Session 191: Decisions, travel, and whispers at the Inn

Ah, gather 'round, my dears, if you can spare an old woman a moment from your bustling lives. Come closer to the fire, the chill bites hard even here in Orlane, and the stories that dance in the flames seem colder still this autumn eve. It warms my old bones to see familiar faces returned from their journeys. Yes, you, the Saviors of Orlane, have graced us once more. The good folk here speak your name with hopeful sighs, remembering how you stood against the darkness that threatened to swallow us whole.

Orlane is finding its feet again after the troubles. Hammer strokes ring out during the day, and folks are trading goods, even timber from the Ulic passes, though some goods arrive in strange, unmarked wagons these days. The old inn, bless its sturdy timbers, feels alive again, though perhaps a bit crowded with faces I don't know. Travelers come and go, like threads being woven into a new tapestry here in our little town.

Just this very night, I found myself spinning tales by the fire, as is my way. But tonight felt... different. As I spoke, the words came easily, telling of your recent adventures, of resting in the woods near the road between here and Hokot. Yes, even of the rustling leaves and the chill air that bites at fingers and toes when the frost settles. It felt as though I could see the very scenes I described, your campfire glowing warm against the creeping cold, the quiet moments under a sky full of stars.

It seems the air in Orlane is thick with stories these days. Not just the ones I tell, but whispers carried on the wind. There's talk among the folks of strange wagons moving by night without markings. Drivers who don't look like locals, quiet as stones and quick to hide a sash with a red eye when they think they're unseen. One honest soul spoke of tracks just vanishing into the thicket, and a chain snapped clean like it was rusted through overnight, though it was freshly greased. He even saw a strange mark branded on a wagon, a spiral in a rough diamond, a mark he later found on a stone near the marsh. He worries something is hunting the roads, not for coin, but for bodies.

Then there are the visitors drawn here, like flies to jam, as good Master Rudat puts it. Scholars asking questions about old stones and burial sites east of the Dim Forest. They speak of ancient patterns and a disturbance under the earth that might be stirring the dead. And travelers like the woman, Cyrus, with eyes that have seen too much, who understands that when the ground remembers, the dying begin again. She speaks of needing to move quietly, of reading the signs in the dark, and of seeing things near old spirals that the undead circle but do not approach.

Even I feel... changed. It's as if the stories themselves speak to me, showing me glimpses of things I haven't seen with these old eyes. Perhaps it is just the strange times we live in, or perhaps the old magic near the marsh stirs not just the dead, but the very fabric of the world.

Orlane is rebuilding, yes, but the foundations feel less solid than before. New stories arrive daily with the travelers – some seeking treasure, some perhaps less noble pursuits, like grave robbers drawn to the Barrel Marsh. Master Rudat keeps a weary eye on them all, concerned for the peace of his inn and our town. He remembers the blood spilled here before.

Keep your eyes open, my dears. The stories told by the fire are becoming tangled with the strange happenings on the roads and the darkness that leaks from the marsh. May your path be clear and your hearts strong. The tales yet to be told depend on you.