18th of Flamerule of the year 1492
While waiting for the gates of Bargewright Inn to open, the group took a moment to reflect on everything they had uncovered, piecing together the clues that led them to a troubling conclusion. Their suspicions had grown over time, and they now believed that the elusive fire cultists were hiding within the inn’s walls. They had already encountered the other three elemental cults in various locations, and this latest discovery solidified their belief that they had now encountered all four factions. The tension in the group was palpable as they realized the significance of this discovery. Yllanys, their sharp-eyed companion, reached into her pack and carefully pulled out a gruesome object: the decapitated head of a mutilated, one-eyed man. They had found this head dismembered and floating in the water cultists’ prison, a macabre clue that raised more questions than answers. The group suspected it might belong to Feston, a figure whose recent erratic behavior had become increasingly suspicious. They speculated that Feston had been replaced—perhaps mind-controlled or worse.
In an attempt to confirm their theory, the group used a spell to speak with the severed head. The moment was surreal, the air thick with unease as the lifeless eyes of the head opened, and its mouth began to move.
“Hello. What is your first name, Or full name?”
“Corbin”
“We found your body. Out of respect for you, how would you prefer us to bury it?”
“Back behind the shed somewhere.”
“Okay. What message would you like us to pass on to someone on your behalf?”
“Me mum is already dead, so nuttin.”
“Why were you killed by your captors?”
“Oh, they said some arseholes broke in, they killed me to make sure I didn’t escape.”
“What is your favorite color?”
“Chartreuse.”
It was now clear: this wasn’t Feston’s head. Corbin was an innocent victim, and they had hit a dead end, quite literally. The realization sunk in—there was still much more work to be done. With the gate finally opening, the group led their stolen wagon into the town, the unease from their earlier discovery lingering in the air. The guards at Bargewright were as vigilant as ever, scrutinizing their entry with a thorough inspection. They meticulously checked the wagon, making sure no hidden compartments could hold a stowaway—especially an orc—and even went as far as touching each person to ensure no one was under an illusion spell. ISAC, who was indeed under an illusion to conceal his true nature, received a strange look from the guards, but since he didn’t physically resemble an orc, they allowed him through without further questioning. The group breathed a quiet sigh of relief as they moved deeper into the town, tensions easing slightly but remaining on alert.
Their first stop was Rinthar’s Wagonworks, where they intended to sell the water cultists’ stolen wagon. Fwoosh, their cunning negotiator, managed to haggle the price up significantly, pointing out the wagon’s thirteen hidden compartments, a clever design that piqued Rinthar’s interest. Despite the wagon’s rough history—having once carried cultists—there were no bloodstains to suggest any foul play, which seemed to satisfy Rinthar. After a quick inspection, he agreed to the deal, handing over a large sum of gold in exchange for the wagon. With the transaction complete, the group moved on to the Old Bargewright Inn, their next destination, where they would arrange for rooms and meet Nalaskur, a contact who had proven valuable in the past.
As they entered the inn, the mood shifted. The group huddled together in one of their rooms, strategizing and debating their next move. Dancer, ever discreet, had communicated with Nalaskur via finger talk, signaling that they needed a private meeting. Nalaskur, understanding the gravity of the situation, arranged for Dancer and Fwoosh to meet him clandestinely in a private office. The tension in the air was thick as they followed Nalaskur, knowing that this conversation would likely determine the course of their next actions.
Nalaskur
Once inside the office, Nalaskur wasted no time.
“Jepos said you guys were investigating things in Womford. Did you find anything of value there?”
“Oh my.”
“I almost died.”
“Womford was pretty much completely subsumed with water cultists.”
“Cultists?”
“A whole warehouse full of them.”
“We pretty much cleared the place out.”
“I guess that’s good.”
“You definitely don’t want these cultists in your midst. At a minimum they are bad for business.”
“No one’s mentioned anything about cultists, so this is the first I’m hearing about them.”
“It seems that there are four different factions. The ones in Womford are water.”
“Does Jepos know this?”
“We have been sharing and keeping him in the loop, and more importantly we’ve found some documentation that would suggest that Feston and Chalaska are at a minimum Persons of Interest with the cultist their names floating around on several documents.”
“Well, sometime after you left, they seemed to have gotten a little more frenzied and like starting yesterday they were saying ‘it’s almost here it’s almost here`, and then the two of them like were frantic first thing this morning and I’ve not seen them since.”
“That would pretty much perfectly with us taking out the cultists in lair in Womford.”
“We have been trying to watch them closely, but I have a careful relationship with Feston. He is the only one that knows I am part of the organization. Chalaska does not know and neither does his brother. I’m the safety point here. If something happens, I can report in, but I do not control Bargewright. I control a different layer than Feston, and Feston does not know what I control. We keep the separation to continue to fool the Harpers and the Lord’s Alliance., because they would like control of Bargewright, and they don’t know we have control of Bargewright. I’m the outside person watching and trying to help manage it. So, I can talk to Feston occasionally through notes and stuff, but… It’s difficult for me to talk to him directly.”
“I mean, truth be told, the home office is pretty unhappy with Feston. As far as they’re concerned, he’s pretty much gone completely.”
“We’ve not seen him since this morning, but in the last, again, last few days, he’s gotten rid of the regular guards that he’s had around his office, and they’ve been replaced with these more belligerent, rough looking men.”
The conversation grew more tense as Nalaskur revealed more details about the intricate power dynamics at play. He explained his “careful relationship” with Feston, noting that while Feston was aware of his affiliation with a certain “organization,” Chalaska and Feston’s brother Aldon were kept in the dark. Nalaskur acted as a safety net, monitoring Feston from the shadows and reporting to higher-ups, when necessary, but he did not have full control of Bargewright. Instead, he held power over a different layer of operations, keeping the two factions separate to avoid detection by the Harpers and the Lord’s Alliance. His role was delicate, and he made it clear that direct confrontation with Feston could lead to chaos, especially since Aldon controlled the town’s guards and militia—nearly a hundred men, all fiercely loyal to Feston.
When the topic shifted to Tabra, Nalaskur grew even more uneasy. He shared disturbing rumors about her, including whispers that she might not be who—or what—she appeared to be. Although Nalaskur had lived in Bargewright for fifty years, Tabra had been there much longer, possibly twice as long. The most unsettling rumor claimed that she was actually a gold dragon in disguise, although no solid evidence supported this. With this unnerving information, Dancer and Fwoosh returned to the others to share what they had learned.
The group gathered for breakfast and prepared for the day, the weight of their new knowledge hanging heavily over them. Their immediate goal was to replenish their supplies, particularly healing potions, as the recent battles had left them drained. Afterward, all that was left to do was wait for nightfall, when they would have a chance to infiltrate Feston’s office. The plan was set, they would be fully armored and armed, ready for action, but only Dancer and Fwoosh would sneak into the office under the cover of invisibility.
When the time came, the pair moved silently through the shadows, easily gaining access to the office as the door was unlocked. Inside, they found signs of chaos—burn marks, scattered papers, and broken furniture. It was clear that something—or someone—had been through here in a hurry. They suspected the fire cultists had already made their move, perhaps kidnapping Feston or searching for incriminating evidence. As they searched, Fwoosh discovered a loose brick behind the desk, revealing a hidden journal. They gathered what loose paperwork they could find and returned to the rest of the group, ready to analyze their findings.
While Vladimir began poring over the scattered papers and journal, Dancer moved with quiet precision. With a practiced sleight of hand, he carefully slipped the letter from Jepos into his back, making sure to keep it hidden from the rest of the party. Vladimir continued to sift through the papers, summarizing the dire contents for the group. The news was as bad as they feared, if not worse. Their suspicions were correct—fire cultists had infiltrated Bargewright Inn, and they had been using some form of mind control on both Feston and Chalaska. Vladimir’s expression darkened as he shared the most troubling revelation: a ritual was imminent, one that would reduce Bargewright to ash if completed. Time was clearly running out, and the disturbing words spoken by Feston and Chalaska in the past days, “It’s almost here,” now took on a horrifying new significance. The party needed to act immediately. According to the journal, the entrance to the cultists’ lair was hidden in the kitchen, concealed to mask the heat emanating from whatever nefarious activity the cultists were conducting beneath the inn.
Letter from Nalaskur to Feston
Second Letter from Nalaskur
Letter from Jepos
Third Letter from Nalaskur
Feston’s Journal Pages One and Two
Feston’s Journal Pages Three and Four
Feston’s Journal Pages Five and Six
Feston’s Journal Pages Seven and Eight
Feston’s Journal Pages Nine and Ten
Feston’s Journal Pages 11 and 12
While Vladimir started reading through the papers and journal, Dancer carefully snuck the letter from Jepos into his back hiding it from the party. Vladimir summarized the contents giving them the bad and worse news. That their suspicions were correct, the fire cultists were here and that they had been mind-controlling Feston and Chalaska. But it seemed some ritual was going to take place and it would reduce all of Bargewright to ash when completed. With what Feston and Chalaska had been saying yesterday and this morning, the party knew that time was short, and that the ritual was most likely already in progress, and they needed to do something. The diary told them that the entrance to where the fire cultists were was in the kitchen to hide the heat of whatever the cultists were doing.
While running down the stairs to find Nalaskur and gain access to the kitchen, a shadow brushed by Vladimir and whispered in his ear while handing him a key.
The urgency of the situation spurred the group into action. They bolted down the stairs to find Nalaskur, intent on gaining access to the kitchen. As they descended, a shadow passed close to Vladimir, and a faint voice whispered in his ear. He instinctively reached out, and a cold key was pressed into his hand. The voice, whispered:
“The roots of evil delve deeper than the dark earth, threading through stone and soul alike. Beneath this very ground, the heart of the web beats with malice, ensnaring the wills of men. A key forged in shadows, to open the gates of despair. They stir… beneath us, the whispers of the flame twist and corrupt. Feston, Chalaska… pawns on a board larger than any of us fathom. This key unlocks the forgotten door hidden within the inn’s cellar. Venture below, but brace your spirits, for the shadows that dance there are not kind to the unwary.”
Vladimir’s grip tightened around the key as a sense of dread washed over him. The ominous words only deepened his concern for the group’s lack of time. With the fire cultists likely already in the final stages of their ritual, every second counted. They found Nalaskur quickly, and after a hurried explanation, he chased out the remaining kitchen staff, allowing the group to enter. As they stepped into the kitchen, an almost unbearable wave of heat washed over them. It was far hotter than it should have been, especially with the ovens banked for the night. The heat seemed to be coming from an iron door set into the floor, glowing faintly from beneath. When one of the group members touched it, they recoiled in pain—the door was searing hot.
Vladimir, still holding the key given to him by the shadowy figure, approached the iron door cautiously. He inserted the key into the lock, and immediately, red arcane symbols flared to life, glowing ominously around the edges of the door. Without the key, it was clear they would have been stuck, unable to access the cultists’ lair. As the door swung open, a rush of even hotter air hit them, along with a cacophony of smells—scorched food, burst bottles of wine, and leaking barrels of ale. The oppressive heat had turned the cellar into a mess of spoiled goods, and it was clear the source of the heat was coming from somewhere below.
Their attention was drawn to a humongous barrel in the corner, radiating an unnatural warmth. Upon closer inspection, they discovered a small fire cult symbol burned into its front. The symbol pulsed with a faint glow, and they could feel waves of heat rolling off of it. Vladimir found another keyhole, this one hidden behind the symbol. With a steady hand, he inserted the key again. As before, the barrel lit up with arcane symbols, but this time the sheer number of runes was overwhelming, crowding the surface of the barrel in a chaotic display of magical power.
Fire Cult Symbol
When the door of the barrel opened, it revealed a rough hole leading downward, with a ladder descending into the darkness. The walls of the chamber beyond were jagged but not freshly carved, suggesting this place had been here for some time. Only the opening itself appeared to have been recently dug. With no other choice, the group began their descent, the heat intensifying with every step. As they made their way down, the sound of faint chanting grew louder. ISAC strained to understand the words, recognizing them as some dialect of Primordial, but the exact meaning eluded him. The language, though familiar, was twisted, perhaps an ancient variant used by the fire cultists.
The trek became more arduous as the heat and the rough terrain slowed their progress. Sweat poured down their faces as the air grew thinner and more oppressive. The chanting became clearer, a rhythmic, dark incantation that sent chills down their spines despite the sweltering heat. Vladimir, leading the group, rounded a corner and was met with a breathtaking and horrifying sight.
Before them was a massive cavern, the ceiling towering at least fifty feet above, its jagged heights disappearing into the shadows. The walls, etched with glowing red arcane symbols, pulsed faintly, casting an eerie, shifting light across the space. These symbols seemed ancient, as if they had been there for millennia, their rhythmic glow making the very stone feel alive, as though the cavern itself was breathing. Rivers of molten rock snaked through cracks in the floor, their glowing liquid fire bubbling and hissing, occasionally sending up sprays of embers that cooled into shards of dark glass as they splattered against the walls. The ground beneath their feet was uneven and hot, each step feeling precarious as the heat radiated upward, making the air shimmer with intensity.
In the center of the cavern was a large magical circle, easily thirty feet in diameter, glowing with malevolent energy that rippled through the air. The light from the molten streams bent toward it, as if being drawn into the ritual’s power. At the heart of this circle stood a black altar, its surface polished and dark, reflecting the orange light of the lava. The altar seemed to pulse with an internal light, as though it had a heartbeat of its own, in tune with the ominous hum that vibrated through the ground. Leading the chants was a man, his voice rising and falling in rhythm with the arcane energy crackling around him. The air around him rippled with heat, and he moved with purpose, his hands making strange, intricate gestures that seemed to pull at the very air itself. There was something unnatural about him, a presence that commanded the fire and stone of the room, drawing in the energy of the entire space.
Man at the Alter
Beside him knelt two figures, their heads bowed in submission, motionless in the unbearable heat. Their faces were blank, their eyes distant, as if completely disconnected from the ritual’s intensity. Their stillness was eerie, only their hands twitching occasionally in response to the low chanting that echoed through the cavern. Surrounding the circle, others in heavy red robes stood with their faces hidden beneath deep hoods. They were silent and focused, their posture tense as they added their voices to the ritual, their chanting blending with the bubbling of the molten rock and the distant rumble of shifting stone. Every part of the chamber felt charged with danger, as if the room itself was warning of the imminent power being unleashed.
Other Cultists
And this is where the session ended.
