19th to the 21st of Eleasis of the year 1492
The sun stood high in the sky over Red Larch, casting its heat over the quiet town and warming the worn stones of the newly acquired estate where the adventurers had finally found a moment’s peace. The air was heavy with the smell of dry grass and dust as the group, weary from their travels and battles, took the rare opportunity to rest. Inside the house, claimed rooms became a source of minor chaos as members picked their preferred chambers. Kliedd, ever the creature of dark corners and quiet shadows, ultimately laid claim to the dark purple room on the upper floor after a brief scouting of the basement. His logic, though unspoken, was clear: darkness and elevation were a gnome’s best friend, especially one as secretive and cunning as he.
The morning drifted lazily by. Some of the party lay in their beds, the luxury of mattresses almost foreign after so many nights on the hard earth. Others sat in corners, scribbling notes or mending gear. Sunlight filtered through the windows and glinted off armor and scattered weapons, casting dappled light through the common area as Angelica polished her greataxe in quiet thought. Kliedd vanished into his chosen room almost immediately, as did Seraphina, who was already mentally preparing her scrollwork. It was a day for stillness, or at least the closest approximation their chaotic lives would allow. Even ISAC stood dormant for a time, the quiet hum of arcane energy pulsing faintly through the sigils carved into his warforged frame.
By midday, the quiet gave way to gentle conversation and scattered debate as the party began stirring back to life. Stretching limbs, cracking knuckles, and shared yawns led to talk of necessities: potions, supplies, and the elusive possibility of magical goods. Dhelosk, the closest thing Red Larch had to an enchanter or arcane outfitter, was quickly brought up. Unfortunately, so was the inconvenient truth that the man only operated in the mornings, often disappearing afterward to places no one could easily follow. Whether he was in Waterdeep, another dimension, or just napping in an extra-dimensional closet was anyone’s guess.
Ace, always quick with a dry remark, summed up the merchant’s availability: “Right. So, we can bring him our golds and then say, good luck. Give us some things.” The sentiment earned a few chuckles but struck close to the truth. With no better options until morning, the group turned to the other local shops and temples for their errands. Plans were made with practiced efficiency: some would go to the sundry store for food and basic goods, others to the All-Faiths Shrine for healing potions, while a few, like Seraphina and Yllanys, stayed behind to begin the long and meticulous process of transcribing spells. Equipment was checked, coin was counted, and small jokes passed between them as they braced themselves for the chaos of supply runs and the even greater chaos sure to follow once they left Red Larch again.
Dividing and Conquering
To make the most of their time, the group split into smaller, unofficial teams and spread out across Red Larch. Kliedd, Rayek, and Ace took on the task of securing provisions and general goods, making their way to Vallivoe’s Sundry, a cluttered but reliable little shop tucked near the edge of town. As soon as they stepped through the door, they were swarmed by a half-dozen children, all between the ages of eight and ten, who had clearly taken up unofficial positions as store greeters, stock runners, and general chaos incarnate. Their eyes lit up when they spotted Ace. “Where are the bear claws?” one of them asked, followed by a chorus of disappointed gasps when told that Fortune wasn’t with them. Their sugar dreams dashed, they nonetheless stayed close, clearly hoping for something fun—or edible—to happen.
Endrith Vallivoe
Endrith Vallivoe himself emerged from the back room, brushing flour from his hands and already sizing up the group. He was the kind of man who could sell you a saddle and a smile and make you feel lucky for the privilege. Without wasting time, he got right to the point. “Well, how many days’ food do you want?” he asked. Ace hesitated, counting on his fingers. “Let’s see. Two weeks for seven people…” Vallivoe nodded, already scribbling on a scrap of paper. “That’d be 140 days.” “Will that be enough?”came the dry reply, drawing a chuckle. With the confidence of someone who didn’t want to have this conversation twice, Ace handed over 100 gold without a blink.
Vallivoe, not one to miss an opportunity, decided to throw in a deal—225 days’ worth of rations, delivered to their home by the ever-ready crew of sugar-deprived urchins. The children leapt into action; each grabbing crates as large as themselves. As they staggered under the weight, Ace flicked them fifteen silvers as a tip. One of the kids, the tallest of the bunch, solemnly promised to “divide it fairly,” though judging by his grin, fairness would be interpreted generously. Watching them march off toward the adventurers’ L-shaped home, arms full of food, was a strangely heartwarming scene amid all the recent tension and magical chaos.
While business was being conducted, Rayek caught the attention of Vallivoe, who studied his tribal tattoos with an unreadable expression. “You might want to cover those up,” he said, not unkindly. “Some families here… they’ve lost folks to the Uthgardt.” There was no accusation in his voice, just a warning carried by memory. Without a word, Vallivoe handed Rayek a dark cloak and waved off his offer of payment. “Just… keep the peace.” Rayek accepted the gift with a quiet nod, the weight of history pressing lightly on his shoulders, if only for a moment.
Kliedd, still half-browsing and half-eavesdropping on Ace haggling about rations, was intercepted once more by Vallivoe, who gave a subtle nod toward a back corner behind a hanging curtain that hadn’t been there before. With the practiced discretion of a man who’d sold many things not listed on his ledger, Vallivoe gestured for Kliedd to follow. “Got something you might be interested in,” he said in a hushed tone, his eyes darting toward the ever-lurking children still loading crates outside. “A genre not everyone appreciates… but I’ve got a surplus, thanks to one of your companions.”
Kliedd followed with a mix of caution and amusement, stepping behind the curtain and watching as Vallivoe unlocked a narrow chest tucked behind crates of rope and pickaxes. With the reverence of a relic being revealed, the shopkeeper lifted out a single book: its leather cover plain, but its title—embossed in faintly shimmering gold—read Wicked Down Under. The gnome flipped it open and was greeted by a very dramatic illustration of a muscular, windswept man clutching a curvaceous woman as they stood atop a burning airship, bodies pressed scandalously close, clothing clearly an afterthought.
Vallivoe cleared his throat and whispered, “Used to be a favorite of Vladimir, that one. He called it… research.” He looked vaguely embarrassed. “I stocked up in anticipation of more purchases—volume three just came out, actually—but then he ran off on that whole slapping contest journey, and now I’ve got these just sitting here.” He held the book out with both hands like a sacred offering. “You look like someone who could appreciate the… narrative depth.”
Kliedd didn’t respond for a long moment. His eyes scanned a particularly dramatic passage where the heroine—one Lady Hottypants, oddly enough—declared, “If we die in this inferno, I want it to be with your lips on mine and your sword in my other hand!” He slowly closed the book, tucked it under his arm, and said with a straight face, “I’ll take two.” Vallivoe exhaled in relief. “First one’s free, of course,” he said, slipping a second volume into a plain canvas wrap and handing it over. “Let’s call this a… developing arrangement. Tell no one. Especially not the priestess of Sune.”
Back at the Ranch (or rather, the L-Shaped House)
By the time Ace, Rayek, and Kliedd returned to the L-shaped estate, the sun had begun its descent, casting long shadows over Red Larch and bathing their newly claimed home in a warm, lazy glow. The trio was burdened with an almost comical number of supplies—crates and sacks of rations stacked high in their arms or balanced precariously in the grip of helpful local children. The scene might have passed for a food merchant’s relocation if not for the heavily armed and visibly exhausted warriors doing the carrying. Despite the weight of their haul, the mood was light until they stepped through the door and were promptly assaulted by a wall of scent strong enough to stun a hill giant.
The smell was unmistakably lavender, but not the gentle kind found in tea or tucked into drawers by grandmothers. No, this was lavender weaponized—sharp, cloying, and relentless, like a perfumer’s revenge against the world. “It’s like being mugged by a soap factory,” Ace muttered, coughing dramatically as he swatted at the invisible fog assaulting his lungs. The source was quickly traced to one of the upstairs rooms, its door tightly shut, yet leaking an aggressive floral haze like a cursed greenhouse. As they moved down the hall, they passed another door, this one exuding a far more unsettling ambiance. The air outside it carried the faint tang of iron—blood, maybe—and from within came muffled groans and low, pained grunts, punctuated by the occasional sharp squeak, like someone struggling not to cry out. The sounds were raw and strained, enough to make even Rayek pause mid-step. No one dared knock, and no one asked questions. The third room, mercifully, remained quiet.
Ace was the first to voice what everyone was thinking. “Alright, I feel like we need to make some house rules…” he said, fanning himself with a ration invoice. “No smoking inside?” offered Rayek, raising an eyebrow toward the lavender exorcism. “Yeah.”Kliedd, ever the problem-solver, chimed in with a dry, “Maybe twenty feet from the door.” They paused at the top of the stairs, listening to the incense sizzle like frying herbs. There was a brief and surreal moment where all three just stood and breathed shallowly through their mouths. The silence was broken only by a soft crash from behind the moaning door, which was quickly ignored.
When questioned later, ISAC, the source of the airborne assault, was utterly unapologetic. Standing in his room surrounded by ritual components and glowing sigils etched into the floor, he explained that the incense was part of a delicate preparation—his magic, he said, required “controlled conditions.” His tone was matter of fact, but his eye glowed faintly with amused defiance. “If it bothers you, I can cast it outside next time,” he said, without the slightest intention of actually doing so. The others gave up protesting, realizing that arguing with a sentient arcane engine about the merits of scented air purification was a losing battle. For now, they would suffer the lavender tempest and the occasional haunting soundscape from the adjacent room. It was, after all, their first real home in months—and it was already becoming deeply, strangely theirs.
The Apothecary Run
With the sun beginning its descent and the group’s chaotic home life in full swing, Angelica took it upon herself to handle one of the party’s more critical needs—resupplying their ever-dwindling stock of magical healing. She made her way through Red Larch’s dusty streets toward the All-Faiths Shrine, a familiar stop by now, where polished stone floors and the faint scent of incense replaced the muddy roads and uncertain chaos of their home. Within its modest but reverent walls, the shrine bustled quietly with townsfolk seeking guidance or small blessings. Angelica, ever a striking figure in her gleaming armor, was immediately recognized by Lymmura, the graceful and ever-patient priestess of Sune, who offered a soft smile touched with both welcome and exasperated familiarity.
Lymmura Audarhk
“Back again so soon?” Lymmura asked, her tone warm but teasing, as she stepped behind the altar and unlocked a carved cabinet with the practiced motion of someone used to emergencies. Angelica offered a sheepish grin and laid down the heavy pouch of gold that spoke to the party’s recent successes—and frequent injuries. There was no haggling today; with more coin than usual in their coffers, the party had decided to invest in survival. The transaction was swift but thorough, with Lymmura assembling potions and scrolls with measured care. The priestess commented that the town’s alchemical stocks were finally recovering from the festival rush and raids in the region, though she noted with mild concern that demand was still far higher than usual. Something was stirring out in the wilds, and everyone felt it.
As they concluded their business, Lymmura took a moment to recommend a few additional magical remedies, offering to set aside something more potent in case the party found themselves in greater need—a suggestion made with a twinkle in her eye and the soft laugh of someone who had grown fond of their frequent visits. Her warmth was genuine, and her tone more maternal than mercantile. She clearly cared about their well-being, and she especially lit up when recalling Fwoosh, her voice softening with fondness. “That little bird always made the shrine feel a bit more alive,” she said wistfully. “Always flitting about, asking the strangest questions, getting underfoot in the most delightful ways.”
The mood shifted slightly when the conversation turned to Gila, the shrine’s current steward of martial and divine matters. Lymmura’s expression dimmed with the slightest crease of discomfort, though she remained polite. “Gila’s certainly brought more structure to things,” she admitted carefully, “and we’ve had far fewer… administrative mishaps.” Her pause was meaningful. “Though he wasn’t too pleased when Fwoosh vanished. He never quite trusted him, I think.” She gave a small, regretful shrug. “Some people see only the surface.”
Angelica, recognizing the potential minefield of opinions and shrine politics, kept her response neutral but attentive. There was something unspoken in Lymmura’s words—perhaps a quiet concern that Gila’s rigid sense of duty sometimes came at the expense of gentler judgment. The tension passed as quickly as it came, soothed by the priestess’s serene demeanor, but the hint of disapproval lingered like smoke. Lymmura seemed the type to hold onto hope, though, and it was clear she still believed in Fwoosh’s return, wherever he might be.
With a final smile and a gentle blessing, Lymmura helped Angelica bundle the supplies and sent her off with one last word of encouragement. “Give the others my regards,” she said, “and tell them not to wait until someone’s unconscious to visit.”Angelica gave a slight bow of gratitude before turning back toward the winding path home, her arms full of healing, her thoughts briefly lingering on lavender smoke and the faint sound of someone grunting behind a closed door.
With her arms laden with wrapped parcels and her mind already turning toward divvying up the goods, Angelica took her leave. Lymmura called after her, “Do try not to bleed out before you use any of those,” the tone more fond than sarcastic. The Dragonborn gave a small nod of acknowledgment and made her way back toward the L-shaped estate. The house would be no less chaotic than when she left—likely still filled with cloying incense, mysterious groans, and a gnome somewhere reading scandalous literature—but at least now, they’d be better prepared for the next disaster the road had in store.
Return of the Dead Knight (Literally)
As the day wound down and the last rays of sunlight disappeared behind the distant hills, the group reconvened at the L-shaped house—now filled with the mingling scents of lavender, ink, and faintly scorched rations. It was here, in the relative privacy of their newly acquired home, that they turned their attention to a matter they had been putting off: the knight. The fallen warrior’s corpse, carefully preserved and hidden in the bag of holding for far too long, was finally brought into the open. His body was in shockingly good condition, thanks to magical preservation, though there was an undeniable stiffness to his limbs and a lingering chill in the air around him. Laid out on a table, he looked less like a corpse and more like a man mid-nap—albeit one who hadn’t blinked in days.
Seraphina, Yllanys, and ISAC inspected the body with practiced eyes and arcane senses. A faint necromantic aura still clung to the corpse, subtle but unmistakable—likely the residual echo of preservation magic or the result of Gentle Repose cast earlier. Discussions quickly turned to how best to honorably and efficiently send the knight to Summit Hall, where the Order of the Gauntlet would no doubt wish to reclaim their fallen brother. The practical suggestion was to procure new Gentle Repose scrolls and arrange a safe transport—possibly hiring reliable adventurers or a guarded caravan to deliver him to the Hall. That idea, while noble, was met with a chorus of alternative plans that ranged from bizarre to outright sacrilegious.
Ace, ever the one to add a little flair, proposed the idea of building a mechanized puppet to make the knight walk himself to Summit Hall. “He could be the first undead postman,” he mused, barely hiding his grin. Kliedd, only half-joking, offered to pay the neighborhood children to pose the corpse in amusing situations along the road—perhaps pretending he was napping in various spots or leading a parade of squirrels. Someone else—probably Rayek, though no one owned up to it—suggested standing the knight in the front doorway of the estate as a kind of macabre guardian to scare off solicitors. Even ISAC, normally the picture of logic, tilted his head and gave a noncommittal shrug at the idea. “The presence of a lifeless knight might reduce crime,” he offered flatly, though no one could tell if he was serious.
Angelica, of course, was not having any of it. “We are not turning a fallen comrade into a lawn ornament,” she said with a tone that brooked no argument. Her sharp glare was enough to silence further jokes—at least temporarily. The others relented, but not before Yllanys quietly muttered something about disguising the corpse as a scarecrow, earning a swift kick from Seraphina beneath the table. In the end, cooler heads prevailed, and a more respectful plan was agreed upon—though the details were still fuzzy and reliant on acquiring scrolls and confirming Summit Hall’s whereabouts. For now, the knight would remain at the estate, respectfully wrapped and watched over, a somber reminder of the costs of their journey and the weight of promises yet to be fulfilled.
Though the moment had started with grim purpose, it ended with a mixture of reverence and reluctant laughter. The knight had served with honor. And in the strange, chaotic household of misfits, that honor would be preserved—even if it meant brushing aside ideas involving marionette strings and elaborate pranks. For now.
Commerce and Coin
With scrolls scribed, potions purchased, and the preserved knight respectfully tucked away, Ace turned his attention to a task he found far more appealing: the sale of magical weapons. He made his way through Red Larch’s bustling streets, headed for Kragg Ironjaw’s forge, a place where metal sang, and sparks danced like fireflies in daylight. Kragg, the stout and seasoned smith, met him with the gruff professionalism of someone who’d seen one enchanted blade too many, yet still appreciated a finely crafted weapon when it passed through his calloused hands. Ace laid out his wares with flair—a gleaming +1 longsword, a matching +1 greatsword, and the elegant Zephyr longsword that still shimmered faintly with the whisper of wind magic.
Kragg Ironjaw
Kragg gave them all a thorough examination, grunting with approval as he turned each one over. “Quality work,” he muttered, nodding as if speaking to the blades rather than Ace. After some quiet, he offered a total of 3,500 gold for the lot, promising to deliver the full sum in platinum later that day. Ace agreed without hesitation, satisfied that the weight of coin would soon match the weight of steel he’d just parted with. True to form, he returned to the L-shaped house later with a heavy pouch—each party member received 43 platinum pieces, with a small sum left over for the group’s shared fund. The clink of the coins echoed nicely through the halls, a sound that spoke of progress, even if it came on the heels of battle and bloodshed.
Flush with coin and confidence, Ace next wandered into Fang’s shop, a disorganized den of trinkets and tales, where half the wares looked like they had been pried from crypts or “liberated” from forgotten caravans. Fang, the proprietor, was as slippery as his shop—grinning with a mouth too full of secrets. It was here that Ace found a bundle of 40 arrows labeled as Uthgardt make, their dark fletching and bone-tipped heads marked with symbols he didn’t recognize—but Rayek surely would. Whether Ace truly understood what he was buying or simply didn’t care remained a mystery, but he handed over the coin without flinching and left with the arrows tucked under one arm, his expression unreadable.
Feng Ironhead
When he returned to the estate, Ace casually handed the arrows to Rayek, who immediately noticed the markings etched into the shafts. They weren’t just Uthgardt—they were specifically from his home village, identifiable by the distinct tribal sigils burned near the fletching. Rayek’s brow furrowed as he turned one of the arrows in his hand, his silence speaking louder than words. “An adventurer sold them,” Ace said smoothly, though his voice lacked conviction. “Said they were Uthgardt make.” Rayek narrowed his eyes. “Did he say how he came by them?” “Apparently he’s some form of Fletcher…” Ace added with a shrug, improvising wildly.
There was a long pause before Rayek, still studying the arrows, slowly nodded. Perhaps it was possible his people had sold them—unlikely, but not impossible. The explanation, shaky as it was, settled into a corner of his mind where unease took root. Still, he said nothing more, and Ace gave no further detail. Whether by charm, luck, or sheer distraction, Ace had managed to bamboozle his companion—at least for now. But the arrows remained, and the questions they raised weren’t going away.
The Egg Situation (and Mayonnaise Madness)
With the house full of the heady scents of ink, incense, and undeath, the party decided it was time for a proper meal—one prepared by someone else, preferably without ritual components or magical fumes. They made their way to the Blackbutter Inn, one of the town’s more colorful establishments, run by the ever-surprising goblin chef Xaasz and his strangely competent kitchen staff. Despite their chaotic appearance and questionable hygiene, the goblins had outdone themselves. Plates of sizzling turkey legs, buttery fried eggs stacked high, bowls of roasted vegetables, and mugs of thick rum flowed freely to their table. The Deadly Dagger gin made its traditional appearance as well, glowing faintly and daring anyone to take more than a cautious sip.
As laughter rose and the food was passed around, Ace decided it was time to contribute something “special” to the meal. With a grin of self-satisfaction, he placed his prized alchemy jug onto the table and tapped it like a showman unveiling a grand prize. “Mayonnaise. Eat,” he declared triumphantly, opening the lid to reveal a disturbingly abundant quantity of thick, pale condiment. The scent alone caused several forks to pause midair. Seraphina blinked once. Yllanys visibly leaned away. “How much mayonnaise can I eat?” Rayek asked, the question loaded with both curiosity and regret. “Two gallons,” Ace answered, all too pleased with himself. “Oh no,” came the quiet reply.
Never one to back down from a challenge—especially not with so many witnesses—Rayek accepted the dare. He grabbed a spoon, scooped a heroic dollop, and took the plunge. For a brief, glorious moment, he held firm, stoic and unmoved. But after a few more bites, his complexion shifted. His iron will falter. And then, with a suddenness that surprised even him, Rayek doubled over and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the floor beside the table. The goblins whooped in approval. One even took notes. The rest of the party broke into varying degrees of laughter, mockery, and mild concern. Kliedd muttered, “Should’ve started with the eggs.”
Ace, unfazed by the digestive catastrophe, leaned back in his chair with a smug expression and a fresh mug of gin. “You can’t handle the sauce,” he said, shaking his head as if disappointed by Rayek’s mortal limitations. ISAC observed the scene silently, perhaps contemplating the tactical use of mayonnaise in future battles. Angelica simply stared at the jug as if it had personally offended her. Seraphina conjured a prestidigitation spell to clean up the mess without comment, while Yllanys quietly sketched something in his notebook that suspiciously resembled a vomiting barbarian. The alchemy jug, still brimming with unused mayonnaise, sat proudly in the center of the table, its creamy presence a declaration of Ace’s culinary madness—and an omen of future war crimes against taste.
Group Decisions and Distributions
After a chaotic day of shopping, vomiting, and lavender-fueled suffering, the group finally returned to the L-shaped house to sort through their spoils and take stock of their readiness for whatever calamity awaited them next. The common area quickly transformed into a makeshift war room, with crates of rations, potion vials, and scroll cases stacked in haphazard piles around the room. Maps and ledgers were spread across the table as Angelica and ISAC led the effort to ensure the supplies were evenly and fairly distributed. This, of course, did not stop Ace from occasionally suggesting “creative” accounting methods, which earned him a half-hearted swat from Seraphina and a long, silent stare from Rayek. The phrase “communal resources” was uttered no less than six times in ten minutes.
The food distribution was the easiest part—each member received forty-one rations, more than enough for a lengthy journey, with a sizable stash tucked away in the pantry for emergencies or surprise guests. With Ace’s alchemy jug capable of producing eight gallons of fresh water each day, hydration was no longer a concern, though no one wanted to talk about what else the jug could produce. The potions required more deliberation. After some debate, gentle bartering, and at least one round of rock-paper-scissors between Kliedd and Yllanys, the greater healing potions were split with five members receiving two each and the remaining two taking one apiece. The regular healing potions followed a similar pattern, divvied up with just enough math to cause a mild headache.
Scrolls were handled with more care. The two Cure Wounds scrolls were handed over to ISAC and Ace, who both had the means to use them effectively—though Ace immediately asked if he could flavor his with a song. Seraphina quietly claimed one of the Gentle Repose scrolls, tucking it into her spell pouch with the silent understanding that the knight’s body was still a matter of concern. The second Gentle Repose was earmarked for Alanis, who was either unavailable or deeply engrossed in pretending she hadn’t heard the suggestion. The Potions of Advantage—rare and expensive boons—were split more selectively: one to Kliedd, one to Ace, and the last placed in the group’s reserve for use in a dire moment, or more likely, in a moment someone could argue was “just dire enough.”
As the night wore on, the group gathered around the last bottle of Deadly Dagger gin and reflected on the importance of logistical planning. The system they had thrown together for splitting loot and supplies had worked, but only barely—and everyone agreed it wouldn’t survive another round of impulse buying, last-minute trades, or Ace attempting to pay for something with interpretive dance. There were mutterings about a shared ledger, a rotating treasurer, and “funds with actual rules,” but it was all delivered with the vague tone of people who knew deep down it would never happen. Still, for the moment, they were organized. Their packs were full, their pouches jingled with platinum, and their hearts—though perhaps slightly coated in mayonnaise—were ready for whatever came next. Probably.
A Visit to Dhelosk
The sun had only just risen over Red Larch when a contingent of the adventurers—Angelica, Ace, ISAC, and Seraphina—slipped out to meet with the ever-elusive Dhelosk Quelbeard. The eccentric enchanter didn’t run a storefront. He didn’t even own a shelf. Instead, Dhelosk operated like a magical black market with manners, appearing in the early mornings at the Blackbutter Inn, where he quietly distributed prewritten lists of items to potential buyers. His inventory wasn’t displayed. Everything was kept concealed somewhere within his voluminous cloak, which defied logic, physics, and likely local fire codes.
Dhelosk Quelbeard
Each member of the group examined their provided list, murmuring over items like “healing pills in a jar,” “resistance potions,”“lanterns that make invisible things very unhappy,” and even a “pillow that guarantees a restful night.” The party had money and interest but tempered their enthusiasm with practicality. No one bought the famed Quiver of Elona, though it was mentioned with interest—mostly by Kliedd and Rayek, who weren’t even present. Still, the idea of a container that could hold a full armory without bulging remained lodged in their minds for future visits.
Purchases were made in Dhelosk’s usual style: with unsettling grace and no small amount of mystery. When Ace requested two potions of fire resistance—despite already being immune to flame—Dhelosk didn’t question it. He simply reached into his cloak and pulled them out, still cool to the touch. ISAC secured magical ink for scroll crafting, and Angelica expressed cautious interest in other magical aids, though the high prices gave everyone pause. The group debated splitting the cost of a Lantern of Revealing, but the near 6,000 gold price tag ultimately proved too steep for the morning’s budget.
As always, Dhelosk offered little in the way of local lore or assistance. Questions about teleportation circles or recent disturbances were met with dry amusement. “I sell gear,” he grunted, “not gossip.” He did, however, confirm that his inventory had just refreshed two days earlier, which sparked a round of hurried last-minute decisions. One item—a cap of water breathing—was snatched up at the last minute, while others eyed more extravagant pieces like a brooch of shielding or a pearl of power and muttered calculations under their breath.
By the end of the hour, coin had changed hands, Dhelosk had somehow produced a small fortune’s worth of magic from the folds of a single cloak, and the group had left with satchels of goods and slightly lighter purses. As they emerged back into the warming streets of Red Larch, Ace was heard muttering, “One day, I’m going to find out what’s really in that cloak… unless it finds me first.”None of them doubted that was a very real possibility.
A Quiet Evening in Red Larch
The evening of the 21st brought with it a sense of finality—not because anything momentous had happened, but because everything necessary had finally been done. Scrolls were half-finished but serviceable, packs were brimming with supplies, and the party had eaten their fill of turkey, roasted vegetables, and whatever unspeakable things Ace had summoned from his accursed alchemy jug. Even now, the faint scent of mayonnaise clung to the corners of the house like a bad memory. The group moved with the slow, deliberate efficiency of those who knew they were on the edge of another long road. Some stayed behind in quiet corners, bent over parchment or tools, finishing the last touches on scrollwork or sharpening weapons that had already seen too much blood. Others paced the halls or sat near windows, eyes distant, their thoughts still lingering on suspicious arrows, old wounds, and uncertain roads.
Despite the looming journey, the L-shaped house had taken on a strangely comforting air. There was a rhythm to the chaos now, a familiarity to the strange routines and ongoing scent battles. Even the weird noises behind Yllanys’ door had become something of a household feature, like an especially unsettling grandfather clock. Outside, Red Larch continued on without fanfare. The locals went about their lives unaware of just how close the town sat to the edge of elemental catastrophe—and equally unaware that their would-be protectors were currently arguing over the ethics of mayonnaise-based food challenges and corpse delivery systems. The stillness of the town, though, brought a sense of calm, a brief reprieve from the weight of prophecy, cults, and creeping fire.
When the time finally came to leave, it was well after the sun had vanished beyond the hills and only the glow of torches and distant lanterns marked the edges of the quiet village. They gathered their gear in silence, the sound of buckles tightening and packs shifting breaking the hush of their departure. The house was left in good order, provisions stored neatly, and the knight’s body respectfully set aside for future transport. With a few final glances at the place that had briefly served as home, the adventurers slipped into the night like shadows leaving a warm hearth. They made no announcement, left no notes, and offered no farewells—just in case anyone was watching.
Their route northward took them along Larch Path, a narrow stretch of road that twisted through sparse woodland and dry hills. The summer heat still clung to the earth, rising in waves from the ground even after dusk. The northeast wind had grown restless, kicking up dust and sending it swirling around their boots and cloaks. No one spoke much. The only sounds were the rhythmic clink of armor, the rustle of cloth, and the occasional sigh or muttered curse about “the bloody heat.” Even Ace, usually the loudest among them, kept his voice low. Their pace was steady but cautious, each of them alert—eyes scanning the dark tree line, ears tuned to the rustling of unseen things.
Magic trinkets and enchanted gear provided just enough light to keep their footing sure, casting eerie glows and long shadows that danced beside them. The stars overhead were crisp and cold, distant watchers in a sky that felt almost too large. With every mile, the weight of Red Larch fell away, replaced by the heaviness of the unknown. Somewhere ahead, cults stirred, ancient powers moved, and the very elements seemed to strain against their bindings. But for this quiet evening, there was only the road, the hush of the wind, and the silent understanding shared between weary adventurers: they were walking straight into fire, and there was no turning back.
A Camp Under the Stars
Near midnight, after several hours of steady travel beneath the moonlight, the party came upon a small grove nestled between two gentle rises along the trail. The space was sheltered on three sides by thick brush and a stand of crooked trees, their leaves whispering quietly in the night breeze. The group, now well-accustomed to setting up camp in the wilderness, moved with practiced coordination. The large eight-person tent went up quickly—stakes hammered into firm soil, ropes taut, and bedrolls unrolled with the weary sighs of those who had walked far and thought too much. The campfire was built with quiet reverence, its crackling flames casting flickering shadows on the trunks of the surrounding trees.
Watches were assigned without debate. Those off duty tucked into bedrolls or found comfortable stones to lean against, sleep tugging at their limbs like a patient beast. ISAC, ever alert and unmoved by exhaustion, sat perfectly still near the fire, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. With a soft chime of arcane energy, he began composing one of his strange reports—updates meant for his elusive “friend,” who was anything but a friend in the traditional sense. The moment didn’t pass unnoticed by the others. “I send daily reports to a friend,” ISAC stated with clinical calm. “Friend?” Kliedd asked, narrowing one eye. “Friend of his,”Seraphina offered, already half asleep. “Patron. Who is your patron?” Yllanys added. “We don’t know,” ISAC admitted. “Oh,” came the flat response. “It’s an ancient green dragon,” he added after a pause. “Oh, that’s very interesting.” Rayek muttered, “Who has you by the short hairs.” ISAC, without missing a beat, replied, “If I had short hairs…”
Laughter came softly tired but genuine. The tension of the road, the weight of secrets, and the uncertainty of what lay ahead gave way, if only briefly, to the ease of companionship. Around the fire, small conversations sprang up like embers in the dark, ranging from speculation about ISAC’s patron’s true motives to the horrifying prospect of someone weaponizing mayonnaise in combat. Seraphina questioned the metaphysical implications of edible conjuration, while Kliedd argued that anything could be a weapon with enough velocity. Yllanys began sketching out a theoretical “mayonnaise cannon,” and Angelica threatened to confiscate the alchemy jug if the discussion didn’t stop.
The warmth of the fire slowly dulled their senses, and one by one, those not on watch drifted into sleep. The night air was warm but bearable, the wind carrying only the distant rustle of leaves and the occasional screech of a hunting owl. Even Rayek, who had been brooding in silence since receiving the arrows, eventually settled down beneath a tree, swords close at hand and his eyes half-lidded with fatigue. In the distance, the stars shimmered like a thousand tiny torches, casting faint light upon the sleeping camp. Somewhere far beyond that sky, powers stirred—but here in the grove, for a few short hours, the party found rest. Silent pacts were kept beneath the canopy, blades were sheathed, and thoughts of fire and war gave way to dreams.
A Fire in the Sky
The stillness of the night shattered without warning. The party had chosen to make camp in a broad, wind-swept valley—an open stretch of uneven ground where grass and low shrubs grew stubbornly between ancient boulders and sun-scorched stone. The dirt trail curved lazily through the valley floor, flanked by dry creek beds and the skeletal remains of trees too stubborn to fall. There was little cover to be found, but they had seen no signs of pursuit, and the valley seemed calm. Their tent stood like a lonesome island in a sea of weather-beaten grass, surrounded by scattered bedrolls and packs still heavy with recent acquisitions. The air was dry, the stars vivid, and for a while, all was quiet.
That peace ended during second watch. Far to the north, beyond a shallow rise in the land, a crimson flare suddenly split the sky. At first, it was an eerie flicker—easy to mistake for heat lightning or perhaps a distant torch—but the light was steady and unwavering. It hovered above the horizon, glaring red like a distant, vengeful eye. “That’s not lightning,” Seraphina whispered, rising slowly from her seat beside the dwindling fire. The others stirred, blinking away sleep, instincts already sharpening. The glow pulsed once—ominous and deliberate—before descending slowly from the sky.
As the flaming light drew closer, its source became terrifyingly clear. A humanoid figure, engulfed in roaring fire, floated down toward the valley with impossible grace. His robes, once perhaps regal, were charred and curling at the edges, fluttering violently in the furnace wind that now seemed to blow only around him. The flames clung to his body like a second skin, writhing with hunger but never consuming him. There was no sound—no triumphant shout or whispered spell—only the steady hiss of radiant heat warping the night air. The very atmosphere seemed to recoil from his presence, and even the stars above looked dimmer in his light.
Flaming Visitor
Worse still were the things that came with him. At first, they appeared as low streaks of flickering orange through the grass, but they quickly resolved into three quadrupedal forms. They ran like wolves, but there was nothing natural about them. Their bodies were made entirely of flame, muscles of flickering fire pushing against invisible bones. They raced just ahead of the burning figure, loping across the rocky soil and leaving glowing footprints wherever they passed. The dirt beneath their paws melted into molten puddles with each step. They made no sound, no snarl or bark—just the wet crackle of flame licking stone.
Flaming Beasts
The party stood in stunned silence, blinking in the firelight. Angelica stepped forward first, her greataxe already in her hands. Kliedd vanished into a nearby cluster of rocks, eyes sharp and blade drawn. Rayek’s stance widened, both swords ready, his posture shielding the spellcasters. ISAC turned to face the sky, glowing eyes reflecting the red above, while Seraphina and Yllanys exchanged a brief nod and began murmuring their respective incantations. Ace broke the silence with a nervous grin and said, “We’re not making friends tonight, are we?” But no one laughed. Whatever this was—druid, cultist, or something far worse—it had come deliberately, its path unerring. The fire cult had found them. And the valley had become their proving ground.
And this is where the session ended.
