sundered-lands-campaign

Episode 01 - Willowbrook

As the sun sets behind the rugged peaks of the Dragonspine Mountains, casting long shadows across the land, you find yourselves standing at the edge of a sleepy village nestled within a verdant valley. The air is thick with the scent of earth and the distant sound of a babbling brook echoes through the tranquil surroundings. But despite the serene facade, there’s an unsettling undercurrent that seems to permeate the very fabric of the place.

Small signs of unease linger in the air , whispers exchanged furtively among the villagers, hastily drawn symbols etched into doorways, and the occasional hasty glance cast over a shoulder. It’s as though the earth itself is holding its breath, waiting for something ominous to unfold.

Rumors abound of a mysterious illness sweeping through the countryside, leaving devastation in its wake. Crops wither in the fields, livestock sicken and die, and fear grips the hearts of those who call this land home.

As adventurers drawn together by fate or fortune, you stand on the precipice of a journey fraught with danger and uncertainty. Will you heed the call to unravel the mysteries shrouding this land? Will you rise to confront the rising darkness before it consumes everything in its path? The choice is yours, but know this , the fate of this realm hangs in the balance, and the time to act is now.

The party approached the village of Willowbrook. An old man approached, speaking in hushed tones about meeting him at midnight by a certain tree. As Clifford‘s divine senses detected nothing amiss, Sir Davion and Wraith questioned a villager named Erevan Nightwhisper about the troubles plaguing Willowbrook. He spun a tale about a bedbug infestation forcing everyone into the local inn. But the sickly horses and Erevan‘s own skittish behavior hinted at darker truths.

Wraith, spotting a body tucked into a corner behind the man he was talking to, asked about it casually.

Wraith: “What’s with the execution at 11 o’clock?” Villager: “We don’t have any executions scheduled for 11.” Wraith: “Scheduled?”

The discussion quickly turned hostile, and a fierce fight erupted in the streets. Clifford was critically wounded by the first blow as beleaguered villagers revealed themselves as cultists. Wraith gets badly hurt as well but Sir Davion steels his resolve to continue the fight. Mads rapidly dispatches the attacking villagers and the fight winds down.

Erevan finally admitted that strange men had taken over Willowbrook, their arrival coinciding with a sickness sweeping the town and people disappearing. He tells the party that more of the men are to the north east. Wraith and Davian pressed him for more information.

Erevan: “The men came in, took over the village, and since then people have been getting sick or going missing. There’s more watching them from the fields and the rest are holed up at the Inn next to the town square.” Clifford: “You had said the Inn was full of villagers due to bed bugs, and now you say these men are in there. You are a liar. Do you realize how much valuable time you wasted? You should have just told us the truth to begin with.”

Erevan ran off as more men are spotted coming from the north east. With better strategic positioning for the coming fight the party easily took them down. After, the old man that attempted to meet with them earlier speaks with them. He is the elder. With a cough, he tells the party that the men have taken several townsfolk to their base of operation to the south, another inn.

Clifford: ”… First Erevan lied about the bed bugs. Then he lied about which inn. That man has lied twice.”

After resting, the party goes to the southern inn. There is unease here as well as patrons sip their drinks at their tables. Wraith approaches the bartender who greets them warmly. Clifford does not detect anything with divine sense but Wraith can smell that not all of the patrons are as they seem. Immediately, Wraith tells the barkeep the townsfolk sent them here to hunt down the cultists infiltrating the village. Continuing to wipe a mug, the bartender replies simply that he doesn’t know anything about that.

Sir Davian asks a patron what evils are happening at the tavern. The man is scared but says nothing is wrong. Clifford and Wraith walk over to further intimidate the man. He seems genuinely scared of them and repeats he knows nothing. Sir Davian releases the man’s collar, then turns to the next patron and repeats his interrogation. During this questioning, there’s noise behind the bar. Wraith hops over the bar as the bartender finishes pulling a weapon.

Fighting breaks out with some of the patrons also revealing weapons. Other patrons are tied to their chairs at the legs.

After dueling with the bartender, Wraith jumped back over the bar, from the bar to the table, ran up behind a hostile, grabbing the back of his head and slits his throat to his spine with his dagger. He considered licking the blood from his dagger- but decided he was not going to do that because these guys were diseased. They smelt off.

Once the rest of the cultists were dispatched of, they freed the captives who told them the leader was still somewhere else at the inn. The men had taken six children as well, but they were still missing. The party searched for a hidden door, finding one under a rug.

There, they found a single cultist as well as four children who were turned into zombies. Another vicious melee ensued. Clifford pushed the cultist to the corner of the room behind a half wall. All that Sir Davion, Mads, and Wraith could see was Clifford raising his war hammer high before smashing it down to the wicked cry’s of the cultist. One swing, a cry. Two, a muffled gasp. Three, blood flings from the hammer. Over and over, the splatters paint the ceiling and walls red.

Mads cleaned up the zombies with his bow then the party searched the gloomy underground chamber. On a desk, a letter written in sickly green ink with faint traces of mold.

Heralds of Entropy,

From the depths of our hidden sanctuary, where the roots of decay intertwine with the bones of the earth, your orders are decreed. The time has come to unleash our divine wrath upon the lands of the living.

Under the canopy of twisted branches, where the light of the sun dares not tread, assemble at the Sacred Altar of Rot. Let the echoes of our unholy chants reverberate through the ancient trees, calling forth the pestilence that is our birthright.

With baleful intent, descend upon the settlements that border our sacred grove. Let your presence be as a blight upon the land, spreading sickness and decay with every step. Spare not the innocent nor the righteous, for all shall bow before the inevitable embrace of entropy.

Seek out the agents of light who would dare oppose our dark goddess. Their sanctuaries shall crumble before the relentless march of decay, their prayers unheard amidst the cacophony of our triumph.

Go forth, disciples of decay, and may the fetid embrace of our goddess guide your every action.

Signed, High Priestess Morbosa

The cult’s grip on Willowbrook had finally been broken, though the fate of the two remaining missing children remained unknown and the root of this evil pestilence must be stopped before it could spread further. The heroes steeled themselves to confront whatever fresh horrors awaited. The adventure was just beginning.

Episode 02 - Path to Ravenscroft Keep

As the sun sets on the horizon, casting a warm glow over the tranquil landscape, the party stands victorious amidst the ruins of the cult’s stronghold. The air is thick with the scent of smoke and victory, a stark contrast to the fear and darkness that once gripped the land.

With the cult vanquished and their nefarious plans thwarted, the townsfolk emerge from hiding, their faces alight with relief and gratitude. Cheers and applause fill the air as they celebrate the heroes who saved them from certain doom. And cries for the missing children go unanswered.

But amidst the jubilation, a sense of unease lingers. For in the chaos of battle, the party discovered a cryptic message left behind by a mysterious figure , the enigmatic puppet master pulling the strings behind the scenes.

The message speaks of hidden agendas and dark alliances, hinting at a deeper conspiracy lurking in the shadows. Determined to unravel the mystery and ensure the safety of the realm, the party sets out on a new quest: to find the elusive figure who left these orders to the defeated cult.

After emerging from the crypt’s shadowy depths, the party returned to Willowbrook, leading the survivors to their long-awaited reunion with anxious loved ones. The air was thick with relief and the mournful cries of parents searching for their children. One voice, desperate and raw, pierced the crowd

Villager: “Johnny! Little Johnny, where are you?” Sir Davion: “I don’t think Johnny made it unless he was down in the crypt. We found a horrible, ghastly sight. They had turned to the undeath. There was nothing to be done.” Villager: “Noo!!!” Clifford: “How many children were missing? Because we’ve only killed four.”

Clifford engaged the parents, tallying the lost. Their count stopped short, missing two more children than those undead they had dispatched. As if summoned by their conversation, the two absent children appeared at the village’s edge, having eluded capture by fleeing into the fields, witnesses to the horror that claimed their friends.

With the children’s fate now grimly clear, Sir Davion tasked his scribe with aiding in the burial of the small, tragic victims. Meanwhile, the letter found in the cult’s lair offered a glimmer of hope, a clue pointing toward their dark sanctuary. The ancient trees at the mountain’s base, near a long-forgotten kingdom, whispered of secrets yet to uncover. A villager aided them in deciphering the clues. The party did not notice this helpful man was once again Erevan, but in disguise.

Meanwhile, Wraith sourced a local that would exchange gems for healing potions.

The journey toward the Alter of Rot began with trepidation, and on the second day, they stumbled upon cultists at a wooded trail’s fork. The defeated cultists carried a letter from Grand Apothecary Vilemaw, instructing them to guard the western path, possibly as an attempt to waylay any pursuit. Taking food from the camp’s pot, Sir Davion was grievously poisoned, his strength ebbing rapidly.

Defying the warning, the party ventured down the western trail, where the atmosphere grew ominously dark. There, a diseased giant spider awaited, its formidable presence confirming their fears: the cultists’ warning was a ruse to ensnare them. The battle was fierce, testing their limits, but victory was theirs. Among the spider’s remains, they found another Pendant of Wound Closure and the means for Wraith to craft an antidote for Sir Davion‘s affliction using the spider’s venom.

The shadows of the Dragonspine Mountains recede as the party’s triumph in Willowbrook spreads like the first rays of dawn. But peace is fleeting; the tangled webs of deceit and dark magic they’ve uncovered hint at a menace far beyond the village’s borders. As the echoes of their battles fade, the whispers of a deeper darkness grow stronger, beckoning the party to a destiny fraught with unknown peril.

Episode 03 - Ravenscroft Keep Part I

The adventurers, weary from previous battles, returned to the cult camp only to find it besieged by plagued bears. The ensuing skirmish was brutal but brief, with the party emerging victorious. They rested until daybreak before setting off to the east, where an imposing manor awaited, constructed atop the remnants of old ruin.

The manor’s outer grounds were eerily silent, but within the crypt, the silence was broken by the moans of diseased zombies. Four fell to the party’s coordinated assault, leaving behind nothing of value amidst the decay.

As they neared a nearby cathedral, a rock-hurling treant, decayed and vengeful, ambushed them. It was a fierce confrontation that nearly claimed Sir Davion under a fallen pillar. But Mads‘s precision and Wraith‘s stealth turned the tide, only for a mysterious figure, the very one who’d directed them to this forsaken place, to deal the finishing blow before disappearing without a trace.

In the forge, they faced a blacksmith. Clifford, caught in the throes of the blacksmith’s heat metal spell, beat the man into the flames of his own forge, a grim end he hadn’t intended.

Next, they approached the butcher shop.

Clifford: “We should try to take one of these cultists alive for interrogation.” Sir Davion: “Perhaps not killing them is a better fate.” Clifford: “Not much better with what I’m going to do.”

The butcher shop held a gruesome scene: a butcher completing dark ritual at the cost of an innocent child’s life. The party acted swiftly, ending both the butcher and the summoned shadow demon. Their attempt to question the butcher was foiled by his mortal injuries.

After these harrowing encounters, the party recuperated in the blacksmith’s shop, bracing themselves for the manor’s interior horrors.

Upon entering the manor, they started with the kitchen, where they found themselves ambushed by two large ochre jellies. The creatures proved resilient, splitting when attacked, but the party skillfully adapted and overcame the threat.

The dining hall offered a brief reprieve, albeit one filled with irony as they stood amidst looted paintings.

Clifford: “The cultists are liars as well as thieves.” Wraith: “We’ve been looting from the cult ourselves. Who’s the real thieves?”

In the armory, an animate suit of armor, seemingly brought to life by an infestation of mollusks, confronted them. The battle was strange and fierce, but ultimately the living armor lay in ruins at their feet.

The noise of combat had not gone unnoticed. Cultists, drawn by the din, attacked in the sleeping quarters. It was a chaotic fray that ended with all the cultists dead.

After the dust settled in the sleeping quarters, the party took a moment to collect themselves. The rush of battle had been intense and the cost high; not a single cultist remained for questioning, a stark reminder of the fine line between survival and the duties at hand. The adventurers used this time to rest, tend to their wounds, and prepare for what lay ahead.

Episode 04 - Ravenscroft Keep Part II

The party’s journey had led them to the ominous manor, a structure that had risen from the rubble of a fallen castle. Drawn by the promise of uncovering the sinister plot threatening the nearby town of Willowbrook, they had delved into the cult’s lair beneath the town, where they stumbled upon a cryptic message hinting at a greater conspiracy. Now, standing before the manor’s imposing facade, the adventurers steeled themselves to ascend to the second floor, knowing that the answers they sought awaited them within the shadows that had enveloped this cursed place.

As they ascended to the second floor, their unease grow with each step. Wraith’s attempt to disarm a trap proved futile, and the diseased dart that struck him left him weakened and sluggish, a painful reminder of the dangers that lurked within.

The first room the group enters was an art studio. Brushes and dried up paint littered the tables. On an easel, a woman is depicted. Possibly the lady of the house, they consider.

Uninterested, they pressed on, encountering a startling sight - the skeleton of a young, caged silver dragon. Arising to attack from the cage, the dragon breathed razor-sharp bone shards. Mads’ arrow struck true, felling the bony beast, but the party was left to ponder the cruel fate that had befallen the once majestic creature.

In a living room, Clifford examined a book, opened to pages on silver dragon anatomy and uses for their body parts.

Sir Davion reached out to look at a nearby scroll, but it crumbled to dust at his touch.

Clifford: “I wonder if they used the rest of the dragon’s body for something.” “I wonder if there’s more dragons,” Sir Davion murmured, his voice laced with a hint of concern.

Entering a study, scrolls floating above a desk fall as the party walking into the room. Clifford detects a spirit inside. Sir Davion charges forward, aiding Mads in striking with a blind shot that destroys the spirit. The study is contains nothing of interest except the story of a spirit; trapped within the very room it had died, hopelessly searching for the cause.

Entering a set of opulent bedrooms, they were attacked by three ghasts.

Focusing too intently the one in front of him, Clifford left Sir Davion at a tactical disadvantage.

Sir Davion: “Don’t forget your training!”

Clifford stepped over, just as Mads sent a volley of shots out, ending the battle.

Across the hall, they came upon a door that was blocked shut from the other side.

Pushing on the door, some furniture scrapped and moaned across the floor then gave way.

Stumbling into the room, six diseased zombies leapt at them.

Mads, having pinned an arrow into one of the zombie’s head, was horrified to see it remain standing. Diseased zombies surrounded Sir Davion, their rotting touch inflicting him with a malevolent laughter that left him vulnerable. Mads and Clifford fought valiantly to dispatch the foul creatures, while Davion retreated to the corner of the room, drinking a potion to regain his strength.

Mads took stock of his companions. Wraith had been crippled by the poison trap since entering the second floor. Clifford had used a much of his divine powers, and Sir Davion cackled as blood trickled down his brow. After barricading the group into a bedroom to recuperate, Mads administered alchemy to Sir Davion to rid him of his laughing disease.

After some rest, it was time to continue clearing the rest of the second floor of the manor. Clifford left the bedroom into a darkened hallway. As Clifford stopped to rummage through his pack in the hall, Sir Davion passed by, sword in hand.

Sir Davion: “The enemies could have returned to these rooms during our rest. To let your guard down so casually, you’re making a lot of assumptions.” Clifford: “I’m not making assumptions. I’m lighting a torch.”

The respite was short-lived, however, as they stumbled upon a banshee. The ghost figure shrieks an unearthly wail that incapacitated Sir Davion and knocked Clifford to the ground. Mads launched arrows toward the threat as Clifford dragged Sir Davion back through the door way.

Mads shut the door as Clifford revives Sir Davion and instructs the group to plug their ears with scraps of cloth to dampen the ghost’s screams. While the party dug through their mess kits for anything to plug their ears with, the banshee rose up through the floor behind them to strike again.

After hurting Mads, the figure descended through the floor once more narrowly avoiding Sir Davion‘s sword strike that uselessly sunk into the wooden floor. Clifford spread across the room, prepared to attack wherever the ghost reappeared. Deafened by the rags covering their ears, Sir Davion and Mads discussed tactics in a set of hand singles they shared in the Stolm army.

The banshee surprised them again by phasing through the door Mads had shut to the room. After taking another surprise blow and watching the ghostly woman fade back through the door, Mads burst back into the room sending off several arrows that ended the Banshee’s cries for good. Recollecting after the fight, it became apparent the Banshee was the lady of the painting from before. Lady Aveline's Journal is found, giving some of the history of the manor from her perspective.

Beyond the Banshee’s room, the party found a treasure trove of gold and useful items.

Sir Davion acquired plate mail that magically remained unstained by battle. Mads strapped on a fine pair of archery bracers. With a billow, Wraith adorned an elven cloak. Clifford slips on a ring that provides him guidance on when he is being lied to.

As they paused to catch their breath, the party could not shake the growing sense that they were merely pawns in a larger scheme, with the elusive Erevan Nightwhisper pulling the strings from the shadows. The darkness that had enveloped Willowbrook seemed to have seeped into the very walls of this manor, and the party knew they must delve deeper to uncover the truth and bring an end to the malevolent forces at work.

Clifford rubs his hands along the soft sheets of the master bed. Clifford: “I could get used to this. We should make this place our base of operations once we clear it.” Sir Davion: “I am a knight of Stolm. I cannot claim land outside of my king’s domain. We’re not colonizers.” Clifford: “It’s a fallen kingdom. Perhaps it remains unclaimed. To be sure, I’ll have to review the land claim records in Strathmore and ensure this manor is outside the survey boundaries.”

Episode 05 - Ravenscroft Keep Part III

Narrator:  Greetings, kindred spirits of the Sundered Lands. As the night embraces our home, I come as the bearer of tales from a time both golden and grim. Within my hands lies Clifford Stiengraph’s journal, a chronicle of our past that teaches us about our present.

As the night air grows chill and the stars watch silently from their high vaults, let us draw closer around the flickering campfire. Listen intently, for each page turned and each word spoken is a step we take together through the corridors of time, reflecting on what has been to prepare ourselves for what may yet come. Let us begin.

We had trudged through the grime of forgotten places, where only shadows dare linger. From the repugnant odors of a latrine to the silent prayers of a small chapel, and through the remnants of meals long abandoned in a forsaken kitchen, we persisted. Our resolve was as steadfast as the stone walls that encased the cesspits of evil we sought to cleanse.

It was in the bowels of these hallowed grounds that we chanced upon a vat, its contents a swirling miasma of green, out of which a giant slime birthed itself into existence. It lunged with a hunger for the life it never had. Yet, with the grace and might that only true heroes possess, we bested the abomination with a flourish, leaving nothing but ectoplasmic residue in our wake.

The next chamber bore witness to a graver horror. Robed cultists, their hands stained with life’s essence, busied themselves with unspeakable acts. Their dissection room, a testament to the desecration of flesh and spirit, fell silent under our indomitable spirit.

But the heart of darkness yet beat within the Grand Apothecary Vilemaw, cloistered in his laboratory of despair.

Vilemaw: “You fools! You won’t stop us from bringing Yersindra back!”

 His declaration, was cut short by our wrath and Sir Davion‘s steel. As life’s last breath escaped him, he muttered bitterly at us.

Vilemaw: ”Morbosa will end you! The prestress… is in another temple…”

I jumped toward him, trying to preserve him for questioning.

Clifford: “You son of a bitch! We need answers! You’re not dying on me yet!”

Anger flared within me as I sought to wrest more from Vilemaw’s fading spirit, but the Light had dimmed in my hands, my power spent. With fury and frustration clashing in my heart, I found but a note upon his person, a missive from the High Priestess Morbosa herself. The note was sealed with a sigil of entwined serpents.

The writing upon the letter was of a kind I had seldom seen. Each stroke of the script flowed with an elegance that suggested a skilled hand.

The ink, still resilient against the encroachment of years, its hue a deep, rich black that must have been concocted from the finest gallnuts. The consistency was remarkable; it had not bled into the fibers of the paper but lay upon it with a precision that suggested the use of a well-cut quill. Likely, the quill had been crafted from a raven’s feather, judging by the slight thickness in the downstrokes, characteristic of such a robust and slightly springy tip.

Narrator:  Uh… Clifford continues for some time on the use of gum arabic in ink mixture- but he does transcribe the letter in full.

Grand Apothecary Vilemaw,

As the shadows lengthen and our plans near fruition, it is imperative that we remain vigilant against the encroaching forces of light. The Sentinels in Shadow, those cursed guardians of righteousness, prowl the edges of our dominion, ever seeking to disrupt our sacred rites.

I charge you, esteemed Grand Apothecary, to bolster our defenses and fortify our sanctuaries against the inevitable onslaught. Let not a single crack appear in our armor, for the eyes of the world are upon us, and our enemies lurk in the shadows, waiting for the slightest sign of weakness.

Your efforts in Willowbrook have not gone unnoticed, and I offer my sincerest praise for your dedication to our cause. The plague that now grips the town is but a taste of the chaos and despair that shall soon engulf the land, thanks to your unholy ingenuity.

Continue to sow the seeds of discord and disease, for with each cough, each groan of agony, our grip upon this world tightens. Together, we shall usher in a new age of darkness, where the name of Morbosa shall be spoken in hushed tones of fear and reverence.

Yours in eternal darkness,

High Priestess Morbosa

Clifford: “This letter gives no locations and Vilemaw is dead.” Wraith: “We have a name. Sentinels in Shadow.” Sir Davion: “And an insignia.” Clifford: “True. This must be Morbosa‘s signet.” Sir Davion: “Perhaps she’s a noble, hiding about in a court. Her writing indicates she’s highly educated.”

The cleansing fire of our resolve spread to the northern side of the manor’s basement, purging the remaining cultists and the undead that hungered for the warmth of life. It was only after we had cleared the manor of all hostiles, that Erevan, cloaked in mystery, approached.

Erevan: “I am a Sentinel in the Shadows. We must work without being seen or known, for our own protection, so we uh… ‘guide’ strong potential allies to work for our cause. But you have shown that your motivations are true and there is no need for this ruse. You too want to take down Morbosa to stop the spread of their disease. But the situation is more dire. Morbosa and her cult worship the deity Yersinda. They are helping her gain an Avatar in the material plane. Morbosa is the key for us to stop this terrible incursion. Our scouts are working to locate her. When they do, we will contact you. In the meantime, should you need to speak with me, talk to the bartender at the Inn of the Last Rest.” Clifford: “And where is this inn?” Erevan: “Strathmore.”

I consulted the ring’s arcane essence, its verdict clear: truth lay within Erevan‘s words- for once.

Narrator:  Thus, our chapter closes with the party poised on the cusp of a darkened precipice, ready to delve into the heart of Morbosa‘s web. Strathmore beckons, where the silent keeper of secrets awaits, and our story, illuminated by the faint glow of determination, continues to unfold.

Episode 06 - Library of Strathmore

Narrator:  Welcome back, dear listeners. When we last convened, our valiant party had purged Ravenscroft Keep of its dark occupants. The spectral lady of the manor, now a banshee, found her rest through their efforts. Erevan of the Sentinels in the Shadows promised a reunion in Strathmore upon finding the elusive Morbosa. Clifford, exiled from his homeland, proposed the idea of claiming the deserted keep as a stronghold of their own. Now, as our heroes set their sights on Strathmore, let us delve back into the folds of their journey.

As we departed from the chilling silence of Ravenscroft, thoughts of ownership lingered in my mind, such a fine manor, potentially a haven for me. Our journey to Strathmore spanned a week, the roads fraught with shadows that darted at the periphery of our vision. Wraith, ever alert, noticed figures lurking within the forest’s embrace, yet a thorough search yielded nothing.

Strathmore greeted us with its vibrant chaos a stark contrast to the haunted quietude we left behind. The city bustled, alive with the trades of commonfolk and the calls of merchants. Our first endeavor led us to the seminary, where I hoped to unearth clues about a “high priestess” possibly linked to our quests. Alas, the archives offered only dead ends.

Sir Davian, determined to announce his presence, guided us to the royal palace. As we navigated through the throng of nobles, a curious realization dawned upon me Wraith was missing.

Before Davion had his presence with the king, a peasant was in front of the throne, pleading. Upon noticing us, he turned and pointed.

Willowbrook Peasant: “You! You there! You claimed to save our village, but your heroism wrought only ruin. Disease and death follow in your wake, Willowbrook suffers still. What justice will you offer for the blood spilled by your hands?”

Clifford: “We battled fiercely to lift the shadow of cultists from your homes. Yet, is it not the duty of every villager to forge ahead, to rebuild and heal? We cannot tether our fates to Willowbrook indefinitely. What more do you ask of us?”

King: “Silence. While your intentions were noble, your task remains incomplete. Return to Willowbrook, eradicate this blight from their lives, and you shall be duly rewarded. Stop the cult entirly, and perhaps titles and lands may yet await you.”

Sir Davian: “Your grace, I am Sir Davion Browyn, sworn knight of the kingdom of Stolm. We pledge to cleanse the affliction from this poor man’s village. Yet, threats loom other than Willowbrook and this cult. When the shadow of Thurin darkens our door, will you stand with the Kingdom of Stolm?”

King: “My council shall deliberate. For now, take these ointments; they may aid in your quest. Go, with my blessing, and let not the darkness linger.”

Leaving the throne room, weighed down by the peasant’s harsh words and the king flaccidly agreeing, I sought solace in the dusty quiet of the arcane library. The doors creaked open to reveal towering shelves burdened with ancient tomes, their spines peppered with dust. The air was thick with the musk of parchment and leather, a scent that spoke of age and wisdom. Dim light filtered through stained glass, casting colorful patterns on the stone floors.

This library housed the official records including land deeds, where I hoped to find the current status of Ravenscroft Keep’s property.

As I rummaged through their books, one slide aside like a pressured plate, and a hidden passage revealed itself.

A sign before the enterance read “Land Deeds.”

With Sir Davian and Mads at my side, we braved the forgotten corridor, only to be assaulted by creatures of ink a knight, a wizard, and a dragon, formed from the very essence of the records we sought. The battle was fierce; the ink wizard fell first, dispelling the dragon in a burst of dark mist. Together, we vanquished the knight, restoring peace to the hallowed archive.

Still, Wraith had not returned. I wondered if that criminal’s resolve was broken now that the time had come to prove he held the most important personal characteristic a true hero of the realms must have; a meticulous yet efficient multi-catalogue and single-document review technique.

Narrator: Clifford goes on, reflecting in great detail the heroic way he looked through the pile of books and papers and found the one for Ravenscroft Keep. Some time ago, the place was granted to Lady Aveline to protect the land from the monsters of the mountains.

Clifford: “Well, she failed to do that.” Mads: “Does this document now entitle you to the keep?” Sir Davion: “No, the lands must yet be officially bestowed upon Clifford.” Clifford: “Exactly. If Aveline had purchased the property, it would have underwent escheatment when she died. But it didn’t because it was granted to her lineage. Now I can claim it as abandoned with no heirs providing upkeep. The original grantee, Lady Aveline, is dead and I know that for a fact because we killed her ourselves.” Sir Davion: “Perhaps don’t say it that way when you ask for the land.” Narrator: Clifford continues

Passing back through the lobby, Wraith reappeared, his absence excused by the acquisition of essential gear, a warhammer for me, a bow for Mads, bought with our shared funds yet at a significant discount. His ventures had also unearthed a lead in the sewers; a meeting which had to wait until the time was right.

Before leaving, I asked a fellow scrivener of the sigil on Morbosa‘s letter.

They said it was from another kingdom, perhaps Erithiel or Thurin.

Sir Davion, familiar with the region’s heraldry, confirmed the sigil belonged to none within Thurin.

Erithiel it must be then.

A heavy silence fell as I reminded the party of my exile from Erithiel, barring my return.

When Mads asked why, I repeated my story.

While serving as a scrivener for the nobility of Erithiel, I had uncovered corruption, and when confronting it, was exiled.

Wraith, suggested a disguise might be in order, perhaps altering my face with his fists.

An empty threat for comradery. While I did not appreciate that, I did appreciate the magnificent warhammer so I allowed the jest to be.

Sir Davion wondered if Morbosa could be connected to the corruption I had discovered.

With our business concluded for now, we left Strathmore and returned to Willowbrook on the King’s orders to cure the disease there.

As we approached the village, a chilling silence greeted us. The streets, once filled with the sounds of daily hustle, were now eerily quiet, shrouded in a heavy mist. The desolation was palpable, with each step through the muddy lanes stirring up not just earth, but the stench of decay and forgotten battles.

Searching the town square, four mold zombies shambled out.

Their foul breath wracked our lungs. When brought down, their festering bodies released toxic fumes.

Sir Davion and I nearly succumbed to our wounds.

Wraith: The ointment! Use the king’s ointment! Sir Davion: Do it, Clifford! I’ll hold them off.

Despite the urgent danger, I put my warhammer to the side and pulled out a jar of the ointment.

It was meant to cure the disease, but these zombies were far too gone to be brought back to their former selves.

But perhaps it could still prevent their disease from spreading.

After wiping one of them with a handful of salve, their mold seemed to recoil as they howled out in pain- cut short by an arrow shot deep into their skull. It did not attempt to get back up.

No fumes spilled out as the body crumpled to the ground. The ointment had worked incredibly well.

I continued curing the zombies as Wraith, Mads, and Sir Davion felled them. We wasted no time in moving the bodies out of the area, across the bridge, and out of town.

After we laid them out, we surveyed the dead.

Mads: That one looks familiar. Sir Davion: He’s the village elder. Wraith: He was.

Moans and shuffling of more infected echoed down the empty streets and I grabbed my warhammer, flickering with the flames of my determination. Mads moved smoothing, raising his bow and knocking an arrow. Wraith shifted into the shade of a tree, impossible to see except for the faint glimmer of his psychic blades.

And Sir Davion shouted.

Sir Davion: Form up! Prepare for battle!

Episode 07 - Return to Willowbrook

Narrator: The air hangs heavy with the scent of decay and fear as Clifford Steingraph recounts the events that followed their return to Willowbrook. Haunted by the whispers of a pestilence that continues to cling to the village, the party is tasked with eradicating the disease that threatens to consume everything in its path.

We returned to Willowbrook, its streets eerily silent save for the distant moans of unseen diseased zombies.

There may be survivors barricaded in these houses.

Our journey through the village was fraught with danger. Three wights, two diseased zombies, and a giant wolf spider challenged our every step. To contain the pestilence, I laid my hands upon several fallen foes, curing their festering bodies. My power waned, leaving me no choice but to apply the King’s ointment to the remaining corpses.

We then systematically searched each dwelling, seeking survivors. In one house, we found an elderly woman locked inside with a small boy. She told us her son, a young man, had traveled to Strathmore, leaving her and his son behind. We realized this was the mother of the peasant who had accused us of negligence before the King. Unable to fight the zombies alone, he sought help from the King. He boarded up the house and left, only to meet us before the king.

Sir Davion: Clifford, treat the lady with the ointment as a precaution. Clifford: No. We should use it on the undead to prevent the disease from spreading. Sir Davion: She is alive! This could save her life. Clifford: Our duty is to stop the plague, not save peasants. There are more lives at stake if this spreads than a single old woman. Wraith: Let’s continue searching the buildings. Sir Davion: Wraith is right. Once we clear the village, we will know how many living and dead there are. Perhaps we will have enough ointment as it is.

We continued our search, finding no more survivors, but the silence of the village was deceptive. Fungal beasts, emboldened by the stillness, had begun to emerge from a nearby cabbage field. We fought them back, cleansing the village of all remaining undead. Only the grandmother and her grandson remained. Before departing for Strathmore, we burned the bodies littering the streets, a final act of purification. Sir Davion insisted we take the old woman and boy with us to reunite them with the peasant.

A week later, we arrived in Strathmore. Wraith, with his penchant for vanishing, decided to stay outside the throne room.

Sir Davion Your Majesty, we have purged the lingering pestilence from Willowbrook and ensured the safety of its few remaining souls. King Frostbane: You have done well, Sir Davion. And you, Clifford, have proven yourself a capable… asset, despite your… checkered past. What reward would you have for your service to Strathmore? Clifford: The cult occupied Ravenscroft Keep for some time, preparing their assault on Willowbrook. Had the keep been kept in good order, perhaps this all could have been avoided. I have pulled the deed and the keep was granted to Lady Aveline whose spirit haunted the halls and no heirs have made claim. Perhaps I could restore it to it’s former glory if I were granted the deed to the land.

No sooner had the words left my mouth than a haughty voice rang out from the back of the court. A nobleman, tall and imposing in his finery, strode forward, his every step radiating an air of entitlement. “I, Lord Percival Worthington, am a direct descendant of Lady Aveline,” he declared, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. “The keep is rightfully mine by lineage, and I will not see it fall into the hands of some… upstart exile.” I countered that the keep had clearly been abandoned, its defenses in ruins and overrun with cultists. Worthington, his face reddening, insisted that he had recently dispatched workers to begin restorations.

I sensed this man was lying, but I needed proof. I intended to expose him by pointing out the flaws in his logic. This would be an interesting debate.

Narrator: Clifford’s journal goes into great detail, recording every word of his heated debate with the nobleman. He meticulously underwrites words, makes notes in the margins, pointing out the subtle inconsistencies in Worthington’s claims. Clifford reveals how Worthington is caught in a web of lies and the situation takes a dramatic turn.

Worthington’s composure shattered. With a roar of fury, he drew a wicked blade, its surface pulsing with the telltale green glow of the pestilence. “You meddle in matters beyond your understanding!” he screamed, lunging at us. The King, his voice trembling with shock and rage, called for his guards. But the court had been infiltrated. In a heartbeat, chaos erupted as half the guards turned on their comrades, blades clashing in a flurry of betrayal.

Clifford: This complicates the claim on the manor.

I struck Worthington with my warhammer, but he was protected by armor beneath his robes. Sir Davion rallied the remaining guards against nobleman. Mads, with his uncanny aim, felled Worthington and the traitorous guards instantly ceased their attacks. Worthington had used some form of mind control in his attack.

With the threat contained and Worthington’s treachery laid bare, I turned to King Frostbane.

Clifford: Your Majesty, concerning the matter of Ravenscroft Keep… King Frostbane: For your valor in defending the crown and exposing this treachery, I, King Frostbane, do hereby grant you Ravenscroft Keep.” Assembled nobles murmur, some applaud King Frostbane: Furthermore, you shall be known as Baronet of Willowbrook; tasked with restoring order to that blighted land. Families seeking a fresh start will be sent from Strathmore to rebuild. See that they are protected. Sir Davion: Your Majesty, even as we cleanse the rot within, we cannot forget the storm gathering beyond our borders. Thurin- King Frostbane: A storm best weathered once our own house stands strong. And Eirithiel whips ill winds from the south, pulling my attention away. Sir Davion: The Sundered Lands have never known true peace, only brief lulls between squalls. King Frostbane: Then see that you are the calm amidst it, Knight of Stolm. Root out this cult, for every victory bolsters us against whatever comes next.

As Baronet of Willowbrook, I hired and dispatched several men to protect the village and the keep until I could make more robust arrangements.

We sought refuge and information at the Inn of the Last Rest, to heal our wounds and speak with Erevan Nightwhisper. A mousy little man stood beside him.

Erevan: This man has been in the sewers, and there’s something wrong down there. He’ll show you the entrance.

Wraith, ever vigilant, sourced more ointment from the innkeeper. The little man led us to the sewer entrance, where we encountered two otyughs rummaging through trash and three giant alligators.

The sewers were a haven for vagrants, their tents and scraps scattered throughout. We pressed onward, the darkness of the tunnels engulfing us.

Narrator: Clifford concludes this entry: I did not know what happens after we leave the sewers. Would there be clues and we go to the next destination? Do we go back to Strathmore? Would I go to my new home? Is that even my home? All I can do is walk forward into these sewers. Deeper into the darkness of my future.

Episode 08 - The Sewers

Narrator Welcome back, dear listeners. Please, make yourselves comfortable as we delve once more into the harrowing tale of our intrepid adventurers. When we last left our heroes, they were wadeing deeper into the sewers beneath Strathmore, looking for traces of the Cult of Disease and perhaps clues to the location of Morbosa. Now, let us return to Clifford’s journal and see what fate has in store for our weary companions.

This entry begins…

Our journey through the underbelly of Strathmore had been one trial after another. The lingering scent of decay and the ever-present threat of ambushes weighed heavily upon us. Mads, having been dragged into the fetid sewer water by alligators, remained weak and feverish. He trailed behind, his usually sharp wit dulled by illness.

We ventured further, uncovering storerooms stocked with fresh supplies. The storerooms were a stark contrast to the grim surroundings of the sewers, filled with neatly stacked crates and barrels of supplies. The scent of fresh provisions mingled oddly with the dank air, hinting at the recent presence of humans.

Next, we stumbled upon an unsettling torture room. This gruesome chamber was a testament to the horrors inflicted by the Cult of Disease. Rusty chains hung from the walls, and dark stains on the floor told a silent story of suffering and torment. The air was thick with the remnants of fear and pain.

In the adjacent kitchen, we were greeted by a butcher, a shadow demon, and several cultists. I squared off with the shadow demon. Sir Davion faced the butcher with his usual valor, while Wraith remained in the shadows, his arrows finding their marks with lethal precision.

After the dust settled, we examined the peculiar meat spread across the kitchen tables.

Clifford: Wraith, is the scent of this meat that of people? Wraith: I am not sniffing that. No.

We pressed on, coming upon a small prayer room of sorts. A statue of a hand rose from the ground, cradling offerings of gold, trinkets, and vigil candles. The flickering candlelight cast eerie shadows, creating an aura of dark reverence. Mads, despite his weakened state, confirmed our suspicions.

Mads: It’s some sort of shrine Wraith: No way!

Further exploration led us back to the sewer stream in a long chamber. A rickety wooden desk stood precariously close to the flowing stream of sewer water. On it rested a ritual dagger and an ancient, indecipherable book. The air crackled with latent magical energy, a silent warning of the dangers within. Foolishly, I reached for the book, triggering a magical ward that exploded in my hands, leaving me wounded.

Despite the pain, we had to continue. As we walked alongside the sewer stream, bones in the water began to swirl and rise, forming serpentine bone nagas. One struck me down, but Sir Davion revived me with one of his potions. Together we felled the undead creatures.

Our path took us to two doors. The first led to a narrow, dimly lit stairwell descending into darkness. A crudely written warning sign cautioned against the bear trap below. The trap itself was a menacing steel contraption, lying in wait for the unwary.

Mads: It’s some sort of trap. Wraith: No way!

We chose the second door, finding more cultists, including an alchemist, awaiting us in a large bedchamber. They refused to surrender, forcing us to cut them down. In our search, we uncovered a letter that hinted at a broader conspiracy involving a council member named Zarin from Thurin.

My Loyal Followers,

The time is near. Our plans in Strathmore progress swiftly, and soon the city’s power will be ours. As you continue your sacred duties, remember that we owe much to our benefactor in Thurin. Zarin the Whisperer has been invaluable in ensuring our movements remain undetected by the authorities.

His influence within the Thurin council has diverted suspicion away from our activities and secured crucial resources. Ensure that his identity remains concealed, for his position is precarious. We must protect our ally until the final hour of our ascension.

Trust in the shadows, for they are our greatest ally.

L

Mads: I know that name, Zarin… he’s a council member in Thurin. Sir Davion: Yes, Mads. We know that. I am sure your mind will clear of it’s fog when the fever goes down.

Returning to the stairwell, we decided to disable the bear trap. Wraith, skilled in such matters, volunteered. As he descended, the doors slammed shut, trapping him. We could only listen as he shouted in surprise, followed by the roar of an actual bear.

Sir Davion and I, locked out of the room, exchanged helpless glances. The door suddenly burst open, and Wraith darted past, closely pursued by a bear with diseased, matted fur.

Wraith: I hate this damn place so much.

The beast barreled into me, and as I fought to stay on my feet, Sir Davion attacked from behind while Wraith’s arrows pierced through the dark. Half-rotted already, the bear dropped to the floor motionless.

Narrator With the bear felled, Clifford writes quite a lot about the type of man who set up that elaborate trap, saying that the designer was an egotistical sadist. Clifford is quite humorless but, I thought it was funny. The men travel through several more rooms; a prison cell, a small room with a hidden passage to another room with several valuable items. Just as they were finishing exploring the sewers, a large chamber of water held a terrifying surprise.

A vast, cavernous chamber dominated by a swirling whirlpool of sewer water. The roar of the churning water was deafening, and the air was heavy with the stench of waste. From the depths, a colossal elemental rose, its form a grotesque amalgamation of filth and refuse. The elemental was a formidable foe and we were exhausted from the rest of the sewers.

We tried to flee yet it enveloped me, its touch burning my flesh with its toxic essence. The creature moved effortlessly through the sewer waters, trapping us within the maze of tunnels. There was to be no escape, we had to fight.

My war hammer slammed chunks of waste off it’s mass with every hit. Sir Davion’s armor shimmered despite the muck surrounding him as he plunged his sword into the foul sludge. Wraith launched arrows from the dark, piercing it in vital locations.

Mads stayed back, unable to assist as he was still desperately ill. Despite his weakened state, his watchful eyes followed our every move, his concern evident even in his frailty. The three of us, Sir Davion, Wraith, and I, stood against the grotesque sewer elemental, our combined efforts focused on its vile mass. After a grueling battle, we finally struck the killing blow, and the creature collapsed into a disgusting heap.

After the final confrontation, we emerged from the sewers. As we took in our first breath of clean air in hours, the relief was palpable. Our bodies were battered and covered in filth, the grime of the sewers clinging to us. Sir Davion spoke up first, his voice cutting through the exhaustion that weighed us down.

Sir Davion: This letter is proof that Thurin threatens the safety of Strathmore. The king will want to know and may finally agree to send along troops. We can stop Zarin and deal a blow to Thurin itself. Mads: Stolm will be safer for it. Wraith: That’s great but first, let’s go back to the Inn of the Last Rest and wash.

Narrator As the adventurers ascended from the sewers into the bustling streets of Strathmore, townsfolk recoiled and dispersed, repelled by their foul stench and grim appearance. We leave our story at this somewhat peaceful moment, as the heroes prepared for the trials and tribulations yet to unfold.

Episode 09 - Pahmara

Narrator: Greetings, fellow traveler. The night closes in but the fire burns warm. Let’s continue our reading of Clifford’s journal, chronicling the perils and triumphs that befell our brave adventurers as they journeyed deeper into the growing blight upon the Sundered Lands.

Morning at the Inn of the Last Rest began with a sharp knock on our door. Standing outside was a catfolk named Shadow. He brought an urgent message for Wraith.

Shadow: Melanesim requests that you return to our land and meet him. He asks that you bring your furless friends.
Mads: I have quite a bit of hair.
Clifford: Not grooming doesn’t make you a catfolk.
Sir Davion: Ha! I have told you, Mads, you would fare better with a tighter cut.
Wraith: Wait, he wants me to bring these people into Pahmara?!
Shadow: Melanesim knows what he asks.

It was clear we would be journeying to Pahmara, Wraith’s secluded village nestled within the treacherous Dragonspine Mountains. But first, our duty compelled us to report our findings in the sewers to King Frostbane. Having proven our worth in the ongoing investigation into the cult of disease, we were swiftly granted an audience.

Sir Davion: Your majesty, we have uncovered a plot festering in the sewers below your city. The cult of disease sought to spread their infection throughout Strathmore. While we have stopped them, a letter in their possession reveals Zarin, from the council of Thurin, is aiding their cause.
King Frostbane: Thank you for stopping the cultists in the sewers. Please continue investigating the cult. They must be stopped, for Strathmore, as well as the rest of the Sundered Lands.
Sir Davion: Indeed, the repercussions of the cult’s activities do spread beyond Strathmore’s borders. My kingdom, Stolm, remains in danger of a Thurin attack. Now that we can show Thurin is in alliance with the cult, it is all the more worrisome that my homeland is invaded in response to traveling to Thurin myself and confronting Zarin.
King Frostbane: You all have my thanks for your continued efforts in ending this cult’s reign of terror. As a token of my gratitude, I will send a squadron to reinforce Stolm’s own numbers against potential aggression of Thurin. While I have every confidence in your abilities, you do not go to Thurin as an agent of Strathmore. You are each your own agents to do what you will with Zarin.

With our business with the king concluded, I turned my thoughts to Willowbrook, my newly granted land and village. I dispatched much-needed supplies for its rebuilding, and in a stroke of fortune, an ambitious young wizard named Eldrin Brightstar accepted my offer to move there. His talents would be indispensable in restoring the manor, safeguarding the village, and educating its people.

Narrator: Clifford records the types and quantities of raw goods and tools he sent to Willowbrook, checking them off upon their arrival. The party ventured there after their audience with the king, where Clifford provided guidance to the new settlers and established a complex system of local governance. However, Wraith’s insistence on honoring Melanesim’s summons led them swiftly back to the road, toward the hidden village of Pahmara.

With Wraith leading us through his homeland, we navigated the Dragonspine Mountains with relative ease. But even these familiar paths held dangers, and we soon found ourselves set upon by stone giants. The battle was fierce, but my training under Sir Davion has borne fruit, and we overcame the giants with only minor setbacks.

Emerging from the crags, Pahmara lay before us.

The valley was a verdant oasis amidst the harsh, snow-covered peaks. Lush greenery spread out before us, dotted with quaint, thatched huts and vibrant market stalls. Catfolk of all shapes and sizes went about their daily routines, their feline grace and agility evident in every movement. Children played in the open spaces while elders gathered in small groups, their eyes watchful.

Wraith: Many of us don’t see your kind in our lives, so you are drawing attention. We don’t let outsiders in. Unfortunately for me, you will have to stick close by.
Clifford: Who is this Melanesim? What is his role here?
Wraith: He is one of us. He has wisdom, power, and our respect. He can be trusted. And you should assume he knows you asked.

With little more to say, we proceeded to Melanesim’s hut. He greeted us, his knowing eyes watched us intently.

Melanesim: You have been chasing the cult of disease across these lands. Wraith, this has led you home for a moment, but you are not safe. Your prey has hidden here and steals from us our people. A stench clouds my vision, but others have found some of the bodies in the trees, mangled and diseased. Seek out and rip apart this enemy.

We ventured into the woods where the bodies had been discovered. In the dense, shadowed forest, we were ambushed by cloaked cultists wielding deadly claws. As we fought them off, it became clear that these enemies were catfolk, twisted by the cult’s influence.

We tracked their trail to a guarded bridge, where swarms of biting insects assailed us. The battle was grueling, and we debated whether to rest before pressing on. But the bridge led to the ruins of an ancient temple the cult may be using as a base and we dared not risk an ambush by pausing.

The path led to a collapsed temple with caves below. In the middle of the ruins, a stagnant pool of water, a breeding ground for disease-carrying mosquitoes

Narrator: Clifford’s journal continues with an account of the battle that ensued. In the cover of night, cultists and animated reptile statues attacked us. We fought them off, but the battle alerted our enemies to our presence and there was no turning back.

Ascending into the temple caves, we were met by cultists wielding poisoned daggers, screaming. “You will never defeat Ssyn!” Wraith and Mads released a volley of arrows, but a cloud of toxic gas filled the chamber, nearly killing me. The cultists in the entrance were slain but an unknown, powerful wizard remained.

In the chaos, we realized we had not allowed ourselves proper rest, and my limited healing magic had been depleted. Searching my bag for anything that could help, I hastily quaffed one of the ointments, finding it returned some of my vitality. Sir Davion dragged Wraith’s limp body out of the cloud but deeper into the chambers, draining one of his few remaining potions into the catfolk’s mouth, returning him to his feet.

The cloud parted, dissipating, and a wretched catfolk in ornamented robes stepped forward, loosing several bolts of arcane energy that flew through the air and ripped into Sir Davion. Several other cultists that were pursuing the knight and the cat, stood now guarding the wizard Ssyn.

Suddenly, an arrow streaked through the darkness. Mads, having waited for the cloud to pass, ran into the deeper chamber. His arrow slashed Ssyn’s robes, leaving them wet with his blood.

I took the unexpected opportunity to infiltrate the cultist group, weaving between guards, holding my warhammer low. Stepping toward Ssyn, I swung my hammer into his lower ribcage, crumpling the wizard’s sternum. Finding my absolute resolve to vanquish these putrid vermin, a surge of red energy erupted from my weapon, tossing Ssyn into the jagged cavern wall, shattering his spine.

In their desperation, the remaining cultists summoned swarms of mosquitoes that nearly overwhelmed us, but we fought on, and managed to put down the last of the fanatics. Silence washed over the temple caves except our exhausted breaths and the heavy glances we exchanged to one another.

Mads: We probably should have taken a breather at the bridge.
Sir Davion: It nearly cost us all our lives.
Clifford: And yet, it only cost them theirs.
Wraith: However we did it, Pahmara is safe now.

Searching the slain wizard’s robes, we found another letter from a familiar name.

Ssyn,

The Tabaxi village poses a threat to our mission. Your task is to spread the sacred affliction, weakening them so they are too occupied with their survival to interfere with our plans. Recruit from their numbers and carry out the mission with precision. The goddess watches over you, do not fail her.

In shadow and silence,
High Priestess Morbosa

Returning to Melanesim, he greeted us with unsurprised stoicism.

Melanesim: You rose where others of our kind had fallen. Resourceful and capable, important qualities that will aid you in the greater fight, outside our safe valley. The wreckage of the Azure Tempest rests in the depths of the Inland Sea. Within these submerged ruins lies the Heart of the Tides, an artifact that can cleanse corruption. Its power might aid you in stemming the dark tide that seeks to engulf us all. Wraith, until we meet again.

Narrator: The village was safe, but the cult’s tendrils had spread wide and deep into the Sundered Lands. Melanesim remained enigmatic but had given them another lead in the war. Our hero’s made their way out of the hidden valley Pahmara and toward the shores of the Inland Sea that lay between them and Thurin.

Episode 10 - Heart of the Tide

Narrator: Welcome back, listeners. Our heroes, having cleansed Pahmara of the Cult of Disease’s influence, now seek a powerful artifact known as the Heart of the Tide. Guided by Melanesim’s wisdom, they set their sights on the Inland Sea, a perilous expanse of water separating them from Thurin. Let us rejoin Clifford’s journal as they embark on this new chapter of their adventure.

Melanesim disclosed the location of a shipwreck within the Inland Sea, the final resting place of the Heart of the Tide, an ancient shield rumored to cleanse dark forces and shield against corruption. Its location, serendipitously on our path to Thurin, imbued our journey with a sense of preordained necessity.

With Wraith expertly guiding our descent from the Dragonspine Mountains, Sir Davion then led us towards Thurin. Eventually, we encountered a small, isolated village across the sea from Westreach, a settlement tenuously connected to Thurin’s authority.

Clifford: A backwater village, barely acknowledging Thurin’s rule. Only the occasional tax collector bothers to visit. They seem content in their squalid isolation. Their meager market will likely offer nothing of value.

While the village itself proved unproductive, conversations at the local tavern revealed a recent sighting of adventurers adorned with amulets of water breathing. They had journeyed north, towards the very shipwreck we sought. With renewed purpose, we followed their trail.

After two days of travel, we arrived at a desolate beach, where half-buried tracks led us to a concealed cliff face entrance, partially obscured by overgrown vines. As we approached, two sand elementals erupted from the dunes, their forms swirling and shifting with the wind. They attacked with relentless fury, their sand-filled fists pummeling us without respite. With Sir Davion providing cover, we managed to defeat the elementals, though the battle left us weary. Inside, the air hung heavy with the stench of decay and ancient magic. As we ventured deeper, the oppressive atmosphere grew thicker, hinting at the sinister presence ahead.

Deeper within, we encountered a trio of snake-folk, their scaled bodies glistening in the red light of my shield. Further still, three more awaited, one a hulking abomination perched upon a throne. A king, of sorts, but we put it down like the rest of its vile nest.

Wraith: Snakes. Seriously? Why does it always have to be snakes?

Next, we confronted a multi-headed lizard creature, a hydra, its roars echoing through the chamber. Exhausted from the previous battles, we barely managed to prevail, each severed head growing back until we found the courage to press on. When the final head fell, we stood victorious, though drained. It was in this chamber, amongst the carnage, that we made a grim discovery. The bodies of the adventurers we had been tracking lay strewn across the floor, their forms bearing the marks of ritual sacrifice.

Mads: A tragic end. Clifford: Consumed by the darkness they sought to vanquish. Sir Davion Browyn: A cautionary tale, perhaps. Wraith: They didn’t die in vain, just vanity. They are still wearing the water breathing amulets.

Emerging from the temple and donning the recovered amulets, we plunged into the depths of the Inland Sea. The cold darkness enveloped us as we descended, our vision obscured by the murky water. We had difficulty searching the uncomfortable environment. The true test, however, awaited us further below.

A faint trail, a subtle whisper on the current, led us toward a powerful, squid-like creature, its form almost ethereal as it hovered in the deep. The psionic creature emitted wave after wave of psychic anger, each assault like a dagger to our minds, threatening to break our resolve.

Clifford: It’s inside my head… twisting everything! Wraith: Fight it, Clifford! Don’t let it break you!

Sea spawns surrounded it.

Mads: Damn it! These spawns just keep coming! Sir Davion: Focus, Mads! We need to clear them out before we take on the big one!

As we struggled against the hoard of minions, the creature would dart in, lashing us with its tendrils before retreating into the murky depths.

The relentless attacks tested our endurance, each blow weakening our defenses. When the sea spawn were finally reduced in number, Sir Davion and I managed to force the creature into a corner. Though nearly at my limit, I held up a magical barrier, absorbing the creature’s furious psychic and physical lashings.

Sir Davion: Clifford, hold that barrier! We need to trap it, I’ll pin it down! Clifford: Got it… but hurry!

Meanwhile, Sir Davion used a trident to keep it from escaping, his face set with grim determination.

Sir Davion: We’ve got it pinned! Mads, Wraith, now! Mads: On it! Wraith: On it!

From a distance, Mads and Wraith unleashed a hail of arrows. Together, we resisted its psychic fury and striking as one, the creature was vanquished.

Nearby, within another wreck, we finally located the Heart of the Tide, a magnificent shield pulsing with a cleansing energy.

Narrator: With the Heart of the Tide secured, our heroes rise from the depths, their purpose renewed. What wasn’t obvious to them was that Melanesim had orchestrated this journey with a hidden motive. The psionic sea monster they had slain was a thorn in Melanesim’s side, disrupting his own mental abilities. By sending the heroes, Melanesim had ensured the creature’s demise, freeing his mind from its interference. The journey to Thurin draws closer, and the shadow of the Cult of Disease looms large. But not every wave can be overcome with force. To survive: you have to learn when to keep your head down. Until next time; dear listeners.

Episode 11 - Shadows of Thurin

INTRODUCTION

The Narrator: Welcome back, fellow adventurers. Today, we journey further into the chronicles of Clifford and his steadfast companions. For now, their path leads to the embattled city of Thurin. Thurin finds itself locked in a bitter war with Stolm, the homeland of Sir Davion. Despite the conflict, the party has uncovered a troubling secret: Zarin, one of Thurin’s influential councilors, is not just a leader in the city but also a high-ranking figure within the Cult.

ARRIVING TO THURIN

After several days of travel, the city gates loomed before us, heavily guarded and austere. Thurin was a ragged city, its citizens tense and wary. Many of the young men had left to join the ranks on the battlefield, leaving behind the elderly, the weak, and the children to shoulder the burdens of daily life. As we took in the grim sight, a street boy approached us. I asked him to lead us to the council chambers, offering him a silver. With quick steps, he led us through twisting alleys. Finally, we arrived at the council chambers, a weathered building that bore the scars of time and conflict.

COUNCIL CHAMBERS

Before entering the council chambers, Sir Davion donned a cloak to obscure his identity to anyone who may recognize him as a knight of Stolm. Inside the council chambers, the weight of the city’s politics pressed upon us. I offered my services as a scribe to the gathered council, among whom was Zarin himself.

Zarin: The last Scrivener’s Guild betrayed us. They were spies for Stolm, executed for their treachery. And you want to revive their legacy? Clifford: Not their legacy. A new one, built on trust. Council Member: Zarin’s right to be cautious, but my old hands ache from late nights of scribing my own letters. The old guild house near the market is vacant. Perhaps we’ll allow you to use it… temporarily. Zarin: Fine. But understand this: one misstep, and you’ll find yourself sharing the fate of your predecessors.

The council’s decision came with an air of reluctant acceptance. They summoned another street child to guide us to the old guild house. After another maze of traveling through the dirty streets, I paid the child another silver.

MARKET AMBUSH

The marketplace was alive with chatter and commerce, a vibrant scene that was abruptly shattered. Cult assassins struck without warning, their dark robes blending with the chaos as citizens scattered in terror.

Steel clashed against steel as we put up a defense and counter attack. The assassins were swift and deadly, but we held our ground. By the time the city guards arrived, the would-be killers lay at our feet, and we could find no clear evidence linking them to the Cult of Disease.

Clifford: I work for the council. These are my bodyguards. We were attacked without provocation. If Thurin’s streets are this unsafe, I’ll need their protection as I work here.

The guards begrudgingly allowed us to go, though their skepticism lingered.

MADNESS IN THE BARRACKS

No sooner had we settled into the former scrivener’s quarters than I began rummaging through the dusty shelves and forgotten drawers. Frustratingly, I found no evidence linking Zarin to the cult or even proof of the cult’s existence at all. As I pondered our next move, the guards from the market place burst in, breathless and pale.

Guard: Please, come to the barracks! The men, they’ve gone mad!

Reluctantly, we followed. Inside the barracks, the halls were oddly vacant. A ledger lay open on a table, catching my eye.

Clifford: Perhaps this will shed light on the city’s troubles. Wraith: Investigating a disturbance and you grab a book? By the gods, you’re boring.

Wraith rifled through drawers for coin.

Sir Davion: Wraith, while Thurin is my kingdom’s enemy, these guards are not. Wraith: Ugh. Another bore.

Having read the ledger, I found some equipment logs that showed a recent discrepancy. Perhaps it is evidence that the Cult of Disease is operating here, siphoning off supplies.

A commotion down the hall drew our attention. Voices and clinking glass echoed from behind a set of double doors. We approached cautiously, weapons ready.

Inside, the guard captain and several others were in a frenzied state, ranting about hobgoblins breaching the city. They mistook us for monsters and attacked with lethal intent.

Sir Davion: Hold your attacks, there’s no need to harm them.

Despite his pleas, the fight had begun. Mads and Wraith fired arrows from the edges of the room while I swung my hammer, the captain falling to my blow.

Clifford: Do you realize the advantage this gives Stolm? A city without its watch, descending into chaos, pressures the soldiers to return home. Sir Davion: Clifford, these are people. Their lives are not forfeit because of Thurin’s politics.

The argument was cut short as Wraith uncovered a poisoned wine bottle beneath the table.

Wraith: Someone spiked the wine. Find the maker, find the culprit.

THE APOTHECARY AND THE LETTER

Back at our temporary quarters, I tracked down the boy who had guided us earlier. Slipping him a few coins, we pressed him for information. He revealed that the sigil on the bottle belonged to a local apothecary, one frequented nightly by none other than Zarin himself. When we arrived at the apothecary, the building was dark. Wraith infiltrated first, disarming the security traps before waving the rest of us in. The air inside was stale, the silence oppressive as we combed through the apothecary’s shelves and cabinets. Behind a shelf, we discovered a concealed staircase descending into the basement.

Below, the basement was dimly lit, the flicker of alchemical flames casting grotesque shadows on the stone walls. Cultists moved hurriedly between workbenches cluttered with bubbling vials.

Mads: A hidden laboratory. They must be making something vile here.

A brutish guard spotted us, raising the alarm. Chaos erupted as the cultists grabbed weapons, daggers, clubs, even a vial hurled in desperation. Steel met flesh in a flurry of violence, Sir Davion’s commands shouted over the noise as I opened a path through their defenders with my hammer. Mads and Wraith picked off targets with deadly precision. A fireball from a shattered flask illuminated the carnage briefly before fading into acrid smoke.

As the last alchemist fell, we took stock of the destruction. Among the debris, I found a letter conspicuously placed on a bloodstained table. It detailed a sinister plan: the alchemists were tasked with creating a subtle, slow-acting concoction to sow chaos in Thurin and lay the blame on Stolm. The letter’s closing was signed with a single “Z,” leaving little doubt that Zarin was behind it.

Armed with this damning evidence, we returned to the council. The council exchanged skeptical glances, clearly unpersuaded.

Council Member: Enough about quills and parchment, scribe. What matters is this letter’s implication. These are heavy accusations with little proof.

Despite their doubts, the council begrudgingly authorized us to pursue Zarin to gain more evidence. Their hesitation lingered like a shadow as we arrived to Zarin’s manor. He had fled in the night. At the edge of the property abutting the forest tracks from his horse led down a narrow trail.

Despite their doubts, the council begrudgingly authorized us to pursue Zarin and uncover more concrete proof. Their hesitation lingered like a shadow as we arrived at Zarin’s manor only to find it eerily quiet. Inside, the signs were clear, he had fled under cover of night. At the edge of the estate, where the grounds met the dense forest, we found fresh tracks leading away, a single horse galloping down a narrow, shadowed trail.

CONCLUSION

The Narrator: And so, Clifford and his companions pursued Zarin into the dark embrace of the forest. A man revered as a champion of truth had been weaving lies all along. As we finish for the night, remember; a hero’s story and a villain’s are written in the same ink. Until next time, dear listeners.

Episode 12 - Final Descent

Narrator: Welcome back, weary travelers. Tonight, we read the last entries of Clifford’s journal that details his fight against the Cult of Disease. Last we met, Zarin had fled into the forest, his connection to the cult and his deceitful warmongering exposed.

The tracks grew fainter with each passing sun. Zarin, though pursued, continued to place obstacles. Along the way, twisted creatures and cultists; rotting treants, swarms of insects, living statues - desperate attempts to slow us. After slaying our way through waves of cultists, ravenous dogs, and shrines for the god of disease Yersinda, we had pushed Zarin and his men into a corner of the vast temple basement.

Zarin: How tiresome you are. You believe yourselves the saviors? Pathetic. The Lady of Blight will rise from the ruins of Harbinger’s Hollow, to claim this world as her own. It is almost a shame you will not have the opportunity to see your kind rot in the wake of unstoppable pestilence.

Zarin launched wave after wave of insect swarms and magical spheres of rot as we fought off the guards. The little man did not back down until his body gave out under the crushing weight of my hammer.

Narrator: Clifford and his companions traveled back to Strathmore, but the baroness was refused from entering the council chambers. The word had reached them of Clifford’s exile- he had been banished due to his relentless, unwarranted pursuit of Lady Thalia. Clifford’s protests of it being a lie- that he had uncovered corruption of the lady’s father and was cast out for exposing the truth- was met with the heavy thud of the chamber doors being shut in his face. Sir Davion revealed the depths of Zarin’s plot to the council and the war with Stolm ended as the man’s vile influence over the politics died with him. The crew returned to Erivan in Strathmore to inform him of their progress and ask of this “Harbinger Hollow” that Zarin spoke of.

Erivan: Half a fortnight from here, near the mountains bordering both Strathmore and Erithiel, lies an ancient ruin. It is said the veil between worlds runs thin at it’s sacred grounds- an old legend, but perhaps true if the cult is summoning the avatar of Yersinda there. I will pull in the full might of the Sentinels in the Shadows and we will march on Harbinger Hollow.

Arriving to Harbinger’s Hollow, the cultists were starting the summoning ritual. Erivan and the sentinels engaged with the main force of the cultists while we rushed in to stop the summoning. In an antechamber, we were met with a line of cultists. Behind them, a woman in familiar black cloaks. Lady Thalia stepped forward.

Lady Thalia: Oh, Clifford… you really thought you mattered, didn’t you? That you were some noble crusader, unmasking corruption. You were never more than a useful tool. A convenient voice to stir dissent when I needed it. Your self-righteous obsession made it so easy. I let you find the corruption and when you finished playing your part, I had them exile you. You can still be useful to me. I’ll offer you to Yersinda’s avatar. A fresh kill to celebrate her arrival.

I hesitated, raising my war hammer against the only person I had ever… “revered”. But the choice was not mine, Mads’ arrow struck true. Lady Thalia fell, lifeless. Enraged, I barely recalled the rest of the battle, only her blood on the cold stone as we pushed into the summoning chamber.

High Priestess Morbosa chanted at the altar. Raising the Heart of the Tide, I flooded the room with cleansing energy. The summoning faltered, corrupting the deity’s manifestation. Mads and Wraith unleashed arrows upon the Avatar while Sir Davion drove Morbosa into a pyre.

The Avatar moved toward the temple exit, seeking only to spread its plague.

Clifford: I’ll let you leave. Kill all that you can; the useless elderly, the needy little children. They bring nothing to me. Once you’ve spread your little cough, your part will be over.

Yersindra’s avatar turned toward me. The pause was brief, only a moment, but it was enough. Wraith launched an arrow. Sickly green gasses flowed out as it’s body crumpled to the ground.

Sir Davion turned to meet my gaze.

Sir Davion: An exceptional lie to stall it. Clifford: Hmm.

The avatar was neutralized. It’s summoner, Morbosa, dead.

Stepping out from the temple, our quest complete, and the region saved, a fresh breeze took with it each of us as we said our farewells and parted ways.

Mads and Sir Davion went back to Thurin to see the end of the war and begin rebuilding what was lost. Wraith returned to Phamara, remaining as a guardian of Melanesim and their tribe.

Narrator: In the last pages of this journal, Clifford writes of returning to Willowbrook to rule from Ravenscroft Keep. I’ve spoken to folk from the area. Baron Stiengraph quickly forged a regime of iron discipline. Order became law, dissent withered, and though the realm prospered, it did so in the firm grasp of his growing tyranny. But that is a story for another time.

Narrator: Stories, whether written in books or passed down by friends huddled around a fire, inspire us. Tales of ancient heroes and villains illuminate the lives we lead today as we strive to embody the virtues they teach and face the dangers they warn of. This one has reached its end. Countless remain. Go on and live a story worthy to pass down to our descendants. Until next time, dear listeners.