1st of Elient of the year 1492
The Moist Return of Yllanys
Angelica prowled the halls of the residence in the stillness of evening, her senses pricked by a strange scent. It was not merely the damp smell of rain-soaked stone, but something cloying—wet earth mingled with a sour tang of dust and rot. Her gaze caught the walls, which gleamed slick as though the very plaster were sweating. Beads of condensation crawled downward in rivulets that had no natural source. At her feet, a dark puddle seeped steadily from beneath Yllanys’ door, creeping outward like an encroaching tide. Her cry of alarm broke the silence, sharp and unrestrained, drawing immediate footsteps from the others as the hall filled with hurried voices.
When the door creaked open, the sound was a dull thump, muffled by the humidity that clung to every surface. Out stepped Yllanys, gaunt and weary, his body marked by exhaustion and strange vitality both. The heavy air seemed to cling to him, thick with moisture. Angelica froze, staring in shock as she whispered, “Ew! Ew! Right? Ew!” Her disgust echoed through the hallway. Yllanys, unbothered or perhaps numb to their reactions, explained with disarming frankness that he had been using a peculiar ceramic vessel—what he called a Pot of Humidification—to ease the dryness of his skin. “Only when I use the pot. When my skin is dry,” he assured, as though this justified the slick puddle soaking the floorboards.
The revelation sparked nervous humor and thinly veiled horror. The others peppered him with questions, demanding to know how much water he had poured inside, why his chamber now exhaled like a breathing swamp, and what sort of damp sorcery had caused it all. Yllanys admitted he simply filled it halfway, at which point it seemed to take over on its own. Angelica recoiled, pressing the issue of the growing pool, while others joked grimly about needing to lay towels, build saunas, or even relocate Yllanys to a shack in the yard. The air turned to nervous laughter, but the unease was unmistakable.
It was then that Yllanys called forth his Arcane Avatar, the doppelgänger his companions knew only as Skinny. From the humid air it emerged, a warped simulacrum of his form, translucent and glistening, its eyes glazed and hollow. Its hand extended with a watery grip, clammy as a soaked glove stuffed with flesh. “Moister than mine was,” Yllanys observed, as if this detail brought reassurance. The others shuddered visibly, caught between fascination and revulsion. The touch was likened to citrusy sweat; it’s strange tang lingering even as the creature’s lips curled in a vacant smile.
Jests soon followed, most of them aimed at Rayek, who had already earned a reputation for sticking his tongue where it didn’t belong. “Maybe you should lick it,” someone quipped, and all eyes turned to him with wicked grins. His immediate protest—“No!”—was loud and indignant, but it only made the laughter sharper. The suggestion hung in the damp air, half a joke and half a dare, cementing Rayek as the unlucky butt of the jest. Though the moment broke some of the tension, it left the group with the uneasy understanding that Yllanys had returned changed—wetter, stranger, and far less easy to ignore.
Ace Renames Himself and Other House News
The common room was thick with voices and the faint smell of damp stone carried up from the hall below. Once everyone had settled in, Ace leaned forward with a sort of theatrical seriousness, eager to share what he had learned during his time with the smiths. He spoke of padding armor joints to stop the betraying squeaks that gave away a warrior’s step, a trick born of patience and dwarven craft. More than that, though, he described how he had learned to channel elemental magic into steel, giving a blade or an axe what he proudly called a little extra “pizzazz.” His excitement was clear as he explained that he might need help from his more magically inclined companions, but the promise of weapons that struck with more than cold steel had everyone’s attention.
From there, however, Ace’s thoughts meandered toward something more personal. He announced, as casually as one might comment on the weather, that he had been considering a change of name. “Think about going by Cal. What do you think about Cal? Cal? Ace Cal? Cal. C-A-L.” The room reacted with a burst of confused laughter. Questions fired back immediately—what was wrong with Ace, and hadn’t he once admitted his real name was Atticus? He grinned, juggling the options aloud. “Atticus, Ace, Cal.” He insisted that Cal was short for Caliburn, spoken with the kind of confidence that suggested he thought it sounded noble. The others, unimpressed, poked fun at his indecision, suggesting that perhaps this was less about names and more about reinventing himself after past failures.
As the debate circled, Ace doubled down, declaring that swords were superior to all other weapons and that he preferred their elegance above all else. “I like swords the best. Swords are the best. Objectively.” The word objectively earned a chorus of groans, particularly from Angelica, whose axe was never far from her grasp. Even Rayek raised a brow, muttering that axes did a fine job of ending a fight. The discussion spiraled into playful ribbing, the group trading jests back and forth until the matter of Ace’s identity seemed as fluid as ever.
Meanwhile, a quieter revelation shifted the tone. ISAC, who had been listening in silence, finally looked up. Where once there had been only a single working eye, now two mismatched orbs glinted in the light—one his familiar gaze, the other a restored but alien replacement. The sight gave the others pause. The colors were slightly off from each other, like shards of glass tinted by different dyes, and there was something faintly unnatural about the way they caught the firelight. Curiosity rippled through the group as they pressed him with questions, though ISAC remained vague, hinting that his return from recent journeys had left him changed in more ways than one. What drew laughter toward Ace moments before now gave way to uneasy wonder at what might be stirring behind ISAC’s new gaze.
Angelica’s Forgotten Origins
Angelica sat with her hands tight around a small carved toy, her gaze fixed downward as she wrestled with whether to speak. The common room fell still, the chatter dying as though all breath in the house waited on her words. Finally, with a trembling voice, she began to unravel memories she had long buried. She told of her true parents—a noble lord sworn as a paladin and a lady who wielded fire as though it were her second skin. Their household, once ruled with honor, fell into chaos as a coup swept against them like a tidal wave. Soldiers flooded the halls, the clash of steel and cries of betrayal filling every corner. Angelica described how she and her younger sister Ainsley were pushed toward a portal in desperation, flanked by two loyal retainers who had sworn to protect them at all costs. Her last glimpse of her parents was vivid: her father’s sword blazing in defiance, her mother wreathed in living fire, both standing unyielding as rebels surged forward. Then the portal consumed her, ripping her from the home she would never see again.
Her voice wavered as she spoke of her older brother. In the rush of battle, she had seen him cut down, struck through by the rebels before her eyes. That memory, sharper than a blade, had haunted her for years—his fall not only a loss of blood but of hope, for he had been the one she thought untouchable. She carried his death like a shadow; an image fixed forever in her mind of a brother struck down as he tried to defend them. It was this moment, she confessed, that hardened her belief that her family’s end had been brutal and merciless. The retainers had pulled her away before she could even cry out, dragging her and Ainsley into the blinding magic of the portal.
On the other side lay exile. The portal carried them thousands of miles, though Angelica never knew how far or by what means. They emerged in the village of Kheldell, tucked at the edge of the Westwood, where the two retainers became their foster parents. For years, they tried to build a life there, hiding the girls’ noble blood and raising them as daughters of their own. Angelica remembered the quiet rhythms of the place—the muted safety of small cottages, the shelter of towering trees, the sense of belonging that grew from shared meals and patient care. For a while, it seemed they had found peace.
But peace did not last. Somehow, from across impossible distances, their enemies found them. Angelica admitted she did not know how, only that dragonborn hunters from her homeland eventually tracked them down. She recalled the night their fragile home shattered—the shouts of pursuit, the heavy tread of armored boots in the dark, the sudden terror of running once more. With Ainsley’s hand clamped in hers, the four of them fled into the forest. Her foster parents made their decision swiftly and without hesitation: they would sacrifice themselves to save the sisters. They turned off the path, raising their voices and breaking branches to draw the hunters after them, luring them toward an ancient elven ruin. Angelica remembered the promise they made—that they would return when it was safe. But the night stretched into silence, and no footsteps ever came back.
It was only now, over ten years later, that she remembered enough to retrace those steps. Angelica confessed that she had finally dared to follow the trail, beginning with the abandoned cabin in the forest where they had last shared a home. From there, the signs led her deeper until she found the moss-choked stones of the ruin, its arches half-buried and its air thick with whispers of old magic. There she understood the truth she had avoided for so long: her foster parents had not survived the trap they had sprung. The hunters were gone, but so too were the two who had raised her as their own. She and Ainsley were once again left alone, bound to grief that stretched back to their parents and brother, a chain of loss unbroken since the coup.
To prove her story was no fantasy, Angelica opened her hands to reveal the relics she still carried. One was the carved toy cat, small and unassuming, its edges worn smooth by the fingers of her childhood. The other was a sapphire pendant, catching the firelight and scattering sparks of blue across the room. These, she explained, were all that remained of her bloodline and her guardians—silent witnesses to both the nobility of her heritage and the tragedies that had hollowed her past. Her companions leaned in, their eyes drawn to the modest treasures, each one understanding their weight.
Yet what haunted her most was not the grief but the uncertainty. Angelica admitted that when she had revisited the ruins tied to her bloodline, she encountered a headless elven spirit. Its presence seeped into her mind, twisting memories and scattering illusions so convincingly that she no longer knew which pieces of her life were truly her own. “I cannot tell what was real and what was planted,” she whispered, her voice low and unsteady. “Even my clearest memories may not be mine.” The admission settled over the group like a shroud, the silence that followed as heavy as stone. The shadow of her forgotten origins pressed down on them all, and for a long moment, no one dared to speak.
History Lessons and Portals Revisited
The evening deepened as the companions turned their thoughts away from the day’s lighter moments and into darker matters. The subject of the elemental portals loomed, their memories of past battles and half-understood victories crowding into the room. Each carried scraps of research, fragments of visions, and personal encounters with these rifts, and together they tried to weave sense out of the chaos. ISAC began, his voice calm but laced with unease as he spoke of the images that haunted him. He described glass tubes stretching through the void, impossibly fragile yet vast, like veins carrying power to something greater. These conduits led to a temple suspended in the void, a place that seemed to pulse with both shadow and light, its walls alive with a malice that was almost sentient. Just the telling of it seemed to press down on the air, as if his words carried a fragment of the suffocating weight of the vision itself.
Leaning forward, ISAC’s tone grew sharper, stripped of any attempt at reassurance. He explained that the fire and earth cults they had fought were not truly separate but linked by devotion to the same master. His visions revealed chains coiling endlessly in blackness, each link dripping with a corrosive power that was older than mortal memory. At the center of those bindings lay a figure—a void-dweller, ancient and patient, watching with silent hunger. This being, he said, fed upon the arrogance of mortals who clawed at its prison, and every attempt to wield the portals’ power only weakened what bound it. The companions listened in silence, the fire’s glow seeming dimmer as if even the hearth recoiled from the images he painted.
What followed chilled the room further. ISAC admitted his prayers had brought him no comfort, no clarity—only confirmation of his worst fears. The entity’s influence had already seeped through the cracks of its chains, slipping into the world long before they had realized. Its whispers bent cultists to its will, its reach staining the portals they had thought isolated. “Void and blackness and chains. Madness,” he muttered, the phrase falling like an iron verdict into the silence. No one rushed to respond. His certainty settled like a stone in their chests, and for a long moment, the only sound was the pop of burning wood.
At last, Yllanys took up the thread, his voice low, the firelight catching the dark lines beneath his eyes. He reinforced ISAC’s grim account, adding his own visions of chains coiling in endless loops, their links dripping with rot. The void-dweller bound within, he insisted, was ancient and patient, biding its time until careless mortals loosed it fully. He confessed that his own prayers and rituals had yielded the same conclusion: there was no peace to be had, no reassurance, only the bleak confirmation that the prison had already been compromised. His words, blunt and unsoftened, pressed heavily on his companions, leaving them with the realization that their enemy was not simply the cultists but the chained being itself.
The silence broke into argument as the group struggled to grasp the meaning of these revelations. Seraphina spoke firmly, reasoning that if the portals all tied back to one prison, then the magic woven into them must come from a common source. She speculated that dismantling one might weaken the others. Kliedd pushed back with suspicion, pointing out that the portals had behaved differently—the caverns raging with fire, others collapsing inward like wells of darkness, others filled with screaming winds or drowned in choking water. To him, the variations suggested that they were distinct. Angelica interjected with equal conviction, arguing that those differences were only disguises, masks wrapped around the same core. “Doors to the same prison,” she called them, their surfaces painted by elemental forces but all leading inward toward the same chained void.
Their voices rose and fell as the debate circled in frustration. They recalled their past so-called triumphs: the battles at the Earth Monastery, the collapse of caverns, the silencing of rifts. Each had nearly cost them their lives, each felt like a victory in its time—but here, now, they realized none of them had lasted. Every portal they thought closed was at best delayed, every battle fought only against shadows of the true enemy. The creeping thought that all their efforts had only bought time left them restless and uneasy, their arguments more desperate than confident.
ISAC’s voice cut back into the fray, clipped and certain, carrying the edge of finality. “Void and blackness and chains. Madness.”His words echoed through the chamber, striking with the weight of inevitability. Klieed’s response was equally grim: “This entity may have been unleashed already.” The certainty in his tone silenced the room once more, leaving the fire crackle the only reply. The companions exchanged weary glances, each one of them seeing their fears reflected in the others.
It was Rayek who finally shattered the silence, his voice flat and heavy with resignation. “We’ll probably have to revisit all of these portals.” There was no humor in the remark, no comfort in banter, only the blunt truth. No one contradicted him, because each of them knew he was right. Their path forward would not lead away from the horrors they had endured, but back through them, again and again, until the chains binding the void were reforged—or broken forever. The realization settled like a verdict over the room, binding them more tightly than any chain the void-dweller could conjure.
ISAC’s Family Revelation
The atmosphere shifted as ISAC, who had sat in silence for much of the discussion, finally raised his voice. His words were deliberate, carrying the weight of something he had kept hidden for far too long. “My son is alive, and he is the head of a noble family in Waterdeep.” The admission hung in the air, so heavy that even the fire seemed to falter for a moment. The companions froze, waiting for him to explain, their eyes fixed on the warforged whose past seemed suddenly deeper than any of them had imagined.
He went on to describe Alexander, the child he had thought lost, now twisted into something monstrous. Every few decades, Alexander murdered the heir of the noble house and assumed their identity, ensuring that his position never faltered. “Every 30 years or so he kills the next generation and takes their place.” The companions recoiled at the thought of a lineage devoured from within, a family tree where each new branch was snapped off to be replaced by the same corrupted soul. ISAC’s voice carried no anger, only the weary cadence of a man who had rehearsed this story in his mind for centuries.
As the tale grew darker, ISAC revealed the truth of Alexander’s corruption. It was not mere cruelty or greed that drove him, but a series of forbidden rituals—soul transfers repeated across the centuries. Each time, Alexander’s essence slipped from one body to the next, grafted unnaturally onto the Weave itself. With every passing cycle, he had become something less human and more an echo of twisted magic, bound to existence in ways that defied nature. The companions sat in horrified silence as ISAC explained that his son was no longer just a man but something half-woven into the very fabric of spellcraft.
“He wants to live forever,” ISAC said flatly, his voice more chilling in its calmness than if he had shouted. The phrase cut through the room like a blade, carrying with it both the grief of a father and the dread of an enemy revealed. But immortality was not Alexander’s only goal. ISAC explained his son’s obsession: the forging of the Weave itself into chains. Alexander sought to twist the raw magic that underpinned the world, to bend it into shackles that could bind all living things. Whether this was his own design or the influence of the chained void-dweller remained uncertain, but the result was the same—a mad vision of power without end.
The companions struggled to process what they had heard. The idea that ISAC’s bloodline had birthed such a threat weighed heavily on all of them, for it meant the fight ahead was not only against cults, portals, or chained horrors, but against a man who carried ISAC’s name and legacy. Silence returned to the common room, broken only by the fire’s snap, as each of them contemplated the revelation that one of their own bore a family tie to the enemy they now faced.
Tarnick’s Ties and the Bleeding Eye
Tarnick’s voice was unsteady as he began to share the fragments of his past, he had kept hidden. He spoke of Waterdeep and the Axedrudge family, where his mother had found service and he had been drawn into the house’s arcane work. There, under the tutelage of his mentor Brindle, he had pursued the fusion of machine and magic, a discipline both wondrous and dangerous. Brindle had been more than a teacher—he had been a shield, a guiding figure who pushed Tarnick to see beyond the limits of steel and spell. For a time, it seemed like the beginning of something promising, a future shaped by creation instead of ruin.
But that promise ended in fire and blood when the Bleeding Eye descended. They came not as scattered thugs, but as a bandit company drilled and armored like soldiers, their discipline as sharp as their blades. Tarnick described them as a shadowed hand of Alexander, brutal and precise, cutting down anyone who stood in their way. He recounted the chaos of their arrival—the crash of doors, the stomp of boots, the sudden flood of steel into halls that had once been a place of learning. It was then that Brindle made his choice, stepping forward with nothing but courage to bar their path.
Tarnick’s voice grew heavy as he described his last glimpse of the man who had been both mentor and protector. Brindle stood against the Bleeding Eye bandits, defiant even as their ranks closed around him, a lone figure holding back a storm. His sacrifice bought Tarnick the chance to escape, but it came at a terrible cost. Tarnick fled, but the sound of steel striking, of voices shouting, of Brindle’s last stand, followed him into the night and never truly left him. The memory haunted him, not as a source of pride but as a debt he could never repay.
Even in safety, the shadow of that night lingered. Tarnick confessed his deepest fear—that his mother still lived in Waterdeep, under the eye of those same forces that had taken Brindle from him. His words cracked more than once as he admitted that each day he wondered if she was safe, or if Alexander’s enforcers had already reached her doorstep. The thought that his family’s lives could still be entwined with Alexander’s schemes filled him with a dread he could barely name. The companions listened, each recognizing that Tarnick’s story was not just his own burden, but another strand binding their fates to the relentless designs of the Bleeding Eye.
What To Do Next
By the time the night had worn thin, the companions found themselves surrounded by the weight of revelations but also pressed by the practical demands of their journey. They began to lay out their most pressing obligations, each one pulling them in a different direction. First was the body of the fallen paladin they carried with them, preserved by magic but still a solemn burden. The Order of the Gauntlet awaited his return at Summit Hall and leaving him unburied weighed on their conscience. The second matter was far more personal—Tarnick’s family in Waterdeep. With Alexander’s ties to the Axedrudge line now clear, the danger to his mother was immediate and real, and ignoring it felt impossible.
The third concern was knowledge itself. They needed to learn more about Alexander and the reach of the Axedrudge family, both in Waterdeep and beyond. The secrets of his rituals and his centuries of deception had to be uncovered before he tightened his hold over the Weave. And finally, the looming specter of the portals remained. ISAC’s visions and Yllanys’s confirmations left no doubt—the elemental rifts would reopen, and perhaps soon. Of them, the Water Portal seemed the most urgent, threatening to swallow entire regions if left unchecked. The companions acknowledged that this was no longer a matter of choice but of grim necessity: they would need to revisit each and every one of them.
The discussion sprawled into strategy, the companions considering how to move quickly across such vast distances. Seraphina suggested the use of sending magic to reach contacts they trusted in the cities. Yllanys pressed the value of teleportation circles, arguing they could bypass weeks of dangerous travel if they reactivated the right connections. Kliedd remained wary, reminding them that their enemies might be listening and that allies could easily be compromised. Others mentioned leaning on factions—the Harpers, the Order of the Gauntlet, even the Zhentarim—though every name carried risk and uncertainty.
Angelica added her own point of guilt, reminding the others of her neglected duties with the Order of the Gauntlet. Too much time had passed since she had last given account of her actions, and she knew that her absence weighed on her reputation. She spoke of obligation and of honor, insisting that the Order might also serve as an ally in their growing struggle. Though none dismissed her words, the sheer number of paths before them left the table heavy with argument, each voice championing a different course.
Still, even in the midst of the serious planning, humor flickered through. The preserved body of the paladin, stiff but intact, became the subject of grim levity. With a nudge of magic, the corpse was made to raise a hand and wave stiffly, like some macabre marionette. Angelica groaned, though laughter rippled across the room despite their exhaustion. Someone mimicked the fallen man’s voice, pitching it thin and hollow: “Hi guys, I would really like to go be buried.” Ace chimed in with a grin, “Oh, the dead paladin?” and another voice snapped back, “Yes. We’re supposed to take the dead paladin to Summit Hall!” The moment was absurd, but necessary, breaking the gloom that had hung over them all evening.
When the laughter subsided, the companions were left with their list of grim tasks, their paths twisting across the map like the links of the very chains ISAC had described. Summit Hall, Waterdeep, the elemental rifts—their enemies seemed to be everywhere at once. Yet in their laughter, even brief, there was proof that they were still together, still willing to face the darkness ahead as one.
Banmin’s Arrival and the Quarry Quest
The quiet of the evening was shattered by a firm knock at the door, a sound that carried weight rather than courtesy. When the door was opened, the companions found Banmin standing there, his face shadowed with worry. The older dwarf wasted no time with pleasantries as he stepped inside, his boots still dusted from the road. His voice was rough, pressed by urgency. “Come closer. We can talk here. It’s about something. Something serious. Something close to me heart. You know me well enough to understand when I say this ain’t no light matter. Now listen here. A group of our kin, the sturdy dwarf miners from here in Red Larch, have up and vanished. They were last seen… heading toward the abandoned quarry north of town, off the Larch Path. You know the one. Full of old tales and darker shadows.” The words fell like hammer blows, drawing the companions’ attention tighter than any summons could.
Banmin Glehuruhr
Banmin explained that this was no simple matter of men gone astray. The quarry north of town carried with it a grim reputation, whispered about for years. Strange lights had been seen drifting near its edges, hollow sounds echoing from its depths at night, and tales of disappearances had wrapped around it like a shroud. Most folk avoided it out of common sense, but Brylin and his crew had been drawn there by promise of mithril. Banmin’s face tightened as he admitted how personal this was to him—the missing dwarves were more than laborers, they were kin, as dear as brothers and cousins. His plea was not dressed in formality. He needed the companions’ help, and he promised they would not go unrewarded. Even whispers of items from dwarven forges passed his lips, but he made it plain that true payment lay in saving lives, not in coin.
The companions pressed for details, drawing from him that he had heard and what he feared. Brylin, ever ambitious, had pushed the miners deeper into the quarry when signs of mithril veins were discovered. For a time, everything had gone well, and Banmin himself had been glad to hear of their success. But then came the sudden silence. Communication had been carried out through a sending stone, and the last message had ended abruptly—words cut short, as though something terrible had taken place mid-sentence. After that, no further word came. The stone remained unanswered, its silence echoing louder than any scream.
Banmin’s jaw clenched as he revealed the number missing. At least fifteen dwarves had vanished with Brylin, their fate a complete mystery. To a small community like Red Larch, that was no small loss—it was families torn apart, hearths left cold, a piece of the town’s beating heart gone. He looked each of the companions in the eye as he spoke, making certain they understood this was not a story told from rumor but a cry for aid. The weight of his words settled on them like iron, the abandoned quarry looming larger with every detail he shared.
Preparations and Negotiations
Once Banmin’s tale was finished, the companions shifted quickly from listening to planning. The weight of his words left no doubt that they would accept the charge, but none of them were so reckless as to march toward an ominous quarry without first securing what they could. They pressed him firmly about provisions, insisting that if he truly wanted them to succeed in bringing the miners back, he should supply them with the tools to survive the dangers ahead. Healing draughts were their first demand, and Angelica was especially sharp in her request, pointing out that dwarves who wished for heroes to fight on their behalf needed to keep those heroes on their feet.
Banmin’s expression tightened, and he admitted that supplies were already scarce. Many of the town’s potions had been purchased by the companions themselves during past ventures, leaving little in reserve. Still, he relented under their insistence, promising that he could scrounge a few if they accompanied him back to the quarry’s outpost. His concession was not made lightly; his tone made clear that giving them these draughts would strip resources from others, but the lives of fifteen missing dwarves outweighed the inconvenience. The companions accepted this, though with varying degrees of satisfaction, each recognizing that every vial might mean the difference between life and death.
The tension of the discussion soon cracked into familiar banter, the companions quick to jab at one another even in the face of grim tidings. Jokes circled about who among them consumed the most potions in battle, with Angelica quickly nominated as the worst offender. She bristled at the accusation, but the laughter grew louder when someone muttered about her treating the vials as if they were a wineskin rather than a last resort. Quips flew about the strange side effects of downing so many—glowing skin, the shakes, even rumors of faint hiccupping sparks. The humor eased the edge of the moment, drawing a few chuckles even from Banmin, though his smile never fully reached his eyes.
Beneath the laughter, however, an unspoken truth lingered. The companions knew they were walking into danger far beyond what Banmin described. His nervous glances, the tension in his shoulders, and the way he pressed them to act quickly all betrayed that he feared more than missing miners. Whatever shadows lay in the quarry, they would need more than potions and jokes to face it. Yet for that night, the blend of grim preparation and mocking camaraderie was enough to hold them together, reminding them that though they faced peril, they did not face it alone.
And here is where the session ended.
Maps
