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!

Session 210: The Tragedy of Sirius

Day 28 of Ready'reat CY 576

Greetings from the Foaming Mug Inn, where the stew is thick, but the mystery surrounding our local "saviors" is thicker still. It is finally the 28th day of Ready'reat, a month that has felt as long as a century to those of us watching the shadows grow. If you happen to be passing through Orlane, do watch your step—the air is chilly, and the travelers currently resting their weary heads here are laden with enough treasure to sink a barge.

I sat in the corner during breakfast at 7:30 AM, watching them squabble over their breakfast orders and their mounting debts. Poor Sergius is already deeply in debt for a magical battle axe, a burden of 1,100 gold pieces that weighs heavier than the steel itself. But money is the least of their worries. I overheard them whispering of hirelings—torchbearers and pack handlers—to carry the weight of their greed while they delve into the stinky, messy Barrow Marsh.

The highlights of the day, if one can call them that, were quite peculiar:

• The Identification: There was a great deal of fuss over a magical mace. They had to go to such lengths—a live carp and an owl feather from a bird named Apollo—just to learn that the weapon glows when undead are within 90 feet.

• The Ancient Map: They visited the scholar with priestly robes and an ancient burial map of the barrows. The map speaks of a portal or trapdoor in the far western tomb, leading to levels below that no sane soul should wish to visit.

• The Tragedy of Sirius: The most bitter tale involves their comrade, Sirius. They found her in the marsh, but not as they left her. Her neck had been slit, and she had been raised as a horrible, moaning undead with glowing eyes and talons. Through a "Speak with Dead" spell, she whispered a name that chilled the blood: Nathalus the Despicable, the necromancer who performed the ceremony of her end.

The party has now returned to the Barrowmaze, leaving their gold under the watchful eye of Myr. They have most recently breached a door only to find three disgusting figures with worms crawling in and out of their skin. The air turned cold, a scream echoed, and as they say in the old stories, the real nightmare has only just begun.

Keep your doors barred and your holy water close, for the ravenous dead are not the only things stalking the woods of Orlane

Session 209: The Whispers of the Barrow and the Heavy Black Box

Day 27-28 of Ready'reat CY 576

Gather ‘round, if you’ve the stomach for it! Old Vilma has seen many seasons in Orlane, but the air has been thick with the scent of old dust and ancient death lately. Our local band of "adventurers"—those brave, foolhardy souls—returned from the barrel marsh on the 27th of Ready'reat, and the tales they brought back are enough to make your marrow turn to water.

They spent their time in a dank, messy chamber where they slew eleven bloodthirsty spiders. Those nasty things turn on their own kind the moment blood is spilled, but our heroes stood firm. In the webs, they found more than just sticky strands; they pulled out a horde of 464 gold pieces, a fire opal, and even an exquisite ivory comb. There was also a map fragment, though what it leads to, only the gods—and perhaps a very patient librarian—know.

But the darkness runs deeper than spiders. They opened a door and were met by shadows. It was Kyro who proved the hero of that skirmish, his magic arrows flying true until every last shadow was destroyed. They thought the tomb was done, but as I always say, the dead are quite possessive of their silence.

Further in, they faced the mummies. Oh, the stench of old death flooded the chamber! The battle was fierce, and young Feno and Sergius felt the "dreaded mummy rot" creeping into their very bones. They started speaking in strange tongues—I heard poor Sergius couldn't even spell "potato" for a moment there. Luckily, Armatzi was there with his holy spells to cure the rot before their bones "quailed". Even little Gnorcia—would you believe it?—managed to land a backstab on one of those linen-wrapped horrors.

The prize for all this suffering? A massive obsidian coffer. It weighed some 210 pounds, a "tungsten cube" of a thing that nearly broke their backs carrying it back to Orlane. They brought it right into the Foaming Mug, where the food is finally starting to taste like food again—praise the chickens!

The next morning, the 28th of Ready'reat, they gathered in a private room to pick the coffer’s lock. It was trapped, of course. A poison needle pricked poor Lhoss, but she’s a tough one and shook it off. Inside was a king’s ransom: 1,848 gold pieces, enough to give each of them a heavy purse of 264 gold. They also found a glowing magical mace and some ancient priestly robes that haven't rotted away despite the centuries.

Now, Feno and Arnd are over at the barracks, talking to Constable Grover about training with the militia. Feno’s got it in his head to be Sheriff one day, and he wants our town to have stone walls instead of wood.

Bless their hearts. They’re getting stronger, especially young Sergius, who’s reached his "third level" of martial prowess. But as long as there are doors to be thrown open and mummies to be woken, old Vilma will have stories to tell. Just remember: if you see a heavy black box, maybe don't touch the lock.

Session 208: The Storyteller’s Stupor: Whispers from the Foaming Mug

Day 25 - 27 of Ready'reat CY 576

Gather 'round, or just lean in—my head is a bit like a drum today, and the light in Orlane is far too bright for a woman of my years who has enjoyed a few too many mugs of the good stuff. I was resting my eyes—passed out at the table, some might say—while the "Saviors of Orlane" stomped back into the inn, smelling of damp earth and the chill of the wilderness.

A Numb Arm and a Heavy Price: The poor dwarf, Sergius, came back with a shield arm gone all numb after their brush with the vile undead. They took him up to the Temple of Merikka, to see Misha Devi. It seems our Sergius is a follower of Dumathoin (just revealed) the keeper of secrets under the mountain, but secrets don’t pay the tithe! Misha asked for a "donation" of 350 gold pieces to fix that arm, and the poor lad only had a handful of silver and copper to his name.

The Girl Disfavored by the Goddess: But the real juice of the night wasn't the ale; it was that girl, Sirius. Misha Devi looked at her like she was a patch of black mold in a grain store. She told the group privately that Sirius is "disfavored by Merikka" and certainly no friend to the temple. There was a lot of whispering under the trees afterward. Sirius claims she’s loyal to the group, but she's got a temper as sharp as a barrow-blade and a hood she keeps pulled low to avoid the goddess’s eyes.

A Disappearing Act: By the time the sun crawled up the next morning, Sirius had vanished! The group went knocking on doors, only to find her room disheveled and her person long gone, even though she’d paid for the next few days. At least that scholar, Elowin, was still tucked away in his room, muffling his voice and claiming he was "studying" that ancient holy symbol they found. He’s a bit of a "nerdlinger," as the others say—always hiding in the back while the others do the hacking.

The Bouncer’s Grocery List: Before the group headed back to the barrow to face whatever else is lurking in the dark, they made a deal with our local bouncer, Myr. If you want a creature to guard your bags of gold while you're off playing hero, you'd better be prepared to pay in more than coin. Myr has quite the palate! He’s demanding river eel jerky, pickled wild leeks, and that thick dwarven brandy root from the Gran March. He even wants "contraband" cheese wheels aged in stone caves. A guard who eats better than the Mayor—that’s Orlane for you!

Spiders and Skulls: The lot of them have trekked back to the marsh now. I heard tell they stumbled into a nest of spiders—nasty things with white markings like skulls on their backs. Eleven of the leggy horrors! They say the spiders started eating their own kind as soon as they fell.

The world is a strange place, and the barrows are stranger still. But as long as the ale flows and the travelers keep bringing back stories, old Vilma will be here to tell them... once the spinning in my head stops.