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.