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

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.

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.