DM - Tareth's page

Hurrying past the cavern, Gunnar leads the way along the ridge and down into the valley. Reveling in the power of the storm the dwarf continues the pursuit of their quarry. The destination at the other end of the valley is shrouded in shadow by the dark gray skies and rapidly approaching night until a jagged cascade of lightning fills the sky in an arcing display of nature's power. Fanning across the sky in a spider's web of electricity, the powerful release of energy causes hair to rise and armor to spark among the suddenly very, very small mortals as they race onward.

In the brilliant light of the electrical majesty, all can make out the outline of ruins at the far end of the valley. Such architecture once filled the whole of Western Midgard. Tall, thin towers seemingly spun and woven out of stone and living trees, grace a circular structure that practically grows from the surrounding landscape. Even from this distance it is easy to spot a few of the embellishments and decorations that adorn most elven structures. Such building exhibit a fragile, delicate beauty and they are often able to withstand the worst that storm or enemy can throw at them. But even for an elven structure, the sight ahead appears different. The walls appear to shimmer and ripple. A trick of the flashing light? Perhaps. But even as the light in the sky dims, the walls continue to ripple like mirage images upon a desert.

Then, in a moment, the lightning fades and the keep disappears back into the shadows and behind curtain of rain now pouring down from the storm clouds. Gunnar estimates the trails general course and quick enough nods with assurance. Their quarry made for the keep and the ley line emerges within those rippling walls.

Having readied themselves the band of heroes continues the long grinding hike into the rugged mountains. Although not nearly at tall as the mighty peaks of the Cloudwalls or the jagged, glacier coated mountains of the far north, the Wild Orzu Hills offer their own barriers to those wishing to delve into their secrets. They are indeed wild. Trails are few and mostly made by deer or other wild creatures. Overgrown in the lowlands and treacherously unstable when in the highlands, the going is slow and tiring as travelers must constantly be wary of rockfalls, foot grabbing vines, and, of course, a wide variety of hungry and occasionally cleaver predators. In addition, their location on a northern peninsula caught between the cold air of the north and the warmer air riding up from the southern plains means the weather can change quickly and often.

Such is the case as wizard, bearkin, priest, and prophet tackle the winding trail up a barren, bleak, rocky ridge toward the source of power felt by Gunnar and Raseri. The wind picks up and the sun is soon blotted out by towering black clouds that fill the air with prickly menace. As children of the storm god, both Gunnar and Raseri easily predict the brewing storm. Both are proven correct.

A the party finally reaches the top of the ridge, the skies erupt in a fury of lightning and thunder. Mighty arcs of incredible power streak through the sky and occasionally down to the ground. Each accompanied by an ear splitting rumble of thunder. All quickly agree that the best thing to do is get down off the ridge. A plan starkly punctuated when a blast of lightning strikes a lonely fir not more than a thousand feet from where the group stands. The crown of the tree bursts into flame and for just a moment it looks as if the bolt of lightning tries to arc back up into the sky but instead it dissipates as the stricken tree burns.

Moments later rain begins to fall. Drops as big as a queen's coin splatter upon the ground, and heads. Looking ahead, Ingryd sees the rough trail taken by their quarry. Another winding route down the back of the ridge into a long highland valley. Both priestess and wizard sense the ley line lurking toward the far end of the valley.

With the rain pummeling the trail and the wind raging along with the storm, Ingryd somehow spots a narrow opening tucked not far from the trail. A natural cavern could provide cover and respite from the storm, although those they pursue appear to have continued on having outrun the change in weather.

Luthael: Hope you have a great trip.

The evening ends with the final incineration and burial of the halfling's corpse along with a rather drawn out and difficult discussion with the young Morgan over being told to turn back. Unwilling to give up on being part of his father's rescue, the lad argues vociferously to stay. However, teenage doggedness and wiles are nothing to those who have faced demons, sorcerous chipmunks, and wicked hags. Eventually the boy is forced to admit his defeat and agrees to not turn back to Nargenstal, but instead return to the mining site in case his father should escape on his own and come looking.

Eventually, the remainder of the night passes uneventfully and soon enough the eastern horizon begins to brighten and a nearby robin heralds in the new day. The morning dawns cool and crisp. A wind blows steadily out of the west smelling of salt and rain. All fear the autumn may finally be exerting its influence and the rains will soon arrive.

Not wishing to waste time or what remains of the good weather, the band of heroes set out as soon as it is light enough to see within the shadow-drenched eaves of the forest. Morgan, along with an unusually quiet Scramsax set off for the mine. The halfling clearly more interested in the cache of coins and baubles the prospectors had discovered more so than the missing miner himself. She'd all too quickly and eagerly volunteered for the rather menial task of seeing the boy safely back to the mine. In an instant the two vanish in a puff of foul smelling magical smoke, teleporting back to the crossroads not far from Katerina's temple.

For three more days Luthael, Raseri, Gunnar and Ingryd slog through the dense forest following the thin thread of ever fading trail. Upwards into the mountains it climbs. Over ridges, across streams, into and out of valleys. It is an arduous journey and by the end all are bug bitten, dirty, scratched and scraped and tired.

As the third day comes to a close, there is a reward of sorts. Climbing up a zigzagging trail the group comes upon a small flat patch of ground covered in tall grass fed by a spring emerging from the rocks. A mule stands in the patch happily grazing. A set of empty pack saddles lie tossed among the rocks and scrub trees, the provisions apparently used up or otherwise not needed.

There is another sign. The trail is no longer obscured. Beginning at the little glade, prints, spore, and many other signs of their quarry traveling up the trail are clear and easy to follow. Either the magical means of hiding the trail are exhausted or they no longer fear pursuit. Either way it is a boon for those tracking, for it is easy enough to see that several of the pack animals still travel with the group as do at least one prisoner judging by the various tracks and evidence left along the trail.

Finally, both Raseri and Gunnar feel the growing presence of a strong ley line. It's powerful flow emerging onto the surface before it disappears back down beneath the mountains. Such a manifestation could easily house a portal or other gateway to allow easy access to the Shadow Roads or other realms.

The candles burn lower and lower until each only consists of a short stub of wax and sputtering flame. The prophet of Khors asks the final question. The spirit churns and whirls within the circle of dimming light.

"Into the mountains to the Portal of Dreams. Follow the Shadow Road to the land of Forgotten Hope and emerge below Malithorn's Claw. There the Jasmine Pass will lead to the hidden palace and the Tower of Ten Thousand Blossoms."

As the final word emerges from the spirit, the first candle hisses and splutters out sending up a tendril of drifting smoke. Luthael quickly dismisses the halfling's fallen spirit and sends it back into the waiting embrace of death as the other candles wink out. The spirit howls and struggles against the flowing tide of power that opens and draws it back into the nether realm.

Moments later all is silent and quiet until eventually a frog croaks and the crickets once again begin to chirp in the autumn night air.

The spirit churns and hovers over the body now draped in a layer of smoke-gray frost. The prophet of Khors speaks again, the command of the spell resonating in the cold, night air, compelling the spirit to answer.

"My liege is Lord Rothollow, Baron of the Twin Spires, Knight Commander of the Seventh Brigade of his Imperial Majesty's Twilight Fusiliers, Devout Blade of Shimmering Path, Third Circle."

A tendril of smoke pokes at the circle enclosing the spirit within a material cage. A crackle of energy bursts, the tendril draws back. The spirit slithers and churns.

Luthael asks another question. For several long moments the spirit ponders a response. All remains quiet beneath the forest canopy. Only the sound of the heroes own breathing and the occasional rustle of gear or fabric breaks through the unnatural silence. The prophet's lips begin to part, to demand an answer, but the spirit finally replies.

"Upon my departure from mortal life, I departed with my liege lord from the town of Nargenstal. We journeyed to the Tower of Ten Thousand Blossoms."

Luthael's voice rings out strong and true into the chill, dim, evening air. Yet the words of his questions barely echo beyond the confines of the circle and the burning light of the candles. Hearts beat, lungs pull in air as the spirit hangs there in silence following the prophet's first question. Finally, it answers.

"I died giving my life essence to my liege and lord master." The spirit answers.

The second question is asked. The spirit's form churns and whirls during another pause, though not as long as the first. "I wished to please my lord and serve him well. Thus I would be blessed with the Grace of the Twilight Emperor and be reborn into the Halls of the Returned."

By the time the spirit finishes its answer the candles have burned down further leaving just over a third left on each taper.

Three questions left.

The sun slips further into the west as the body and space is prepared for Luthael's holy ritual. The circle is marked upon the loamy soil. Candles placed to mark the cardinal directions upon which Khors light shines each day. Two other candles are placed within the circle, one to the prophet's right, one to his left. The marker of the spirit and void where Khors grand orb shines, the second for the dark underworld where spirits must pass after leaving the mortal realm.

Prayer are spoken. An offering of incense begins to drift upon the evening air as the sun sets. In the east the moon rises in a crescent, the evening star twinkling almost within the bounds of the moon's tilted cup. Somewhere nearby an owl hoot's the beginning of the night's hunt.

Morgan watches all with rapt fascination, careful to maintain his distance. Curiosity is one thing, but after the encounter with the wraith, he's little desire to see another spirit up close.

Ingryd peers into the evening twilight, her eyes gleaming golden whenever they flick back toward the candlelight. Every so often the rustle of her sleeve is heard followed by the soft sound of someone sipping from a flask. Communing with spirits is a thirsty endeavor.

Gunnar considers potential questions. Spirits are always tricky and time will be to the ghost's advantage. The doorway to the spirit realm can only be held open for so long, even by a god's prophet. Wizard and priestess consider options, checking with Luthael when he pauses his prayers.

Finally, all is ready. Luthael's voice takes on a tone of command calling forth the unknown spirit of the fallen halfling. The air grows still, becomes cold. The candles flare but Ingryd notices their light barely reaches beyond the edge of the holy circle. The night sounds of the forest fade until only silence is heard beyond the creak and rustle of robes, armor and gear as those gathered shift and breath and wait.

The air grows colder. With each syllable of prayer, Luthael's breath forms a cloud about his face as if it were suddenly midwinter. Again he calls upon the spirit. And again. After the third time another mist begins to form within the circle. Trickling forth from the halfling's nose and parted lips like a release of rancid, black pipe smoke, it begins to swirl and coalesce just above the corpse.

It's shape is nebulous, roughly the size of the halfling, but ever shifting in form like a cloud churning in a storm. The candles have burned over halfway down to the ground. Streams of wax trickle forth from the circle's edge. The spirits arrival signals another drop in temperature. Morgan's teeth chatter as he looks at the frost gathered around his own water canteen.

A voice. Bland, devoid of life, devoid of interest in mortal machinations. It is heard, but not heard. Emanating from the spirit, but neither fully physical or psychic. It grates on the living soul. Chills like ice slipping beneath a shirt collar and rolling down a bareback. It desires only one thing, to be free of that which brought it here. To return from whence it emerged.

"I am here oh scion of Khors. Your god drags me from the realm of death. I know you not, yet you bind with the light god's power. I wonder why."

Go ahead and ask your first question.

Ingryd and Gunnar set about digging a preparing a suitable burial for the dead halfling. A difficult task given the numerous roots from the surrounding trees and an abundance of rocks lying just beneath the forest born soil. The lengthy task gives Luthael plenty of time to ready himself to the arduous task of calling a spirit back from the realms of the dead if only for a short while.

As he digs, Gunnar ponders the strange, foreboding image tattooed upon the halfling's shoulder. The one he'd copied into a journal earlier. A spark of knowing lurks at the edge of his memory. Elusive and ephemeral for a time. But as is often the case, a little physical labor frees the mind and soon enough he is able to grapple the slippery memory.

Young Morgan drinks from the bearkin's offered flask. His eyes grow wide as the strong liquor hits his throat like Ingryd's sledgehammer. Swallowing the honey brew he gasps, coughs, and nods his thanks with a smile as a warm glow flushes his cheeks a few moments later.

Soon enough attention turns back to the body. The deceased halfling lying upon the forest floor. Gunnar's cursory inspection reveals little except for the pair of puncture wounds located just at the base of the dead halfling's neck.

A more complete examination by the wizard garners little else. Whatever items of value or personal interest to the deceased have been removed. His shirt, pants, a pair of worn boots and under clothing are all that remain. A few battered leaves of pipeweed burrowed at the bottom of a shirt pocket would indicate he was a smoker. The stained teeth and strong smell of stale smoke corroborate the assumption.

The dwarf does discover one curiosity, a tattoo marking the halfling's shoulder. An eight pointed star set upon the forehead of a grinning skull surrounded by an Ouroboros hungrily eating its own tail.

Trapped within the Fist of Odin, the wraith cannot escape its final demise at the hand of the heroes of Nargenstal. Fire, hammer, force, and lightning combine to unravel the undying spirit's existence upon the mortal plane once and forever.

After a few moments, somewhere in the distance a bird chirps to the evening sun. The last dying echoes of Raseri's thunder and lightning fade into memory and all is calm and peaceful once again within the dim eaves of beneath the forest's canopy.

A few feet away, the miner's son stares wide-eyed at where the vile shadow died. His body quakes with shivers. The bone-chilling cold of fear much stronger than the lingering warmth of a late autumn day.

Wraith is destroyed. Combat over.

Lightning, fire, and hammer strike the tree for a third and final time. As the echo of Raseri's lightning blast rolls off the surrounding hills, the possessed oak shudders violently. An otherworldly howl emerges from the old hollow within the tree. Finally slowly, the mighty sentinel of the forest begins to topple as if felled by a lumberman's axe.

The thundering crash and boom of the oak's fall booms across the glade along with a smattering of branches and withered leaves. A moment later the wraith emerges from the hollow. It sickly, shadow like an ink stain dripping from the once proud tree. As soon as it emerges, it stretches toward another towering tree, but the patient wizard is ready, poised to strike. Before the wraith truly understands the danger, it is surrounded by the arcane force of Gunnar's magical cage. The trap slams shut upon the shadow. It screeches its unholy, undying rage but is unable to break free of the wizard's bindings.

The wraith is grappled. Party is up.

Gunnar readies his magical cage and waits for the wraith to emerge from within the hapless tree, now possessed by the undead spirit. As the wizard prepares, his companions continue to press the attack against tree and shadow. Fire and lightning combine to blast and burn both limb and spirit while Ingryd's hammer blows begin to have a stronger effect as the wraith's control and resistances begin to slip within the confines of the mortal or corporeal oak.

The tree lashes out again at the raging bearkin. A pair of limbs swing at Ingryd. The first slips off her shield, but the second catches the bearkin in the ribs knocking her sideways a couple of steps.

Gunnar stands ready for the wraith to flee the dying tree.

Ingryd takes 16 bludgeoning damage.

Party is up.

Gunnar retreats from the suddenly active and animated oak. As do Luthael and Raseri. The priestess summons a bolt of lightning from the sky. Somehow the lumbering bulk of the tree manages to tilt away from the worst of the blast at just the right moment. The same cannot be said of Luthael's holy fire. The flame of Khors erupts among the drying autumn leaves and branches of the tree's crown and it rattles and shivers in fire fueled pain and anger.

Fueled by her own rage, Ingryd refuses to retreat. She strikes the thick trunk of the tree twice, her hammer blows landing with a resounding thump and thud. The strikes leave their marks upon the tree, but the bone crushing maul is less effective against the thick solidity of the oak. The hearty oak, also seems to resist the unnatural, life devouring magic of the maul, limiting its damage to a pair of small blotches of gray, dying wood upon the mass of the trunk.

The possessed oak lashes out at the bearkin. A thick limb crashes into Ingryd's chest. The bearkin attempts to move with the blow lessening the damage slightly, but still knocking the breath from her lungs for a brief instant. A second limb comes crashing down from above but misses wildly only ripping a thick gash into the soft soil of the forest floor.

Ingryd takes 14 bludgeoning from one hit.
Party is up.

"YAAAAAAAARRRRR!"

The wraith unleashes a brutal screech as flame, electricity, and magic maul assault the undying creature. A pair of eldritch eyes gleam red near the upper edges of the smokey shadow. For several moments the shadow swirls like a whirlwind twisting itself into the air just above the clearing. Letting loose another screech it dives. Moments before coming back within contact of the group the wraith veers and dives into a small opening in a nearby oak tree.

Silence fills the grove of the forest. The only sounds the dwindling crackle of sparks dripping from Gunnar's fingers and Ingryd's rage fueled breathing. Lutheal's quiet prayers drift forth from the priest's lips while Raseri watches for the wraith's return, her own silence adding to that of the surrounding forest.

It is the watchful priestess who notices the limbs of the tree begin to quiver and quake, the soil at its base ripple and quiver as if something large tunneled just beneath the surface. The priestesses hand point at a pair of rather large whorls in the bark nearly twenty feet above the ground. An eldritch light fills the swirling ovals of bark.

The party is up.

Luthael unleashes a brilliant blast of holy fire that embraces the wraith in a flaming embrace. The undying shadow screeches and ripples clear of Khor's embrace like a tavern wench slipping clear of an unwelcome advance. Gunnar senses the creature's move and stands ready. The wizard sends a crackling wave of electricity coursing into the shadow's aethereal form. For several seconds it flashes and sparkles against the dim backdrop of the evening forest.

Stepping forward, Ingryd slashes at the wraith. Her initial strike misses as the creature contorts its wispy form to avoid the blow. But with a speed and precision honed over months and months of battle and practice, the bearkin spins the blade, pivots and catching the horror with her back swing. She hears a hiss and smells the scent of burning blood as the ancient blade passes through the shadow.

Attempting to follow up, Raseri quickly moves in to strike with her own blade, but where the dwarf guessed correctly, the priestess has no such luck. The creature slips its smokey body right even as she moved left casing her strike to miss the mark.

The creature attempts to take advantage of the priestesses mistake, but Raseri is already on the move, and tumbles clear of the cold, hissing slash of the wraith's claws. Not forgetting the bearkin, the shadow lashes out at Ingryd as well, but the smoke-black claws slash against her shield causing the ancient item to squeal with a strange combination of fear, pain, and anger as a quartet of dark black marks are left slashed across the shield's surface.

Wraith misses twice. Party is up.

Raseri, Ingryd and Luthael all peer warily at the body, the priestesses warning causing her companions to draw steel and ready themselves for the worst. As they do, Gunnar steps closer his voice echoing within the shaded dimness beneath the trees. Within a few moments, the wizard's magic reaches out and touches the corpse.

"RAWWWWWRRRRGGGGGGG!" The howling echo of undeath and hatred of all things living leaps upward from the fallen halfling's body. A nebulous cloak of malevolence and shadow is drawn forth from the body where it lay hidden.

Aethereal claws slash at the wizard as the undead wraith emerges from its hidden cocoon, but the careful dwarf is ready for the strike and Gunnar deftly dances away.

Party is up.

The young man stares down at the body of the halfing, his face turning a bit grin as he looks into the eyeless face. After several seconds he frowns and turns to Gunnar.

"I...I think I've seen him before." He says hesitantly. "He used to hang around the stables just outside of town. Where they were renting or selling mules, horses, and oxen for folk needing to haul goods deeper into the wilderness as things started to open up. I think he was helping work with the animals or something, but I'm not sure." He shrugs. "Father could have hired him. He'd said he'd likely need to hire a few hands to help with the animals because of all of the supplies he was bringing back."

While the boy talks, Gunnar and Raseri each take a closer look at the body. Carefully looking under the halfling's shirt, Raseri is the first to spot the spider's web of thin black lines marking a jagged path across his chest. Emanating from his heart, the lines blossom outward like a diseased, deadly flower. Gunnar confirms the priestesses suspicions with a quick nod. Necromancy and shadow magic. It was not a simple animal attack or natural causes that sent the halfling into the land of death.

However, more worrisome to the investigating duo, is the other layer of much more potent necromancy and shadow, along with a healthy does of conjuration. The power lies draped over the body like a tightly bound shroud. As the two continue to explore and probe, the magical aura ripples and scuttles dangerously.

The trail leads deeper and deeper into the wilds of the Courlandian peninsula as it slowly snakes its way into the heart of the Wild Orzu Hills. Ever watchful for further signs of their quarry's passage, Raseri spots another series of mule prints along with the occasional broken fern or shrub branch.

Curiously, given a pack train with a half dozen animals and the accompanying handlers, all agree that the trail shouldn't be so well hidden. Clearly the magic that Gunnar continues to track was also used to obscure the physical trail.

Morning passes to midday which passes to afternoon that passes to evening and still there is no sign of the missing miner or his mules. Continuing along the path, another rough camp is discovered. Unlike the previous site, there is no store of firewood set aside. No fire ring or other sign of use except for the flatten grasses and the smell of a hastily dug latrine not so far away.

There is also no fresh water. Just rocks, trees, and the wind now blowing steadily out of the west. Large, puffy clouds with gray underbellies race across the evening sky.

Night passes without incident and with dawn's first light the hunt continues. Thus another three days pass in a similar manner. On the fifth day since departing the Temple of Khors, Gunnar calls a halt around midday. The thread of magic the wizard has followed suddenly ends. Puzzled, the wizard begins a search of the surrounding forest.

Eventually it is Ingryd and Luthael who come upon the body. It is a halfling drover. Probably in his late sixties although it is always difficult to judge a halfling's age given their youthful appearance. Hidden in a shallow hollow surrounded by dense hemlock trees, it was the stink of the corpse that alerted the two to its presence. Dressed in simple traveling clothes and heavy cloak, the halfling is clearly the victim of a violent death. A stab wound to the heart being the certain cause, although several other marks mar the body leaving everyone to wonder exactly what happened before the mule wrangler was killed.

The search also reveals the trail continuing to the east and veering northward after drifting south for the previous five days. Here the track of the pack train and it's handlers is clear and open. Easy to follow and it passes ever deeper into the wild.

Ingyrd searches all around the campsite looking for any tracks or other signs left behind by the passing voices heard by Luthael, however, after nearly an hour of effort, she throws up her hands in defeat. A few old rabbit tracks. Some mouse tracks where the little rodent was investigating the boundary of Gunnar's dome. A pair of crows tracks hopping through the area where she'd tossed the dishwater after last night's supper. But nary a goblin, halfling, fae, or other print that would indicate something else passed by.

By the time Ingryd has finished her investigation, Gunnar has completed his ritual and all is made ready to depart. The wizard picks up the thin wisp of magic and it still leads out across the meadow. Hopes are raised when about three quarters of the way across the damp, muddy expanse of grass and autumn flowers, Raseri spots an obvious hoof print in a patch semi-dry mud. More than a week old, the print fits the size and depth of a heavily laden mule.

With some small confidence of being on the right path, Gunnar directs everyone across the final stretch of meadow and beneath the eaves of the forest.

A mixture of emotion passes across young Morgan Kreeg's face at the discovery of a possible lead to his father's disappearance. Excitement, worry, anticipation, fear, happiness, and more worry. The fact that the residual magic discovered by Gunnar is of a dark and malign origin weighs heavily on the young man's mind and heart. Although he does his best to try and hide his sense of urgency, it is clear the boy is eager to move on despite a more rational understanding that waiting one more night will not likely make a difference in the final outcome.

The appearance of the wizard's hut provides an ample distraction and the young miner can't help but gaze wide-eyed upon the safe confines of the glimmering dome.

"Saint's Grace." He whispers, he hand crossing his forehead in a gesture many have taken to making since Katerina's reappearance. "If only we'd had such a wonder on our journey north, it would have saved my mother and sisters a terrible bout of flu. Not to mention all the sleepless nights watching for gnomes or goblins or a hungry forest drake."

Eventually, Morgan settles in with the rest of the band and the night slowly passes. Sometime in the early morning hours, Luthael sits watch and thinks he hears voices nearby. The voices sound small and seem to pass across the meadow without truly approaching the camp. When the prophet peers into the surrounding darkness, he sees nothing by the light of the dim lights of the stars blanketing the autumn sky.

After several tense minutes spent waiting, Luthael hears nothing more and the remainder of the watch passes without further incident. A few hours later the soft glow of early dawn begins to illuminate the eastern sky and the rousing song of an early rising robin echoes happily across the meadow to signal a new day.

The wizard examines the 'thread' closer. For several seconds all is quiet except the winds rustling across the meadow its whispers of coming winter nudging at ears and fingertips. Somewhere among the tall grasses a blackbird calls. The aethereal trail of power is old. Two or three weeks at least. Within the window of Kreeg's journey. It was also potent to leave such a lingering effect over such a span. Eventually the dwarf nods with some internal decision or satisfaction.

The trail is cool, but not gone. And it will not disappear entirely overnight. When it will finally dissipate, he cannot be sure. In a day or two is likely. Perhaps not for another week if they are lucky. How the natural world recovers from the intrusions and depredations of magical conjuring and casting is still a very unanswered question among the scholars and practitioners of those very magics. Few have considered such things to be of concern and worthy of further investigation.

Not wanting the corruption of the dark magic to truly infect the area or spread further along the leyline, Gunnar sets about dispelling the foul magical residue. Deliberate and methodical, the process takes time, but the wizard's patience is rewarded in the end as all trace of the dark, shadow energy is scrubbed away.

But the wizard is doubly rewarded by his efforts. For as the dwarf works through the purification rituals he spots a lingering thread of darkness. Thin as a spider's web. Foul as a hag's breath. The wisp of darkness slips away from the camp south and east and across the meadow before it seems to disappear beneath the canopy of the forest. Curiously, the path of the thread does not follow the path deeper into the mountains which circumvents the meadow to maintain a more direct east and northerly route.

Scramsax: Totally understand and no worries. RL comes first for sure. Easy enough for Scramsax to get sidetracked on some side adventure while you're away and then pop back in when things have settled for you.

Luthael and Ingryd busy themselves setting up camp, cooking the evening meal, and gathering wood to replace what will be used during the night. As the sun slips beneath the trees, the warmth of the fire is already welcome with the temperature quickly dropping.

With camp taken care of by the prophet and bearkin, Raseri and Gunnar set about trying to track the miner and his party. Both quickly register the thin, weak leyline following the meandering path of the stream through the meadow. However, it is much too weak to serve as a shadow path or to even open a gate into that otherworldly realm.

Yet, both priestess and wizard sense a reside of magic clinging to the little clearing and camp. Mostly a blend of the usual abjuration, conjuration and transmutation magics one might expect as travelers bed down among the potentially hostile wilds of the northern forest. But as he sifts through the lingering, fading threads, Gunnar finds a bit of something more. Something darker and much less benign. Nearly faded into oblivion, it would have been easy too miss completely if one wasn't specifically looking for such things. A mix of illusion, shadow, and necromancy. It is too old, too far gone to determine the exact nature of the magic, but with such a concoction, harm, control or some other dark purpose would be most likely.

The wizard quickly notes the toxic casting has even left its mark upon the leyline. A blight slowly, quietly seeping into the magical stream. Little appears to be affected by the small manifestation of darkness, but both priestess and wizard understand that such a thing left unchecked would eventually bring this pleasant, peaceful place to ruin and darkness.

The band of heroes depart the Temple of Light in Nargenstal, their packs filled and their spirits raised, even if the prospects of finding their quarry alive still appear dim as a cloud wrapped moon. Still, the moon is many hours away from rising over the eastern hills, and Khors' sun shines brightly over head. The air is crisp and cool. Autumn wanes. Back to the west, storm clouds linger on the distant horizon.

Setting forth upon the trail, the forest is alive with bird calls and activity. Squirrels take advantage of the warm, dry weather, as they gather cones, seeds, and nuts. The scratching of their teeth upon hard shells echoing across the treetops. Deer forage upon remaining berries and fresh fall grasses. Burrows are dug and lined. A large vee of geese pass over, their honking cacophony momentarily drowning out conversation.

The initial path is wide and easy. Clear enough for three or four to walk abreast. Wagon ruts mark much of the path where intrepid folk have driven small carts or wagons into the wild.

Midday passes into afternoon which soon enough gives way to evening. Shorter days. As the sun begins to dip below the trees, the young prospector points to a small rocky grove tucked near a gurgling creek.

"That's where we usually stop when venturing back and forth to town." He says with glimmer of both excitement and disappointment at seeing the campsite quite empty, just as it had been when he passed through a few days earlier.

It is easy to see why folk have used this as a place to camp along the route to the wild hills. The stream burbles across a flower filled meadow. A sandy shore gives way to a low, but solid rim of rocks allowing for a defensible position and fresh water. A copse of pine tall trees provide shade and a regular supply of dead limbs for firewood. A blackened ring of stones sit near the deepest section of the u-shaped rock formation. There's even a small pile of ready made firewood, tucked beneath an overhang in the wall.

Looking across the meadow and further along the trail, little else can be seen except a few blackbirds calling in the evening light, the grasses and flowers waving back and forth in the wind. High above a hawk calls, slowly circling toward the south and west where a nest likely waits. All is calm, peaceful, and quiet as the heroes arrive.

The saint turns back to Scramsax, blinks at the halfling once, twice, taps a finger along her chin. "I am fascinated by the Kesharan water puppetry as well as the Wayang style common all along the Spice Coast in the far south. Now, of course, the Nurians believe they were the originators of the art form, but their efforts are all just so...." She whirls a hand in the air. "So, dreadfully dour. All about death and power and returning to a former glory lost long ago. Just mummies, mummies, mummies. Not too mention all of the ethically questionable sister-wife relationships and murdering of ones family." She shakes her head.

Turning to Ingryd, she gives the bearkin a puzzled but sympathetic look. "Indeed, dragon's do make excellent spoke's creatures for a vast segment of Midgard. Especially if you're looking to make inroads into the Mharoti markets."

She smiles at Gunnar, Raseri, and Luthael. Thanks them for their efforts and support during these harrowing times. "The world will always need heroes such as yourselves. Without stout, good-hearted souls such as you, darkness would have surely wrapped the world in its foul embrace long, long ago." She pauses, sighs. "Alas, I don't have much more to offer as far as poor Kreeg goes. He was fine and healthy when he left." She points off to the east. "They took the eastern path, like most of those seeking riches in the hills."

Turning back toward the table. "Eat. Drink. Take what you wish or might need. We've plenty here and it is the least I can offer."

The young saint offers Raseri an embarrassed smile and nods her head. "You are right of course." She says. Her features, although older in every appearance, than the child of such a short time ago, seem suddenly much, much younger. "It is just that I have...memories...of a time when I would have easily spotted any such creature so close. Yet, now, I've no idea how I achieved such things. No idea...what to do or how." Her head shakes. Frustration and doubt fill her eyes. Her jaw clenches.

"I can wield a blade as if it was a pure extension of my arm. Instinct, form, mind and body. All work in unison with ease and effectiveness. The ability to read a foe, counter a move, riposte and strike all come with an ease and surety as if...as if I'd never died." She quickly pirouettes and moves through several acrobatics sword forms with the grace and ease of a ballet dancer. Her blades sparkles and flares as it captures and reflects the streaming beams of sunlight. "I can feel Khors' light and presence, yet, such a thing as detecting the presence of a shadow nearby eludes me. Ghouls raid and pillage the surrounding lands, and I'm as helpless to find them as the Queen's own guards. That witch..." Her eyes close. She swallows hard, again grinds her teeth. "A witch can whisk away friends beneath my very nose and I know nothing until it is all too late. Such things did not happen...before. If some evil creature did try such things, the consequences to the perpetrator were quick and quite deadly." A heavy sigh bursts from her lips. Her sword slips quietly, smoothly into it's sheath. "What good is a saint who cannot see her enemies? Who cannot prevent those she cares for from being stolen or harmed by evil?"

Her fingers drum along her belt until she shakes her head again. "I am sorry my friends. It is only that...only that I feel much has been lost to me and I worry it may not return." Her eyes glance up to a recently finished mural depicting Katerina and her dragon companion battling the Arch Demon Grezzlekech upon the summit of the Braided Peaks. Her head tips toward the keen eyes of the dragon, their intelligence and depth of spirit so perfectly captured by the artist. Within the saint's gaze, loneliness, uncertainty, and grief all wrestle just beneath the surface of youthful control and exuberance. Finally, she turns and nods her head at the priestess and bearkin. Her smile is once again bright, warm, a beacon of light and beauty.

"You are right of course, my friends. We all must carry our burdens and the world will surely weigh us down with ever more as time passes. No need to add to the basket without need."

Turning to Scramsax, Katerina smiles waving a hand across the sideboard and its various fruits and pastries.

"Please, you are welcome to help yourself to anything." She says. Considering the halflings other question she offers a quick shrug. Pulling out the little silver and amber sun charm clipped to her belt she holds it up to catch the morning light causing it to glow with the same soft yellow brilliance as Khors' holy lamp.

"Amber has often been a favored stone for those who follow Khors. It's golden, sun-like color. It's manifestation from the life blood of trees which are fed by the sun. Aside from perhaps gold, it is the most similar and connected to the god's light and fire. I believe this also makes it much more...hmmm...welcoming, accepting of Khors' blessings." She adds, struggling slightly to find the right words. To demonstrate, she closes her eyes and summons forth a bit of power from the charm creating a second source of sunlight that emanates from the holy symbol. "You see."

Dousing the light and slipping the charm back onto her belt a blush brightens her cheeks.

"As for the lavender. I must admit, I just enjoy the scent." Her nose and face crinkle as she glances back toward the practice arena. "And after a solid morning's work with several acolytes both young and old...well... She laughs. "It is a very welcome scent to offer my nose compared to the what often fills the temple."

While the saint and Scramsax discuss the ins and outs of the favored gemstones of Khors and their relative value and usefulness, Gunnar goes out to consult with the masons and sculptors working on the temple. The master dwarf is able to offer some guidance to a pair of apprentices working on a tricky arch as well as a journeyman having trouble chiseling a relief of the god's visage on a slightly flawed slab of granite. The aide is welcomed and soon the dwarf is deep in conversation with the workers, discussing the challenges and lasting legacies that come with stone craft and building something like a new temple.

Not wishing to delay either the saint or the search for the boy's father longer than necessary, Raseri and Luthael draw the questions back to the missing man and the suspicious nature of his companion. When asked if anyone with the missing miner, or perhaps the man himself were perhaps fey or touched by such creatures, Katerina pauses thoughtfully.

"No. I did not feel such a presence around Kreeg." She says eventually adding a shake of her head. "Nor of his two companions who came inside with him." Another pause as her brow furrows causing her nose to twitch slightly. "But now that you mention it, one of them did have a bit of shadow clinging to him. He seemed to be grieving a loss and he did light one of the memory candles. So I just assumed it was that natural bit of darkness that so often clouds our hearts and souls when we lose someone close to us."

Her gaze takes in the small nook set back within the main entrance hall where about a dozen small beeswax candles burn in small glass holders. Each lit by a worshiper to offer the light of memory for someone or something they've lost and once held dear.

"Perhaps I should have looked closer." She adds. Quietly criticizing her lack of foresight. "But so many have come in over these last months with such shrouds draped across their spirits. The ghouls, the raiders, the hag's minions, and others have all taken their toll. Alas, even the sudden burst of growth and economic vitality has caused others to grieve the loss of the village and region's once quiet peaceful and natural beauty that kept it so separate from many of the world's darker struggles. I honest took little notice of just another soul carrying a similar weight."

"As for the other man, the one who did not venture close. There was something more peculiar about him. I am certain. What exactly, I cannot say. He did not enter the temple and I did not seek him out. Nor could I judge him further as he always seemed to slip away from my gaze. Fey? Possibly. Whatever he was or carried with him, it was not demonic or hellish in nature. That I would have sensed most certainly. Nor was he undead. Such a creature could not come within a mile of this compound without me knowing. But fey. They are different. Neither wholly evil or good in general. So it is possible he was glamoured or maintaining a glamour."

The saint laughs brightly at Ingryd's offer. It is like the touch of morning sunlight after a storm rattled night. Cheerful. Light. A true blessing of Khors. "I would gladly take you up on a sample." She says with a smile. Then her sparkling eyes flick back toward the training ground. "But we are in the middle of morning training. It wouldn't look proper at all." She squeezes the bearkin on the arm with gentleness and affection. "I'll hold you to it another time. I hear the new Grizz brewery is generating quite the buzz in town."

"A mystery?" She replies to Gunnar quirking an eyebrow as she takes a slice of apple from the tray and bites off half. A shake of her head and wave of her hand toward the sounds of chipping hammers and chisels is her answer to the need for more stone masons. "You my thanks and appreciation, but as you can hear, we've plenty of volunteers working on the masonry." Her shoulders raise and drop in a shrug. "A simple barn or solid barracks would suite me fine. A roof out of the elements. A wide space to train and teach. Alas, so many expect grand temples and master craftworks to surround their prayers and blessings. Although, it feels a bit frivolous, Trevor has discovered some very talented masons and artists. They're doing beautiful work in Khors honor."

Her demeanor shifts and worry, even a spark of fear briefly drifts across her eyes like a cloud momentarily blocking the sun when Luthael mentions the sword and its returning menace. For a moment her stance is guarded, almost as if she expects the prophet to draw the ancient, vile blade and strike at her. A not entirely unreasonable response considering she'd already been slain in such a manner several hundred years ago. However, she is still a true saint of the sun god, and it does not take her long to overcome her fear or instinctual reaction to the very blade that she could occasionally still feel passing into flesh and spirit, holding her in eternal torment for all those many passing seasons. She shakes her head.

"I've no power over that...particular blade." She says quietly. She closes her eyes. Her hands shiver for a moment. "I...I can feel it's presence here. Feel its hate. Its gloating laughter. Its desire. " She swallows the apple. "It would seek to either kill or...overwhelm me. Use me to create another tyrannical Inquisitor. A thing I fear it could too easily achieve given all of the time we spent...bound together." The last is a whisper.

Turning to Raseri, she nods solemnly to the priestesses of Thor. "Your wisdom is correct. No regular forge will harm that hateful blade. It's destruction is beyond my ken or power, but I wholly bless your endeavor to see it removed from this world."

"As for the curious box that has kept the thing bound for these past months, it too is beyond my abilities. Alas, Khors is a god of light and fire. Honor and truth. Life and creation. To nullify or negate the very existence of something well..." Her hands raise in submission as she shakes her head.

"However, I may be able to help in your other quest." She says her voice turning thoughtful as she reaches for another slice of apple. "I believe I do recall the person you are seeking." She goes on to describe the miner and young Morgan Kreegson's father. "He seemed a kind enough fellow. Quiet. Stern in his way, like many men who labor hard for a living. But fair minded and good at heart." She taps her chin lightly in thought. "He sought a simple blessing and prayer for his son, wife, and daughters. I had the sense they were not all together. He'd a team of six mules. All loaded for a long journey. He left a bit of copper ore as an offering. Seemed a bit embarrassed that he didn't have more, but that is never really a problem. Still, with such a load of gear and good, I was glad to see he'd hired a quartet of guards in town." She frowns and pulls at her lower lip. "But, I didn't really care for the look of one of those men. Hard of feature, but worse, hard of heart and soul as well. He did not enter the temple with the others. Stayed well clear with the mules. They didn't stay long. Had a bit of a journey ahead of them and wanted an early start given the poor weather. That was all...hmmmmm....seven, maybe eight days ago?" An apologetic shrug. "I'm not very good with time and days."

The party gathers their gear and some supplies and soon find themselves back on the road. Their first stop is only a short distance away. The ancient, ruined Temple of Khors and Saint Katerina no longer looks so ancient or ruined. A new marble fountain burbles near the entrance, a quartet of griffins spouting streams of clear, cool spring water into a sun disc pool.

Workers continue to rebuild the outer walls and replace broken frescoes and stonework with new. One mosaic artist busily labors on a scaffolding just inside the main entrance, the scene of Khors blessing the young saint as she strides into battle against a rushing horde of undead during the Battle of Broken Souls.

Further inside, the morning sunlight fills the main circular chamber with beams of light bursting through the newly constructed glass dome. A choir of young men and women rehearse in the balcony, directed by an equally young priest. It seems Katarina's faith is attracting a younger audience than the usual dour priests that preach the word of Khors in the main temples of Zobeck or the southern cities.

Following the sound of wooden practice swords clashing, the party enters the true heart of Katarina's temple and faith. The sand covered practice grounds dotted with fencing posts and surrounded by racks of shields and weapons of a variety of makes. Trevor is busy leading a class of six young acolytes through their exercises while another group spar beneath the watchful and critical eye of the martial saint herself.

Seeing your arrival, Katarina puts a tall, dark haired boy of perhaps nineteen or twenty in charge of the class. bowing his head, he quickly runs through a series of demonstrations to show the two students where they made mistakes as well as some bright points of success.

Wiping sweat from her face the Saint of Khors walks over, her eyes and face beaming with delight. She has grown swiftly since your last meeting. A young girl no more, since blossoms into womanhood although her near constant work with sword, axe, spear, and shield leaves her with a still lithe and wiry frame. Her hair is cut short to just above her ears, her practice helm sits in a place of honor atop a rack on the far wall.

"Welcome, my friends." She says embracing each of you with a warm, delighted hug. "I did not expect the pleasure of a visit from such worthy heroes today. As you can see, we are in the midst of morning classes, but I'm sure Lydia will have something to eat and drink set aside in the dining hall." She gestures toward a side door from which drift a delightful aroma of pastries, warmed cider, and smoked meats.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" She says grabbing a berry danish from the platter and taking a bit of the still warm, soft sweet bread.

Heh...so yes, I totally missed the whole 'object' qualifier when I first read that. I thought it was a pretty overpowered, but just decided to roll with it.

I actually have really come to dislike the way 5E uses 'objects' as a way to distinguish how certain power/spells/abilities work. So I guess the danger is only really, really sharp and effective when stabbing a door. Against flesh...well it's just an ordinary dagger.

So for Gunnar's hammer and Scram's dagger. How about instead of the whole critical against objects only thing, we make it so an adamantine weapon provides automatic advantage against any foe wearing non-magical armor? And just does max damage against inanimate objects.

Thus it is much easier to 'punch through' non-magical armor. Obviously, a rogue gets to add sneak without worrying about being hidden, adjacent, or whatever, but I think that fits with the cuts through anything like a hot knife through butter feature that is usually associated with adamantine type weapons. So mooks will be a bit easier to kill. You could still use it to break through a stone wall or cut iron bars. Bigger bads might be easier as well, although at these higher levels it is more likely they will have some kind of magical armor, protection, or immunity.

That seems a bit more useful and makes a little more sense in my head, but also happy to leave it at just an auto crit against objects if you all would prefer.

The boy's shoulders droop, his head bows as Raseri points out the cold reality of the situation. Eventually he nods and raises his eyes to the priestess. They glitter with sadness and understanding, but also resolve.

"I...I understand there is little hope." He says, his throat closing for just a moment. "But I have to try and do something. Try and figure out what happened...before I write to mother." He sighs heavily. "I cannot face her with such news if I feel there was something more that could be done."

For a second his eyes widen in surprise when Gunnar mentions the possibility of magical influence or interference.

"I haven't really considered that possibility. We thought we'd escaped the gnomes and their infernal magics." He says quietly. "We're just miners. Working the earth to make a living. Why would someone with such...powers...bother with us? We've no power. No mystical knowledge. No wealth. Especially since he'd already sold the ore. He was only carrying back supplies and gear." He shakes his head with confusion and fear of potentially being the attention of such folk.

Seeing the interest and willingness of those around the table to help, especially the halfling, he smiles for the first time. The gesture does not really wipe away the sadness and worry in his eyes, but some of the gloom and shadow surrounding him dissipates.

"I don't know what to say except thank you for your kindness and aide." He waves a hand at the small sack. "I know it isn't much, but it's all I have." He says then begins drawing a rough map to the small valley where his mine sits.

Comparing the rough drawing to some of his own notes, the wizard's intuition about a potential ley line running along the trail is correct. They often follow flowing water, so when the boy mentioned the creek, Gunnar assumed a high likelihood of one being nearby. His notes are incomplete, a result of the lack of a thorough survey of the region for the last several hundred years. However, his own travels indicate the existence of a minor tributary that flows out of the hills and eventually intersects with the Nargenstal line which flows south until it reaches the much larger Grandmother's Walk ley line.

According to Gunnar's notes, the small feeder line is weak, not of much significance from a power perspective, but it could hold a shadow road, or perhaps the remnant of one.

The sack contains a mix of copper, silver and a few gold coins totaling 75GP.

It is a well crafted dagger. Non-magical, but since it is made of adamantine any hit is considered a critical hit. Of course that doesn't count on creatures that are immune to crits or that require a magic weapon to hit.

The young man nods bashfully as everyone gathers and sits around the table. He's nervous, clearly unused to being in the company of heroes and adventurers who've seen more of the world than he could even imagine. However, his hesitation is quickly overcome by his own need and the easy reassurances from Gunnar and Raseri, the latter causing the teenager's face to flush as she looks at him with genuine interest and concern.

With a nod he takes a quick drink from his mug.

"My father and I come north from Courlandia about a month ago. We're originally from the Osweiten country. Along the eastern border with the Wormwood. My family had worked the old Holtzen Silver mine for three generations." His voice is quiet and shaky at first. But as he begins to unravel his tale it steadies and gains in strength and confidence. "Then the raids across the border started. Gnomes. Along with their hell spawned allies. The mine was forced to close when the evil creatures sacked the village, destroyed the mine entrance and killed or took away more than fifty miners. We were fortunate that my mother had taken ill and we'd been forced to travel to Olga's for medicine that day. She let us sleep over and likely saved my family's lives."

"With the mine closed, and the region in flames, we fled. First Lingenau, then to Courlandia. Life in the refugee camps was terrible and with no work, it felt like we were doomed to poverty and starvation despite the Queen's efforts." He sighs. Rubs at his tired eyes.

"When father heard of the opening up of the north country and the recent discoveries around Nargenstal, father didn't hesitate. 'Why it's a chance to get in at the beginning son.' He said. 'We can find our own strike and then we'll be the big mine owners like Holtzen or the Baron.' I'd passed my sixteenth birthday, so he brought me north while mother and the girls stayed in Courlandia where at least they could be safe. We'd heard about the trouble with Morgau and their ghoul allies."

"It was as father said. The land was wild and open. Aside from the few villages we traveled through it was as if nobody had set foot in the Ozku since before the Retreat. When we arrived father bought a good set of prospecting gear, a mule, and plenty of food and we set out into the mountains with several other men looking to strike it rich." He tips his head toward Luthael and the sun symbol hanging from his neck. "Of course we stopped at the temple and paid our respects to Saint Katarina on our way out of town."

"And it seemed we were truly blessed. It only took seventeen days for us to find a likely deposit. Copper. A bunch sitting in a pool below a spring that fell right out of the side of a mountain. And the more we sifted , the richer things looked. I was able to climb the mountain and reach the source of the spring. That's when we truly understood the size and depth of the strike. For behind the flow of water was an opening that seemed to stretch into the depths of the earth and its was lined with ore."

"Within days we'd dug more than enough ore to load the mule and ourselves. I was to stay and guard the claim while father returned to register it with the Queen's Guard, get more supplies, and hire a few extra hands." Worry returns to the boy's features. "I stayed as long as I could, but once the food ran out I didn't have much choice. It had been over a month and no word or sign of my father. He'd registered the claim, I checked with the Guard. He also purchased supplies and had been seen leaving town over three weeks ago. But he never made it back to our valley."

"I've walked the entire trail three times now and there's no sign he was waylaid by wolves or a bear or some other predator. And he wouldn't just leave without any word. Something terrible happened. Then I remembered the rumors of ghouls." His voice suddenly drops as he remembers what happened the previous night when he mentioned the Imperial Legions. "I know folk say the ghouls were driven away, by something or someone took my father, his mules, and whoever he'd hired to join us at the mine."

He pulls out a small sack of jingling, freshly minted coins. "I was able to cash in some more ore after my last trip. I've a bit of money to pay for...well...to find out what has happened." He says setting the sack on the table and looking glassy eyed toward Gunnar, Raseri and everyone else.

Thoughtout the rest of the day and night, tensions are higher than usual. Scramsax eyes Ingryd warily, still unsure about the bearkin's willingness to leave a substantial amount of booze behind. Luthael and Raseri discuss the limited options regarding the sword and the now, all too far off solstice. Gunnar makes a visit into the dryad's secure cellar.

The wizard spends several hours examining the nullbox. The damage. And dealing with the near constant snark offered by the steel entity held within. His study ends up offering little more than a headache. Attempts to interact magically with the box inevitably lead to failure as the innate nullfield of the box prevents any direct energy from affecting it. Thus Gunnar's attempts to mend the damage simply slip away like dreamthoughts on a warm summer's night. Physical attempts to cover or repair the gap end up altering the boxes existence and thus leave it suddenly manifest within the mortal and material realm. Instantly feeling the sword's power and influence grow, the dwarf quickly removes the minor patch before the tendrils of malignant influence are able to slip into his mind. Thwarted, Gunnar is forced to give up and return to his companions without having mended the box.

The following morning, the youth finally wanders back into the common room carrying the look of someone wrestling with the demons of over indulgence. Dark circles mar his eyes, a pale face, and a clear case of the shakes which are only partially settled by the hot black brew Rose sets in front of him as he slides into a chair putting a hand to his head. Still wearing the previous night's clothes his offer's Gunnar a weak smile.

"You've my thanks for the bunk last night." His says quietly. "Rose says it were you that helped see me settled. I don't usually drink so much..." He voice trails off as he looks away from a large plate of eggs, ham, and fried potatoes being delivered to a merchant across the room. It takes him a few moments to recover.

"Do you still wish to help me find my father?"

Gunnar: I was thinking you'd increase the +1 with lightning and thunder and verses undead to +2.

Britta trusted Scramsax about as much as she'd trust an Yawchakan Vine Asp, which meant not at all. However, having the competition out of town again would allow things to cool down. She'd be able to smooth things over with the Guild. Actually get back to running a gods forsaken inn.

Glancing at Raseri, Luthael, Gunnar, and Ingryd now there were folk she'd actually trust. Not so much the bear, she was hanging out with the wrong crowd and usually too soused to really trust. On the other hand the Prophet rated high in her book. Katerina swears he's the real deal. An actual Light of Khors. She wasn't sure about that, but he always paid his bar bill and hadn't ever left his room in a shambles. Tidy, quiet, and paid up. The innkeeper's perfect bloody guest.

So she nods. Leans in toward Scramsax. "Alright. It's probably cause of you and whoever you've scammed, stolen from, or otherwise boiled their eggs that we've all been hit." She says. "So you fix it."

She rises back up, her face switching from a glowering desire to skin someone alive to the bright smiling innkeep full of welcome and warmth as she turns to the halfling's companions.

"I wish you all the best of luck and I'll keep an ear to the ground. If I hear anything I'll get in touch through Vee or Kat."

The door closes behind the business rival leaving Gunnar and the others to check through the rooms and try to discover anything useful.

Gunnar quickly discovers multiple magical trails. A bit of pixie dust. The scent of brimstone. The whispering echo of screaming souls. Flaky bits of dead flesh. A pair of long dwarven beard hairs, blonde but with black roots. A few tattered shadow remnants lingering in a dim corner. It's a nightmarish tangle that'll likely take hours, days, to try and decipher and determine what could have caused such a conflagration of magical detritus. Similar remnants are discovered in the rooms of the others. If he didn't know it was impossible, the dwarf would guess their rooms had been ransacked by nearly everyone they'd encountered since heading north with old Rook.

But curiously, as everyone takes stock of what is missing, what is accounted for, they all find nothing has been stolen. Coin. Potions. Scrolls. Finely crafted weapons. Strewn around the room. Tossed about. Fallen under the bed or dresser. But not stolen.

That's when it finally comes to the wizard. The abundance of tell tale clues. They are all a complete hoax. Scams. Red herrings to send them scampering off in all directions. He quickly goes back and double checks for any sign of the hag's magic. They'd all been exposed to it enough, he know her filthy handiwork even if it was only a teensy tiny wiff of a spell. More time spent.

Raseri is certain nothing of hers is missing. Scramsax as well. Ingryd does another inventory at the brewery. Finds a half dozen bottles of meade are missing, but then vaguely recalls the night before and discovers the empties stacked into a mini pyramid outside of the outhouse.

Back in his room. Alone. Luthael hurriedly checks through his own gear. Everything is there. Everything except one. He hurries downstairs. Whispers to the dryad who nods with assurance and ushers the prophet down into the rooted depths of the inn. It is a winding, twisting passage that leaves the holy man of Khors bleary-eyed and with a slight headache and he's quite glad he has a guide to get himself back out.

Eventually the dryad waves her hand over a sap soaked lock. The sticky goo recedes into the wall revealing a small panel where the dryad places her hand. It glows green as new spring foliage for a second and a door clicks open swinging inward to reveal several rows of equally secured lockups each marked with a set of specific runes.

She steps over to one of the nooks and opens it in similar fashion, this time accompanied by the runic key she'd given to Luthael and he'd handed back to her. The safe click open.

"Hey holy boy." A familiar voice calls from within the null box. "You finally come to your senses and ready to really start doing Khors will upon the world?"

Luthael breathes a sigh of relief. Glad he'd decided to have the thing locked up within the dryad's sanctuary while he and the others took care of more mundane things. Still, it was pretty clear someone, or something, was looking for the ancient sword.

He nods and the dryad starts to close the safe. But then he hand snaps out and catches her arm. Alarm rings across his features. He points to a hairline gap in the side of the box. Small beads of power gleam along the finger long fracture.

"Yeah, that's right Mister Do-Good. All that traveling, knockin' about, tumbling from beanstalks and nearly getting blown to hell has weakened your little wizard box." The sword snarls from within its cage. "Told you I wouldn't be cooped up in here forever. Soon enough I'll be coming for you and your little band of heretics. Join me now and be part of the solution rather than the problem. Together we can scour the filth from beneath Khors' holy light. Filth like this tree-hugging wen..."

The dryad slams the door closed cutting off the voice although Luthael feels the sword laughing somewhere within the recesses of his mind.

Rolling for business profit: 1d100 ⇒ 72

Business covers its maintenance costs plus 1d6 ⇒ 3*5gp * 7 days=105gp

I'm going with 7 days this time around since we will assume it takes about half the downtime to get things up and running.

So 105gp split per whatever arrangement Scram has with Ingryd. Hopefully the bearkin had a 3rd party like Luthael or Gunnar review the contract before she signed. ;)

Gunnar: Circling back to your upgrade. I'm okay with bumping to +2 for your arcane focus and the +2 can apply to both melee attacks and damage with the hammer. Since the adamantine in your hammer would turn any melee hit into a crit, I think we can skip any other additional damage.

Raseri: Sure, go ahead and add your WIS bonus to your smith check. I think either WIS or INT could make sense for most crafting checks.

War. What's it really good for? An eternal question. Many would answer absolutely nothing. Other's would say a necessary evil, or good, depending on your perspective. Then there are those whose eyes gleam with a golden light the word 'profit' poised upon their greedy lips. Unfortunately, no one seemed to be profiting from the mighty Brewing Brouhaha currently engulfing two of Nargenstal's well known drinking establishments.

The back and forth between the longtime owner of the well established brewing monopoly known as the Ice Maiden Inn and Brewing and the upstart newcomers operating under the banner of the Grizzled Brew Industries was costing both sides dearly. Yet, it was an odd little war. One most unlike the usual meat grinder that grabbed up the poor and uneducated to act as arrow fodder for the Lords, Ladies, High Councils, and Mercantile Confederation Presidents, of the world. No in this case, the customers tended to benefit. As long as one didn't mind the occasional rat tail in one's burger or hobbit-foot hair in one's beer. The price war had already cut the cost of a standard pint by half. A pitcher more than sixty percent. If a lucky patron managed to grab one of the early run coupons, with the misprinted discount, why they could get a whole meal for a few scant coppers.

(It's unclear how many frosty mugs of honey meade Ingryd had imbibed that evening when she accidentally flipped the six into a nine resulting in such a substantial discount to 'any item on the menu.' Luckily the month was nearly over and the offending profit throat-cutters were nearly expired.)

Still the rivalry had distracted the entire town once the harvest was in and the first snows of winter started to set in. Instead of more forlorn tales of reavers striking the coast or ghoul legions roaming the countryside the talk was of Britta and Scramsax and which one would send the other packing first.

Then the Guild showed. The dour, officious dwarves who held a continent wide stranglehold on nearly every fermented beverage worth drinking took a dim view on anything that cut into their cut of the profits. Most especially when they weren't even receiving their proper cut to begin with.

Brewmaster Schultz was quite surprised at the sight greeting him when the Bourbon's Bounty docked at the newly renovated Nargenstal Key. Guild records showed the town numbered less than one hundred peasants. The inn operating under a rural hardship exemption. His caterpillar brows furled into a single V of consternation. It was clear the census department hadn't been through here in ages. Why the dockside itself is teaming with three ships of the Queen's Navy, a merchant cog, and half a dozen fishing boats. He could make out the flag flying atop the newly built military fort and the rising structure of a temple dedicated to one or another of the gods. Counts were made. Notes taken. Sketches drafted. Broadsheets gathered. Beards were going to be sheared when he got back to Zobeck.

It was the arrival of the Brewer's Guild and the gruff Brewmaster Schultz that brought the war to an abrupt, necessary halt. A bigger, much more dangerous fish had jumped into the pond.

Thus it was under the agreed temporary truce and limited alliance, that Scramsax returned to her room at the Dryad's Respite to find the place ransacked. It wasn't much later that shouts of concern and anger erupted from Luthael and Raseri's rooms. In fact, the only room that didn't look like it gone ten rounds with a raging terrasque was Ingryd's. But that's because her room essentially consisted of a cot and a nightstand set up in the back of the brewery.

The halfling was about to curse Britta for breaking the truce, when the owner of the Ice Maiden stormed into the Respite eyes blazing as she held up a patch of fabric from one of her favorite dresses. Rose had just finished helping the young miner to his room at the behest of Gunnar, when the room once again erupts into chaos.

"The hells you playing at halfling?" She accused. "We had a deal and you go and ransack my rooms. I'll gut you like bloated catfish."

The halfling's eyes narrow. Was she playing a long-game? Hitting herself to make her look the victim? Some other trick or ploy? She watches for the tell-tale tick of a lie. Doesn't see one. Realizes the crazy broad's telling the truth.

Scram's tongue wags faster than a hound's at a pig roast. Fortunately, Luthael, Raseri, and Gunnar were all their to ease tensions and point out their rooms had been hit as well. Someone was looking for something? The question was what? And how desperate were they to go knocking off the heroes of Nargenstal?

If you don't have it already, Inspiration for Raseri and Luthael for the enjoyable RP.

The war news was flying fast and furious through the Dryad's Respite. Tongue's were wagging like a pack of hounds on hunting day. Where were the latest fronts. Who was in retreat, who forging ahead? Most importantly what were the latest odds? The suburban tavern and B&B buzzed about the ongoing strife between The Ice Maiden and Grizzled Brew Industries.

"Haha! You should'a seen that bard race toward the jakes." A grizzled gray beard laughs into his pint of Magdar Dark. "You'd a'thought he was being chased by a pack of husbands."

"That were nothing." Hollers a brunette doxy taking a well earned break. "Why, the guard must have busted up half of Britta's common room when they captured the Scarlet Hood." A snort fit for a hog's den bursts from her nose. "You can't tell me that halfling hooch hustler didn't put the finger on poor Robbie."

"Pffftt...the daft lad had no business running around the woods robbing folk and stealing kisses from young ladies."

"Ahhh...he were harmless enough. He only stole from them wealthy out-of-towners and you can't steal what's freely offered. Hahaha*snort*"

"Say anyone heard about how's the Queen's retaliation against the ghouls is going?" An earnest young lad, barely able to grow hair on his chin asks. The room crashes into silence. Eyes suddenly discover fascinating patterns in their ale foam or a loose thread on a sleeve or wait...was that a familiar face crossing the room? No? Ah well, could'a been.

Young Rose passes by the youth. Just down from the mines, she'd wager judging by his clothes and the grit lining his fingernails. She slides another pint in front of him, leans down a offers him a bit of quiet advice.

"Politics is verboten in the Respite." She says with a smile. "Folk are here to forget about all the troubles surrounding us. So no talk of reavers, legions, dragonkin armies an such unless you've a bonafide emergency to report." She gives him a quick searching look. "Course, if you did, you wouldn't be here drinking your fill, you'd be hustling into town to see the Captain now wouldn't you."

The you man's face flushes as he quietly nods. Rose gives his arm a soft pat, then gathers up his empty mug.

"Course, the way I hear it is that the Guild showed up at Grizzled last night." Rose says dropping the little bomb she'd been saving up all afternoon.

Shouts, murmurs and curses erupt across the big common room. Old Man Hemfritter passed out into his hydra-stew. News of the Brewer's Guild always brought panic to a small community. After all, nearly everyone had themselves a few jugs brewing in a cellar, backroom, or kitchen cabinet somewhere. Just for personal consumption, don't ya know. Course, them Ironcrag bastards didn't care. Brewing was brewing, and if they caught someone operating an unlicensed still or set of fermentation jugs, why it was a fine and banishment from every pub within a fortnight's walk.

"By Thor's broad backside, who called those bearded cave scroats in?" The gray-beard splutters. He'd a batch in the still just about ready to pour. Only yesterday it barely curled the paint from his testing board. "Why they'll have us all forking over gold and playing Tami Teatotaller fer the next month."

Numerous grumbling "Aye's" and "That's the truth's" filled the hall.

"I blame the halfling." The brunette again. "Trouble finds her like flies find sh..."

"Course it weren't the halfling." Cedric Butterburr interrupts. "You're daft for even saying so. Elsewise, why the Guild hit the brewery first? Nah...had to've been Britta." The comment generates more than a few murmurs of agreement.

"And you're just as deft Cedric, that's why you lost your old man's inn." Replies Jenni Honeysuckle, tucking a stray wisp of golden hair behind her ear. She'd gone out with Cedric exactly three times before realizing the man was going nowhere fast and constantly blamed the loss of the Pony goblins and bad luck rather than his own poor business skills. "Britta knows how to play hard ball, sure, but she wouldn't call in the Guild. Everyone knows once the Guild's in town, they don't just stick their beards into one pub's accounts." Blonde tresses flutter as her head moves back and forth. "She's just as likely to get raked over the coals as the bear and her stubby partner."

Wiping stew from his face, Hemlock squints over at Jenni. "You reckon there's a third player in the game."

The blue-eyed blond nods and taps the side of her nose with a delicate finger that Cedric still hoped he lasso with a ring some day.

"Who the hell's is it then?" Someone asks from the back of the room.

The question fires off a flurry of speculation, wagers, side wagers, and plain gossip that keep the ale, wine, and whiskey flowing well into the night.

Sitting at his table the young boy concerned about ghouls in the area eventually passes out having gathered nothing that might help him figure out who might have taken his father from their camp a week ago.

Okay, taking care of a little housekeeping...

First up, no, we aren't switching to 2024. Sorry to those who prefer the new rules, but I'm just really not interested in the update.

Scramsax: Sure, you can trade your ring for another rare item. Given your ability to teleport, going to Zobeck is certainly possible.

Gunnar: You made your rolls to upgrade your hammer, what did you finally land on for the actual mechanical upgrade?

Raseri: For the crafting a new weapon it is Smith's Tools DC15. Failure results in a poor quality weapon.

Ingryd: Downtown length is approximately 14 days to one month max. You can set up a new business. You cannot gain a new Rogue level via downtime, nor can you gain the Sneak Attack ability. However, you can gain proficiency in Stealth or Thieves Tools or another skill.

Luthael: Yes, you can gain proficiency with the longsword.

For investigation activities it looks like we have Gunnar checking into any developments with the Undead Empire's forces. Ingryd is keeping an ear out for rumors or signs of big, nasty monsters in the area. Raseri is maybe trying to track down Arianna and Zove along with the other former companions or friends. Scramsax, might pick up some interesting news/rumors while in Zobeck. Luthael sees his family back home and maybe hears a rumor or some gossip through them. If I've missed anything, let me know.

Drinks are served. Stories told. Greeting offered and given. Most importantly, bathing is encouraged as the blood, gore, mud, smoke, and dirt of days, weeks, of travel fighting and heroic endeavors quickly ferments and spreads its aroma through the densely packed and warm confines of the Ice Maiden Inn.

Over the course of the next few couple of weeks acquaintances are renewed or made, businesses established, projects undertaken with grand enthusiasm and hope. Luthael's parents are escorted home with the help Scramsax and his magic ring. Gunnar freely offers his aid and services to those working the forge. Unfortunately the wizard's particular variety of dwarf-splaining ruffles more than a few feathers and in the spirit of maintaining comradely relations, all those involved simply agree to disagree about the proper care and storage of one's tools when working in the forge.

Perhaps it is all for the best, as the correct formulation for blending mithral with adamantine with the existing sturdy steel of his hammer ends up being more challenging than the dwarf imagined. He is forced to rework his equations more than once before the correct ratios are discovered. But the added effort is not without benefit, the thunderous cursing and lightning blasts that emanated from the forge following the fifth failed pour managed to catch the Thunder God's attention having never encountered that particular expression involving a goat, newt peckers, and hag's sagging arses before. As a parting gift the god left a small tome bound in fine leather with silver embossed scrollwork on the wizard's nightstand. Entitled One Hundred Feast Songs for the Bawdy Warrior. It is a unique insight into the god's essence.

Through sweat, devotion, intellect, and pure dwarven stubbornness, the wizard manages to blend the three metals into a single potent hammerhead. Lighter in weight, well balanced, and packing a nasty punch against many nefarious monsters and beings that often plague Midgard, the weapon maintains a functional simpleness that any warrior might appreciate.

Sorry all. I'm still around. Work has just been a giant creative energy suck over the last couple of weeks. I finally got through our board meeting and have a 2026 budget for the org, so hopefully things will ease up a little.

In the meantime we can say you each get a couple of weeks of official downtime. You can learn a new proficiency. Set up a business. Craft a new item, etc. Feel free to post how you're spending the time and the final result you're trying to achieve. Be sure to include any necessary rolls.

I'll start dropping the threads for a new adventuring opportunity or two in the next day or so.

Gunnar considers who might have been gathering the various components for the witch, but soon realizes the old crone has had plenty of time to so so after their companions decided to go off on their own. Months have passed since the likes of Trevor or Vrindel had traveled with the group. The same is true of Aterro and Ibrox. Even Vee was left back in Nargenstal over a season ago.

Certainly Darrell would have had opportunity to gather such things from Ingryd, Luthael, Raseri, Scramsax or himself, but none of the tokens appeared to come from them, only friends of the past. And while the dwarf could not categorically rule out the halfling during her not so distant capture by the hag or one of her minions, that would also mean she'd been collecting such detritus for a longer period of time. Given there were no gems or coins involved, he didn't imagine the halfling had much interest in paladin toenails or trollkin hairs.

Thus, the puzzle of how the witch acquired her components must go unanswered for the moment. In a similar fashion, not enough essence remains among any of the aspects of the dolls to affect either the victim or the hag herself. The dwarf tries a simple scry using some of the bloody wax. For a brief moment he catches a glimpse of the old crone huddled in a shallow cave. Shrouded by trees and hidden by undergrowth, the geological hideout could be located anywhere within the bounds of the Margreve or any other northern forest. Before he can gather further information, the image fades. Dissolving into a smelly mist. Subsequent attempts result in even less information.

Eventually, it is agreed the best thing to do is return home. With some time left until the Solstice, folk could spend time with family, research the ritual to destroy the sword a little more, or invest in a new business venture.

With the destination set, it takes an hour to break camp, douse the fire, and gather everyone close. Offering food and beverage service, Scramsax announces the imminent departure of flight NN-1 bound for Nargenstal.

BAMF!

In a flash and a heartbeat the mountains of central Midgard are replaced but the bustling activity of the Ice Maiden's Inn in Nargenstal. A crowded night. Several guardsmen sit at a group of tables near the fire while regulars crowd along the bar and play cards or sling dice at other tables. A bard strums a lute in a corner while drink and food heavy trays are bustled too and fro by waitresses adding to the cacophony of voices, music, and clattering mugs and tableware. The air smells of pipeweed, ale, whiskey, and the inn's well known fish chowder.

All in all, it was as close to home as Gunnar, Ingryd, Scramsax, Raseri, or even Luthael really had since they'd set forth on a life of adventure and glory so very long ago.

Okay, so I think I just need to know where you all are heading. Given your ability to teleport, you've got plenty of options. Time-wise, it is early autumn. There are about 8 weeks until Winter Solstice and the first real opportunity to destroy the cursed sword.

I think we've got a couple of votes for a return to Nargenstal and some potential downtime activities. This is also where Scramsax took those that you rescued.

Following Gunnar's research, you have all completed a Long Rest.

While Scramsax tries to determine if the true Luthael emerged from the Shadow Realm and Raseri struggles with her own feelings of guilt and failure Gunnar investigates the dolls discovered within the witch's sanctum to try and determine the nature of the magic involved.

His ritual begins by asking Ingryd to fill a small bowl with some of her honey wine. He drinks the wine.

"Thanks."

Dropping the first wax figure into the once again empty bowl, the dwarf holds the bowl over a candle slowly melting the wax. As the wax melts he notices a sour, filthy smell emerge. Putrid and rotten. His lips purse into a frown. Hag's blood.

The melting figure slowly reveals several small items held within. He plucks out a bit of cloth, a fingernail, a knot of hair. The sympathetic components that could be needed and used to create such life like simulacrums. Buried in the center of the figure is a small black stone. It is cold to the touch. Remains cold even if the dwarf holds it in the flame. In fact the candle flame seems to diminish when the stone is in direct contact. A void pearl. The dwarf grunts with consternation.

Void pearls are extremely rare as those who attempt to harvest the stones are typically unsuccessful in the endeavor. That is due to the fact that the pearls only manifest within the kidneys of an aboleth. A typical adult aboleth usually houses two to three stones within each organ. How or why the stones are created, no scholar or wizard has been able to determine. But the stones appear to maintain some kind of direct connection to the void and the base realm of chaos. The few rare specimens that have been found have often been connected to terrible and chaos fueled magics and rituals.

Dropping the little stone into a small glass vial, the dwarf finishes his analysis of the figure discovering little else. With the physical components of their former allies, likely a bit of her own blood mixed in the wax. Enough to manifest the likeness and control over the fakes. The void stone could certainly provide the additional power to bring them to life so vividly. A dark, dangerous, and disgusting ritual. More importantly, the witch was able to gather those items from their friends and allies. The dwarf can't help but wonder, how did she achieve this. Spies. Scrying. Who could still be in danger?