Rowan clears his throat, easing his gaze over to Vasha. “You ever heard of this Ryn Faelith, or got any inkling about her folks? We’re planting seeds in the dark here, and we’d do better to turn the soil where we might strike roots. If she’s the one holdin’ the scythe, I’d rather know her station, her friends, and what patch of ground she calls home. Anything you’ve got might give us a line on how to spook or lure her, ‘cause I’m not keen on stumbling blind into her row.” He pauses, tapping a knuckle against his belt as he rummages through his own memory—though he comes up short (History: 3). “I tried to recall if I’d heard her name on the wind, but it’s all crickets up here. Maybe you know a spot we can dig up a little gossip?”
Ellanise, staring at Vasha as if trying to read her mind, shifts her weight from one foot to the other in discomfort. A hand goes to her mouth, then into her long hair. Her eyes begin to sparkle.
"Ryn ... " she says weakly.
She turns and walks a few paces away from the others, her head down. What is she doing? Where is this emotion coming from? After a sigh, she turns to face the others again.
As if running out of steam, she begins strong, but then peters out at the end: "Ryn was my boss. My leader. My mentor. And in some ways ... my friend." She clears her throat, getting back a little of her energy. "She's the leader of the Duskrats. Or, at least she was when I ran with them. She took me in and trained me. She ... took a liking to me. Gave me special attention. I think she thought I might take over one day." She shrugs. "I don't know. It could have been my own naiveté. Or wishful thinking."
She walks over and picks up the severed finger between two of her own, clearly not put off by it. She twists it in front of her eyes. "Ryn is ruthless. Ryn always gets her way ... one way or another." She slowly lowers the finger and taps it on the table absently as she collects her thoughts.
Turning, she says, "I was hopeful she might have just let me go. It's possible she isn't planning my death. After I was arrested and then released to The Shrouded Spire, I considered never returning to Luminaar. I suppose I'm still considering leaving and never returning. But I feel like I have ... business here."
She holds the finger up again, her countenance returned to its usual pleasant thoughtfulness. "If Veyla is ordering Ryn around, she's not going to like it. It's possible we could reach some kind of temporary agreement to help Ryn take Veyla down."
She looks again at Vasha, trying to read her face. Why is she so suspicious of the tiefling?
Professor Marsh hums under his breath, thumbing through the edges of the blueprint Käinen placed before him. “Ryn Faelith… Duskrats…” he mutters, mostly to himself, his brows furrowing as if he’s trying to fit new pieces into a puzzle that’s suddenly grown much larger. “No, I can’t say I’ve heard of her. My work keeps me rather insulated from those sorts of... personalities.”
Vasha, meanwhile, leans lightly against the bookshelf, arms crossed. Her eyes linger a moment longer on Ellanise after her confession—there’s no judgment there, only something harder to read. Sympathy, perhaps. Or respect. Or wariness. “If you really think she’d consider a deal, then it might be our only way in,” she says at last, her voice quiet but certain. “But tread carefully. Power like Ryn’s doesn’t fade easily, and if she sees you as a threat instead of a tool…” Her fingers twitch like a knife sliding through parchment. “Well. You know better than anyone.”
She straightens, her tail flicking once behind her. “Still. If Veyla is calling the shots, and Ryn doesn’t like it… that may be the only crack in their wall we can slip through.”
Professor Marsh nods slowly. “Yes, well. That’s... a great deal to consider.” He looks at each of you in turn, his features softening as the weight of your night begins to register. “You’ve clearly all been through more than I imagined when we first met.” He gestures to the chairs and long bench near the hearth.
“I insist you get some rest. The hour is late, and whatever path you decide—whether you reach out to this Ryn Faelith, investigate the Gilded Iris, or something else entirely—better minds make better plans with sleep behind them.” He pauses, adjusting his glasses. “And perhaps, when the sun’s up, we can look at that floor plan and the key again with fresh eyes. I have a feeling they may still have something to offer.”
Vasha gives a quiet, teasing smile. “I can show you all to your quarters when you're ready, just give me the say-so."
He listened the conversation, hand to chin, clearly reflecting. No one seemed to think about the man who escaped the warehouse and Ellanise made mention of how to find Ryn. She did find old friends tonight, Käinen pondered deciding that reaching the criminal was unlikely to be a problem. Thing was, they had no guarantee she would help. In fact, it seemed more likely to him that she would ambush them and try having them killed.
“I don’t think we have better lead, but we should only go after the Rats if we are ready to the possibility of having to take them down. And make them speak.” The goliath looked at the elf, then back to the professor. His eyes met Vasha’s for a moment. “Since the professor is so graciously turning away of the matter, I saw we take the ring. At least for the duration of this quest. One can never have too many ways of attacking in the face of battle, though I wouldn’t be a good choice to use it.” His fighting style relied too heavily on unarmed attacks, was fundamentally incompatible. He nodded as Marsh spoke of resting. “Do the honors, beautiful one.”
His tone was casual, as if he spoke something obvious and unimportant.
Rowan raises an eyebrow when the talk of “Ryn” comes from Ellanise rather than Vasha, but he lets it pass without comment—everyone’s got old seeds they’d rather not sow in public. “Huh. Didn’t think we’d find those answers in our own row. Guess we saved Vasha the trouble of spillin’ her beans,” he says in a hushed tone, crossing his arms thoughtfully. “As for that ring, well, no sense leavin’ it in the dirt if it might help us plant a few victories. Whichever of us can swing it best, I say let ’em take it—better on our side than nobody’s.”
With a tired huff, he rubs at the tension in his neck and glances toward the hallway. “I’m about ready to call it a night, folks. Still got that little ‘treasure’ I’m keen to poke at.” He pats his satchel softly, where that oddly carved tankard rests. “Might as well see if it’s worth all the trouble before we get tangled in a fresh mess. Let’s bed down while the moon’s still up—I figure we’ll do better plannin’ come sunrise.”
Teryn watches Ellanise as she speaks, a quiet recognition flickering behind his silver eyes. He doesn’t interrupt, nor does he offer platitudes. Instead, he gives a small nod—subtle, but sincere. There’s kinship in it, an unspoken understanding that the past, however tangled, doesn’t define the whole of a person.
As the conversation shifts and Marsh gestures toward the seats, Teryn exhales, tension loosening from his shoulders. “A good night’s rest does sound terribly wise,” he agrees, smoothing a hand through his long blond hair before his eyes flick back toward the severed finger.
No one claims it, so with a faint shrug, he reaches out and slips the Ring of the Ram free with delicate fingers. He wipes it on the inside hem of his robe—still a noble’s habit, despite everything—before slipping it onto his own hand. Then, as if drawn by curiosity or the need to stay just a bit busy, his gaze drifts to the chest still sitting nearby. He tilts his head, considering. “I wonder…would smashing it open do more harm than good? Something to consider as I attune to this," he muses aloud, tapping it lightly with one knuckle.
Vasha gives Käinen a sly look at his final comment, one brow lifting. “Charming and deferential. A rare combination.” Her tail flicks once behind her as she straightens from the wall, brushing invisible dust from her sleeves. “I’ll show you to your rooms,” she says smoothly, her tone light but composed. “You’ll be staying in the same quarters as before. Fresh linens, I’m sure—assuming no one’s absconded with them. This way.”
As she leads you out of Marsh’s office and down the quiet, lamp-lit corridor, she speaks over her shoulder. “We’ll reconvene in the morning. I suggest a few hours of sleep before you start dismantling any more criminal syndicates, yes?” She smirks faintly, the dim light glinting off her obsidian eyes. “Professor Marsh and I will look into that key and the floorplan further, if you wish. If either of us unearth something useful, you’ll be the first to know.”
At the end of the hall, she gestures to the guest chambers you remember from your first night at the academy, modest but comfortable, with heavy curtains to block out the morning light and just enough creaking floorboards to remind you you're not far from a library tower that’s probably older than any of you. As she starts to turn away, she pauses, glancing back. “One last thing, if you do intend to make contact with the Duskrats, be cautious.”
With that, she pivots on her heel and glides off into the corridor, the faint sound of her bootsteps swallowed by the quiet darkness ahead.
Rowan settles on the edge of the narrow bed and gingerly pulls out the polished tankard he pocketed back at the warehouse. “Well, let’s see what secrets you’ve got, partner,” he murmurs under his breath, running a finger along the engraved face carved into the metal. Carefully, he tips it side to side, waiting to see if any hidden magic or mechanical trick might reveal itself—like a farmer prodding the soil in spring, trying to gauge what might sprout. If there’s some latent magic in this thing, he figures it’s better to discover it now—before it surprises him at the worst possible moment. With a small, wry smile, he sets to work, hoping no unwelcome surprises lurk at the bottom of its shining depths.
Teryn sits cross-legged at the foot of his bed, slowly turning the Ring of the Ram on his finger as he focuses his thoughts. The weight of it settles into his hand as the enchantment begins to weave into his senses, a faint pulse of latent force thrumming in his palm.
Beside him on the nightstand rests the glass bottle containing the tiny, lifeless sprite. Teryn studies it in silence, silver eyes catching the faint shimmer of her wings, his expression unreadable. His patron’s presence brushes against his thoughts—cool, otherworldly, a ripple of wordless sorrow and quiet resolve. “One of ours. Taken.”
He closes his eyes and breathes slowly, the veil of trance beginning to descend. The flicker of mystery still burns beneath his thoughts, the weight of questions left unanswered—Veyla, the Duskrats, the Gilded Iris, and now this cruel trophy. They will solve this, he swears silently. And if fate grants him the chance to stop whoever hunted the Veil’s kin, he will take it gladly. His mind slips into the dreamlike clarity of elven rest, distant sylvan whispers threading through his thoughts like leaves in a moonlit breeze.
As you ease the tankard from your pack and turn it over in your hands, the etched face carved into its side seems to twitch, subtly, but unmistakably. The eyes narrow just a touch. The brows pull into an even sterner angle. You’ve held magic items before, but this one feels different: As if it’s not just enchanted, it’s annoyed.
When you tilt it sideways for a better look, the sculpted lips press into a thin, exasperated line. The kind of expression you might see on a town constable watching someone try to steal a horse in broad daylight. You flip it upside down, give it a gentle shake, but nothing. The engraved mouth tightens even further, and the face seems to shift ever so slightly, as if to say: Hey! Put me down! Stop that at once! You lower it a bit and the expression seems to ease. A quiet judgment, but less aggressive. Like it’s grudgingly relieved to be upright again. There’s no voice. No mind you can feel pressing back. But the carved face reacts with uncanny timing, an enchanted echo of intention, perhaps. It doesn’t speak, but it responds.
And upon further inspection, you glean this might be a Tankard of Sobriety, a curious magical item that renders any nonmagical alcoholic beverage poured into it completely inert. No matter the strength, no matter the quantity, the drinker will not feel a trace of intoxication.
Useful, perhaps, if you’re trying to stay sharp in a contest of drinks, or if you want someone to think they’re drinking something stronger than they are. But one thing is certain: This tankard takes its job very seriously.
As Teryn slips deeper into his trance, the sounds of the waking world fade until only the hush of wind remains. He finds himself standing at the edge of a silent glade where trees stretch toward the sky like charcoal fingers, their bark blackened and cracked, their branches stripped bare by fire or time. Yet, in this lifeless wood, something stirs. From the heart of each tree, pale blooms begin to unfurl. Soft, glowing petals that radiate a silver luminescence, blossoming only under the distant gaze of a cold, moonlit sky. The trees do not move, but the hush carries a weight. As if the forest is watching, or waiting.
Teryn looks upward, drawn to the stars above. One pulses bright, steady, until, without warning, it vanishes. Blinking out of existence, snuffed out as if someone had simply closed an eye. The moon dims slightly in its absence.
A low hum vibrates in his bones. Not threatening, but familiar. A presence, ancient and veiled, brushing against the edges of his mind. It doesn’t speak, but in the way dreams communicate truths beyond words, it imparts a single, lingering feeling:
“Watch the sky.”
Then, like the falling of a curtain, darkness returns. When Teryn awakes, the feeling like he is still standing in the glade lingers.
Ellanise
As your breathing steadies and the flickering lamplight fades behind your eyelids, your thoughts drift. Not to dreams, but to memories.
The dusky corridors of the city's undercity return in fragments: the echo of quick footsteps in narrow alleys, hushed plans exchanged beneath dim lights, the scent of damp stone and adrenaline. Faces blur, but Ryn’s piercing gaze remains vivid, as sharp and unrelenting as ever. So does Mariel’s laugh. Soft, but always tinged with tension. There was always tension. Moments surface. The first time you scaled a wall with nothing but fingerholds and trust. The first time you felt truly invisible. The first time you lied for someone else’s survival instead of your own. The Duskrats weren’t just a gang. They were a crucible, and you, reshaped by that fire.
When your trance lifts, the early hours press in around you. While others sleep or slip into reverie, you move, fluid, calm, each motion a silent meditation. The pole collapses and extends with a satisfying snap, and you feel it settle into your grip like it belongs there. There’s peace in the repetition. In the motion. And in the certainty that, whatever the next few days hold, you’re no longer the same person who once followed orders in the dark.
Teryn awakens slowly, breath shallow, silver eyes opening to the soft, familiar gloom of his chamber. The candle has long since guttered, and the only sound is the faint creak of ancient wood settling in the walls. But the weight of the dream clings to him like mist—haunting, vivid, and impossible to shake.
He sits up, rubbing a hand through his hair, the feel of charred bark and silver petals still etched into his fingertips. “Watch the sky,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. It hadn’t been a warning in the traditional sense—more like a thread being drawn taut, a change just beginning to tug at the edge of the world.
Rising from the bed, Teryn crosses to the small window and pulls aside the curtain. He gazes up, not searching for constellations or signs, but simply...watching. Waiting. Listening to the silence between the stars. Something shifted in the Veil last night, and if his patron had taken the time to show him that glade, that bloom, that fading light—then it mattered.
Rowan turns the tankard over in his hands one last time, unable to stop a small grin at the stern face etched into its side. “You might be the funniest bit of wizardry I’ve ever held,” he mutters, tapping lightly at his belt as if to reassure himself it’s still there. Despite the tankard’s useful trick, he shrugs with an easy laugh. “What’s life without a little buzz now and then? If anyone else wants it, you’re more than welcome—my drinking’s half the reason I’ve got a friend or two left in the world.”
With that, he sets the tankard down where any of his companions can retrieve it if they wish, then climbs into his bed. He settles in with a tired sigh, the faint warmth of the runic belt at his waist reminding him he’s safe enough—for tonight, at least. Sleep finds him quickly, carrying him off until the stir of morning light calls him back to whatever fate the next day holds.
Feeling more centered and perhaps a little more thick-skinned, Ellanise finds the others. She has braided her long hair into a single, thick plait that hangs down her back.
Bydelth stares at the tankyard, a confused expression in his face. "You- why would someone makes a tankyard that makes you sober? the fun is to get drunk! Honestly, some people." He grunts. "Maybe i can have it? I can use it to use as a small prank on my other dwarf friends! they will hate it, hehe."He jokes. Upon realization that he would need to sleep, Byldeth gulps, "Uhm. . .okay, i . . . see you lot later. If anything happens, just scream, okay?" He states, waiting for the others to go to sleep, before heading to his bed himself.
Teryn rises with the first threads of light filtering through the curtains, moving with quiet purpose. He washes, dresses in his familiar green robes. The Ring of the Ram gleams faintly on his finger, its presence still new but grounding. Before leaving, he pauses to glance at the bottled sprite tucked away in his satchel, a silent promise flickering in his thoughts. If he can bring justice to whoever caged something so sacred, he will.
The hallways of the academy are hushed in the early hour, lit by the soft glow of arcane lanterns. Entering the lobby, he offers a faint, wry smile. “Good morning. I trust you’re all rested and ready to stir up more trouble today?”
Käinen stood still for a moment, letting the hush settle around him. It had been a long day — long like the mountain roads of his youth, winding and steep and full of missteps. He unfastened his tunic and let it fall onto a lone chair. The sound it made was soft, a whisper of worn cloth, but it filled the space all the same. He stripped the wrappings on his arms. The light found old lines on his skin — marks from the cloth, scars from blades, clubs, perhaps even his own fists.
He laid down, arms crossed over his chest, and stared at the ceiling. For a moment his mind could imagine old beams crisscrossed like the ribs of something long dead and only half remembered. He didn’t pray. Hadn’t in years. But he did think of home. He would send good coin after all that.
Sleep came easy, and upon waking up the goliath started his morning routine. Long stretches, push-ups, squats. Everything far from enough to make him sweat. Silent like a shadow he made his way to the lobby.
“I would rather solve the trouble.” He answered Theryn. “We could start with our mystery chest.”
After that, they would need to ask Ellanise about approaching the Rats. And make sure she would do whatever necessary.
Rowan strolls into the breakfast area, hair still tousled from sleep, tapping idly at the runic belt on his waist. “Mornin’, all,” he says, voice warm as fresh-tilled earth. “Hope you slept fair as a field on a sunny day. ’Tween Teryn’s restless plans and that talk of trouble, I half expected a midnight ruckus.” He settles at the table, nodding at Byldeth with a grin. “Glad the tankard’s found a new home. Far as I’m concerned, it’d be like sowing seeds in salted ground—might keep me sober, but it’d rob me of the harvest, if you get my meaning.”
He tucks into his breakfast with an easy laugh, casting a curious glance at the others. “So about that mystery chest—let’s give it a good once-over, shall we?” His hand drifts again to his belt in a steadying gesture, a flicker of hidden energy in that touch. “I’ve no notion what’s locked away, but best we crack it open before it sprouts into some bigger storm.”
Morning settles gently over Luminaar, the first rays of sunlight casting long golden lines across the stone floors of your shared quarters. The quiet of the early hour is a welcome contrast to the chaos of the night before. You gather at the table. Some still groggy, others more alert, enjoying a rare moment of calm.
The chest, retrieved from the tunnel beneath the warehouse, rests nearby. Untouched since the night before, It hums faintly with the suggestion of something important, or at least intentionally concealed.
A sudden, polite knock breaks the quiet.
Moments later, the door opens and Vasha steps into the room. Her sharp eyes sweep across the table and land on the unfamiliar chest sitting at its center. Oh?” she says, tilting her head with interest. “I don’t remember that being here yesterday.” She steps closer, arms folded behind her back. Her tone remains smooth, but her tail flicks with a hint of restrained enthusiasm. “Is that from yesterday's escapades? I’ve read plenty of stories of adventurers cracking open chests of treasure. I never thought I would see it happen right in front of me.” She leans slightly forward, eyes glittering with interest. “Do you mind if I watch? I admit—this sort of thing is much more exciting than grading parchment.”
She doesn’t push, but she lingers, clearly eager to see what’s hidden inside.
Rowan clears his throat, easing his gaze over to Vasha. “You ever heard of this Ryn Faelith, or got any inkling about her folks? We’re planting seeds in the dark here, and we’d do better to turn the soil where we might strike roots. If she’s the one holdin’ the scythe, I’d rather know her station, her friends, and what patch of ground she calls home. Anything you’ve got might give us a line on how to spook or lure her, ‘cause I’m not keen on stumbling blind into her row.” He pauses, tapping a knuckle against his belt as he rummages through his own memory—though he comes up short (History: 3). “I tried to recall if I’d heard her name on the wind, but it’s all crickets up here. Maybe you know a spot we can dig up a little gossip?”
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant - Runewarren || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute || Arista - Frost Sorcerer - Old Keep || Zephirah - Demonic Bard - Sands || Merry - Gifted Surgeon - Short || Marasatra - Blood Mage - Avernus || Lan - Dwarf Dragon - Wuxian ||
Ellanise, staring at Vasha as if trying to read her mind, shifts her weight from one foot to the other in discomfort. A hand goes to her mouth, then into her long hair. Her eyes begin to sparkle.
"Ryn ... " she says weakly.
She turns and walks a few paces away from the others, her head down. What is she doing? Where is this emotion coming from? After a sigh, she turns to face the others again.
As if running out of steam, she begins strong, but then peters out at the end: "Ryn was my boss. My leader. My mentor. And in some ways ... my friend." She clears her throat, getting back a little of her energy. "She's the leader of the Duskrats. Or, at least she was when I ran with them. She took me in and trained me. She ... took a liking to me. Gave me special attention. I think she thought I might take over one day." She shrugs. "I don't know. It could have been my own naiveté. Or wishful thinking."
She walks over and picks up the severed finger between two of her own, clearly not put off by it. She twists it in front of her eyes. "Ryn is ruthless. Ryn always gets her way ... one way or another." She slowly lowers the finger and taps it on the table absently as she collects her thoughts.
Turning, she says, "I was hopeful she might have just let me go. It's possible she isn't planning my death. After I was arrested and then released to The Shrouded Spire, I considered never returning to Luminaar. I suppose I'm still considering leaving and never returning. But I feel like I have ... business here."
She holds the finger up again, her countenance returned to its usual pleasant thoughtfulness. "If Veyla is ordering Ryn around, she's not going to like it. It's possible we could reach some kind of temporary agreement to help Ryn take Veyla down."
She looks again at Vasha, trying to read her face. Why is she so suspicious of the tiefling?
"It's risky, but it might work."
Professor Marsh hums under his breath, thumbing through the edges of the blueprint Käinen placed before him. “Ryn Faelith… Duskrats…” he mutters, mostly to himself, his brows furrowing as if he’s trying to fit new pieces into a puzzle that’s suddenly grown much larger. “No, I can’t say I’ve heard of her. My work keeps me rather insulated from those sorts of... personalities.”
Vasha, meanwhile, leans lightly against the bookshelf, arms crossed. Her eyes linger a moment longer on Ellanise after her confession—there’s no judgment there, only something harder to read. Sympathy, perhaps. Or respect. Or wariness. “If you really think she’d consider a deal, then it might be our only way in,” she says at last, her voice quiet but certain. “But tread carefully. Power like Ryn’s doesn’t fade easily, and if she sees you as a threat instead of a tool…” Her fingers twitch like a knife sliding through parchment. “Well. You know better than anyone.”
She straightens, her tail flicking once behind her. “Still. If Veyla is calling the shots, and Ryn doesn’t like it… that may be the only crack in their wall we can slip through.”
Professor Marsh nods slowly. “Yes, well. That’s... a great deal to consider.” He looks at each of you in turn, his features softening as the weight of your night begins to register. “You’ve clearly all been through more than I imagined when we first met.” He gestures to the chairs and long bench near the hearth.
“I insist you get some rest. The hour is late, and whatever path you decide—whether you reach out to this Ryn Faelith, investigate the Gilded Iris, or something else entirely—better minds make better plans with sleep behind them.” He pauses, adjusting his glasses. “And perhaps, when the sun’s up, we can look at that floor plan and the key again with fresh eyes. I have a feeling they may still have something to offer.”
Vasha gives a quiet, teasing smile. “I can show you all to your quarters when you're ready, just give me the say-so."
DM : The Shade Over Runewarren | Vaelen Gravesong : Shadow of Eternal Night
"Fear is the weight we carry, love is the treasure we bury."
He listened the conversation, hand to chin, clearly reflecting. No one seemed to think about the man who escaped the warehouse and Ellanise made mention of how to find Ryn. She did find old friends tonight, Käinen pondered deciding that reaching the criminal was unlikely to be a problem. Thing was, they had no guarantee she would help. In fact, it seemed more likely to him that she would ambush them and try having them killed.
“I don’t think we have better lead, but we should only go after the Rats if we are ready to the possibility of having to take them down. And make them speak.” The goliath looked at the elf, then back to the professor. His eyes met Vasha’s for a moment. “Since the professor is so graciously turning away of the matter, I saw we take the ring. At least for the duration of this quest. One can never have too many ways of attacking in the face of battle, though I wouldn’t be a good choice to use it.” His fighting style relied too heavily on unarmed attacks, was fundamentally incompatible. He nodded as Marsh spoke of resting. “Do the honors, beautiful one.”
His tone was casual, as if he spoke something obvious and unimportant.
Rowan raises an eyebrow when the talk of “Ryn” comes from Ellanise rather than Vasha, but he lets it pass without comment—everyone’s got old seeds they’d rather not sow in public. “Huh. Didn’t think we’d find those answers in our own row. Guess we saved Vasha the trouble of spillin’ her beans,” he says in a hushed tone, crossing his arms thoughtfully. “As for that ring, well, no sense leavin’ it in the dirt if it might help us plant a few victories. Whichever of us can swing it best, I say let ’em take it—better on our side than nobody’s.”
With a tired huff, he rubs at the tension in his neck and glances toward the hallway. “I’m about ready to call it a night, folks. Still got that little ‘treasure’ I’m keen to poke at.” He pats his satchel softly, where that oddly carved tankard rests. “Might as well see if it’s worth all the trouble before we get tangled in a fresh mess. Let’s bed down while the moon’s still up—I figure we’ll do better plannin’ come sunrise.”
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant - Runewarren || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute || Arista - Frost Sorcerer - Old Keep || Zephirah - Demonic Bard - Sands || Merry - Gifted Surgeon - Short || Marasatra - Blood Mage - Avernus || Lan - Dwarf Dragon - Wuxian ||
Teryn watches Ellanise as she speaks, a quiet recognition flickering behind his silver eyes. He doesn’t interrupt, nor does he offer platitudes. Instead, he gives a small nod—subtle, but sincere. There’s kinship in it, an unspoken understanding that the past, however tangled, doesn’t define the whole of a person.
As the conversation shifts and Marsh gestures toward the seats, Teryn exhales, tension loosening from his shoulders. “A good night’s rest does sound terribly wise,” he agrees, smoothing a hand through his long blond hair before his eyes flick back toward the severed finger.
No one claims it, so with a faint shrug, he reaches out and slips the Ring of the Ram free with delicate fingers. He wipes it on the inside hem of his robe—still a noble’s habit, despite everything—before slipping it onto his own hand. Then, as if drawn by curiosity or the need to stay just a bit busy, his gaze drifts to the chest still sitting nearby. He tilts his head, considering. “I wonder…would smashing it open do more harm than good? Something to consider as I attune to this," he muses aloud, tapping it lightly with one knuckle.
Vasha gives Käinen a sly look at his final comment, one brow lifting. “Charming and deferential. A rare combination.” Her tail flicks once behind her as she straightens from the wall, brushing invisible dust from her sleeves. “I’ll show you to your rooms,” she says smoothly, her tone light but composed. “You’ll be staying in the same quarters as before. Fresh linens, I’m sure—assuming no one’s absconded with them. This way.”
As she leads you out of Marsh’s office and down the quiet, lamp-lit corridor, she speaks over her shoulder. “We’ll reconvene in the morning. I suggest a few hours of sleep before you start dismantling any more criminal syndicates, yes?” She smirks faintly, the dim light glinting off her obsidian eyes. “Professor Marsh and I will look into that key and the floorplan further, if you wish. If either of us unearth something useful, you’ll be the first to know.”
At the end of the hall, she gestures to the guest chambers you remember from your first night at the academy, modest but comfortable, with heavy curtains to block out the morning light and just enough creaking floorboards to remind you you're not far from a library tower that’s probably older than any of you. As she starts to turn away, she pauses, glancing back. “One last thing, if you do intend to make contact with the Duskrats, be cautious.”
With that, she pivots on her heel and glides off into the corridor, the faint sound of her bootsteps swallowed by the quiet darkness ahead.
DM : The Shade Over Runewarren | Vaelen Gravesong : Shadow of Eternal Night
"Fear is the weight we carry, love is the treasure we bury."
Rowan settles on the edge of the narrow bed and gingerly pulls out the polished tankard he pocketed back at the warehouse. “Well, let’s see what secrets you’ve got, partner,” he murmurs under his breath, running a finger along the engraved face carved into the metal. Carefully, he tips it side to side, waiting to see if any hidden magic or mechanical trick might reveal itself—like a farmer prodding the soil in spring, trying to gauge what might sprout. If there’s some latent magic in this thing, he figures it’s better to discover it now—before it surprises him at the worst possible moment. With a small, wry smile, he sets to work, hoping no unwelcome surprises lurk at the bottom of its shining depths.
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant - Runewarren || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute || Arista - Frost Sorcerer - Old Keep || Zephirah - Demonic Bard - Sands || Merry - Gifted Surgeon - Short || Marasatra - Blood Mage - Avernus || Lan - Dwarf Dragon - Wuxian ||
Teryn sits cross-legged at the foot of his bed, slowly turning the Ring of the Ram on his finger as he focuses his thoughts. The weight of it settles into his hand as the enchantment begins to weave into his senses, a faint pulse of latent force thrumming in his palm.
Beside him on the nightstand rests the glass bottle containing the tiny, lifeless sprite. Teryn studies it in silence, silver eyes catching the faint shimmer of her wings, his expression unreadable. His patron’s presence brushes against his thoughts—cool, otherworldly, a ripple of wordless sorrow and quiet resolve. “One of ours. Taken.”
He closes his eyes and breathes slowly, the veil of trance beginning to descend. The flicker of mystery still burns beneath his thoughts, the weight of questions left unanswered—Veyla, the Duskrats, the Gilded Iris, and now this cruel trophy. They will solve this, he swears silently. And if fate grants him the chance to stop whoever hunted the Veil’s kin, he will take it gladly. His mind slips into the dreamlike clarity of elven rest, distant sylvan whispers threading through his thoughts like leaves in a moonlit breeze.
As you ease the tankard from your pack and turn it over in your hands, the etched face carved into its side seems to twitch, subtly, but unmistakably. The eyes narrow just a touch. The brows pull into an even sterner angle. You’ve held magic items before, but this one feels different: As if it’s not just enchanted, it’s annoyed.
When you tilt it sideways for a better look, the sculpted lips press into a thin, exasperated line. The kind of expression you might see on a town constable watching someone try to steal a horse in broad daylight. You flip it upside down, give it a gentle shake, but nothing. The engraved mouth tightens even further, and the face seems to shift ever so slightly, as if to say: Hey! Put me down! Stop that at once! You lower it a bit and the expression seems to ease. A quiet judgment, but less aggressive. Like it’s grudgingly relieved to be upright again. There’s no voice. No mind you can feel pressing back. But the carved face reacts with uncanny timing, an enchanted echo of intention, perhaps. It doesn’t speak, but it responds.
And upon further inspection, you glean this might be a Tankard of Sobriety, a curious magical item that renders any nonmagical alcoholic beverage poured into it completely inert. No matter the strength, no matter the quantity, the drinker will not feel a trace of intoxication.
Useful, perhaps, if you’re trying to stay sharp in a contest of drinks, or if you want someone to think they’re drinking something stronger than they are. But one thing is certain: This tankard takes its job very seriously.
DM : The Shade Over Runewarren | Vaelen Gravesong : Shadow of Eternal Night
"Fear is the weight we carry, love is the treasure we bury."
Ellanise sits on the floor and folds her legs before her. Sitting ramrod straight, she closes her eyes and begins counting her breaths.
So much has happened in the past two days. So much could happen in the next two days.
Her trance is full of memories from her time running with the Duskrats.
After her trance is over, she spends the next two hours practicing all that Kaelion Vos taught her. Most of all, she focuses her mind.
Following that, she spends a little time with her new pole.
Teryn
As Teryn slips deeper into his trance, the sounds of the waking world fade until only the hush of wind remains. He finds himself standing at the edge of a silent glade where trees stretch toward the sky like charcoal fingers, their bark blackened and cracked, their branches stripped bare by fire or time. Yet, in this lifeless wood, something stirs. From the heart of each tree, pale blooms begin to unfurl. Soft, glowing petals that radiate a silver luminescence, blossoming only under the distant gaze of a cold, moonlit sky. The trees do not move, but the hush carries a weight. As if the forest is watching, or waiting.
Teryn looks upward, drawn to the stars above. One pulses bright, steady, until, without warning, it vanishes. Blinking out of existence, snuffed out as if someone had simply closed an eye. The moon dims slightly in its absence.
A low hum vibrates in his bones. Not threatening, but familiar. A presence, ancient and veiled, brushing against the edges of his mind. It doesn’t speak, but in the way dreams communicate truths beyond words, it imparts a single, lingering feeling:
“Watch the sky.”
Then, like the falling of a curtain, darkness returns. When Teryn awakes, the feeling like he is still standing in the glade lingers.
Ellanise
As your breathing steadies and the flickering lamplight fades behind your eyelids, your thoughts drift. Not to dreams, but to memories.
The dusky corridors of the city's undercity return in fragments: the echo of quick footsteps in narrow alleys, hushed plans exchanged beneath dim lights, the scent of damp stone and adrenaline. Faces blur, but Ryn’s piercing gaze remains vivid, as sharp and unrelenting as ever. So does Mariel’s laugh. Soft, but always tinged with tension. There was always tension. Moments surface. The first time you scaled a wall with nothing but fingerholds and trust. The first time you felt truly invisible. The first time you lied for someone else’s survival instead of your own. The Duskrats weren’t just a gang. They were a crucible, and you, reshaped by that fire.
When your trance lifts, the early hours press in around you. While others sleep or slip into reverie, you move, fluid, calm, each motion a silent meditation. The pole collapses and extends with a satisfying snap, and you feel it settle into your grip like it belongs there. There’s peace in the repetition. In the motion. And in the certainty that, whatever the next few days hold, you’re no longer the same person who once followed orders in the dark.
DM : The Shade Over Runewarren | Vaelen Gravesong : Shadow of Eternal Night
"Fear is the weight we carry, love is the treasure we bury."
Teryn awakens slowly, breath shallow, silver eyes opening to the soft, familiar gloom of his chamber. The candle has long since guttered, and the only sound is the faint creak of ancient wood settling in the walls. But the weight of the dream clings to him like mist—haunting, vivid, and impossible to shake.
He sits up, rubbing a hand through his hair, the feel of charred bark and silver petals still etched into his fingertips. “Watch the sky,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. It hadn’t been a warning in the traditional sense—more like a thread being drawn taut, a change just beginning to tug at the edge of the world.
Rising from the bed, Teryn crosses to the small window and pulls aside the curtain. He gazes up, not searching for constellations or signs, but simply...watching. Waiting. Listening to the silence between the stars. Something shifted in the Veil last night, and if his patron had taken the time to show him that glade, that bloom, that fading light—then it mattered.
Rowan turns the tankard over in his hands one last time, unable to stop a small grin at the stern face etched into its side. “You might be the funniest bit of wizardry I’ve ever held,” he mutters, tapping lightly at his belt as if to reassure himself it’s still there. Despite the tankard’s useful trick, he shrugs with an easy laugh. “What’s life without a little buzz now and then? If anyone else wants it, you’re more than welcome—my drinking’s half the reason I’ve got a friend or two left in the world.”
With that, he sets the tankard down where any of his companions can retrieve it if they wish, then climbs into his bed. He settles in with a tired sigh, the faint warmth of the runic belt at his waist reminding him he’s safe enough—for tonight, at least. Sleep finds him quickly, carrying him off until the stir of morning light calls him back to whatever fate the next day holds.
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant - Runewarren || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute || Arista - Frost Sorcerer - Old Keep || Zephirah - Demonic Bard - Sands || Merry - Gifted Surgeon - Short || Marasatra - Blood Mage - Avernus || Lan - Dwarf Dragon - Wuxian ||
Feeling more centered and perhaps a little more thick-skinned, Ellanise finds the others. She has braided her long hair into a single, thick plait that hangs down her back.
Bydelth stares at the tankyard, a confused expression in his face. "You- why would someone makes a tankyard that makes you sober? the fun is to get drunk! Honestly, some people." He grunts. "Maybe i can have it? I can use it to use as a small prank on my other dwarf friends! they will hate it, hehe." He jokes. Upon realization that he would need to sleep, Byldeth gulps, "Uhm. . .okay, i . . . see you lot later. If anything happens, just scream, okay?" He states, waiting for the others to go to sleep, before heading to his bed himself.
Teryn rises with the first threads of light filtering through the curtains, moving with quiet purpose. He washes, dresses in his familiar green robes. The Ring of the Ram gleams faintly on his finger, its presence still new but grounding. Before leaving, he pauses to glance at the bottled sprite tucked away in his satchel, a silent promise flickering in his thoughts. If he can bring justice to whoever caged something so sacred, he will.
The hallways of the academy are hushed in the early hour, lit by the soft glow of arcane lanterns. Entering the lobby, he offers a faint, wry smile. “Good morning. I trust you’re all rested and ready to stir up more trouble today?”
Käinen stood still for a moment, letting the hush settle around him. It had been a long day — long like the mountain roads of his youth, winding and steep and full of missteps. He unfastened his tunic and let it fall onto a lone chair. The sound it made was soft, a whisper of worn cloth, but it filled the space all the same. He stripped the wrappings on his arms. The light found old lines on his skin — marks from the cloth, scars from blades, clubs, perhaps even his own fists.
He laid down, arms crossed over his chest, and stared at the ceiling. For a moment his mind could imagine old beams crisscrossed like the ribs of something long dead and only half remembered. He didn’t pray. Hadn’t in years. But he did think of home. He would send good coin after all that.
Sleep came easy, and upon waking up the goliath started his morning routine. Long stretches, push-ups, squats. Everything far from enough to make him sweat. Silent like a shadow he made his way to the lobby.
“I would rather solve the trouble.” He answered Theryn. “We could start with our mystery chest.”
After that, they would need to ask Ellanise about approaching the Rats. And make sure she would do whatever necessary.
Rowan strolls into the breakfast area, hair still tousled from sleep, tapping idly at the runic belt on his waist. “Mornin’, all,” he says, voice warm as fresh-tilled earth. “Hope you slept fair as a field on a sunny day. ’Tween Teryn’s restless plans and that talk of trouble, I half expected a midnight ruckus.” He settles at the table, nodding at Byldeth with a grin. “Glad the tankard’s found a new home. Far as I’m concerned, it’d be like sowing seeds in salted ground—might keep me sober, but it’d rob me of the harvest, if you get my meaning.”
He tucks into his breakfast with an easy laugh, casting a curious glance at the others. “So about that mystery chest—let’s give it a good once-over, shall we?” His hand drifts again to his belt in a steadying gesture, a flicker of hidden energy in that touch. “I’ve no notion what’s locked away, but best we crack it open before it sprouts into some bigger storm.”
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant - Runewarren || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute || Arista - Frost Sorcerer - Old Keep || Zephirah - Demonic Bard - Sands || Merry - Gifted Surgeon - Short || Marasatra - Blood Mage - Avernus || Lan - Dwarf Dragon - Wuxian ||
Morning settles gently over Luminaar, the first rays of sunlight casting long golden lines across the stone floors of your shared quarters. The quiet of the early hour is a welcome contrast to the chaos of the night before. You gather at the table. Some still groggy, others more alert, enjoying a rare moment of calm.
The chest, retrieved from the tunnel beneath the warehouse, rests nearby. Untouched since the night before, It hums faintly with the suggestion of something important, or at least intentionally concealed.
A sudden, polite knock breaks the quiet.
Moments later, the door opens and Vasha steps into the room. Her sharp eyes sweep across the table and land on the unfamiliar chest sitting at its center. Oh?” she says, tilting her head with interest. “I don’t remember that being here yesterday.” She steps closer, arms folded behind her back. Her tone remains smooth, but her tail flicks with a hint of restrained enthusiasm. “Is that from yesterday's escapades? I’ve read plenty of stories of adventurers cracking open chests of treasure. I never thought I would see it happen right in front of me.” She leans slightly forward, eyes glittering with interest. “Do you mind if I watch? I admit—this sort of thing is much more exciting than grading parchment.”
She doesn’t push, but she lingers, clearly eager to see what’s hidden inside.
DM : The Shade Over Runewarren | Vaelen Gravesong : Shadow of Eternal Night
"Fear is the weight we carry, love is the treasure we bury."