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Ilakni stands motionless as Nicholo speaks, his solid black eyes fixed upon the investigator with an unnerving intensity. The dozens of tentacles extending from his body continue their slow, restless movements, occasionally brushing against the surrounding blackfrost and sending little clouds of gray ash drifting into the frigid air. For several moments, he offers no response, seemingly considering Nicholo's words with the detached curiosity of someone studying an unfamiliar specimen. "Of course I remember you, Nicholo. Why wouldn't I?" His mouth stretches open once more, far wider than any natural jaw should allow, and that impossibly deep voice emerges without the slightest movement of his lips or tongue. "You were all here. Every one of you. Although I must admit, you look considerably different from how I remember you. You seem troubled. Has something happened since you left us?" Ilakni tilts his head at the mention of the Missing Moment. A faint cracking sound travels through his neck as the blackened frost covering his skin shifts with the movement. "The Missing Moment? How curious. You speak of your memories as though someone has stolen them from you. Yet I remember those days quite clearly. Doctor Ritalson brought us here, my companions and me. He was very interested in what we had experienced, particularly our connection to the gates and the strange dreams that followed. He told us we were going to help him understand something extraordinary." The elf pauses, his gaze drifting toward the immense mound of blackfrost dominating the chamber. "And you helped him, of course." There is no accusation in his voice. No bitterness or resentment. He speaks with the same casual indifference one might use to describe the weather. "You and your companions were among his followers. I remember you binding our hands and leading us through these halls. Some of my friends struggled. Others pleaded to be released. I remember being frightened myself, although that seems rather foolish now. We simply did not understand what was happening." A long, slender tentacle curls around a nearby pillar, leaving a spreading stain of black frost upon the ancient stone. "Etward brought seven of us here. He wanted to learn whether the blackfrost could be made to spread more easily from one person to another. His experiments were rather unpleasant, as I recall. My companions did not survive them. I suppose I should be saddened by that, but I find those feelings increasingly difficult to remember." For a brief moment, Ilakni looks almost confused by his own admission. Then his expression settles back into its unnatural calm. "But you are asking about yourselves, aren't you? Yes, I remember what happened before you departed. You were given a task, a very important one. Etward spoke of it often." At this, something changes in Ilakni's demeanor. His tentacles begin to writhe more quickly, and a faint tremor passes through the enormous blackfrost formation behind him. "You were sent to find the last saumen kar." He speaks the unfamiliar words with unmistakable reverence. "I do not know where you went, or what became of your search, but I remember that you were to capture this last saumen kar and bring it back. You were all quite eager to depart, particularly after receiving your gifts." Ilakni slowly raises one blackened hand, gesturing toward the party. "The Blackfrost Whale gave you those gifts. Additional powers to help you accomplish your task. I remember the change in you afterward, although I cannot say precisely what you experienced. There was something different about you when you left this temple. Something that had not been there before." His attention settles upon Alvarius. For the first time, a flicker of recognition crosses his otherwise expressionless face. "Perhaps some of those gifts have remained with you." The chamber grows quiet as Ilakni studies the party again. His enormous black eyes seem almost eager now, and the blackfrost surrounding him begins to pulse faintly in response. "But surely you remember something of your journey? You must have found the saumen kar, or at least discovered where it was hiding. Tell me what happened after you left. Where did you go? What did you see?" He takes another step forward, his lower body briefly dissolving into the black ice before reforming upon the floor. "You see, I have been waiting here for a very important day. The Blackfrost Whale sleeps, but it will not sleep forever. I know this because I have seen what comes next. I remember my future as clearly as I remember my past." A strange excitement enters his deep, hollow voice. "When Osoyo awakens, I shall awaken fully as well. I will no longer be confined to this chamber. I will become something far greater than the elf I once was. Through me, the Blackfrost Whale will see this world. Through me, its presence will spread, and others will experience the same wonderful transformation." Ilakni spreads his arms, and the tentacles extending from his body unfurl like the limbs of some enormous creature stirring beneath the frozen earth. "Isn't that extraordinary? To know what you are destined to become?" He lowers his arms and turns his attention back to Nicholo, his expression returning to that unsettling, almost innocent curiosity. "But I am getting ahead of myself. You mentioned that Etward's whereabouts are complicated. I would very much like to hear about that as well. He promised to return, and I have been waiting for him." The blackfrost cracks softly beneath his feet. "First, though, please tell me about your journey. I have been alone here for so long, and I am terribly curious to know what became of you after the Whale touched your minds." Ilakni falls silent, watching the party with patient anticipation. Whatever remains of the elf he once was seems genuinely pleased to have company, entirely oblivious to the horror of what he has revealed.
Leaving the six fallen elves behind, you make your way up the winding staircase toward the chamber above. With each step, the temperature drops, and the air grows unnaturally still. The stone beneath your feet is slick with frost, while a faint gray haze drifts down from somewhere overhead. As you climb, an unsettling sound begins to echo through the stairwell, a slow, rhythmic cracking like the groaning of a frozen lake beneath tremendous pressure. At last, the staircase opens into a vast hexagonal chamber, its ceiling rising nearly a hundred feet overhead into an elegant, tapered dome. Ten tall openings line the outer walls, allowing brilliant shafts of colored light to spill across the ancient elven stonework. The light shimmers and dances as though passing through stained glass, casting shifting patterns of violet, blue, and gold across the chamber. At its center, a thirty-foot-wide opening descends into the darkness below, surrounded by the gently curving staircase the party has just climbed. Once, this must have been a place of breathtaking beauty, a sanctuary of elven craftsmanship and quiet contemplation. But that beauty has been consumed by something terrible. Great tangled masses of sooty black ice have spread across the chamber like a malignant growth, swallowing pillars, climbing walls, and obscuring much of the once magnificent architecture. In places, the unnatural frost rises into jagged mounds nearly thirty feet high, its twisted formations resembling frozen waves caught in the midst of a violent storm. The ice is not clear or crystalline, but an opaque, oily black, with faint veins of sickly gray pulsing beneath its surface. Wisps of ash drift from its jagged edges, dissolving into the frigid air before they reach the floor. The colored light from the windows struggles to penetrate the growth, leaving much of the chamber shrouded in an oppressive gloom. As you advance, a deep cracking sound suddenly reverberates through the room. Somewhere within the largest mound, the black ice begins to move. Its surface ripples and fractures, sending small shards skittering across the floor. A dark shape presses outward from within, stretching the ice like a membrane before slowly emerging into the chamber. At first, the figure appears to be an elf, though horribly disfigured. Its slender frame is partially concealed beneath layers of blackened frost, and dozens of long, writhing tentacles extend from its shoulders, back, and torso. Each appendage moves independently, twisting and curling through the air while releasing little puffs of gray ash. The figure glides forward through the solid ice as effortlessly as a swimmer moving through water, its feet finally settling upon the frozen stone. Its face is pale and gaunt, with patches of flesh darkened by the same unnatural frost that consumes the chamber. Its eyes are entirely black, without pupil or iris, reflecting nothing of the colored light surrounding it. Yet beneath the horrifying transformation, something about its features is unmistakably familiar. The shape of its face, the delicate structure of its cheekbones, and the pointed ears bear an extraordinary resemblance to Ilinquil, the elven woman you encountered at Icegate. The creature stops several paces away, its tentacles continuing their slow, restless movements. For a moment, it simply observes each of you, its black eyes passing over you with an unsettling familiarity. Then its mouth begins to open, stretching far beyond what any living jaw should allow. The flesh at the corners pulls taut, revealing a cavernous darkness within. Its lips and tongue remain perfectly still as a deep, resonant voice fills the chamber, seeming to come from somewhere far beneath the ice. "Daehalya. Alvarius. Onye. Nicholo." The creature speaks each name with the familiarity of an old acquaintance, though its voice carries a strange, hollow resonance that makes the words seem to echo from every corner of the room. "Welcome back. I had wondered when you would return." The tentacles slowly curl inward as the creature tilts its head, studying their expressions. Beneath the monstrous exterior, there is something almost hopeful in its manner, as though it has been waiting a very long time for familiar faces to appear. "Tell me, is Doctor Ritalson with you? Has Etward finally returned?" The creature pauses, its enormous black eyes remaining fixed upon the party. "Or should I expect him to arrive soon?" Around them, the black ice continues its slow, relentless growth, creeping across the ancient floor with a faint chorus of cracks and whispers. The creature waits patiently for an answer, seemingly unaware of just how horrifying its appearance has become.
The revenants remain motionless for a long moment after the party finishes speaking. Etward Ritalson is dead. You tell them everything: the confrontation at Lichgate, Etward’s betrayal, the battle, and his desperate attempt to flee through the aiudara. You describe the moonstone touching the gate, the portal opening and the spirits of the Gatewalkers he had murdered reaching through to claim him. Etward had screamed as his own victims dragged him into the portal and tore him apart. Whatever justice these six had hoped to exact upon him, others had reached him first. The change in the revenants is immediate. The fury drains from their ruined faces. One lowers its outstretched hand. Another’s shoulders slump, and its crooked head bows toward its chest. The others follow until all six stand silently among the frost, broken bodies suddenly seeming less monstrous and more terribly, painfully tired. They know the party speaks the truth. “He is… dead?” There is no triumph in the question. Only relief. Then one of the elves slowly raises its head. “But you…” Its gaze passes from Alvarius to Daehalya, then across the others. “You were with him.” The anger has diminished, but the accusation remains. “You came with Etward. You aided him. Why?” The party explains again, not to monsters this time, but to victims. You tell them how Etward deceived them. How he presented himself as patron and ally. How you had followed his guidance without knowing what he truly intended. You speak of the Missing Moment, of your search for answers, and of how those answers eventually revealed the man they trusted to be the architect of horrors you never knowingly served. The revenants listen. When the explanation ends, one of them closes its eyes. “I see.” A long silence follows. Then the first revenant collapses. There is no violence to it. No final scream. Whatever unnatural force had held shattered bone and frozen flesh together simply releases its grip. The elf crumples gently to the floor and this time, does not rise. A second follows. Then a third. One by one, vengeance relinquishes its hold upon them. Their broken bodies settle back onto the frozen stone as the anger that sustained them finally gutters out. Four. Five. The final revenant remains standing. It sways unsteadily, its body already beginning to fail as the last remnants of hatred leave it. But before it falls, the elf suddenly looks upward. A blackened finger rises toward the ceiling. “Wait…” The party follows its gaze. “One of us yet lives.” For the first time, something other than anger enters the revenant’s voice. Sorrow. “Yet his life is worse than our death.” Its arm begins to fall. Frost flakes from its fingers as the last strength leaves the corpse. “Please…” The revenant fixes its dead eyes upon the party one final time. “Save him, if you can…” The body crumples. Silence returns. Six elves lie upon the floor once more, exactly as they had when Alvarius first entered the chamber but something fundamental has changed. There is no longer hatred here. No lingering presence pressing against the edge of thought. They are simply bodies now. Above them lies whatever Etward left unfinished. And somewhere up there, impossibly, one of the elves may yet still be alive.
They are elves. Even beneath the frost and damage, their clothing is unmistakable: the same cut, colors, and equipment worn by the guards the party encountered at Icegate. As Alvarius approaches, his attention returns to the dead from Nicholo's strange wings. Alvarius raises a skeletal hand and murmurs the words of a spell. Magic sharpens his perception as he searches the bodies and surrounding chamber for hidden auras. And that is when he notices something worse. One of the corpses is looking at him. Its frozen eyes are open. A finger twitches. Then another. There comes a sharp crack as one elf’s head jerks sideways, breaking loose from the ice that had frozen its cheek to the floor. Another corpse draws in a rasping breath despite lungs that should have ceased working long ago. Then all six begin to move. The chamber erupts with the sounds of breaking ice and snapping joints. One elf pushes itself upright on a shattered arm, the limb bending backward beneath its weight before wrenching itself into something resembling the proper position. Another rises with its head hanging unnaturally against one shoulder. Frozen flesh splits as stiffened legs straighten. Blackened fingers claw at the stone for purchase.
Not battle cries. Cries of pain. The six voices fill the chamber with the agony of their final moments, fear, confusion, and rage preserved alongside their corpses. Whatever suffering they endured here, death did nothing to diminish it. The screaming stops almost simultaneously. Six pairs of dead eyes settle upon Alvarius. Then beyond him. Upon the rest of the party. Recognition twists their ruined faces into expressions of hatred. One revenant staggers forward. Ice breaks from its body with every movement. “You...” Another rises beside it. “You!” The first points a blackened, broken finger toward the party. “Thralls of the enemy!” The accusation echoes through the frozen chamber. “You bound us and led us here to our deaths as surely as if you had done the deed!” The other revenants begin to advance, surrounding their speaker, their shattered bodies lurching forward with horrible determination. Yet they do not attack. Not yet. “Lead us to Etward,” the revenant demands, its voice trembling with centuries' worth of hatred compressed into a few terrible days, “that we might avenge our deaths…”
Alvarius’ spell still tingles at the edge of his awareness. Whatever these creatures have become, the hatred animating them is unmistakable. But so is something else. They are listening. They want Etward Ritalson. And unlike when these elves died, the party now knows something they do not: Etward is already dead by their hands.
The door is not trapped, nor does Nicholo sense any danger. A long hall stretches south to a round chamber here. The hall’s walls are decorated with astounding colored ice carvings that present textured murals of elves creating breathtaking works of art. To the south, a flight of stairs carved from ice winds upward through several revolutions of the circular room to heights several hundred feet above. Hanging down from the flights above are vast pillars of what looks almost like dark pumice, or black ice infused with silt. Thousands of slender protrusions extend from these pillars of ice like twisting but motionless tendrils. Only one column descends to the north, but to the south, three columns have merged into a twisted tangled wall of frozen tendrils. Six frozen, broken bodies lie sprawled on the floor in the middle of this room.The bodies all appear frozen and broken, as if they’d fallen from a great height, but even casual observation reveals that the six are elves and are dressed in the same style as the guards you met at Icegate.
In between Onye patching up the party you search each of the priest's quarters around this area. Each of these rooms, built to evoke the shape of a snowflake’s arm, once served as the sparse homes for the temple’s six resident priests. When they lived here, fur curtains hung in the wide alcoves to afford privacy, while each room contained a comfortable fur cot and supplies for artwork. More recently these rooms look to have been used by someone else. Each of you experience a small tingling in the back of your minds. Some would call it deja vu. Though you find no personal effects left behind. DC 25 Perception: You uncover a hidden niche in the wall. Stashed within is a thin ivory box containing a dozen sticks of incense worth 20 gp each and, more importantly, a moderate thurible of revelation.
It takes several hours to chip Nicholo completely free from the icy wall as you wrap thick blankets around him to warm him up. Despite being carved from ice, the structure’s interior is less chilling than the temperature outside. Flights of stairs lead upward to the left and right from the entrance, providing access to curving tunnels beyond. A few small, icy drifts of snow lie on the floor, suggesting that sometime in the past, the southern door had been left open for a while. DC 25 Survival: A small group passed through here long ago.
Onye' powerful jaws crunch through bones as Nicholo shakes off the inate curses but manages to get stuck in the icy wall a it melts around his body, leaving his head and arms exposed but unable to move, making it difficult to breath. Daehalya's initial strike misses but she uses the distraction created by Onye's jaws and shatters through most of the creatures ribcage, finishing its undead life once more.
The curses aren't strong enough to cling to Onye's body as it instantly rejects them. Onye swipes at the undead as his rage for the undead becomes hyperfixated. His claws strike but don't seem to do much damage. Nicholo, backed against an icewall, finds a weak point in the bones and stabs, showing Onye exactly where to strike next. Daehalya puts all of her power into her second strike and shatters through the undeads spine. It sends razor sharp shards of ice 10' through the air.
Alvarius sends some agic through the icy walls. Large cracks begin to form as they fall down onto the remaining undead.
Enraged the undead slams into Nicholo once more.
WIth Nicholo against the wall the undead bites at him.
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Onye makes the large bite from Daehalya take far lass damage than it should as he swats a massive paw at the undead. Onye dances around the undead keeping it off solid footing for a short period. Onye manages to put a few scratches onto the undead bones as it resists his claws. Nicholo's hands burn as he overextends himself throwing around too hot flames from his palms. Though n the end he is more worried about protecting his nutmegs as he quickly shields his netherregion. Daehalya is cursed but she doesn't let it slow her down in the slightest. Well mentally that is, physically she becomes quite clumsy. She sweeps her staff tripping both of the undead back to the ground and clobbering one across the arm, breaking it. Alvarius conjures his own magical claw. It hovers over the undead and sweeps through the frozen earth leaving small gouges in the rock as it rakes through the skeleton. The red skeleton stands back up and bites viciously at Onye as the bones clatter together with hollow sounds in the wind.
The green skeleton burrows back underground as it quickly and easily pulls the frozen earth around it. It bursts back up beneath Nicholo and tries to shove him against the frozen wall.
Nicholo dodges out of the way as he stumbles across the icy floor.
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Nicholo's brain blanks out completely as he tries to devise a stratagem. Instead he raises his small buckler and sends a beam of pure energy from his epty hand into the prone undead while Alvarius does the same. His jolt of electricity causes some of the bones to splinter slightly. The shambling undead burrow into the ground as they reemerge upright on their feet, biting at Onye and Daehalya.
Daehalya gets bit on the leg by the skeleton as the tendrils of the Blackfrost covering the undead reacts and moves to join into the wound.
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The magical mist envelops Onye as he leaps at the strange skeletons. His massize jaws grasp around the skeletal frame, though the teeth don't seem to do that much damage on their own. Daehalya bounds across the sharp ice and stones to close the distance to the undead. Her feet scrap and get cut on the jagged stones through her boots. He staff sweeps at both of their legs dragging both of the undad to the ground once more.
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Nicholo aids Daehalya with fixing the ice on the door. They melt certain locations to allow it to settle back into position. Pulling on the door the ice around the frame begins to crack and moan as it sends small splinters along the ground. The ground cracks more and more and you soon realize it is not from the door at all but rather the vibrations seem to have awoken two beings deep beneath the icy shell. A pair of six foot tall skeletal carcasses packed tightly with soil, rock, and ice rise from the ground as the thick remnants of blackfrost cling on their skeletal frames. The ground leaves razor sharp spies of rock and ice all around the entrance. Init:
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The carved-ice door permitting entrance into this strange, frozen structure is damaged, as though it were partially melted and then allowed to re-freeze along its edges in an attempt to lock it in place. DC 20 Crafting:
You can tell that the ice door was tampered with by a skillful application of alchemist’s fire.
The team goes over their proposed routes with the snow elves and you begin the trek. With Daehalya's knowledge of the region you easily make the journey in five days. For five relentless days, the party crossed a wilderness where the world seemed stripped to ice, wind, and sky. The tundra stretched endlessly in every direction, broken only by jagged ridges of wind-carved snow and the occasional black stone jutting from the frozen earth like the bones of a forgotten giant. The bitter cold seeped through furs and armor alike, numbing fingers, stiffening limbs, and turning every breath into a cloud of glittering frost. Gale-force winds howled day and night, erasing tracks within moments and forcing the travelers to lean into each step lest they be thrown from their feet. No birds sang, no beasts stirred, and no sign of civilization broke the vast white silence. Only the distant shimmer of the aurora and the unwavering determination of the party carries you onward until, at last, the lonely silhouette of the Temple of Findeladlara emerged from the storm like a promise carved from the ice itself. An astounding sight breaks the monotony of ice here, where an ancient temple looms against the cliffside. The seven-spired structure appears to have been sculpted entirely out of ice, seamlessly merged with the ice of the cliff wall itself. The six spires arrayed at its hexagonal points each rise a further fifty feet above the cliff top, while the central spire rises a full hundred feet higher. Smaller ridges run up the length of the temple between these spires; the southernmost two of these appear to have become overgrown with some sort of thick, wiry black lichen or fungus far above. As the wind passes over the angles and corners of the temple, it creates a mournful whistling sound, almost as if the structure itself were bemoaning the loss of its inhabitants—or perhaps warning new travelers from approaching too closely! DC 30 Perception:
You realize that the black lichen growing above is actually a strange ice formation.
Ilinquil smiles briefly at Nicholo wanting to help. She gives a healthy amount of information on the route to the Temple. "Take care as you approach the ancient Temple of Findeladlara, the temple was abandoned ages ago after a strange infestation of “shadows and ash” overtook the building. I have no further information about this, as our people have avoided the site for generations." Her description sounds a lot like the symptoms of Blackfrost according to your research. [b]"If you happen to find ny clues concerning my Brother's fate I hope that one day you will return to share the news with me. Finally, the elves give the party six moderate healing potions and a fur cloak of elvenkind that includes a clasp in the shape of Findeladlara’s religious symbol (a finger pointing at a gold star) as parting gifts to aid them on their journey. As presented on your expedition map, this trek from Icegate to the temple is a 5-day journey, the last day of which is along the edge of the continent’s vast central plateau. Shrubbery, small trees, and lichen provide enough materials for small fires, and the weather plays nice and remains calm and clear.
The elves seem to relax a bit. "My brother went missing along with his troop of sentries here at Icegate." She gives a date that roughly matches the Missing Moment. "I have been hoping to find out what happened to him." She gives a weak smile. "My name is Ilinquil. Apologies for the stern welcome. Please share a eal with us as an offer of an apology." She turns to Nicholo. "I am afraid I don't recall that name."
"Do you know what happened here Daehalya?" Daehalya doesn't recognize the exact voice but her eyes quickly begin to adjust to the harsh and blinding light faster than her companions. She notices that the group is surrounded by six elves. Her vision clears a bit more as she notices these elves are honor guard of Ilverani!
Having heavily prepared for the long journey and the cold one of the party steps forward and presses the moonstone against the aiudara's activation sigil, the ancient runes carved along the arch awaken. At first, only a few lines illuminate. Then the entire gateway comes alive. Silver-blue light races through the intricate elven carvings, spreading outward like veins of moonlight through marble. The air vibrates with a low, resonant tone, ancient and impossibly deep. The empty space within the archway darkens. Mist gathers. Ice crystals bloom across nothingness itself. Within seconds, the portal fills with a roiling storm of white vapor and swirling frost. Clouds churn behind the arch as though an arctic blizzard has been captured and bound within the stone frame. Shards of ice drift lazily through the mist before vanishing. A cold wind spills into the chamber, carrying the scent of snow, distant mountains, and endless winter. The gateway is open. Thousands of miles away, another aiudara waits. For a moment, memories of Etward's crimes linger in the mind. The stolen thoughts. The trapped spirits. The horrors he attempted to bind to the portal. Yet as the party approaches, they feel none of it. No grasping hands. No lingering madness. No psychic intrusion. Whatever corruption Etward tried to force into the gate died with him. The ancient magic of the aiudara remains untouched, older and stronger than his obsessions. The mist swirls invitingly. One by one, the party steps forward. The sensation lasts less than a heartbeat. A rush of cold. A feeling of immense distance folding in upon itself. The brief impression of standing nowhere at all. Then solid ground returns beneath their feet. The biting air of the far north fills their lungs. Behind them stands Icegate, its ancient arch emerging from a frozen landscape beneath an endless sky, while far to the south, Lichgate continues to glow for a few fleeting minutes before the connection finally fades. The journey that would have taken months has ended in a single step. The Crown of the World lies ahead. The cold weighs down the atmosphere like a heavy blanket, cutting like knives against exposed flesh and turning every breath into a painful gasp. Blinding sunlight bears down upon the whiteness of the surroundings, reflecting off of snow in a dazzling array that burns the eyes. It almost makes it hard to see the motion on all sides as several figures emerge from that whiteness, weapons drawn. A voice calls out in strangely accented Common: “Who goes there?”
Etward has used the site around Lichgate as a staging area for his trip across the High Ice, a dangerous expedition he fully intended to make on his own as a way to further refine his mind and prepare himself for what awaits at the Nameless Spires. The rest of the gear consists of a large collection of survival supplies (including a well-stocked backpack, a tent, a set of short skis, snowshoes, navigating tools, snow goggles, etc.). The bulkier items are set aside in a pack, but most of them, including 90 days of rations, are stored in a type III bag of holding. While some of the treasures and resources you recover from Etward and his hidden laboratory will help on the journey, the most important is the map of the route taken during the Missing Moment. The route shown on the map depicts a 685-mile overland journey from Icegate, near the shores of Whitefang Bay, to the Nameless Spires at the planet’s north pole. This route passes through truly remote reaches of the world, far from the one major trade route (the Path of Aganhei) that crosses the continent. Once you begin your journey, you will be very much on your own. The bulk of the journey is across the High Ice, a barren polar plateau buried under a mile of ice. The terrain itself is rough and unpredictable, jagged and scared by glacial shifting, riven with crevasses, and often battered by devastating blizzards and winds. The further toward the north pole one travels, the less plentiful wildlife becomes—what creatures are encountered there tend to be dangerous and supernatural in nature.
The moonstone in the pendant seems to be what activates the portal on the gate. Alvarius and Daehalya study it intently, Daehalya more focused falls between the gate's safety and the Whale's taint. Both determine that the gate is idle now and safe to travel. The spirits of the fallen Gatewalkers seem to have subsided with Ritalson's deadly demise.
Alvarius is in trouble as he becomes more and more constrained by the shadows wrapping around his body. Nickie's blade punctures through Etward's gut with ease as he is pinned by Onye's massive paw.
Etward stands and staggers backward through smoke, frost, and writhing shadow, barely staying upright. His once-meticulous appearance is in ruins. Blood runs freely down one side of his face. One sleeve hangs shredded. The scholarly composure, the careful precision, the cultivated air of detached brilliance, all of it has been burned away. What remains is desperation. “No,” he gasps, eyes darting wildly between the party and the humming archway behind him. “No, no...no.noo..no. You do not understand” A tentacle dissolves into black vapor nearby as the spell weakens with its caster. One of the doppelgangers lies motionless against a broken pillar. Ogovip clings lifelessly to it's skull Etward stumbles toward Lichgate. The aiudara’s pale surface pulses softly now, ancient runes flickering beneath layers of frost. He tears at the chain around his neck with trembling fingers, dragging free a heavy pendant set with a luminous moonstone. Even wounded, reverence overtakes him for a moment. “The Dreamlands...” he whispers breathlessly. “The Crown... Osoyo... I was chosen...” His bloody hand slams the pendant against the gate’s activation sigil. The moonstone flares. The entire chamber shudders. Light pours through the center of the portal, not the gentle shimmer of dormant magic, but a deep, liquid radiance like moonlight seen underwater. Wind howls inward toward the gate, dragging loose parchment and dust across the floor. Etward laughs once in exhausted triumph. “Yes,” he breathes, staring into the gate. Then he steps through. And something reaches back. Hands erupt from the light. Dozens of them. Translucent. Pale. Half-formed. They seize Etward instantly. His triumph vanishes in a scream. “No!” More spirits surge from the portal in a torrent of spectral forms, faces twisting in grief and rage. Men and women. Travelers. Gatewalkers. Fragments of stolen lives, most which you recognize. Their features flicker and overlap as they claw at him with desperate fury. Etward thrashes violently, trying to pull free, but the dead drag him deeper into the portal’s glow. “You were mine!” he screams at them, terror finally shattering his voice. “I saved you...I preserved...” A spectral hand closes over his mouth. Another seizes his arm. Then the swarm descends completely. For one terrible moment, his silhouette is visible within the light—thrashing, clawing, unraveling. And then Etward Ritalson comes apart. Not cleanly. Not gently. The portal fills with fragments of shadow, blood, torn cloth, and dissolving flesh, all swallowed into impossible radiance as the spirits tear him to pieces with the fury of stolen years and butchered minds. The screaming stops abruptly. Silence crashes into the chamber. One by one, the spirits emerge again from the glowing threshold—not enraged now, but peaceful. Their forms stabilize briefly as they drift upward through the ruined hall. Some appear confused. Some relieved. One or two pause, faintly turning toward the party as though in gratitude. Then, together, the dead exhale. A long, collective sigh rolls through Lichgate’s chambers like the release of a burden carried too long. Content. Freed. The spirits dissolve into pale motes of light that drift upward through the broken ceiling and vanish into the cold night sky. The portal remains, humming gently. The frost begins to melt. And where Etward once stood, nothing remains but his bloodstained pendant, resting alone upon the ancient stone.
Onye quickly restrains Ritalson as he bites into his chest and neck, causing the man to wince in pain through his gritted teeth. Daehalya leaves a sizeable bruise on the side of the man's head as her staff cracks against his skull. Nicholo getts grabbed by the black tentacles allowing Onye to sink his deadly fangs in deeper and deeper.
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Etward’s breath comes sharp and ragged as he sprawls across the frost-slick stone, one side of his coat already darkening with blood. Alvarius' spells have left him twisted, one leg refusing to answer cleanly, his composure cracked for the first time. The firelight dances wildly across his face—no longer calm, no longer measured. Now furious. “Do you have any idea” he snarls, voice breaking as he forces himself up onto one elbow, “what you are interrupting?” A tentacle lashes nearby, scattering debris, but he ignores it. His gloved hand fumbles into his satchel, coming up with a tightly rolled scroll, its edges blackened as though it remembers being burned. He clutches it too hard. Blood smears across the parchment. “Ungrateful... specimens,” he spits blood, the word specimens twisted with venom now, all pretense of civility gone. “I offered you purpose. Context. Meaning beyond your small, wandering lives” The scroll snaps open with a violent flick of his wrist. His other hand trembles as he forces the sigil into existence, fingers shaking not from weakness—but from barely contained rage. “...and you choose chaos.” The word of power tears out of him, less spoken than forced into the world. The chamber answers instantly. The shadows convulse. From every crack, every seam in the ruined floor, black tentacles surge upward in a writhing explosion of slick, grasping mass. They slam against stone, coil around pillars, lash outward in all directions—indiscriminate, violent, hungry. One slams down inches from Daehalya, cracking the frost beneath it. Another coils toward Nickolo, snapping like a striking viper. A third wraps briefly around one of the doppelgangers deceased body, squeezing before releasing it, as if even the spell must decide what belongs and what does not. Etward collapses back onto the stone, propped on one arm, chest heaving as the magic takes hold around him. Firelight flickers in his eyes. “Fine,” he breathes, a thin, bitter smile cutting through the pain. “We’ll do this the difficult way.” Behind him, Lichgate hums louder. And the tentacles tighten their grip on the room.
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Onye's large form presses the doppelganger tight against the wall and Nicholo's blade, as it enters the creatures chest, killing it. Onye has equally violent intent as Etward narrowly slips from Onye's grasp, only to get bit across his ribs with the sickening crunch of breaking bones.
Seeing Etward continue to try and get a little distance Alvarius tries to paralyze the man with strong magics but it isn't going to hold but for a second. Daehalya tumbles through the gap and sweeps Etward off his feet as he hits the ground hard.
Etward rolls to his feet and tosses a small vial from his pocket at Daehalya.
He fumbles the vial in his panic and it just rolls across the floor.
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Nicky definitely presses the doppelganger as he stabs it through the hand and shoulder in one swift motion before going back into a defensive posture. The doppelganger snarls and leaps at Nicky, trying to claw the skin from his face as its own face quickly contorts between each of his party both past and present.
Onye intercepts some of the doppelgangers attacks before it can do too much lasting damage to Nicholo's face. His powerful claw begins to push the doppelganger away giving Ritalson an opportunity as it stumbles through the darkness. His eyes go wide as he realizes he is in the room with all of you, quickly looks around and finds most of his companions all deceased. He picks up speed, clutching tightly to the scroll in his hand as he breaks through the opposite doorway.
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Onye's powerful jaws crunch deep into the creatures bone as he tears teh arm right from its body. Both claws batter it from ither side leaving nothing more than bloody pulp where it once stood. Alvarius shrouds Ritalson in complete darkness where he hears the many utter several curses.
The moppet is smacked into the ground where Daehalya uses her staff to sweep it back into the flames.
Your minds burn as the moppets death screams pierce the veil of your conciousness, filling your minds for a brief few seconds before falling silent once more.
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Daehalya directs her swing to the mindmoppet. She too feels her hands jerk away from the mindmoppets direction but forces through the strange sensation to miss the creature completely as her staff bounces off of its shell. The pair of doppelgangers close further into the room clawing furiously at Nicholo and Alvarius.
Alvarius braces hiself as the pair of deadly claws streak close to his face. Onye's massive paw blocks them, nearly flattening the doppelganger inot the floor in the process.
Nicholo is not as fortunate as fresh wounds are dug into his arm.
Oovip tries to anticipate what happens next as it fails to lift Daehalya off of the ground. Etward pulls a small scroll from his sheath. With not enough time to use it yet he tries to enter Onye's dream-like state, enducing a vivid and reaistic nightmare scenario.
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The mindmoppet shudders, in glee as Onye is unable to demoralize it in the slightest.
Onye feels a slight pull at his powerful paws but it is not enough as he swipes into the gel-like body of the moppet.His jaws don't seem to do anything but leave a foul taste in his mouth and his claws seem to do a little damage. Nicky attacks himself, leaving himself with morale thoughts that will keep him awake at night. Just as his blade pierces the dopplegangers side the creature ends its ruse and claws back at Nicky's arm.
Nicky sweeps back just out of reach as he stabs it again through the brain, killing the doppelganger.
Alvarius reaches out, both hands grasp either side of the doppelgangers head. It rapidly shrivels and turns to a dry, hollow husk as he drains every single remaining living cell from the creatures body into himself.
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Onye quickly leaps back to his feet as he feels the oppresive pull on his mind to lie down. Angered by this mental pull he transforms into a fearsome tiger. Nicky devises a strategm as he watches Alvarius cut off a section of the ruins. His rapier enters the doppelganger's slick body with ease. Alvarius' spell takes hold as the room fills with flames, blocking access through one of the doorways. Daehalya's staff sweeps the ground, knocking the doppelganger prone as she breaks its arm.
The dopplegangers circle around the wall of fire as they try to find an opening. The doppleganger near Onye pushs in further, trying to keep Alvarius between it and the Tiger as it claws at Alvarius' side.
The distance doesn't save the Doppelganger from Onye's retribution as a massive paw swings around the side catching it and slamming the creature into a sall pile of rubble. The wounded Doppelganger near Daehalya's body contorts in pain after having its arm crushed by her staff. Its skin melts away leaving the form of a frightened Nicholo. "Why would you do that Daehalya." Its hand shakes as it stands up. Don't hurt me."[/b] It holds out two hands in peace. The mind moppet is fascinated by the flames and screeches through your minds in pain as it passes through. It doesn't quite know what to think about the feeling of pain.
It gets a small lash of anger as it tries to push Alvarius away reflexively with its mind.
Having no effect it tries to slowly anticipate what happens next. Ritalson follows one of the Doppelgangers to observe their success in subdueing the threat.
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The hum of Lichgate deepens, resonant and old, vibrating through bone rather than ear. Frost spiders across the flagstones in delicate veins, tracing the elven sigils of the aiudara like a pulse beneath skin. Etward’s smile holds. But something in his eyes has gone distant, calculating not just the party before him, but paths branching far beyond this chamber. “You were not meant to come here,” he says softly, almost reflective. “Not yet. The manor was… a buffer. A courtesy.” Etward continues, tone thoughtful rather than angry. “You traced me directly. That implies either intuition... or interference.” His gaze lingers on Onye Dinta at the mention of fraying threads. On Daehalya’s staff. On Nicky’s restless stance. On Alvarius brainless skull. He exhales slowly. “You know, Lepidstadt once called my family the pride of the river.” His voice turns almost conversational. “The Ritalsons. Patrons of academia. Hosts of exquisite galas aboard the Mossmaid.” A faint smile touches his lips. “Such shallow ambitions. So eager to toast themselves while the universe whispered at the edge of sleep.” The frost thickens. “I was given a dream,” he says quietly. “A revelation. A patron beyond the wall of sleep extended its will to me. And in return, I removed distractions.” For a flicker of a second, reflected in the sheen of ice along the floor, Daehalya sees firelight dancing on black water. Screams swallowed by smoke. A riverboat burning to its skeleton. Etward does not blink. “The tragedy freed me,” he says simply. “Freed my time. Freed my funds. Freed my purpose.” The four guards shift closer, not overtly threatening, just tightening the geometry of the room. “The Missing Moment confirmed what I suspected,” Etward continues, voice warming with genuine fervor now. “There are doors within doors. Dreams within dreams. And you...” he gestures lightly toward them, “...you were touched by the same event. Bound to the same fracture.” “I learned to step into your dreams,” Etward says. “To observe. To sample.” His smile sharpens faintly. “To refine.” His gloved fingers flex. “You think yourselves seekers of the truth,” he murmurs. “Investigators of the strange. But you are catalysts. Conduits. Raw, radiant psychic latticework.” The air tightens as if pressure builds behind the eyes. “Do you know how delicate memory is?” he asks. “How beautifully it can be excised? With the proper incision, one can peel back experience like parchment. Preserve it. Recontextualize it. Amplify it.” He glances back at the portal. “I require what you carry,” he says plainly now. No more pretense. “Your Missing Moment. Your proximity to the Dreamlands. With it, I will perfect the key. I will return north. I will reach the Crown of the World.” His voice lowers, reverent. “And I will free Osoyo.” The name seems to make the portal shudder. Ice cracks sharply across the floor between them. Etward lifts his hand again. This time the air bends faintly around his fingers. “I would prefer you compliant,” he says calmly. “Sedated, perhaps. The procedure is cleaner when the subject is still.” The moment the last of Etward’s words settles into the frost laced air, the four “humans” stop pretending. It begins subtly. A tremor passes through one guard’s jawlike a yawn held too long. Another’s shoulders twitch inward, bones shifting beneath borrowed skin. The illusion doesn’t shatter; it loosens. Then it peels. Faces soften and sag as though the features were pressed into warm wax. Noses flatten. Cheekbones recede. Eyes widen too wide before narrowing again into something slick and depthless. The color drains from their flesh in ripples, pinks fading into a pallid, grayish pallor that seems almost damp in the cold air. One guard’s mouth stretches sideways not into a smile, but into something testing its hinges. Teeth realign behind thinning lips. Fingers elongate, knuckles popping audibly as tendons adjust to new proportions. Cloth hangs wrong on them now. Armor shifts awkwardly against reshaping torsos. Beneath the sound of cracking ice, there’s a wet, elastic whisper skin sliding over muscle that does not quite match. Hair withdraws into scalps like ink sinking into paper. Within seconds, the four stand revealed. Tall. Smooth featured. Androgynous. Their gray skin catches the portal’s pale light like polished stone. Their eyes are uniform now dark and reflective, with no warmth behind them. Where once there were individual stances and gestures, there is now eerie symmetry. They breathe together. Inhale. Exhale. One tilts its head, studying the party without expression. Another flexes its hands experimentally, as though savoring the honesty of its true shape. Their voices, when they speak, are no longer stolen. Etward continues “But I have grown quite adept at working with resistance.” Behind him, Lichgate pulses. Waiting for either dream—or blood. Initiative:
A faint scratching interrupts the tension. Not from the walls. From the floor. Near one of the broken columns lies a half-buried skull old, weather bleached, its surface threaded with frost. At first it seems nothing more than ruin detritus, another relic swallowed by Lichgate’s long decay. Then the skull’s empty eye socket twitches. A thin, pale tendril slips from the darkness within. It unfurls slowly, glistening faintly, like a slug’s antenna tasting the air. Another follows. Then several more delicate, boneless feelers that probe outward, curling and uncurling with idle curiosity. The skull tips slightly as something inside shifts. With a soft, moist sound, Ogovip pulls itself free. The mindmoppet is roughly the size of a housecat, but its proportions are wrong. Its body is rounded and soft, almost larval, covered in translucent, pearlescent skin through which faint pulses of dim inner light can be seen. Veins, or perhaps thoughts, flicker beneath the surface like distant lightning. Its head is oversized and bulbous, blending seamlessly into its torso. No clear neck. No clear spine. It has too many eyes. Small, lidless, glassy orbs open across its surface in irregular clusters. Some blink sideways. Others roll independently. A few remain fixed on individual party members with unsettling intensity, as if cataloguing them from multiple angles at once. Its mouth, if it is a mouth, rests as a vertical seam low on its body. It parts slightly, revealing not teeth, but soft, ciliated tendrils that pulse as it breathes. The feelers that emerged first now anchor it to the stone, pulling it fully free of the skull. With a wet pop, the last of its body slides out, leaving behind faint residue inside the bone cavity. Ogovip turns, though it has no clear front, and several eyes focus on Daehalya. Then Onye Dinta. Then Alvarius. A soft hum vibrates from within it, not sound, exactly, but a pressure behind the eyes. A curious sensation, like fingers brushing the edges of your thoughts. Delighted. The seam of its mouth widens slightly, and a thin thread of luminescent drool stretches to the floor before snapping. Above, Lichgate hums in resonance. Etward does not look at the creature. He does not need to. “Ah,” he says calmly, as Ogovip scuttles closer on its many tendrils, “there you are.”
The mindmoppet pulses as Onye is raised a few inches into the air and slammed into the ground. Outside of the forceful push Onye feels an immense presure on his mind as the Ogovip seems to be compelling him to lie on the floor and wait for the Doctor to harvest his brain.
Etward seems to wait patiently.
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One of the guards’ brows lifts, interested. “Mention how we came from the doctor’s manor, that the manor led us to go through the gates.” The guards voice almost seems to mirror Nicky's for a brief moment. At that... Something breaks. Not loudly. Not visibly. But the four figures go utterly still. The mention of the manor lands like a thrown dagger. Their eyes sharpen. Their posture changes not casual travelers anymore, not weary wardens. Predators calculating angles. “It took volunteers,” one says, though its voice now carries a wet, layered undertone—two throats speaking in imperfect harmony. “It took trespassers,” another corrects. “It took the curious.” All four draw weapons in the same smooth motion. Steel whispers free. The mention of the Manor and the Doctor seem to catch the men off guard a bit as you notice a look of surprise. Steel hangs in the air for half a breath longer. Then unexpectedly the nearest doppelganger lowers its blade. “Wait.” The fourth says The word ripples through the others. Weapons dip, though not fully. Eyes remain sharp. “You’ve said enough to warrant his attention,” one of them says carefully. “Remain outside the inner chamber. We will alert Etward.” There is no scrambling, no shouted warning. One of them simply turns and walks beneath a half-broken arch toward the spires. The others remain spread wide, watchful, hands near hilts. Moments stretch. From within Lichgate’s intact chambers comes the low murmur of a man’s voice. Calm. Measured. Curious. Then footsteps approach. Etward steps into view. He is composed, travel worn but deliberate in his bearing, winter furs draped over scholarly robes. Frost stained gloves. A satchel at his side heavy with tools rather than scrolls. “My friends,” Etward says, as though greeting dinner guests who arrived unannounced. “You’ve come much farther than I expected.” His gaze lingers on each of you in turn, measuring. “You were instructed to remain at my manor,” he continues mildly. “Lichgate is… delicate.” A faint smile. Not warm intrigued. “But since you have come all this way, I would be remiss not to hear your findings. Please.” He gestures inward, toward the chamber just before the portal itself. “Speak freely.”
Silence follows. Then one of the men exhales a slow, disappointed sigh. Another rubs his temple, as if nursing a headache. A third lets his shoulders slump, weary in a way that feels practiced—performed. “That’s unfortunate,” one says softly. His eyes linger on Daehalya’s staff. “We were hoping you’d turn around.” “You felt it too,” says another—this one looking directly at Onye Dinta. His voice drops, loses its warmth. “The fraying.” Their faces... shift. Not dramatically. Not yet. A jaw tightens where it shouldn’t. A smile fades into something flatter, emptier. One man’s eyes darken until the whites seem thinner, stretched, as though his skull were deciding how to hold them. Skin ripples faintly along a cheekbone, then stills. Behind them, from beyond the broken arches, comes the distant scrape of something being dragged across stonesupplies being adjusted, perhaps. Arctic gear. A soft, delighted giggle echoes once, then cuts off abruptly, like a thought smothered mid idea. “Lichgate is closed,” the first guard says again, but now all four speak with him. Same words. Same cadence. Same voice. “It’s already taken enough from travelers who asked too many questions.” They spread out, not to attack, not yet but to block the paths between fallen columns, bodies mirroring each other with unsettling precision.
Daehalya steps clear of the trees, boots crunching softly on ancient stone, her hands open and her posture deliberately calm. The ruined courtyard seems to hold its breath. For a heartbeat, nothing happens after she calls out. Then the figures emerge. Four ordinary humans step out from behind broken pillars and half fallen walls travel stained cloaks, practical boots, weapons worn but well-maintained. They look like the sort of guards one might expect on a remote trade road. Too normal. Too similar in height and build, though their faces are different enough to pass a casual glance. One of them smiles first. It’s friendly, rehearsed. Another folds his arms, eyes flicking over the party with practiced efficiency. “This place isn’t safe for visitors. Lichgate’s off limits. Old magic. Dangerous magic.” As Nicholo considers the odds, already preparing to dazzle them with a burst of flame and a joke about freezing his breath for the Winterlands, one of the guards lets out a short chuckle exactly the laugh Nicholo was about to use. The timing is wrong by a fraction of a second, like a poor echo. “Look,” another guard says, stepping forward, palms raised in a placating gesture. His voice shifts mid-sentence subtle, but unmistakable losing a gravelly edge and gaining a smoother, almost refined cadence. “No need for tricks or trouble. Turn around, head south. Nothing here for you but ruins and regret.” Behind them, the spires of Lichgate loom, pale stone catching the light like bone. From somewhere deeper within the ruin comes a faint, playful tapping and a distant hum childlike, inquisitive, utterly unconcerned with the tension in the air. The guards hold their ground, expressions polite, voices calm. But as they stand there, watching, each of them blinks just a little too slowly. And for a brief, unsettling moment, every single one of them looks at the same party member with the same eyes.
Daehalya slows near the threshold of the outer chambers. That’s when she hears them. At first it’s indistinct low murmurs echoing through broken corridors, voices overlapping just enough to feel unsettling. One sounds like a tired traveler complaining about the cold. Another laughs softly, the laugh too practiced, too precise, like someone imitating the idea of mirth. The words drift in Elven, then Common, then something half-remembered phrases that feel familiar, as though pulled from old conversations she can’t quite place. A voice speaks her name. Daehalya freezes. The tone is perfect pitch, cadence, even the breath before the syllables but it comes from the wrong direction. Stone scrapes softly as something shifts its weight. Leather creaks. There’s the faint, wet sound of skin adjusting, like cloth being smoothed over a frame that doesn’t quite fit. Another voice joins in, echoing the first, finishing its sentence a heartbeat too late. The four guards continue their patrol, boots crunching over rubble, voices changing mid-sentence one moment gruff, the next refined, testing sounds, keeping watch over secrets that should have stayed buried. And they have not yet realized she is listening.
With a little magical invisibility Daehalya approaches the camp cautiously. There are four armed men just past the small camp of arctic supplies. They are conversing and keeping watch at the entarance of an ancient elven structure. Mostly collapsed towers and crumbled walls overgrown by foliage subtly mark the transition of woodland into elven ruin, but the spires of Lichgate itself are relatively intact.
One by one you gather new equipment, fully expecting to brave the cold. Not wanting to wait any longer for Etward’s untimely return you set off for Lichgate, located in central Shudderwood some 40 miles east of Lepidstadt, in the overgrown ruins of an ancient elven stronghold called Mirianath using the maps found in the Manor's secret laboratory. Mostly collapsed towers and crumbled walls overgrown by foliage subtly mark the transition of woodland into elven ruin, but the spires of Lichgate itself are relatively intact. Once, travelers of the aiudara network could gather to share stories and trade in these chambers. Lichgate once connected to two other portals, but with the recent destruction of the portal called Tanglegate, Lichgate now connects only to Icegate. As you get closer you notice a campsite, and hear numerous voices nearby. The campsite is well stocked and contains more than enough artic supplies.
Nicky finishes speaking. For a moment, the upstairs sitting room is silent except for the faint ticking of a distant clock. Firelight flickers across four very different faces. Lunja is the first to move. She adjusts her coat with rigid precision, jaw set, eyes narrowed in calculation.
Vaxtervin lets out a sharp, delighted laugh that dies halfway through. The runes along their neck faintly itch, their fingers twitching as if brushing unseen cobwebs from the air.
Iasanden hasn’t looked up from his ledger once. His charcoal pencil stops mid-stroke. Slowly, deliberately, he closes the book.
All eyes turn to Takuzo. The old librarian closes his book with care, as if not to offend it. He says nothing at first. He simply listens. The air thrums—low, almost imperceptible. A vibration felt more in teeth than ears. Lunja straightens. "Let's look at this Trophy Room." They descend together, lantern light tight and controlled. The lower halls smell of old iron and preserved magic. The hum grows louder, rhythmic, hungry. They stop before the Trophy room. TROPHY ROOM
Vaxtervin presses a tattooed palm to the wall. Their breath catches.
Iasanden cracks the door just wide enough to see. Seven alcoves.
Lunja recoils, hand flying to her mouth. “Those constellations—those aren’t stars. They’re neural pathways.” Takuzo shuts the door with gentle finality. “That is enough,” he says quietly. “Knowledge need not always be completed.” Iasanden doesn’t argue. “This house is no longer safe to be remembered in.” Takuzo places a steadying hand on Nicky’s arm. “You did right to speak,” he says. “Now we must listen—to our fear.” They run. Through the gate and down dark paths, breath burning, the estate looming behind them like a closed mind refusing to forget. The estate falls silent behind them.
GM Screen:
Alvarius does not recall any information about Ogmunzorius nor a lost family yurt but does know a bit of basic detail about Blackfrost through these notes and his intense studies. When elves from Castrovel transported an alien entity called Osoyo to Golarion’s north pole thousands of years ago, the strange, devastating ash Osoyo steadily exhaled came with it. Anyone exposed to this dark, mucky powder suffered terrible surface wounds similar to frostbite, and their flesh became hypersensitive to cold. The ash’s true danger, though, became known only after afflicted individuals died. Such victims would lie frozen, blackening from supernatural cold burns, for a single day before rising as undead monstrosities. In time, people would come to call this terrible umbral powder blackfrost, and the undead who bore its curse blackfrost dead.
Secrets Discovered:
2,3,4,8,10 Here Etward details how, ever since the Missing Moment, he’s been able to invade the dreams of other gatewalkers. The notes further reveal how obsessed he’s become with dreams and his quest to find a way to travel to the legendary Dreamlands, where he believes he will be reunited with his missing memories and become much more powerful. Etward notes in many places that more than memories went missing during his Missing Moment—there are gaps in his fortune as well, indicating that he spent a fair amount of money during the Missing Moment. His investigations have revealed that this money went toward financing an expedition to the Nameless Spires, but the apparent loss of one of his family’s greatest treasures, an explorer’s yurt, intrigued him the most. He secured a scroll of discern location and used it to make an astonishing discovery—his family’s explorer’s yurt is now located in a remote abandoned temple devoted to Findeladlara, the elven goddess of architecture, art, and twilight. This temple can be found at the very edge of the High Ice, about 5 days’ journey from Icegate in the Crown of the World. The notes describe the physical effects of blackfrost, boast about Etward’s immunity, mention its capacity to create blackfrost zombies, and ruminate upon the true nature of the curse, theorizing that “Osoyo’s dreams” may be the source of the ash-like substance. The fact that blackfrost seems to progress more quickly when an afflicted creature dreams has further intrigued Etward, although he’s not sure yet what to make of this observation. The discovery of a strange hand found in his belongings pales against Etward’s discovery of a strange presence within his laboratory— an entity named Ogmunzorius. Etward theorizes that Ogmunzorius is a “sending” from Osoyo’s dreams, and takes the entity’s presence as proof that he is some sort of “chosen one” intended to release Osoyo from its prison in return for even greater mental powers and, perhaps, the key to reaching the Dreamlands. The notes also mention how Ogmunzorius assisted Etward in conjuring guardians for the laboratory, but notes that these creatures were “untrustworthy” and that Etward further ensured their compliance with inveigle rituals.
Daehalya finds a stack of notes that draw her attention as she spends the entire day going over them all. These notes provide a full list of all of the gatewalkers he’s watched through dreams, including your own names, any gatewalkers they’ve encountered and, in particular, Queen Equendia of Skywatch. His descriptions of her leading the city’s population north on a dangerous journey to the Crown of the World are tinged with admiration and jealousy—it’s obvious Etward wishes he commanded this level of servitude over a large group of people. The notes conclude with him wondering if the queen reached the Nameless Spires, and ponder “what she might now be” after spending time amid the blackfrost and dreams of Osoyo. |
