Leaving Correnwald
Saturnas 18th Concord, 30 Fifth Age
After collecting some foul bilgecap mushrooms and transferring Vilwyn's thundertoad to Kharmir's care, the Reforged made their way back to Correnwald, where the moon was high and the mud-soaked streets empty of life. With a bottle of Kastalavic wine between them, they sat upon the roof of the Taproot Inn, looking up at the sky, drinking to their bittersweet success, and discussing their theories as to the origin of the world. Kharmir explained that, in Dwarven tradition, all life is believed to have sprung forth from the Great Crucible, including the gods - and those gods have different faces to the pantheon of Ia. Visimar pointed out that every culture has a different understanding of the divine - in the Sunless Lands, the stars are worshipped as immortal angels and givers of eternal life. Vilwyn recalled a tale he heard from a turtle, who believed that all matter once existed in confluence: a pinprick of boiling soup that burst all things into being one day, without the touch of the gods. The group laughed at that idea.
The next morning, Visimar went to prepare Byron for their leaving. When he went to the library, Ario declined to abandon Correnwald, believing that someone must stay to record the town's goings-on, or else news of plots like Tealeaf's might never leave the confines of the forest. Though saddened to part with the librarian, the party wished him farewell, and hoped to see him again one day. With their goodbyes bid, the Reforged took the Emerald Brewery cart that Visimar had parked behind the inn, piled it high with supplies, collected Byron and Alice from the forge, and set off into the swamp. As the cart trundled away through the muck, passers-by turned up their hoods and hats to fix the party with a dark stare. As they passed through the dilapidated Planks district and onto the Stumpmarsh Trail, Alice and Byron looked back at the town, and Byron lay a hand on his daughter's shoulder. Together, they left the puddles, roadplanks, and stench of decay behind, as Correnwald disappeared between the bow-backed trees, and the rest of the world lay before them.
While Vilwyn drove and Callidus kept watch from the passenger seat, Visimar and Kharmir sat in the back of the cart and discussed their plans for Stonecross and beyond. Sturmenfell was their ultimate goal, but it was unclear which way their path would take them after that. Visimar explained that he had loved a woman in the Sunless Lands, but she disappeared. Before he could find her, Visimar was abducted in the dead of night, stolen by a gang of men in red hoods. Under a powerful sleep enchantment, Visimar was bundled into a cart, then a ship, then a cell. When he awoke, he was thousands of miles away. What happened in the cell remained a blur, but the experiments they performed on Visimar were long, complex and agonisingly painful. For years, their scalpels tore him apart and reshaped him into something new. When it was done, he was but a shell of himself, drained of blood and desperately hungry. His body was stronger, and a new, terrible power stirred within him. But his spirit was broken. They called him a ‘vessel’, but Visimar felt like nought but a monster. Ripping free of his restraints, Visimar slew his captors and fled into the night, braving Kastalav’s haunted wilderness. Chased by twisted abominations of flesh and magic – the failed experiments that came before him – Visimar travelled south across the Middle Kingdoms until he reached Alagost. His skin blistered under the sun, so he travelled at night, flitting between inns and dives. One day, he wished to return to the Sunless Lands, and redeem himself for the monstrous acts he has committed in the throes of his blood-hunger. Kharmir promised to help him, assuring him that a man's dark deeds do not define him. It is what comes after those deeds that matters. Kharmir spoke of a sister that he lost in the fall of Norod Dulum - if he could not avenge her, he would at least do his part to honour her memory.
The Witch Hut
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| Mama Marianne's House of Fortunes |
Past the spot of the Needlefang ambush twelve days ago, the party made camp under a withering tree, near a pond clogged with algae. Visimar managed to forage a few struggling brown minnows and berries from tangled thickets. That night, Vilwyn dreamt of Mar Mulkaan - of an iron fortress engulfed in emerald flame, of compatriots boiling in their armour, of coating himself in mud until he sank lower and lower, suffocating him. When he awoke, bolt upright, he noticed something flitting between the trees: a mote of golden light, gently bobbing in the night. He took his mace and moved closer, noticing a second light further ahead, then another, then another. Suspicious, Vilwyn roused Visimar, who stalked ahead, following the trail while Vilwyn awoke the rest of the party. Leaving Callidus to keep watch over Alice and Byron, the three ventured into the woods, and found that the lights were leading to a huge domed hut on an island ringed by shallow water and reeds. Orange light glowed in the windows, and smoke billowed from a chimney above, the chirp of crickets and bellow of frogs resounding all about the clearing. Tentatively, the party made their way inside.
The door creaked open at a touch. Inside was a strangle, multicoloured chamber, gossamer-thin gauzes and woven veils hung over the walls' splintery beams. Chimes and chains dangled from the ceiling, jangling and clinking. Some were connected to cages of live animals (rats, toads, canaries, tarantulas) and the walls were lined with shelves upon shelves of jars - each stuffed with mysterious objects pickled in brine - wax stalactites of burned candles, bottles of insects and bones. A vast looking glass the size of a human stood draped in a red linen sheet, and on the tabletop in the middle of the room lay a brilliant red-gold tourmaline gemstone mounted on a spike; beside it, a charcoal etching, framed in gold, of two beautiful women.
Vilwyn called 'hello?', and a whisper answered, as if part of the winds whistling between the boards: 'Welcome, my dears. Won't you sit awhile? I don't see visitors very often. '
Suddenly, at the table sat a beautiful young woman with dark skin and dark hair tied up in a loose bun, wearing a very thin silk dress that hung quite suggestively from her form. Her fingers steepled in front of her, crowned with long, fine nails. In dulcet tones, the beautiful woman before them introduced herself as Mama Marianne, and bade to sit before her whomever wished to seek their fate. She brandished a deck of cards, each emblazoned with a unique sigil. For each who sat before her, she would draw three cards - one for the past, one for the present, and one for the future. Brazen, Visimar sat first, and demanded to know how she possessed such insight. Marianne waved her hand over the tourmaline, revealing it as no tourmaline at all, but a jaundiced yellow eye, with a horizontal pupil like a goat, veined red and staring with malice. 'I had a sister,' explained the witch. 'She was younger than me, but had not the means to preserve her beauty. Envy is a powerful thing, and so we came to feud, and then to violence. It only settled when I took her eye. She is always with me. Not even blood can wash away the stain of love. And there is much use in a witch's eye.'
Drawing the Cards
Visimar's first card was The Beast, depicting a slavering wild monster. 'There is something dark within you, Visimar Von Tann. A bestial sickness festers in your heart. You believe it was put there by an outside malefactor, but you are wrong. Your sickness grows of pain. All they did was match your body to the monster within.' His second was the One of Swords, depicting a weary warrior clutching a bloody sword. 'Interesting... you have embarked... or perhaps finished?... a quest for revenge, to right a great wrong. You have stitched the wound in your soul, and your blood-hunger has faltered.' His third was The Ghost, depicting a veiled, translucent woman. 'Your path cries out to be seen. The Ghost portends the looming past: the return of an old enemy, or the discovery of a secret buried long ago. Perhaps both. Time will tell.'
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| The tarot of Mama Marianne |
Vilwyn was next. Sat opposite Mama Marianne, he pointed to the charcoal portrait and asked if it showed her and her sister. Marianne only smiled, and drew his first card: The Horseman, depicting a knight astride a withered steed. 'The horseman rides ahead of death. A terrible defeat lies in your past. I hear the sound of beating hooves, the roar of flame, the screams of burning men. You have bled, and have clawed yourself from the mouth of hell into divine redemption.' His second card was the Two of Swords, which showed a helmed swordsman bathed in sunlight. 'I need no card to see that you are a holy warrior; the talisman at your neck speaks to that. But your faith runs deeper than meaningless ritual. Your honour lies deep in your heart. I see a rare honest soul within you, Vilwyn Amel.' His final card was the Four of Glyphs, which showed a lonely man clutching a crook. 'The shepherd guides those who cannot guide themselves. The blind and the tempted, the cruel and the weak. Though your resolve will be tested, you must stay the path. Your flock will perish without you.'
Lastly, Kharmir took his place in the seat opposite Mama Marianne. His first card was the Three of Swords, depicting a lone sentry on a great castle wall. 'You have lived a life of war and sacrifice. You have stood as a watcher on the walls as blood ran between the bricks. Hardship struck you down, and from the ashes did you rise. But you are adrift, unaligned with the ages. My condolences. Which of your lost ones do you most yearn for, Kharmir Stoutbreaker?' Second came the Eight of Glyphs, bearing a mitred hierophant with a halo about his outstretched hand. 'You cling to a code or belief, unyielding. This code guides your hand, for better or for worse, whether it be to raise your shield over the innocent or swing your sword as executioner.' And finally, The Mists, a card showing only opaque gloom. This was the first card that seemed to surprise the witch. 'Great mystery lies ahead of you. Something unexpected and yet as inexorable as the turn of winter. Whether a great quest or an arduous journey, it will try your spirit under a weight you have never borne.'
Kharmir stood, but Marianne was not yet done. She pointed out that one of their number had not come to the hut: the rogue named Callidus Archia. She had the cards for him, if the party wanted to hear. Vilwyn and Kharmir were unsure - given Marianne's demonstrable divinatory power, they feared that hearing Callidus' fortunes without his consent would be tantamount to a betrayal of confidence. Visimar, however, took the seat again, and the world stood still. The wind fell silent. Vilwyn and Kharmir were gone. When Visimar looked down at his hands, they were no longer pale and long-fingered, but fair and callused, with nails bitten down to the beds. And Mama Marianne addressed Callidus by name.
The first card she drew was the Seven of Coins, bearing a hooded figure with a dagger in one hand, and a coin purse in the other. 'You came from nothing. The street is a cold cradle: one that inspires survival at all costs. All that you have, all that you are, you have taken. And anything that is taken can be lost again.' The second card depicted a marionette dangling from strings held by unseen hands. 'You are entwined in the grip of another woman, a knife turned by pale fingers. Shame. Some blades could be better handled by another. How long will you be indebted to the spider queen, Callidus Archia?' Last, the Eight of Stars bore a figure in black robes, a candle illuminating the skull beneath its hood. 'The Necromancer. This card stands for those who harbour unhealthy obsessions, and follow destructive paths. Unless you sever your strings, you will be led into danger.' For a moment, Visimar stared at the witch, and saw something else reflected in the sliver of glass visible behind the cloth: a hideous and elderly creature of spindly and skeletal proportions, withered and bare-breasted, jagged teeth leering beneath a hooked nose, scraps of hair clinging to a spotted scalp. And then the illusion was dispelled, and Visimar sat at a table opposite no-one. The eye was a gem once more, and the wind whistled through the empty hut. Equally unnerved and enchanted, the party took one last look around the shack before leaving, and as they stepped back onto the marsh, the hut lifted itself onto a crop of spindly spider legs and crawled off between the trees, vanishing into the night.
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| A witch is never all she appears... |
The Rangers of Roamere
Dametras 19th Concord, 30 Fifth Age
Leaving the night's strange magic behind them, the party set off in the early hours with aching bones and stiff joints. Kharmir found that his face had been bitten by flies in the night, and his scratching brought them up in red welts. A few hours went by, the cart passed a merchant and his mercenary guards heading the opposite way, before Callidus spotted a dark shape in a tree up ahead. Vilwyn hailed it, but it did not respond. Visimar leapt into the branches and stalked closer until he realised it was a corpse, perched halfway up the dead tree, covered in rotted clothes, with a half-torn backpack dangling from one bony arm. Visimar cut down the body and searched through its pack, finding a few tarnished coins, along with a vial of faintly glowing, honey-coloured elixir, the label long since faded. The elixir smelled of acrid vinegar, and Visimar was hesitant to touch it, but Vilwyn recognised it as an insect repellent and handed it to Kharmir. Visimar inspected the corpse closer and found feathered darts embedded in its neck, tipped with traces of purple moss. Alarmed, the party made an expeditious exit, fearing that what killed this poor unfortunate was lurking somewhere nearby.
As the day turned to evening and then to dusk, the road became pitted with bumps and stones, but Vilwyn managed to keep the cart on track. A twig snapped ahead. Vilwyn spotted shapes moving in the trees: flashes of yellow between the murky green leaves. Three people in yellow cloaks stepped out from the forest. Their armour was piecemeal and their skin streaked with muck, but all of them were armed. A man with short blond hair and a scarred face drew a shortsword from his belt and stepped in front of the cart, spooking the mule to a stop. An older man with thinning grey hair and doleful eyes followed behind, a hand on his own blade. A dragonborn with dark green scales stepped out, holding a knife in each hand, and Vilwyn luckily noticed a fourth: a yellow-cloaked woman with a square jaw in the tree nearby, an arrow nocked in her bow. The blond man called out: 'Hark! Halt! You have crossed paths with the Rangers of Roamere. State your business, and pray you are men of honour!'
Vilwyn held up his hands to defuse the situation, and promised that they had no qualms with the Rangers of Roamere. They explained their business and their cargo of civilians, which relaxed the wary yellowcloaks. Their leader, Leolyn, apologised for the intrusion. They were on high alert for the Pallid Men, depraved and murderous wildfolk living in the swamp, who have lived in solitude for so long that they have lost the Common tongue. The Rangers warned of an ambush, and offered the party a sanctuary in their camp for the night. Grateful, the Reforged agreed.
The camp was set in an open clearing, off the trail, surrounded by stonebrick clusters suggestive of a sunken or collapsed fort. The rangers had set up a few simple tents, amounting to boar-hide canvases strung across support poles. Settling around the campfire, the older man, Sherward, played a mouth organ while Grymat the dragonborn whistled a tune. Raedmona handed Alice a knife with a pantano hilt, carved in the shape of a crocodile's head. Sat with Vilwyn, Leolyn explained that the Rangers of Roamere were originally a race of wandering people, the descendants of the original inhabitants of the Fenmarrow Swamp. They were united into a chivalric order under the patronage of the Swamp King of Roamere. Identified by their yellow cloaks clasped by a mangrove brooch, they still persist, though the Swamp Kings died out. They exist to patrol the forest, protecting the lands from brigands, monsters and black magic, though their numbers are severely depleted, and the last of them to venture into the swamp (in search of the source of infernal corruption) never returned. All of the Rangers in the campsite had seen bloodshed. Sherward was a cobbler whose family were killed in the Sack of Stonecross. Grymat saw his son burned when bandits lit his farm ablaze. Raedmona slit the throat of her violent husband and fled the law. The Rangers have fallen far from their glory days, and are now little more than a band of outcasts and broken men. Leolyn pointed out the burn scars on his face, and explained that he was part of a mercenary company who fought at the Battle of Mar Mulkaan, and watched men die by the hundreds on the burning fields. He was taken prisoner by the hobgoblins and tortured in their cells, but escaped and fled back to Alagost. He swore that no amount of gold would ever send him to war again. Vilwyn, a fellow veteran of that dire battle, shared his sentiment, and spent the evening sharing old war stories with Leolyn, and bonding over their rationed food and skins of ale.
The party settled down to sleep, and Alice watched Vilwyn cast an enchantment to make the fire dance. Leolyn offered to take first watch, and promised to wake Vilwyn for the second. However, when a noise woke Vilwyn in the night, it was not Leolyn, who remained sat still against a ruined wall with his sword across his knees. There was only silence in the camp. Unnerved, Vilwyn went to investigate, and found that Leolyn's throat had been slit like a pig, his lifeblood staining his yellow cloak scarlet. Vilwyn turned to see freakishly pale people emerging from the trees, fully nude save for a strange leathery mask worn over the face, their bodies' pale with the sickly white mud they had coated themselves in. Vilwyn shouted a cry of horror and warning to the campsite.
And so it is written.
