though perhaps just as strained in its own way. They’ve been frequenting the Green Dragon, where the floors are swept but the eyes are just as guarded.  

But listen to what the birds tell me about the Temple of St. Cuthbert! Rosalind Greenshield, the High Priestess, nearly wept to see what Lalie carried in her hands. A relic lost to the records—a mace of disruption pulled from the "Barrowmaze". It’s a terrifying thing, blessed to blast the walking dead into nothingness with a single strike. The heavens seem to be arming their soldiers, for the paladin was told to wield it and smite the unrighteous.

Yet, where there is brilliant light, there is always soot. Armatzi, that cleric who usually knows better, has draped himself in darkness. He wears cursed plate mail now, a black skin imbued by necromancers. The Priestess says it’s a magnet for the enemy — that the dead can see him through it, like a beacon in the night. He’s walking a narrow bridge, that one, needing to slay twenty "enemies of the cloth" just to atone for his vanity in putting on a suit of mail without asking the stars what it was first.

And then there is the fire. Lhoss has laid claim to a staff that once belonged to a pyromancer named Pinto. It’s a hungry thing, filled with fifty-three charges of "burning hands" and "continual flames". It even tastes of gold — requiring a heavy price in coins and materials just to keep its fire fed. 

The party grows heavy with treasures — rings of protection and books of fire. But even as they sharpen their steel in Hochoch, the Barrowmarsh still thins its needles and peels its bark, waiting for the corruption to spread. 

Be careful, travelers. A mace may break a bone, and a staff may light a fire, but the shadows of the maze have long memories. Now, leave an old woman to her tea. The fire is getting low, and the wind is starting to howl.

Session 220: A Hazy View from the Bottom of a Cider Glass

Day 6 Sunsebb CY 576

The wood smoke is thick tonight, and the smell of hearth-fire almost—almost—drowns out the lingering stench of the Barrow Marsh that clings to those poor souls who just wandered back into Orlane. I was just resting my eyes over a nice glass of cider when the door creaked open, bringing in a chill and the sort of stories that make an old woman’s head spin.

You should have seen them. Feno the elf looking like he’d seen a ghost (or at least a very angry statue), and that new Paladin, Laile, standing so tall you’d think she hadn't just spent the day wading through muck. They tell me they found a room in that wretched maze that smelled so putrid the whole lot of them lost their lunch—except for the little gnome Gnorcia and a few others with stronger stomachs. They even met a goblin in a gas mask acting like a polite construction worker! "Off limits," he says. Imagine that! A goblin with a union card.

They should have listened to the walls, though. They found a message scrawled in common: "Don't go on!" But do adventurers ever listen? No, they tossed a coin—or a poll, or some such nonsense—and marched right into a ceiling collapse that sealed the way behind them.

The most delicious part of the tale, if you ask me, involves the "Barbecue Room". Poor Lhoss tried to spider-climb her way to a treasure chest after a 10-foot pole turned to ash in a burst of magical flame. There was a metal cobra hiding in a box, clicking and hissing like a clockwork nightmare. It bit Lhoss, and she went all convulsive and foamy at the mouth. That’s when things got truly odd—Feno decided to use Gnorcia as a literal projectile, tossing the gnome across the room in a "Wolverine toss" to deliver the cure! Gnorcia took a bit of a singeing, but she’s a tough one.

They came back with a radiant mace of St. Cuthbert, silver-bright and etched with holy sigils. It’s a fine thing, though I hear the Paladin and the others are already bickering over whether to give it to the church or keep it for "justice".

But mark my words, the air in Orlane is getting heavy again. While Feno and Lhoss are busy splitting a bottle of expensive Elven wine and trying to forget the smell of burning hair, there’s trouble brewing at the Slumbering Serpent. A group called the Fearsome Five has rolled into town, and Lalie says she smells evil on one of them.

The cider is tart, the fire is dying, and the "shifty" folk are gathered just down the road. I think I’ll stay right here at my table. It’s much safer to tell the stories than to be in them—especially when people start throwing gnomes.

Stay odd, Orlane.

— Vilma

Session 219: A Tale of Scented Silk and Sour Stomachs

 Day 6 Sunsebb CY 576

Gather 'round, children of Orlane, and listen to old Vilma, for the air is heavy with more than just the usual winter chill. I watched them depart the inn at 9:00 this morning, a motley crew if ever I saw one, led by a new "Lady Lordship" named Leila. Now, this Leila, she’s practically royalty, they say, with hairs and curls and a monthly bill of a thousand gold pieces just to keep her "slumming it" lifestyle afloat. She brought along a young cleric named Aila, only eighteen and slight as a reed, and a squire named Colette Beaumont, who stayed behind to mind the horses and that fancy jousting armor.

But mark my words, the land itself is weeping. As they marched toward the Dim Forest, the elves among them saw what I’ve felt in my bones: rapid deterioration. The trees are rotting, the evergreens are shedding their needles, and even the woodland beasts have fled. It’s a grim, overcast day, and the forest feels like it’s exhaling a slow, chill breath of resentment.

They reached the Barrow Marsh, a place of wet earth and old rot, and ducked into the darkness of the Barrow Maze. It wasn't all just shadows and gloom, though. Deep inside, they found a room of roaring flames and geysers of fire—the burial place of Pinto the Pyromancer. While the others stood tentative, afraid of being burned to a crisp, the elf Lhoss took a leap of faith. With a spell of protection and also levitation, and some magical gloves, she crawled along the walls like a spider while fire erupted around her.

She reached a sarcophagus decorated in beautiful, enchanted flames and, after surviving a glyph of warding that scorched the air, she found the treasures. A ring with a ruby, a staff colored with flames, and a mysterious book. She was wise enough not to open that book, mind you—I reckon she remembers that nasty business with Tatania.

But the heroes’ glory didn’t last long. They moved to a door of wood and iron, and when they pried it open, a horrible stench billowed out, worse than a month-old corpse in a summer drought. It was enough to reset anyone’s "vomit clock". Poor Leila, for all her royal breeding, was the first to puke all over the floor, and a chain reaction followed until nearly the whole lot of them were losing their breakfast. Only Nikki and Dwerom seemed to have the stomach for such a foul odor.

So, they sit there now in the dark, clutching their new magical baubles and heaving their rations. Whether those treasures are greatly cursed or greatly blessed, only the next turn of the moon will tell. But for now, Orlane remains quiet, and I’ll just keep my eyes on the shifting mists.

Sessions 218: More ruminations in the barrows

Day 5 - 6 of Sunsebb CY 576

Greetings from the hearth of the Foaming Mug Inn, where the shadows dance a little longer and the ale tastes of ancient dust. I am Vilma, and if you’ll lend me your ear—and perhaps buy me a pint—I’ll tell you of the Saviors of Orlane and their recent crawl through the damp, dark heart of the Barrowmaze.

It was just the fifth day of Sunset when this motley lot—Feno the elven fighter, Arnd the dwarven hammer-swinger, Gnorcia and Chiki (a pair of gnomes with more tricks than a wizard’s sleeve), Lhoss the high elven thief, and Nikki, our half-wood-elf druid—descended into the deep. They began by silencing a vile greater crypt shade that spoke in tongues too dark for honest ears. After the shade was put to rest, they spent hours sweeping through no fewer than eighty burial alcoves. Most were empty or filled with the crumbs of the poor, but inside a heavy granite sarcophagus, they discovered a black metal coffer brimming with 200 pieces of gleaming platinum and a mysterious green vial.

But the maze does not give up its treasures without a price. They stumbled upon a tomb sealed with stone and ancient runes, the final resting place of Rathgar, a fabled ranger hero of the Northern Reaches. While they left the hero to his peace, they were not so kind to the nine necromancers of Set they encountered further in. The air turned cold with the chanting of those dark priests, but the Saviors were faster. Once the necromancers were dispatched, the party saw fit to sever their heads and dump the remains into a nearby pit, claiming their runed daggers as trophies of the deed.

The true horror, however, came in the form of the Sons of Chaos—shambling, rotting things infested with rock grubs. A magical fear gripped the group, sending even the sturdiest fighters cowering into the corners. Poor little Chiki found himself fighting for his life as the disgusting worms burrowed into his very flesh, forcing him to dig them out with his own blade. They only survived by discovering the creatures' weakness: fire and holy water. The Saviors watched as the monsters popped and sizzled like grease on a hot griddle.

Before they beat a retreat back to the safety of Orlane, they caught a glimpse of a chamber that looked like a nightmare from the planes themselves: a pit of intense fire shooting geysers of flame toward the ceiling. They wisely chose to return to the inn to lick their wounds and clean the slime and worm remnants from their armor.

So, here they sit tonight, weary and mud-stained, while I tell their tale. They’ve already been to see Alan Clayborn to hunt for the missing mayor and are busy having their staves nickel-plated at the blacksmith. The Maze is still waiting for them, and the fires of that deep pit are still burning. Sleep well, Saviors, for the barrows never truly rest.

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