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.
