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.

Session 207: Vilma’s Whispers from the Shadows of Orlane

Day 25 of Ready'reat CY 576

Gather ‘round, if you dare, but mind the mud on your boots—I’ve just finished sweeping. The wind is biting tonight, as it should be on the 25th day of Ready'reat, and there is a smell in the air that wasn’t there this morning. It’s the smell of old dust, scorched bone, and the sort of luck that leaves a man’s arm feeling like a dead fish.

Our "heroes" have returned to Orlane, arriving just as the sun dipped low. They look as if they’ve been through a meat grinder, and frankly, some of them nearly were. They’ve been out at the barrows, poking things that were meant to stay quiet. I heard tell of funeral pyre zombies that don’t just walk—they pop and burst into flames the moment you strike them. One moment you’re swinging a sword, and the next, you’re covered in "exploding bone bits" and fire.

Poor Sergius—that brave, stubborn dwarf—found himself at the center of the heat. He was mauled by Ravenous Dead and scorched by the pyres until he was nearly a ghost himself, falling to the ground at minus eight hit points. He’s back on his feet now, thanks to Armatzi’s healing, but the price was steep. His left arm is numb and unreliable now, with a nasty habit of fumbling just when he needs it most. And Sirius, that poor soul, was touched by a Wraith; she’s lost more than just her strength—she’s got an infection and a weariness that reaches into her very spirit.

But oh, the things they brought back! My eyes aren't what they used to be, but I saw them lugging bags heavy enough to break a mule’s back—hundreds of pounds of gold, silver, and platinum. They found sapphires blue as a frozen lake and a shield etched with ghostly runes. There was a stick, too—only twelve inches long with blunt silver ends—and a holy symbol so ancient that even the scholar Elowin could only guess at its lost deity.

I watched Kyro from the corner of my eye; that one has a bow that speaks like the wind, slaying Wraiths and Shadows with arrows that never seem to miss their mark. And Gnorcia, quiet as a heartbeat, letting her dagger "Vengeance" do the talking in the dark.

They’re safe in the inn now, counting their coins and bandaging their wounds, but the shadows they fought followed them home. They even brought back funerary urns made of porcelain—fragile things to hold the ashes of the forgotten.

Sleep with one eye open, Orlane. When the dead start exploding and the survivors come home with "sleeping" limbs, the night is only just beginning.

Session 206: Battle at the old tomb

Day 25 of Ready'reat CY 576

Sit a spell, dearie, and listen to old Vilma. The shadows in the Barrowmarsh have been restless lately, and the whispers coming back to Orlane are enough to make your hair stand on end. A band of adventurers—you know the sort, half-brave and half-baffled—found themselves in the thick of it, wrestling with things that should have stayed buried.

It was a cluttered, rotting mess down there. The air turned thick enough to chew, thanks to the foul stench of a ghast that left even the sturdiest elves gagging and clutching their stomachs. Poor Sergius, a stout dwarf if I ever saw one, found himself frozen stiff by a ghoul’s touch, then later soured by a huecava's poison. He had to gulp down a potion of neutralized poison just to keep his knees from buckling.

But oh, the magic! Armatzi, a cleric of no small power, appeared on the field as if the gods themselves had dropped him there. With one flash of his holy symbol, he sent a horde of ghouls and juju zombies fleeing into the dark, though they got themselves all bottlenecked at the door like sheep in a narrow chute. He even pulled the paralysis right out of the others bones, though the shorter folk seemed to have a particularly hard time of it.

And that Gnorcia! A slip of a thing, really, but she has the heart of a mountain lion. She was seen leaping onto the back of a huecava, trying to drive her blade home while the beast flailed about. While she was playing rodeo with the undead, Kyro was busy being a sharpshooter, pinning those juju zombies to the shadows with arrows that bit deep.

The tomb itself is a puzzle of sinking doors and shifting shadows. Little Gnorcia—bless her sneaky heart—crept ahead while invisible to the dead and saw a glittering pile of treasure to the north. But don't you go dreaming of gold just yet; she also spotted big, scary zombies lurking in the alcoves, waiting for a fresh meal to walk through those strange doors that sink right into the ground.

The battle isn't over, not by a long shot. They’ve cleared the entryway, but there are more zombies stirring and doors bursting open, revealing even more horrors. It’s like a scene from those old tales—an army of darkness rising to meet the living.

Vilma will keep her ears to the ground. If you’re heading out that way, mind the pressure plates and keep your blessings close. The dead don’t like visitors, and they certainly don’t like to share their glitter.

Session 205: The Strange Whispers of Orlane: Frost, Fish Burps, and the Glass House

Day 25 Ready'reat CY 576

Gather 'round, if you’ve the stomach for it! It’s the 25th of Ready'reat, and though the sun tries its best, there’s an early frost creeping in the shade and a cool, steady breeze that warns of a long winter ahead for our rebuilding Orlane. I’ve been perched here at the Foamy Mug, watching the usual mixed crowd—soldiers, brawlers, and this lot of "heroes" who seem to bring the strange with them wherever they tread.

They spent their midday huddled over bowls of thick lentil stew with salt pork and mash with drippings. Not all was merry, though; that girl Syrius was in a proper state, barely looking up from her stew and snapping "none of your business" at anyone who dared ask why she was so surly. Perhaps she lost at cards, or maybe she’s just tired of the company she keeps.

The druid girl, Niki, has the oddest notions. She’s been pestering the innkeeper about building a "glass house"—a greenhouse, she calls it—to grow food right through the winter. Florin looked at her like she’d grown a second head, wondering why anyone would want a glass room they could see right into when we’ve perfectly good root cellars,. She even has a strange cat that she says used to talk all the time but now just demands fish and milk. I haven’t seen the cat speak, but in this town, I’d believe the stones themselves were gossiping if the wind blew right.

And the magic! That high elf, Dwerom, has been performing rituals that would turn a normal person’s stomach. He’s been using owl feathers and live carp to identify their treasures. I heard he even let out a great fishy burp after one spell. They’ve come into some powerful trinkets: a white gold ring of fire resistance and a massive, magical weapon they’ve named "The Stripes Axe". They spent a good deal of time squabbling over 1,540 gold pieces, nearly losing their minds over how to divide the shares (they decided to "give" the axe to Sergius, but he had to make a payment back to the party). 

But the road called to them again. They marched off toward the Barrow Marsh, hiking through the Dim Forest where the leaves are falling and the gloom never truly lifts. There are whispers on the wind out there—legends of groaning spirits, the ghosts of elven women who can slay a man just with a scream. I’ve heard those faint, wailing noises myself from the northwest.

Word travels back to the tavern fast, and they say the group found trouble soon as they touched the stone. They opened a tomb and were met with a horde of undead, ghouls that tear at the living. From what the birds tell me, poor Arnd and Kyro were frozen stiff by the touch of those rotting things. 

Will they return to finish their stew, or will they become just another story for me to tell? Only the mists of the marsh know for sure. Be careful where you walk, neighbors—the frost isn't the only thing that bites this time of year.

Session 204: Treasure and debts

 

Day 12 of Ready'reat CY 576

Hmph. Another day dawns in Orlane, or tries to, anyway. A dense fog crept in this morning, thick as thieves and twice as chilly. Makes an old woman's bones ache, it does. But the snow is finally melting, and the last of the leaves are letting go of the trees. Change is in the air, you can smell it.

I’m sitting here in my usual corner of the Foaming Mug, nursing my tea and watching the heroes. They call themselves the Saviors of Orlane, you know. A fine, grand title. But this morning, they looked less like saviors and more like any other gaggle of folk trying to sort out their breakfast. Oatmeal, poached eggs... the grand business of heroism starts with a full belly, I suppose.

And what a morning it's been for them. First, the dwarf Sergius turns up again, like a bad penny you’d forgotten you’d lost. Been off walking the deserts, he says, finding bugs. A closed-mouth sort of dwarf, that one. The party takes him back, of course. They’re a loyal bunch, even if they bicker. They even decided to give him a share of their latest haul, just to get him leveled up and useful. Smart thinking. A level-one character is a liability in a place like the barrow maze.

Ah, the barrow. That’s where their minds are set, you see. But not today. Today was a day for what I call the housekeeping of heroism. You don’t hear about this part in the songs. First, there was the healing. A few of them were banged up, and there were hushed talks of who would spend their divine spells on whom. It’s not just a simple matter of waving your hands, you know. The clerics, Aratzi and Nikki, they have to consider if you’re worthy, if you’ve been respecting their gods, if you’ve killed unjustly. I heard Aratzi asking young Los if she’d killed anyone unjustly. She insisted all her killings were justified. That one… she’s an elf of a hundred and twenty-four years, but her soul feels as old as mine. Can’t carry a tune to save her life, though. Kicked out of the elven choir, I hear.

Then came the money. Oh, the money! They scurried off to a private room to divvy it all up. They’d brought back coffers heavy with thousands of silver pieces. And that was just the coin! Later, they went to see the traveling merchant, Tame, who’s set up shop where the old common shop used to be. And the things they pulled out to sell! Death masks, gem-encrusted chalices, ivory bracelets, a silver necklace worth a king's ransom, runic tablets, and more gems than I’ve seen in my long life.

That elf, Nikki, she has a silver tongue. A charisma of sixteen, they say, and she used it to get them a fine price. The merchant appraised it all, for a small fee of course, and when the sums were done... eighteen thousand, eight hundred and sixty-two gold pieces. Can you imagine? Enough to make a dragon blush. Of course, it’s not all pure profit. Young Arnd is in debt up to his eyeballs—thousands of gold—from a curse he picked up. Needed a restoration spell that cost a fortune. See? The songs never tell you about the debts.

They spent a good chunk of that coin right away. The newcomer Sergius needed a thousand gold pieces to train to the next level, plus fifty-four gold for a fancy room for the month. Others bought healing potions at seventy-five gold a pop. Feno, he picked up the lockbox he’d ordered from the blacksmith and went to the dwarven tinkerer to get an excellent, hard-to-pick lock for it. He bought four more good locks for the coffers they’d emptied, turning them into personal treasure chests.

So now they’re flush with cash, patched up, and better equipped. They’re planning to head to Hokk to train, as no one in Orlane is skilled enough for most of them. And after that? Back to the barrow maze. Back to the danger and the dying. That’s the rhythm of their lives. From near-death to unimaginable wealth, and then right back to risking it all again. It’s a strange way to live. But then, it makes for a wonderful story, doesn't it?