Giles looks at the the wraps on his hands and the cloak wrapped loosely around him. He knows they are his, he knows he had them for a long time, however, he didn't have them a few minutes ago when he rode the giant crab across the river.
"Yeah. OK I guess you can call it" he says, looking across the river, wondering how many just died in that wave.
"We should get moving" he says, then adds, "oh, I can fly now" looking down at his boots, and will help the others and get ready to head away from the river.
The Fellowship are all changed in equipment and appearance, but that is not all. There are also signs of a great many adventures had but not clearly remembered. Ylis has a ragged scar across the left side of her face, starting at her forehead, traveling just in front of her eye, and ending at her cheek, like a winding crescent. She cannot remember where the scar was received, but she does know she got it in some way that makes her feel incredible pride when she sees it; not an ounce of shame or vanity exists when seeing her scar in a reflection.
Jack now has eyes that are impossibly emerald. Almost glowing with their vibrance, they catch and reflect even the barest hint of light.
Giles four top front teeth have been replaced with gold crowns and he has a scar on his lip just in front of them that suggest that he took a blow powerful enough to split the lip and knock out the teeth.
Everyone has some sign of a life well-lived for an adventurer, and these were but a handful.
"Great! NOW I can make potions of water breathing?! That would have been nice to know yesterday!" Ylis shouts to the sky.
She then plops to the ground in a huff and produces a bonfire and cauldron by stirring a golden spoon in the air.
The bunny lady reaches into the mystical pot and proceeds to pull out four Potion of Pugilism then hands them to Giles. "Here you go, makes you more punchy."
She goes back to her fire and kicks some dirt on it, and it vanishes. "OK gang, let's go. We're not getting any younger."
For this chapter, the party is presented with a creative writing challenge. YOU write the adventure. Specifically, I want each of you to write a substantial post on how you help the party with your level 15 character. What challenges did the Fellowship encounter where you were instrumental in navigating it?
You may choose the forest at the foot of the Ashkeeper peaks, navigating around it and shaving off a day, or the mountain range that eventually brings you to the mountain with the standing dead trees. Decide that as a party before you start. You may collaborate with others for your post but the point is to pull out all the stops, be the hero YOU want to be in this moment.
Please don’t use other PC’s without permission. For example, having someone fall into a pit so you can save them would make you look good, but without the player’s permission to use their character in that way, it might feel like it were at their expense. Avoid that and make sure everyone is fine with how their PC’s are treated in your post.
I will help with stat blocks for monsters if you need them or challenge DCs if you present yourself with something that calls for it, but really, I want to see what your PC would be like when given a moment in the spotlight.
Make sure to PM me the draft before posting so I might make edits if needed.
As the party steps deeper into the oppressive gloom of the forest, the very air seems to constrict around them. Twisted branches stretch out like skeletal fingers, blotting out the light, and the earth beneath their feet is soft and treacherous, carrying the pungent scent of decay. Each step forward feels like crossing a threshold into a realm that watches with malevolent patience. The forest is alive in a way none of them are used to, its silence is not peaceful, but expectant, as if waiting for them to make the first move.
Riven leads the way, his posture tense but calm, his eyes scanning every shift in the shadows. His instinct is the only guide he trusts here, and his steps are fluid, calculated. He pauses every few moments, listening, his fingers brushing the damp earth as he surveys the tracks. The others follow silent behind him, instinctively understanding the need for caution, though each reacts differently to the eerie surroundings.
Joy, her plate armor dull within the shadows, feels the weight of the of the loss of light more than anyone. The steady rhythm of her own breath seems too loud in this place, each rustle of the leaves, each crack of a twig underfoot, sends a flare of tension through her. Her fingers tighten around the hilt of her sword, but she forces herself to breathe slowly, steadying herself. Focus, she thinks. Trust your strength. Yet, beneath the surface, she can’t help but feel like prey in the jaws of a predator far larger than herself.
Beside her, Yils feels a cold shiver run down her spine. This is nothing like Trostenwald, the quiet streets and bustling market squares of her aunt’s home feel a world away. Here, the air is thick, almost suffocating, and every crackle of underbrush feels like a threat. She instinctively presses closer to Joy for comfort. The feeling that something is watching them presses at the back of her mind, and she feels small, uncertain. I’m not meant for this,she thinks, though she stays silent, watching Riven’s back as if his calm might rub off on her.
Giles, ever the calm center of the group, seems unfazed by the tension hanging in the air. His breath is steady, his presence a quiet anchor in the chaos. He’s not unused to danger, and the forest’s unsettling quiet resonates with a part of him that finds peace in stillness. Yet, even he can sense something is amiss. “This place… it breathes,” he murmurs to himself, his voice barely more than a whisper. It’s not a warning, but an observation. His mind is always in motion, calculating, analyzing, waiting for the next move. We’ll find our way through, he tells himself, though his eyes linger on the shifting shadows, ever alert.
Randa’s voice breaks the silence, cutting through the tension with a sharp laugh. “I’ve lived in jungles my whole life," she mutters, low and unimpressed.But whatever this is? This ain't nature." she mutters, her tone as dry as ever. She watches the others, noting their growing unease. Her hand rests casually at her side, though the way his eyes dart around reveals a readiness that belies her sarcastic tone. Beneath her humor, she’s sharp, always looking, always calculating. Despite the unsettling atmosphere of the forest, she knows better than to drop her guard entirely. “Though I’d appreciate it if we didn’t actually run into anything too dangerous,” she adds, more to herself than anyone else, though her gaze shifts briefly to Riven, the only one who seems entirely at ease.
Jack, on the other hand, is already calculating his next move, his eyes scanning the forest with an authoritative gaze. The wilds aren’t unfamiliar to him, but this place feels different, unnatural, almost predatory. He moves with purpose, his hand never straying far from his weapon, ready for whatever may come. Every step is measured, every muscle taut. Something in the air, something in the way the forest moves, makes him uneasy, but he’s been in enough dangerous situations already to know that hesitation is a far worse enemy than anything the forest could throw at them.
Vazo'yn silently observes, seems almost at peace amidst the growing tension. The way the forest shifts around them doesn’t seem to affect him, he remains perfectly composed, his steps light, his presence almost ethereal. He’s not distracted by the ambient unease. His mind remains a cold, calculating, analyzing, processing. As Riven moves on ahead, Vazo'yn feels the shift in the atmosphere, a predator’s awareness, a subtle pulse of dominance that has the air crackling with power. He’s not surprised, but intrigued. In his mind, he quietly notes the precision with which Riven commands the wilds. “Control,” he whispers softly, his voice a mere whisper. “A dangerous but necessary skill.”
Riven feels the tension in the air winding tighter with each passing step. His senses are stretched thin, aware of every rustle, every shift in the shadows. But something changes, his instincts snap into focus, a presence in the darkness just beyond his sight. Without a word, he drops to a crouch, fingers brushing the earth, and his sharp gaze scans the surroundings. Fresh tracks. Something is watching. The stillness around them is too deliberate, too complete. Riven raises a hand, signaling for them to freeze, and in that moment, the forest seems to hold its breath.
Instinct rules him now, sharper than any warning sign. Memory reminds him that instinct has always served him better than hesitation. Something waits, he can feel it, in the twisted limbs and sanctuary of shadow. He crouches, pressing two fingers to the damp earth. His breath goes still. Tracks, fresh. Pressure in the underbrush. Predators, watching. His voice is quiet as breath: "They're watching."
He doesn’t wait for fear to stir. Instead, Riven raises his hand in a smooth, deliberate motion, tracing an almost lazy arc through the air. As his fingers move, the shadows around him stir, almost as if they recognize a familiar master. They curl and weave around him and the others, like tendrils of black smoke in still water. The light seems to dim slightly, not enough to notice consciously, just enough to make shapes blur, edges soften and sounds dull. Footfalls that should crunch on leaves make no sound; even the rattle of armor and the clink of weapons are swallowed by the heavy shroud now clinging to them as the magic takes hold.
Riven continues on point, leading them deeper into the woods. His steps are light, calculated. His thoughts steady and ordered: Too quiet. The forest’s still breathing, but not for us. It’s waiting. He moves like a ghost, senses tuned to every rustle.
The forest shifts around them, winding into gnarled paths and sinister thickets. Claw marks stretch across tree trunks like old warnings. Spores drift through the gloom from fungi that pulse faintly in the corners of his vision. Then comes the pause, a long breath, held by the forest itself.
That is all the warning Riven needs.
He does not speak. He does not need to. The bow is in his hands in a heartbeat, arrow notched and string taut. His eyes narrow, catching the edge of a heavy footfall just beyond a fallen log, the outline of something moving with intention out of the gloom. He whispers the words, and draws a shallow breath, his hand brushing the fletching of an arrow, his eyes narrow, focusing on his target with predatory sharpness. A faint, nearly invisible ripple of force leaves his fingertips, a wisp of silver-gray energy that lashes toward the target and sinks into them like mist into cloth. To Riven, the creature now bears a barely perceptible outline, as though it stands out just a little too crisply against the world around it. Movements that should blend in are highlighted, and every twitch and tremor now draws Riven’s attention with unnatural clarity, as if the prey had already been caught in an unseen snare. Now it is his prey.
A sharp exhale, as Riven draws and looses an arrow, the projectile seems normal for a moment, then the air around it shivers. As it flies, thin, spectral vines twist and bloom from the shaft, growing fast. When the arrow strikes, it detonates in a silent burst, and dozens of ethereal thorny tendrils lash outward in all directions. The thorns gleam silver in the dim light, sharp as razors, tearing through the target like a sudden bloom of a vicious bramble patch. Screeches erupt in response: an unholy thing, twisted lunging from the shadows, part-beast, part-mold, their limbs creaking like rotten trees.
Riven is already moving.
He abandons the bow, lunging forward, blades flashing into his hands, rapier in one, short sword in the other. The twin weapons dance through the air like shards of broken glass. The second beast barely has time to react; Riven’s rapier drives up under its ribs, the short sword carving across its side before it can even turn. He flows past it, a seamless blur of momentum, stepping into shadow as the creature falls twitching.
The third creature snarls and turns, but it is already too late. Riven emerges behind it, one foot braced as his blade sinks deep between its shoulder blades. It lets out a gurgle and crumples. He pauses for the briefest moment, breathing evenly.
Something massive tears through the trees. Riven spins just as the true threat emerges: a beast of bark and bone, tusks like warped stone, burning moss-laced eyes glaring from a twisted face. Its weight cracks the forest floor. Before he can react, it is on him, massive arms wrapping around his torso, claws digging in, trying to crush the air from his lungs.
Pain flares, but Riven does not panic. His mind remains calm. Crushing. Grappled. Trying to hold me still. He barely seems to move, his hand brushes his chest lightly, and a faint, pulsing shimmer spreads out from the point of contact like a ripple through still water. For a fleeting moment, it’s like his body becomes lighter, less bound by the rules of flesh and gravity. Roots, chains, or hands that try to restrain him would find him slipping free as though they were trying to grasp smoke. Riven moves just a little too smoothly, a little too perfectly, with none of the usual friction or resistance that governs mortal bodies. Riven steps free, rolls away, his cloak brushing past claws that no longer matter.
The beast reels in surprise, but Riven does not strike.
He looks into the beast's eyes and sees something deeper. A spark of consciousness. Riven meets it’s eyes, and for a moment, the world seems to tighten around the two of them, everything else falling away. He extends a hand, fingers splayed, and from his palm flows a deep, thrumming current of magic, not bright and flashy, but heavy, inevitable, like the weight of an ancient oath being fulfilled. The air between them hums with invisible force. A faint pulse, like a heartbeat of silver-blue light, bridges the space from his hand to the beast’s chest. The creature stumbles, its body tensing against an unseen pull, and then slackens, as if a chain had slipped silently around its mind. Riven is not merely casting a spell, but claiming the creature, binding its will to his through nothing but the strength of his presence and a wordless, ancient authority. He reaches inward, the creature staggers. Pauses.
And obeys.
Riven steps closer, expression unreadable. A silent thread stretches between them, binding predator to predator. You are bound to me now, he thinks, and the beast understand.
Behind him, the others start forward, weapons drawn.
Riven’s thoughts cut through the trees, through Vazo’yn's mental link. "Stand down. The Alpha has yielded to me. It will lead us out."
A moment of silence. Then through the link, Vazo’yn’s reply. "Understood."
Fluid and silent, Riven swings himself onto the beast’s back. At his command, it turns, moving through the undergrowth with unnatural ease. The forest bends to its passage, roots drawing back, branches bowing as if recognizing a predator greater than themselves.
No one speaks.
They walk in silence, following something that, moments ago, would have tried to tear them apart. But now, it is a mount. A guide. A weapon leashed to the will of a single man.
The others will say the forest spared them. That they were lucky to escape its grasp.
The Ashkeeper Peaks clawed at the sky, casting long, broken shadows over the Fellowship as they pressed on. They had chosen the harder way, the mountain path, knowing that speed was their only ally against the creeping doom behind them. Their breath frosted in the cold air, their footsteps steady despite the rising unease curling through the stones beneath their boots.
The earth screamed as a hellish rift tore itself open ahead, spilling fiery light across the barren slope.
From it, barbed devils emerged, bristling with cruel spikes and slavering jaws. Behind them, eclipsing even the towering crags, came a monster born of nightmare: a Pit Fiend, its wings blotting out the stars, its flaming sword dragging molten scars across the ground. A wave of despair radiated from the fiend—an aura of terror, threatening to crush the Fellowship’s will.
But as the fear washed toward them, it shattered harmlessly against Joy’s radiant aura. Her holy light surged outward, wrapping her companions in a golden, comforting warmth. It was like standing beneath the first rays of dawn after a night spent lost in darkness. Courage filled their hearts, steel strengthened their limbs.
Riven moved like a ghost, arrows flashing with deadly accuracy into the ranks of the lesser devils.
Randa fired alongside him, her shots precise, pinning devils back and keeping them from overwhelming the front lines.
Vazo'yn's voice, low and commanding, twined through the Fellowship like steel in silk, bolstering them, inspiring them with tales of unyielding hope.
Jack, cloak swirling around him, blurred through the chaos, planting illusions and striking with nimble precision, buying precious moments for the others.
Ylis called on magic and spirit, sending bursts of dazzling light that forced snarling devils to shield their eyes.
Giles moved like a gale of divine fury, striking with fists wreathed in disciplined power.
And still, the Pit Fiend advanced. Joy stood firm, feeling the fiend’s malevolence beating against her shield like a storm. She raised her holy symbol high, golden light pouring from it as she whispered a prayer to Lathander, calling on every ounce of strength and faith within her.
"By the Morninglord’s Light—return to the hells you crawled from!"
The Pit Fiend’s roar shook the mountains—but the light engulfed it. With a final, furious bellow, it vanished, ripped from the material plane by the unbreakable will of Joy and the Dawnfather’s blessing. The battlefield froze—then shifted. Without their leader, the barbed devils wavered.
When the final devil let out a keening wail and crumbled to ash, a heavy silence descended over the broken ground. Joy stood in the center, breathing heavily, sweat mingling with the dust on her brow—but her eyes were bright. Hope burned fiercely within her. She turned to her companions, each battered but alive, and smiled.
"Together, we're stronger than any darkness."
And with the rift still smoldering behind them and the Peaks still looming ahead, the Fellowship pressed on.
High in the frigid reaches of the Ashkeeper Peaks, the Fellowship of the Wind found themselves facing a curious obstacle: a sprawling maze carved from jagged stone, its passages choked with mist and shadow.
The maze was strange from the start. When any of the Fellowship, many of them now capable of flight, tried to fly to scout the area from above, the stone walls simply grew taller, stretching upward faster than they could ascend. And when they flew back to the ground, the walls shrank with them, teasing and mocking.
Then the whispers began.
At first they were soft—unintelligible murmurs threading through the air, tugging at their minds, urging suspicion, mistrust. Riven tightened his hand on his bow. Randa glanced at Giles with narrowed eyes. Jack and Lily whispered conspiratorially to each other, while Ylis tried to hide behind Joy. Even Joy seemed troubled, her hopeful eyes darting to her companions.
But Vazo’yn heard the spirits’ true meaning. With a careful, practised hand, he drew cards of insight and foretelling from the pouch at his waist. His words of reassurance inspiredhope and determination among the Fellowship, dulling the whispers’ claws and lifting the heavy fog of doubt whenever it crept too close.
“We move together,” Vazo’yn said firmly, holding up his spyglass. Through its enchanted lens, he peered beyond twists and dead ends, glimpsing hidden turns that the eye could not see. Riven moved beside him, his keen survival instincts working in tandem with Vazo’yn’s mystical guidance.
They pressed on for what felt like hours. The labyrinth fought them every step—walls shifting subtly, pathways collapsing into rubble—but the Fellowship trusted their guides, Vazo'yn and Riven. Giles knocked down a crumbling wall when necessary. Randa sliced away creeping vines that sought to drag them back. Jack flung bolts of eldritch power at spectral shapes that darted just out of view. Ylis wove her magic to keep away creatures that gnashed at their heels. And through it all, Joy's brilliant aura fortified them.
At last, they reached a wide clearing at the heart of the maze. Waiting there was a figure they all recognised—the witch from Trostenwald, the one who had set them on this journey with riddles and warnings. She stood laughing, her voice rich and mocking.
“You have done well,” she said. “But all for nothing.”
Vazo’yn narrowed his eyes. His instincts prickled—this was wrong. Drawing upon his finely honed insight, he pierced the veil of deception. It was not the witch. It was something else—something hidden.
“Illusions and lies,” Vazo’yn murmured. Instinctively, he drew the Seven of Stars from his deck. The Illusionist. He thrust it toward the thing that wore the witch's face, focusing unravelling magic through it. The false image shattered like glass, revealing a trickster spirit from the Feywild, its form a swirling mass of vines, sharp teeth, and flashing eyes.
The spirit shrieked in rage at being unmasked. Its hands wove a quick spell, magic coiling to cast them back into the maze once more. But Vazo’yn was faster. He thrust out a hand, his voice slicing the spell apart with a potent counterspell.
Before the spirit could recover, Vazo'yn swiftly drew another card from his deck. The Six of Glyphs. Drawn at a moment when Vazo'yn's convictions have been tested, when confusion, doubt and disbelief threatened to turn the Fellowship on each other. The Anarchist. Great change enacted by one whose beliefs hold firm.
A flurry of grey-purple energy erupts from the card to encircle the fey creature, obscuring it entirely from view as the mist-like magic swirled. When finally it dissipated, the fey creature was gone, and in its place was a harmless field mouse.
Silence fell, save for a single, tiny squeak from the mouse before it scurried off.
The Fellowship of the Wind stood together, battered but victorious. The whispers were gone. The maze began to crumble around them, the illusory world losing its grip.
Vazo’yn turned his spyglass toward the horizon.
“Come,” he said, his voice determined in light of their ordeal. “The real road awaits.”
And together, the Fellowship stepped out of the ruins and back into the bright, open air of the Ashkeeper Peaks, the wind singing freedom all around them.
As the party entered the cavern, the croaking sounds intensified. Dropping a globe of daylight, the virtual army of devil toads was revealed. A number of red and blue slaadi moving between stalagmites blocked the path of the party. The only form of negotiation these creatures understood was violence.
Joy still recommends negotiation, there are many and the party could suffer casualties. “Well ok, you keep them talking.” Ylis moves away to prepare for being unfriendly. While Joy distracts the the creatures, the friendly neighborhood bard begins a casual plucking of his instrument.
Taking that as a cue, she begins an intricate dance and hides behind stalagmites as well. Using a moment while the frogs continue to chant “food” and “eat” and something about eggs she charges her staff with power, slowly slowly getting closer to them.
A-ha! What do we have here, a green fella trying to be inconspicuous? We’ll see about that.
Ylis waits…
The demon frogs have enough of the talking talking and begin to move forward aggressively. The bunny lady responds by creating a stone impression of a bunny paw 30 feet long and 30 feet wide suspended from the ceiling with the stalactites acting like claws. Unfortunately the sound of casting gives away her position and a handful of the creatures turn her way.
UHOH
“Ooh, you are too close for comfort,” Ylis twirls her staff and the frog demons find themselves on top of the bunny paw 100 feet in the air. If anybody could see and understand their expressions, it would have been quite comical as their weight was enough to break the stone paw free of its mooring and sends it down to crush a great number of the fellows beneath it.
HA!
With the numbers much diminished, the party engages with a will. Blades, arrows, and words of doom and gloom, fill the room. The cacophony of violence covers the sound of a bunny laughing hysterically. Another twitch of her staff surrounds her with a cloud of butterflies and unicorns. She moves towards the green slaad with purpose expecting it to not see exactly where she is.
WRONG
The slaad looks directly into her eyes and lashes out with claw and spell. Ylis dodges some of the attacks but one of the claws cuts her from thigh to hip and a blow from the crooked staff fills her head with absolute terror. The demon drools while standing over her, staff raised to bring it down on her head.
WAITAMINIT
She grips the plushie she has stuffed in a pocket and everything is sunshine and rainbows and eldritch blasts and rays of sunlight and “What do you call a frog with no legs? Unhoppy!” *Whack!* and “Haiya!”
Taking a deep breath, Ylis leaps to her feat and calls upon the power of Joy. She struck rapidly with her stick, crunching feet, smashing a knee and pummeling shoulders. “Head, shoulders, knees and toes!” The creature staggers under the assault and the spiritual unicorns begin to pick it apart piece by piece. Soon, just a skeleton is left standing and it clatters to the ground.
TA DAH!
“Oh boy, so tired…” and Ylis falls unconscious due to a poison running through her veins.
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
"Sooner or later, your Players are going to smash your railroad into a sandbox."
-Vedexent
"real life is a super high CR."
-OboeLauren
"............anybody got any potatoes? We could drop a potato in each hole an' see which ones get viciously mauled by horrible monsters?"
Jacaranda checks again on Ylis but the supernal gifts and abilities of her companions have already restored her. Jacaranda led the way through the rest of the cavern until they finally emerged once more onto the open face of the mountain......she cast her eyes about for danger but finding none she called them on and moved forward. She cast her eyes back over the group in wonder at what they had become.
Vazo'yn commanded the gifts of the spirits in ways that the wise women of her people could only dream of, his magics had healed many wounds and bolstered the efforts of others.
Riven and Giles were those she felt most at ease with....though even they performed impossible tasks as easily as they breathed.....things she did not understand but did respect.
Joy and Jack were walking embodiments of Natures Fury and Grace to her eyes.....avatars of the Wild Mother and the Archheart given form....it was all Randa could do not to sembah to them whenever they passed near.
Ylis was a hurricane, nothing stood before her power....tree, stone, fiend.....all fell to ruin.....
Randa looked down at herself and grinned wondering at the fact that she walked among giants.
They had survived many dangers of the Ashkeepers.......fiendish interlopers perhaps remnants of the warping of Xorhus, blighted nature- spirits and worse. She believed she must be the most northerly travelled of her people as others had gone as far as the Gethem Basin and they must be at least level with that body of water she thought.
She kept her hands resting on her two blades one of which still confused her......after their conflict with the fey being.....she had lain Rainfall down next to Tooth and Claw as they slept on the bare stone in the light of Catha.....when they had woken Tooth carried Rainfalls power and Rainfall had become Moonlight....she knew not why this had occured but took it as a sign of the Moon Weavers favour on their endeavour.
" Dead trees. We are drawing near, no?"
She called on the land to cloak her companions as they passed over sheer rock and scree slopes.....she watched for danger and scouted ahead......it was what she could do....it was not much compared to the rest but still she would do her part to see this through.
Night-time on the frigid reaches of the Ashkeeper Peaks.
"Hey, wakie wakie, time to watch over your flock for a while."The holy hexblood awakes to the soft voice of the now aging dark-haired man that is kneeling beside her. She senses there is something amiss though and she quickly sits up from her bedroll to watch the other in the faint light from the campfire."I'm sorry, there is something I need to do..."He says quietly to not wake the others, his look one of concern and worry."...I promise I will be back as soons as I can, please trust me." He says, briefly taking her hands as to assure her of his unusual sincerity. And with that he rises and takes a step back into the darkness, the tiny worried-looking blonde on his shoulder giving the hexblood a small wave, and then they both disappear.
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"This is not how I remember it."The dark-haired man says to the tiny blonde fluttering around seeming equally concerned about the scene before them, a thick and gnarly old forest almost seeming impassable at a distance and made even more sinister looking in the twilight of the Feywild. The companions cautiously moves closer but soon a smile widens on the dark-haired man."Hah, such magnificent trickery. It is not real, just magic, must be quite powerful magic to hide an entire city though. Now let's see if we can simply walk through this forest and reach the city gates."He says and proceeds forward as the forest turns transculent and fades away in his step.
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"Lady Tzaratziah, all is going according to plan, the legion is rounding up the populace and marching them to the portal, we expect to march throughout the night." The proud heavily armed and armoured hobgoblin commander reports with a deep firm voice to the old crone in the center of the lavishly decorated fey throne room, the old crone merely nodding and waving the lowly hobgoblin away with a crooked finger, leaving her alone with her prize, the radiantly beautiful archfey ruler of the magnificent city of Enath Lenore, bound to her throne by the powerful magical warding circle around it, stripping her of her immense powers and shackling her in time and space."I shall savour this night dear." The hag says with a cackling laughter as she takes a few mocking dance steps across the large fey throne room. "Wait, what is that..." She says and stares at a small invisible magical sensor, effortlessly dismissing it with a flick of her crooked finger."...it seems someone have taken an interest in what is going on here. It is a pity that we will be done before anyone will come to the rescue for your poor people." The old crone says with another mad cackle.
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"Okay okay, all is going to be fine." The dark-haired man says to encourage himself, hiding under his magical cloak in a dark back alley in the fey city. It was horrible to see what the hobgoblin legion had done to the beautiful lush fey city that he practically had grown up in, so many buildings turned to cinders and the dark streets filled with dead and panicking fey that was quickly and efficiently rounded up by the brutal invaders and put in chains. "We just need to deal with one problem at a time right?" He says, looking at the tiny blonde who gives him an encouraging nod and a reassuring smile."I mean at least this must be considered less of a challenge compared to saving a world from annihiliation." He adds with a weak smile.
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It was such a delight to watch the horrified eladrin children. Martzyga cackled madly as the small ones cowered together in a corner of the dark chamber. She had simply been ordered to protect the soul of the queen's daughter to keep their leverage while in the city. No fun with torturing the pesky fey in the streets but at least she had her new playthings to keep her company while her sisters took care of the rest.
"Your work is done here sister, give me the bag and return home and prepare for my arrival there." Comes the unmistakable voice of her hated elder sister, her large frame visble in the door a moment later."Can I bring something with me as a memory of our visit here sister dear?"Martzyga asks with a bow, galncing over at the small ones as she hands over her precious bag to the older sister. "You do as you are told sister..."The shape in the doorway says sharply, and now the younger sister cowers in fear, but then the voice softens. "...but perhaps I will bring you something nice and tender back home for you." She adds with an evil grin, glancing over at the eladrin children huddling together against the wall.
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"Lady Tzaratziah, there are reports from the city, several patrols have been ambushed by an elusive assailant, the description of the attacker varies wildly so there might be many of them. Also, your youngest sister have abandoned her post."The heavily armoured hobgoblin commander reports with a deep firm voice to the old crone in the center of the lavishly decorated fey throne room, the old crone glaring at back at him. "Martzyga has betrayed me?? Once this is done I will hunt her down and carve her heart out with a spoon." She growls, furiously pacing the throne room floor, not noticing the tiny smile from the archfey queen bound to her throne. "Send your worgs out commander and hunt those rebels out swiftly or it will be your heart."
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"Get a move on you fey scum!"Gryzmata screams at the shackled line of beaten eladrin and satyrs, followed by a squad of hobgoblin soldiers moving slowly through the dark city street. She relished in watching the hated fey defeated and subjugated and now they would be taken and put into slavery and everlasting suffering in the dark mines of her home. Suddenly screams of pain come from the hobgobling soldiers, their gauntlets going to their helmets before they drop to the ground as one.
"You should not have come here, flee while you still can." Comes the potent voice of the archfey queen, and a moment later she appears in the nightsky above the old hag."You...how...my sister...she trapped you..." Gryzmata says weakly in disbelief, a moment later she feels the pain of a fey blade in her back while a powerful wind strikes her with full force, only to be followed by emerald beams of eldritch crackling force striking her in the chest. "You will not get me queen." The old crone growls and disappears...
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"Lady Tzaratziah, more reports coming in from the captains, the mighty earth elementals that was guarding the portal has vanished and the portal has been destroyed. We can not bring back the captured fey through it. Also, your other sister is missing." The heavily hobgoblin commander reports to the old crone in throne room his voice less firm now. The old crone screams out her fury, drawing an amused smile from the bound archfey queen. "Just secure the palace and you might yet live through this night commander." The old crone screams.
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Commander Grymwold was still certain. He and the many squads of his brave and loyal hobgoblin soldiers still left would hold the chamber outside the throne room, deployed in standard fighting formation. He even had two formidable ogre warriors at his side. He had made an alliance with the old arch hag Tzatatziah and it had all seemed so promising until chaos had erupted in the streets. He didn't know who or what was behind it all but he would keep his end of the bargain with the old crone and guard her no matter the cost.
His eyes goes wide with surprise as the old crone suddenly appears before his soldiers, and the whole chamber seems to ripple with necrotic energies swiftly sucking the life out of his men, only the heavily weakened ogres and himself standing a moment later. This was betrayal and he would go down fighting. He barely noticed the dark fey and the strong wind coming in from the flanks to take down the ogre warriors, his eyes fixed on the old crone that came hovering towards him with glaring emerald eyes...
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"Lady Tzaratziah, we are under attack..." The heavily wounded hobgoblin commander shouts as he stumbles into the throne room. "I told you to hold the palace...wait...trickery..." The old crone says and suddenly she is right by the hobgoblin commander, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him up, his appearance changing to that of the dark-haired man. "So you are the pesky mortal who has been so troublesome, coming this far just to walk into my grasp, I shall enjoy watching you die and then I will torment your soul for an eternity, how did you ever think you could stop me mortal?" She says cackling madly at her victory. "I didn't...I didn't think I could stop you...but they can..." The dark-haired man says, barely able to breathe, but at his words the old crone turns and sees the tiny blonde, the dark fey and the wind elemental making quick work of the arcane circle holding the arch fey queen, and in the next moment the freed queen is suddenly standing in front of the old crone, her radiant glamour almost overwhelming to the arch hag. "LEAVE!" The queen says, her voice carrying the power of eternity, and with a scream of defeat the old crone is torn from the palace and hurled into the netherworld.
-----------
"You have served me well mortal, you and your companions..." The blonde and radiantly beautiful archfey queen says softly, her melodious voice enchanting. "...but I know you must return to your quest and I have much to rectify in my city." She says, her tone filled with both sorrow over her losses and resolve over how to overcome them. "I wish we could stay and help out but...however unlikely it sounds, there are others who need us too." The dark-haired man says with an apologetic smile. "Oh, and you should have this, I think it was the youngest sister who didn't seem to mind parting with it."He says and hands the archfey queen the soul bag from his own magical bag. "Thank you, I am so relieved, you don't know what this means to me."The archfey queen says with a warm smile that would melt the hearts of mortals. "Now farewell and the best of luck to you and your companions."
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"I had the strangest dream..." The dark-haired man says at the morning meal by the campfire, looking around at his companions, scratching his head, the tiny blonde giggling quietly behind his back.
In the secluded Ironspire Mountains, a secret haven among the towering peaks, the Order of the Nineteen lived a disciplined existence. Their order had endured for generations, guarding sacred texts that contain wisdom about the balance between light and darkness. Among them was Giles, of Salthill, a devoted, yet young monk whose quiet strength belied an inner fire forged in the mines and halls of his ancestors.
One moonless night, an unholy presence descended upon their sanctuary: Calzareth, the Ebon Shade, an ancient vampire of formidable power and insatiable hunger. Cloaked in shadow and grace, Calzareth did not merely feed; he reveled in the anguish he brought, twisting light into darkness wherever he tread. The Monks fought valiantly, their martial skills and spiritual strength shining even as their numbers dwindled. But the vampire was unstoppable, his speed blurring against their strikes, his sorcery tearing through their defenses like whispers of death.
Giles survived only by fate—or perhaps, by the cruel design of Calzareth himself. As Giles fled, he began to understand the sinister intent: Calzareth wanted him to run, to be consumed by guilt, and to fear the inevitable confrontation.
Later...
After wandering the lands for some time, Giles, full of guilt, self-doubt and sorrow, came upon the rural town of Trostenwald. There, he met others and became part of another group. A group destined to save the world, or die trying with it.
20 Years ago...
Leaving a tavern in the town of Hupperdock, the ancient vampire once again arrived. After a brief fray, Giles was able to get to the local Church of Helm before the vampire could overwhelm him. He still has the scars on his back from that brief encounter. While no coward, the monk was no fool, he knew he was no match for Ebon Shade.
10 Years ago...
After too many years of looking over his shoulder, feeling the unseen presence in every shadow, Calzareth returned. This time the vampire launched into a vivid account of that night at monastery, driving the disciplined monk into a frenzy. The monk launched a brutal attack, calling on every skill in the martial arts he had learned. While his punches, kicks, and acrobatics were impressive to watch, they did little to harm the vampire. As powerful as the blows were, only magic could truly hurt this ancient monster. The vampire left Giles lying in the street, breathing heavy, with nothing to show for his efforts, except a broken arm and four missing teeth.
Now...
As the wind from the mountains blows out the last coals of the fire, Giles tightens his cloak around him. He doesn't need the fire to see, but this high up, the cold bites without it. It is his turn on watch, and as always, he is on task and focused.
That is when he feels the presence. Again.
That is when Giles realized his fear. He realized that it was gone. Perhaps not fully gone, he is no fool, but he was ready for this. His time with the Fellowship of the Wind has changed him more than his years at the Monastery. He had found allies and friends in this motley crue of thrown together heroes. They have seen many adventures together, though most of them are just memories to all of them. But their bond is strong.
The events of the monastery will not be repeated, not tonight.
"I've been waiting" the dwarf says, tightening the magical wraps around his fists. Wraps he retrieved from the hoard of a Black dragon that got in the way of the Fellowship.
His comments are met with laughter, deep, and mocking. "Oh, little dwarf, after all these years, you think you would have just given up by now. Just died. Perhaps tonight I'll take the rest of your teeth."
"I see you brought friends" Giles says, as he senses other undead lurking in the shadows surrounding the camp.
"Good!" he hears Ylis say, somewhere behind him, "I’m BORED!"
Instantly, all hell breaks loose. The other members of the Fellowship converge on the undead ringing their campsite. Giles walks up to Calzareth, casually, but with purpose. At the exact same time, they both say, "It is time."
The vampire is caught off guard, for just an instant at the confidence of this dwarf, who has been his plaything for the last 30 years. Giles' face doesn't change.
He takes a sip of his Potion of Pugilism and punches the vampire square in the face. For the first time in three decades, he hears the vampire howl in pain. The monk and vampire descend on each other like two mountains smashing together, fist and foot verse fang and claw. Both combatants deliver lethal blows, and each draw on their own powers to heal those wounds as quickly as they appear. On the two fight, long after the fight around them had ended. Giles has no doubt the others have prevailed, but his focus is too great on the vampire to give it notice.
Both thoroughly exhausted, they fight on, fueled by the hatred of their past. Shouting the name of his Abbot from the Order of the Nineteen, the dwarf puts his fist through the chest of the vampire, snapping bones, both his own and Calzareth's. Upon pulling his hand out, the vampire's wound immediately begins to close.
"Not this time” says the dwarf, and in his other hand he holds a small vial. Something Joy had given him a long time ago. A small bottle of holy water, blessed by the paladin of Lathander. He smashes the vail into the exposed ribs of the undead monster where a heart should be, who howls again in true agony.
"I said it was time" says the dwarf, who falls to the ground, covered in his own blood, missing a few more teeth, and possibly an eye.
As things go dark around him, he sees many pairs of boots coming towards him. He smiles, he feels free. Finally. The vampire is gone.
The Fellowship finds themselves past the base of the dead mountain. The events that had transpired seemed to be out of order, passing from forest to the lifeless mountain. When the party looks behind them, they can still see a fracture in spacetime, like a broken mirror. They can see themselves experiencing the adventures they all shared or had done alone. All of them happened, but not in what you all understand as chronological order. The party can remember exiting the forest before they entered it, and fighting off fiends and undead in the mountains before traveling through the Ashkeeper Peaks.
As they watch themselves having their recent adventures, the fractures splinter and meld together, creating an impossibly twisted menagerie of memory. Joy mentioned earlier that the time dilation is getting worse. Now it seems apparent that time is not just advancing, it is breaking under the strain of whatever is causing the time dilation. As you watch the adventurers, they suddenly stop and stare back at you. The Fellowship at each fractured mirror all look at you while you look at them. As it happens, you remember it, as if it fit somewhere in the middle of your adventures where your future selves watched you. The shattered glass windows in reality close, and the sky is still.
Ahead of them, the party can see that the mountain they are on is barren. The ashy dirt that grays the mountain itself also powders the trees, coating the trunks in gray soot. There are no sounds of nature here. The forest, spooky as it was, at least harbored the sounds of life. Even the other mountains of the Ashkeeper Peaks were vibrant with life. On this mountain though, it seems that all the animals avoid this peak. Even the birds do not fly over it.
There is a lonely path up the mountain. It seems clear, yet, there is a sense that it is not a path that came to be from frequent use. Rather, it seems out of place… installed and then abandoned. The path to the climactic end, whatever that end shall be, is before you.
"Hahaha" the dwarf laughs. Not a common sound amongst the fellowship over the years, but more common lately. A weight has been lifted from the dwarf, a lifetime long weight of guilt, loss, and sorrow. Gone. Earned.
Whatever comes next, which the monk believes to most likely be a horrible end, he is ready to meet head on.
"Come on fellowship, our path is clear" he says, pointing at the ominous trail and humming a song. He hums quietly, not oblivious to the danger they are walking into. But he hums none the less.
He pulls the wraps tighter around his hands, caked with years of blood and gore, and pats Jack on the back. "Let's see if we can get where we need to go before more people die."
And he starts running up the trail, humming a song Vazo'yn taught him long ago. He thinks it was about a halfling love triangle, but he never cared about the lyrics, just the melody...
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Feeling tension rising as the fellowship sets on the lonely path up the ominous mountain, what he assumed was the last leg of their journey together, the dark-haired man cautiously follows along, the gravity of the circumstances bringing him to uncharacteristical silence, stopping briefly to send his witch eye further ahead to avoid any unpleasant surprises, the tiny blonde staying by his side for now.
Jack Stealth: 38 (disadvantage on perception to spot him) Perception: 11 (improved darkvision and truesight, always using arcane eye to scout ahead of the fellowship)
Vazo'yn, moulded by all they've experience in their short, though also very long, time together, joins Randa in the darkness. They are so close to their goal now that he will not risk it to chance or hubris. He is focused on their success, for if they fail then his purpose, so core to his being, iss meaningless, and therefore so is he.
His golden eyes dart from shadow to shadow as they continue, his hand never far from the card pouch at his waist, ever ready to defend their destiny.
Riven lingers with the group, the edge of his cloak brushing the soot-covered ground as he walks. He doesn’t speak. He rarely needs to. But his gaze turns to Yils as she strolls confidently up the center of the path, tapping her staff with every step.
The sound of her staff echoes farther than it should in a place so dead. There’s no wind. No birds. Just her rhythm, beating against silence.
A slow smile tugs at the corner of Riven’s mouth.
He watches her a moment longer, the soft gleam in his eye betraying the fondness he would never voice. Then, as if remembering himself, he steps forward without sound.
Riven raises one gloved hand, not in warning, but in invitation. From beneath his cloak, he produces a narrow, curved hunting horn, its surface carved with faint, almost imperceptible sigils. It looks more bone than ivory. His voice is low, just for her.
“One sound,” he says, tapping the mouth of the horn with a single finger, “all clear. Two?” His eyes narrow faintly. “Danger." A faint smirk ghosts across his lips. “You’re the only one who’ll hear it.”
He holds her gaze for just a moment longer, enough for her to know he’s not teasing. Then the humor is gone, replaced by the calm, practiced stillness once more.
Without another word, Riven turns and steps into the ash-covered trees, the mountain seeming to swallow him whole.
Stealth: 29 Umbral Sight once he gets into the shadows Survival: 23 Passive Perception: 26
Every tree looms like a petrified specter, its gnarled branches stretching skyward in a desperate plea for escape from this desolate mountain. Stripped of leaves, they stand as stark skeletons against the horizon, offering no refuge from the rising sun. A lingering sense of haunting desperation clings to them, exuding an eerie beauty even in their lifeless state.
Giles races ahead of the group, his laughter echoing off the rugged cliffs as he bounds toward the peak. His energy is infectious, and he moves with the spryness of a man half his age, each step reflecting a joyous determination. The sun glints off his silver hair, highlighting the deep lines of his face that tell stories of adventure and experience. In the crisp mountain air, he shouts encouragement to his companions, the thrill of the climb evident in his vibrant spirit as he navigates the rocky terrain with surprising agility.
Randa glides silently over the uneven dirt path, her movements almost ghostly, discernible only to Riven and Vazo'yn, who have honed their senses to track her with remarkable ease. As she scouts ahead, her keen eyes scanning the terrain for threats, the rest of the Fellowship grapples with the uncertainty of her absence, their anxious whispers barely breaking the stillness of the surrounding forest. They can only spot her when she steps cautiously out from behind a gnarled, dead tree, its bark charred and blackened as if scorched by a forgotten fire. Randa's focus sharpens as she inspects a looming presence of potential danger, the air thick with tension and the scent of damp earth mingling with the faint, acrid smell of decay.
Randa often finds herself navigating the precarious edges of the winding path. Flanked by meticulously constructed stone borders, the ashen trail meanders alongside steep cliff faces, offering breathtaking views of the valley below. The air is crisp and carries a hint of an old, dusty smell, while the sunlight casts dappled shadows on the ground.
As she ascends the mountain, Randa’s keen sense of observation allows her to pinpoint sections of the path that have begun to succumb to the relentless passage of time. Cracks spider across the surface, and loose gravel shifts beneath her feet, a reminder of the fragility of this ancient route. She knows that if anyone were to tread carelessly along these treacherous stretches, they might unwittingly trigger a collapse, potentially tumbling into the abyss below. Randa understands the importance of vigilance; her diligence is not merely for her safety but for anyone who may follow in her footsteps.
Jack, to everyone's astonishment, seems to melt into the surroundings as he traverses the open path. His movements are so subtle and deliberate that even Riven, known for his keen instincts and razor-sharp senses, is left speechless by Jack's newfound ability to blend seamlessly into the environment. The soft rustle of leaves and the gentle whisper of the wind do little to betray his presence, as he navigates the terrain with an agility that defies expectation. It's as if he possesses an uncanny mastery of stealth, rendering him nearly undetectable, a mere shadow among the trees. Riven, taken aback, finds himself questioning how Jack has honed this skill.
Jack’s luminous emerald eyes roamed the winding road and the towering trees, unclouded by illusions or hidden beings. Yet, as he cast his gaze into the shimmering depths of the Ethereal Plane, a chilling spectacle unfolded before him: a torrent of restless souls was being inexorably drawn up the mountainside toward the looming summit.
Dozens of spectral figures writhed in his vision, accompanied by otherworldly creatures like djinn, their forms twisting in desperation as they clawed at the earth. Their anguished efforts to find traction were futile against the beguiling force that pulled them upward, a heartbreaking sight that told tales of lost souls—those unable to ascend to the embrace of their divine realm or beings trapped in the liminal space of the Ethereal.
The Arcane Eye hovered nearby, an impeccable scout, scanning for any lurking dangers. Yet, in this moment, an eerie stillness prevailed; no threats ventured close enough to breach its vigilant gaze.
Lily weaves gracefully among the trees, her form a whispering shadow that flits between the gnarled branches. Much like Randa, she often evades the notice of the crew, and were it not for their deep connection, even Jack would struggle to keep her in sight. Her Heart Sight, a precious gift, would prove invaluable if there were any creatures lurking nearby to observe. But in this moment, all she perceives is the oppressive aura of the looming mountain, a somber presence that weighs heavily on her, urging her to retreat from its jagged heights.
Ylis stands out as an alluring target, quietly enticing the attention of those shrouded in Stealth, though not nearly as much as the boisterous Giles, who has dashed ahead with little care for subtlety. Both Ylis and Joy remain cloaked in magical concealment, their presence softened within the surrounding landscape. Ylis firmly taps her cane against the packed dirt road, yet the sound barely breaking the stillness, while Joy's greaves whisper softly with each cautious step, blending seamlessly into the muted ambiance of their surroundings.
Vazo'yn's golden eyes shimmer like molten metal, practically piercing through the dense foliage that lines the narrow, winding path leading up the rugged mountain. He strides closely alongside Joy and Ylis, his movements deliberate and measured, fully prepared for any unexpected surprises that might lurk in the shadows. Meanwhile, Riven melds seamlessly into the thinned trees, his presence vanishing like morning mist. Despite the absence of shadows to cloak him, he miraculously becomes undetectable to the eye. Unbeknownst to the rest of the group, Riven is acutely aware that on this rare day, there is someone among them whose talent for stealth has finally eclipsed his own, a fact that adds an intriguing tension to the already charged atmosphere.
Randa, Riven, and Vazo'yn feel an unsettling shift in the air as the wind sweeps through, defying logic by tugging at Randa's hair and lifting it skyward. Their gaze is irresistibly drawn to the summit, where ominous clouds begin to coil and twist in a menacing dance. A vortex starts to form, an ethereal funnel of darkness stretching from the heavens down toward the peak, as if the sky itself is being pulled into a tempestuous embrace. The clouds, heavy and charged with energy, swirl tighter, racing toward the pinnacle in a chaotic whirlwind. Their hearts thunder in their chests, a mixture of fear and anticipation rising to their throat. Though they have never witnessed such a phenomenon before, an instinctual certainty grips them—they know that the storm is about to unleash its fury in the form of a purple wave.
Giles looks at the the wraps on his hands and the cloak wrapped loosely around him. He knows they are his, he knows he had them for a long time, however, he didn't have them a few minutes ago when he rode the giant crab across the river.
"Yeah. OK I guess you can call it" he says, looking across the river, wondering how many just died in that wave.
"We should get moving" he says, then adds, "oh, I can fly now" looking down at his boots, and will help the others and get ready to head away from the river.
The Fellowship are all changed in equipment and appearance, but that is not all. There are also signs of a great many adventures had but not clearly remembered. Ylis has a ragged scar across the left side of her face, starting at her forehead, traveling just in front of her eye, and ending at her cheek, like a winding crescent. She cannot remember where the scar was received, but she does know she got it in some way that makes her feel incredible pride when she sees it; not an ounce of shame or vanity exists when seeing her scar in a reflection.
Jack now has eyes that are impossibly emerald. Almost glowing with their vibrance, they catch and reflect even the barest hint of light.
Giles four top front teeth have been replaced with gold crowns and he has a scar on his lip just in front of them that suggest that he took a blow powerful enough to split the lip and knock out the teeth.
Everyone has some sign of a life well-lived for an adventurer, and these were but a handful.
DM mostly, Player occasionally | Session 0 form | He/Him/They/Them
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"Great! NOW I can make potions of water breathing?! That would have been nice to know yesterday!" Ylis shouts to the sky.
She then plops to the ground in a huff and produces a bonfire and cauldron by stirring a golden spoon in the air.
The bunny lady reaches into the mystical pot and proceeds to pull out four Potion of Pugilism then hands them to Giles. "Here you go, makes you more punchy."
She goes back to her fire and kicks some dirt on it, and it vanishes. "OK gang, let's go. We're not getting any younger."
"Sooner or later, your Players are going to smash your railroad into a sandbox."
-Vedexent
"real life is a super high CR."
-OboeLauren
"............anybody got any potatoes? We could drop a potato in each hole an' see which ones get viciously mauled by horrible monsters?"
-Ilyara Thundertale
Chapter Two: The Ashkeeper Peaks
For this chapter, the party is presented with a creative writing challenge. YOU write the adventure. Specifically, I want each of you to write a substantial post on how you help the party with your level 15 character. What challenges did the Fellowship encounter where you were instrumental in navigating it?
You may choose the forest at the foot of the Ashkeeper peaks, navigating around it and shaving off a day, or the mountain range that eventually brings you to the mountain with the standing dead trees. Decide that as a party before you start. You may collaborate with others for your post but the point is to pull out all the stops, be the hero YOU want to be in this moment.
Please don’t use other PC’s without permission. For example, having someone fall into a pit so you can save them would make you look good, but without the player’s permission to use their character in that way, it might feel like it were at their expense. Avoid that and make sure everyone is fine with how their PC’s are treated in your post.
I will help with stat blocks for monsters if you need them or challenge DCs if you present yourself with something that calls for it, but really, I want to see what your PC would be like when given a moment in the spotlight.
Make sure to PM me the draft before posting so I might make edits if needed.
DM mostly, Player occasionally | Session 0 form | He/Him/They/Them
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As the party steps deeper into the oppressive gloom of the forest, the very air seems to constrict around them. Twisted branches stretch out like skeletal fingers, blotting out the light, and the earth beneath their feet is soft and treacherous, carrying the pungent scent of decay. Each step forward feels like crossing a threshold into a realm that watches with malevolent patience. The forest is alive in a way none of them are used to, its silence is not peaceful, but expectant, as if waiting for them to make the first move.
Riven leads the way, his posture tense but calm, his eyes scanning every shift in the shadows. His instinct is the only guide he trusts here, and his steps are fluid, calculated. He pauses every few moments, listening, his fingers brushing the damp earth as he surveys the tracks. The others follow silent behind him, instinctively understanding the need for caution, though each reacts differently to the eerie surroundings.
Joy, her plate armor dull within the shadows, feels the weight of the of the loss of light more than anyone. The steady rhythm of her own breath seems too loud in this place, each rustle of the leaves, each crack of a twig underfoot, sends a flare of tension through her. Her fingers tighten around the hilt of her sword, but she forces herself to breathe slowly, steadying herself. Focus, she thinks. Trust your strength. Yet, beneath the surface, she can’t help but feel like prey in the jaws of a predator far larger than herself.
Beside her, Yils feels a cold shiver run down her spine. This is nothing like Trostenwald, the quiet streets and bustling market squares of her aunt’s home feel a world away. Here, the air is thick, almost suffocating, and every crackle of underbrush feels like a threat. She instinctively presses closer to Joy for comfort. The feeling that something is watching them presses at the back of her mind, and she feels small, uncertain. I’m not meant for this, she thinks, though she stays silent, watching Riven’s back as if his calm might rub off on her.
Giles, ever the calm center of the group, seems unfazed by the tension hanging in the air. His breath is steady, his presence a quiet anchor in the chaos. He’s not unused to danger, and the forest’s unsettling quiet resonates with a part of him that finds peace in stillness. Yet, even he can sense something is amiss. “This place… it breathes,” he murmurs to himself, his voice barely more than a whisper. It’s not a warning, but an observation. His mind is always in motion, calculating, analyzing, waiting for the next move. We’ll find our way through, he tells himself, though his eyes linger on the shifting shadows, ever alert.
Randa’s voice breaks the silence, cutting through the tension with a sharp laugh. “I’ve lived in jungles my whole life," she mutters, low and unimpressed. But whatever this is? This ain't nature." she mutters, her tone as dry as ever. She watches the others, noting their growing unease. Her hand rests casually at her side, though the way his eyes dart around reveals a readiness that belies her sarcastic tone. Beneath her humor, she’s sharp, always looking, always calculating. Despite the unsettling atmosphere of the forest, she knows better than to drop her guard entirely. “Though I’d appreciate it if we didn’t actually run into anything too dangerous,” she adds, more to herself than anyone else, though her gaze shifts briefly to Riven, the only one who seems entirely at ease.
Jack, on the other hand, is already calculating his next move, his eyes scanning the forest with an authoritative gaze. The wilds aren’t unfamiliar to him, but this place feels different, unnatural, almost predatory. He moves with purpose, his hand never straying far from his weapon, ready for whatever may come. Every step is measured, every muscle taut. Something in the air, something in the way the forest moves, makes him uneasy, but he’s been in enough dangerous situations already to know that hesitation is a far worse enemy than anything the forest could throw at them.
Vazo'yn silently observes, seems almost at peace amidst the growing tension. The way the forest shifts around them doesn’t seem to affect him, he remains perfectly composed, his steps light, his presence almost ethereal. He’s not distracted by the ambient unease. His mind remains a cold, calculating, analyzing, processing. As Riven moves on ahead, Vazo'yn feels the shift in the atmosphere, a predator’s awareness, a subtle pulse of dominance that has the air crackling with power. He’s not surprised, but intrigued. In his mind, he quietly notes the precision with which Riven commands the wilds. “Control,” he whispers softly, his voice a mere whisper. “A dangerous but necessary skill.”
Riven feels the tension in the air winding tighter with each passing step. His senses are stretched thin, aware of every rustle, every shift in the shadows. But something changes, his instincts snap into focus, a presence in the darkness just beyond his sight. Without a word, he drops to a crouch, fingers brushing the earth, and his sharp gaze scans the surroundings. Fresh tracks. Something is watching. The stillness around them is too deliberate, too complete. Riven raises a hand, signaling for them to freeze, and in that moment, the forest seems to hold its breath.
Instinct rules him now, sharper than any warning sign. Memory reminds him that instinct has always served him better than hesitation. Something waits, he can feel it, in the twisted limbs and sanctuary of shadow. He crouches, pressing two fingers to the damp earth. His breath goes still. Tracks, fresh. Pressure in the underbrush. Predators, watching. His voice is quiet as breath: "They're watching."
He doesn’t wait for fear to stir. Instead, Riven raises his hand in a smooth, deliberate motion, tracing an almost lazy arc through the air. As his fingers move, the shadows around him stir, almost as if they recognize a familiar master. They curl and weave around him and the others, like tendrils of black smoke in still water. The light seems to dim slightly, not enough to notice consciously, just enough to make shapes blur, edges soften and sounds dull. Footfalls that should crunch on leaves make no sound; even the rattle of armor and the clink of weapons are swallowed by the heavy shroud now clinging to them as the magic takes hold.
Riven continues on point, leading them deeper into the woods. His steps are light, calculated. His thoughts steady and ordered: Too quiet. The forest’s still breathing, but not for us. It’s waiting. He moves like a ghost, senses tuned to every rustle.
The forest shifts around them, winding into gnarled paths and sinister thickets. Claw marks stretch across tree trunks like old warnings. Spores drift through the gloom from fungi that pulse faintly in the corners of his vision. Then comes the pause, a long breath, held by the forest itself.
That is all the warning Riven needs.
He does not speak. He does not need to. The bow is in his hands in a heartbeat, arrow notched and string taut. His eyes narrow, catching the edge of a heavy footfall just beyond a fallen log, the outline of something moving with intention out of the gloom. He whispers the words, and draws a shallow breath, his hand brushing the fletching of an arrow, his eyes narrow, focusing on his target with predatory sharpness. A faint, nearly invisible ripple of force leaves his fingertips, a wisp of silver-gray energy that lashes toward the target and sinks into them like mist into cloth. To Riven, the creature now bears a barely perceptible outline, as though it stands out just a little too crisply against the world around it. Movements that should blend in are highlighted, and every twitch and tremor now draws Riven’s attention with unnatural clarity, as if the prey had already been caught in an unseen snare. Now it is his prey.
A sharp exhale, as Riven draws and looses an arrow, the projectile seems normal for a moment, then the air around it shivers. As it flies, thin, spectral vines twist and bloom from the shaft, growing fast. When the arrow strikes, it detonates in a silent burst, and dozens of ethereal thorny tendrils lash outward in all directions. The thorns gleam silver in the dim light, sharp as razors, tearing through the target like a sudden bloom of a vicious bramble patch. Screeches erupt in response: an unholy thing, twisted lunging from the shadows, part-beast, part-mold, their limbs creaking like rotten trees.
Riven is already moving.
He abandons the bow, lunging forward, blades flashing into his hands, rapier in one, short sword in the other. The twin weapons dance through the air like shards of broken glass. The second beast barely has time to react; Riven’s rapier drives up under its ribs, the short sword carving across its side before it can even turn. He flows past it, a seamless blur of momentum, stepping into shadow as the creature falls twitching.
The third creature snarls and turns, but it is already too late. Riven emerges behind it, one foot braced as his blade sinks deep between its shoulder blades. It lets out a gurgle and crumples. He pauses for the briefest moment, breathing evenly.
Something massive tears through the trees. Riven spins just as the true threat emerges: a beast of bark and bone, tusks like warped stone, burning moss-laced eyes glaring from a twisted face. Its weight cracks the forest floor. Before he can react, it is on him, massive arms wrapping around his torso, claws digging in, trying to crush the air from his lungs.
Pain flares, but Riven does not panic. His mind remains calm. Crushing. Grappled. Trying to hold me still. He barely seems to move, his hand brushes his chest lightly, and a faint, pulsing shimmer spreads out from the point of contact like a ripple through still water. For a fleeting moment, it’s like his body becomes lighter, less bound by the rules of flesh and gravity. Roots, chains, or hands that try to restrain him would find him slipping free as though they were trying to grasp smoke. Riven moves just a little too smoothly, a little too perfectly, with none of the usual friction or resistance that governs mortal bodies. Riven steps free, rolls away, his cloak brushing past claws that no longer matter.
The beast reels in surprise, but Riven does not strike.
He looks into the beast's eyes and sees something deeper. A spark of consciousness. Riven meets it’s eyes, and for a moment, the world seems to tighten around the two of them, everything else falling away. He extends a hand, fingers splayed, and from his palm flows a deep, thrumming current of magic, not bright and flashy, but heavy, inevitable, like the weight of an ancient oath being fulfilled. The air between them hums with invisible force. A faint pulse, like a heartbeat of silver-blue light, bridges the space from his hand to the beast’s chest. The creature stumbles, its body tensing against an unseen pull, and then slackens, as if a chain had slipped silently around its mind. Riven is not merely casting a spell, but claiming the creature, binding its will to his through nothing but the strength of his presence and a wordless, ancient authority. He reaches inward, the creature staggers. Pauses.
And obeys.
Riven steps closer, expression unreadable. A silent thread stretches between them, binding predator to predator. You are bound to me now, he thinks, and the beast understand.
Behind him, the others start forward, weapons drawn.
Riven’s thoughts cut through the trees, through Vazo’yn's mental link. "Stand down. The Alpha has yielded to me. It will lead us out."
A moment of silence. Then through the link, Vazo’yn’s reply. "Understood."
Fluid and silent, Riven swings himself onto the beast’s back. At his command, it turns, moving through the undergrowth with unnatural ease. The forest bends to its passage, roots drawing back, branches bowing as if recognizing a predator greater than themselves.
No one speaks.
They walk in silence, following something that, moments ago, would have tried to tear them apart. But now, it is a mount. A guide. A weapon leashed to the will of a single man.
The others will say the forest spared them. That they were lucky to escape its grasp.
But the truth is far simpler.
Riven tamed it.
The Ashkeeper Peaks clawed at the sky, casting long, broken shadows over the Fellowship as they pressed on. They had chosen the harder way, the mountain path, knowing that speed was their only ally against the creeping doom behind them. Their breath frosted in the cold air, their footsteps steady despite the rising unease curling through the stones beneath their boots.
The earth screamed as a hellish rift tore itself open ahead, spilling fiery light across the barren slope.
From it, barbed devils emerged, bristling with cruel spikes and slavering jaws. Behind them, eclipsing even the towering crags, came a monster born of nightmare: a Pit Fiend, its wings blotting out the stars, its flaming sword dragging molten scars across the ground. A wave of despair radiated from the fiend—an aura of terror, threatening to crush the Fellowship’s will.
But as the fear washed toward them, it shattered harmlessly against Joy’s radiant aura. Her holy light surged outward, wrapping her companions in a golden, comforting warmth. It was like standing beneath the first rays of dawn after a night spent lost in darkness. Courage filled their hearts, steel strengthened their limbs.
Riven moved like a ghost, arrows flashing with deadly accuracy into the ranks of the lesser devils.
Randa fired alongside him, her shots precise, pinning devils back and keeping them from overwhelming the front lines.
Vazo'yn's voice, low and commanding, twined through the Fellowship like steel in silk, bolstering them, inspiring them with tales of unyielding hope.
Jack, cloak swirling around him, blurred through the chaos, planting illusions and striking with nimble precision, buying precious moments for the others.
Ylis called on magic and spirit, sending bursts of dazzling light that forced snarling devils to shield their eyes.
Giles moved like a gale of divine fury, striking with fists wreathed in disciplined power.
And still, the Pit Fiend advanced. Joy stood firm, feeling the fiend’s malevolence beating against her shield like a storm. She raised her holy symbol high, golden light pouring from it as she whispered a prayer to Lathander, calling on every ounce of strength and faith within her.
"By the Morninglord’s Light—return to the hells you crawled from!"
Banishment.
The Pit Fiend’s roar shook the mountains—but the light engulfed it. With a final, furious bellow, it vanished, ripped from the material plane by the unbreakable will of Joy and the Dawnfather’s blessing. The battlefield froze—then shifted. Without their leader, the barbed devils wavered.
When the final devil let out a keening wail and crumbled to ash, a heavy silence descended over the broken ground. Joy stood in the center, breathing heavily, sweat mingling with the dust on her brow—but her eyes were bright. Hope burned fiercely within her. She turned to her companions, each battered but alive, and smiled.
"Together, we're stronger than any darkness."
And with the rift still smoldering behind them and the Peaks still looming ahead, the Fellowship pressed on.
High in the frigid reaches of the Ashkeeper Peaks, the Fellowship of the Wind found themselves facing a curious obstacle: a sprawling maze carved from jagged stone, its passages choked with mist and shadow.
The maze was strange from the start. When any of the Fellowship, many of them now capable of flight, tried to fly to scout the area from above, the stone walls simply grew taller, stretching upward faster than they could ascend. And when they flew back to the ground, the walls shrank with them, teasing and mocking.
Then the whispers began.
At first they were soft—unintelligible murmurs threading through the air, tugging at their minds, urging suspicion, mistrust. Riven tightened his hand on his bow. Randa glanced at Giles with narrowed eyes. Jack and Lily whispered conspiratorially to each other, while Ylis tried to hide behind Joy. Even Joy seemed troubled, her hopeful eyes darting to her companions.
But Vazo’yn heard the spirits’ true meaning. With a careful, practised hand, he drew cards of insight and foretelling from the pouch at his waist. His words of reassurance inspired hope and determination among the Fellowship, dulling the whispers’ claws and lifting the heavy fog of doubt whenever it crept too close.
“We move together,” Vazo’yn said firmly, holding up his spyglass. Through its enchanted lens, he peered beyond twists and dead ends, glimpsing hidden turns that the eye could not see. Riven moved beside him, his keen survival instincts working in tandem with Vazo’yn’s mystical guidance.
They pressed on for what felt like hours. The labyrinth fought them every step—walls shifting subtly, pathways collapsing into rubble—but the Fellowship trusted their guides, Vazo'yn and Riven. Giles knocked down a crumbling wall when necessary. Randa sliced away creeping vines that sought to drag them back. Jack flung bolts of eldritch power at spectral shapes that darted just out of view. Ylis wove her magic to keep away creatures that gnashed at their heels. And through it all, Joy's brilliant aura fortified them.
At last, they reached a wide clearing at the heart of the maze. Waiting there was a figure they all recognised—the witch from Trostenwald, the one who had set them on this journey with riddles and warnings. She stood laughing, her voice rich and mocking.
“You have done well,” she said. “But all for nothing.”
Vazo’yn narrowed his eyes. His instincts prickled—this was wrong. Drawing upon his finely honed insight, he pierced the veil of deception. It was not the witch. It was something else—something hidden.
“Illusions and lies,” Vazo’yn murmured. Instinctively, he drew the Seven of Stars from his deck. The Illusionist. He thrust it toward the thing that wore the witch's face, focusing unravelling magic through it. The false image shattered like glass, revealing a trickster spirit from the Feywild, its form a swirling mass of vines, sharp teeth, and flashing eyes.
The spirit shrieked in rage at being unmasked. Its hands wove a quick spell, magic coiling to cast them back into the maze once more. But Vazo’yn was faster. He thrust out a hand, his voice slicing the spell apart with a potent counterspell.
Before the spirit could recover, Vazo'yn swiftly drew another card from his deck. The Six of Glyphs. Drawn at a moment when Vazo'yn's convictions have been tested, when confusion, doubt and disbelief threatened to turn the Fellowship on each other. The Anarchist. Great change enacted by one whose beliefs hold firm.
A flurry of grey-purple energy erupts from the card to encircle the fey creature, obscuring it entirely from view as the mist-like magic swirled. When finally it dissipated, the fey creature was gone, and in its place was a harmless field mouse.
Silence fell, save for a single, tiny squeak from the mouse before it scurried off.
The Fellowship of the Wind stood together, battered but victorious. The whispers were gone. The maze began to crumble around them, the illusory world losing its grip.
Vazo’yn turned his spyglass toward the horizon.
“Come,” he said, his voice determined in light of their ordeal. “The real road awaits.”
And together, the Fellowship stepped out of the ruins and back into the bright, open air of the Ashkeeper Peaks, the wind singing freedom all around them.
As the party entered the cavern, the croaking sounds intensified. Dropping a globe of daylight, the virtual army of devil toads was revealed. A number of red and blue slaadi moving between stalagmites blocked the path of the party. The only form of negotiation these creatures understood was violence.
Joy still recommends negotiation, there are many and the party could suffer casualties. “Well ok, you keep them talking.” Ylis moves away to prepare for being unfriendly. While Joy distracts the the creatures, the friendly neighborhood bard begins a casual plucking of his instrument.
Taking that as a cue, she begins an intricate dance and hides behind stalagmites as well. Using a moment while the frogs continue to chant “food” and “eat” and something about eggs she charges her staff with power, slowly slowly getting closer to them.
A-ha! What do we have here, a green fella trying to be inconspicuous? We’ll see about that.
Ylis waits…
The demon frogs have enough of the talking talking and begin to move forward aggressively. The bunny lady responds by creating a stone impression of a bunny paw 30 feet long and 30 feet wide suspended from the ceiling with the stalactites acting like claws. Unfortunately the sound of casting gives away her position and a handful of the creatures turn her way.
UHOH
“Ooh, you are too close for comfort,” Ylis twirls her staff and the frog demons find themselves on top of the bunny paw 100 feet in the air. If anybody could see and understand their expressions, it would have been quite comical as their weight was enough to break the stone paw free of its mooring and sends it down to crush a great number of the fellows beneath it.
HA!
With the numbers much diminished, the party engages with a will. Blades, arrows, and words of doom and gloom, fill the room. The cacophony of violence covers the sound of a bunny laughing hysterically. Another twitch of her staff surrounds her with a cloud of butterflies and unicorns. She moves towards the green slaad with purpose expecting it to not see exactly where she is.
WRONG
The slaad looks directly into her eyes and lashes out with claw and spell. Ylis dodges some of the attacks but one of the claws cuts her from thigh to hip and a blow from the crooked staff fills her head with absolute terror. The demon drools while standing over her, staff raised to bring it down on her head.
WAITAMINIT
She grips the plushie she has stuffed in a pocket and everything is sunshine and rainbows and eldritch blasts and rays of sunlight and “What do you call a frog with no legs? Unhoppy!” *Whack!* and “Haiya!”
Taking a deep breath, Ylis leaps to her feat and calls upon the power of Joy. She struck rapidly with her stick, crunching feet, smashing a knee and pummeling shoulders. “Head, shoulders, knees and toes!” The creature staggers under the assault and the spiritual unicorns begin to pick it apart piece by piece. Soon, just a skeleton is left standing and it clatters to the ground.
TA DAH!
“Oh boy, so tired…” and Ylis falls unconscious due to a poison running through her veins.
"Sooner or later, your Players are going to smash your railroad into a sandbox."
-Vedexent
"real life is a super high CR."
-OboeLauren
"............anybody got any potatoes? We could drop a potato in each hole an' see which ones get viciously mauled by horrible monsters?"
-Ilyara Thundertale
Jacaranda checks again on Ylis but the supernal gifts and abilities of her companions have already restored her. Jacaranda led the way through the rest of the cavern until they finally emerged once more onto the open face of the mountain......she cast her eyes about for danger but finding none she called them on and moved forward. She cast her eyes back over the group in wonder at what they had become.
Vazo'yn commanded the gifts of the spirits in ways that the wise women of her people could only dream of, his magics had healed many wounds and bolstered the efforts of others.
Riven and Giles were those she felt most at ease with....though even they performed impossible tasks as easily as they breathed.....things she did not understand but did respect.
Joy and Jack were walking embodiments of Natures Fury and Grace to her eyes.....avatars of the Wild Mother and the Archheart given form....it was all Randa could do not to sembah to them whenever they passed near.
Ylis was a hurricane, nothing stood before her power....tree, stone, fiend.....all fell to ruin.....
Randa looked down at herself and grinned wondering at the fact that she walked among giants.
They had survived many dangers of the Ashkeepers.......fiendish interlopers perhaps remnants of the warping of Xorhus, blighted nature- spirits and worse. She believed she must be the most northerly travelled of her people as others had gone as far as the Gethem Basin and they must be at least level with that body of water she thought.
She kept her hands resting on her two blades one of which still confused her......after their conflict with the fey being.....she had lain Rainfall down next to Tooth and Claw as they slept on the bare stone in the light of Catha.....when they had woken Tooth carried Rainfalls power and Rainfall had become Moonlight....she knew not why this had occured but took it as a sign of the Moon Weavers favour on their endeavour.
" Dead trees. We are drawing near, no?"
She called on the land to cloak her companions as they passed over sheer rock and scree slopes.....she watched for danger and scouted ahead......it was what she could do....it was not much compared to the rest but still she would do her part to see this through.
Night-time on the frigid reaches of the Ashkeeper Peaks.
"Hey, wakie wakie, time to watch over your flock for a while." The holy hexblood awakes to the soft voice of the now aging dark-haired man that is kneeling beside her. She senses there is something amiss though and she quickly sits up from her bedroll to watch the other in the faint light from the campfire. "I'm sorry, there is something I need to do..." He says quietly to not wake the others, his look one of concern and worry. "...I promise I will be back as soons as I can, please trust me." He says, briefly taking her hands as to assure her of his unusual sincerity. And with that he rises and takes a step back into the darkness, the tiny worried-looking blonde on his shoulder giving the hexblood a small wave, and then they both disappear.
----------"This is not how I remember it." The dark-haired man says to the tiny blonde fluttering around seeming equally concerned about the scene before them, a thick and gnarly old forest almost seeming impassable at a distance and made even more sinister looking in the twilight of the Feywild. The companions cautiously moves closer but soon a smile widens on the dark-haired man. "Hah, such magnificent trickery. It is not real, just magic, must be quite powerful magic to hide an entire city though. Now let's see if we can simply walk through this forest and reach the city gates." He says and proceeds forward as the forest turns transculent and fades away in his step.
----------
"Lady Tzaratziah, all is going according to plan, the legion is rounding up the populace and marching them to the portal, we expect to march throughout the night." The proud heavily armed and armoured hobgoblin commander reports with a deep firm voice to the old crone in the center of the lavishly decorated fey throne room, the old crone merely nodding and waving the lowly hobgoblin away with a crooked finger, leaving her alone with her prize, the radiantly beautiful archfey ruler of the magnificent city of Enath Lenore, bound to her throne by the powerful magical warding circle around it, stripping her of her immense powers and shackling her in time and space. "I shall savour this night dear." The hag says with a cackling laughter as she takes a few mocking dance steps across the large fey throne room. "Wait, what is that..." She says and stares at a small invisible magical sensor, effortlessly dismissing it with a flick of her crooked finger. "...it seems someone have taken an interest in what is going on here. It is a pity that we will be done before anyone will come to the rescue for your poor people." The old crone says with another mad cackle.
----------
"Okay okay, all is going to be fine." The dark-haired man says to encourage himself, hiding under his magical cloak in a dark back alley in the fey city. It was horrible to see what the hobgoblin legion had done to the beautiful lush fey city that he practically had grown up in, so many buildings turned to cinders and the dark streets filled with dead and panicking fey that was quickly and efficiently rounded up by the brutal invaders and put in chains. "We just need to deal with one problem at a time right?" He says, looking at the tiny blonde who gives him an encouraging nod and a reassuring smile. "I mean at least this must be considered less of a challenge compared to saving a world from annihiliation." He adds with a weak smile.
----------
It was such a delight to watch the horrified eladrin children. Martzyga cackled madly as the small ones cowered together in a corner of the dark chamber. She had simply been ordered to protect the soul of the queen's daughter to keep their leverage while in the city. No fun with torturing the pesky fey in the streets but at least she had her new playthings to keep her company while her sisters took care of the rest.
"Your work is done here sister, give me the bag and return home and prepare for my arrival there." Comes the unmistakable voice of her hated elder sister, her large frame visble in the door a moment later. "Can I bring something with me as a memory of our visit here sister dear?" Martzyga asks with a bow, galncing over at the small ones as she hands over her precious bag to the older sister. "You do as you are told sister..." The shape in the doorway says sharply, and now the younger sister cowers in fear, but then the voice softens. "...but perhaps I will bring you something nice and tender back home for you." She adds with an evil grin, glancing over at the eladrin children huddling together against the wall.
----------
"Lady Tzaratziah, there are reports from the city, several patrols have been ambushed by an elusive assailant, the description of the attacker varies wildly so there might be many of them. Also, your youngest sister have abandoned her post." The heavily armoured hobgoblin commander reports with a deep firm voice to the old crone in the center of the lavishly decorated fey throne room, the old crone glaring at back at him. "Martzyga has betrayed me?? Once this is done I will hunt her down and carve her heart out with a spoon." She growls, furiously pacing the throne room floor, not noticing the tiny smile from the archfey queen bound to her throne. "Send your worgs out commander and hunt those rebels out swiftly or it will be your heart."
-----------
"Get a move on you fey scum!" Gryzmata screams at the shackled line of beaten eladrin and satyrs, followed by a squad of hobgoblin soldiers moving slowly through the dark city street. She relished in watching the hated fey defeated and subjugated and now they would be taken and put into slavery and everlasting suffering in the dark mines of her home. Suddenly screams of pain come from the hobgobling soldiers, their gauntlets going to their helmets before they drop to the ground as one.
"You should not have come here, flee while you still can." Comes the potent voice of the archfey queen, and a moment later she appears in the nightsky above the old hag. "You...how...my sister...she trapped you..." Gryzmata says weakly in disbelief, a moment later she feels the pain of a fey blade in her back while a powerful wind strikes her with full force, only to be followed by emerald beams of eldritch crackling force striking her in the chest. "You will not get me queen." The old crone growls and disappears...
----------
"Lady Tzaratziah, more reports coming in from the captains, the mighty earth elementals that was guarding the portal has vanished and the portal has been destroyed. We can not bring back the captured fey through it. Also, your other sister is missing." The heavily hobgoblin commander reports to the old crone in throne room his voice less firm now. The old crone screams out her fury, drawing an amused smile from the bound archfey queen. "Just secure the palace and you might yet live through this night commander." The old crone screams.
----------
Commander Grymwold was still certain. He and the many squads of his brave and loyal hobgoblin soldiers still left would hold the chamber outside the throne room, deployed in standard fighting formation. He even had two formidable ogre warriors at his side. He had made an alliance with the old arch hag Tzatatziah and it had all seemed so promising until chaos had erupted in the streets. He didn't know who or what was behind it all but he would keep his end of the bargain with the old crone and guard her no matter the cost.
His eyes goes wide with surprise as the old crone suddenly appears before his soldiers, and the whole chamber seems to ripple with necrotic energies swiftly sucking the life out of his men, only the heavily weakened ogres and himself standing a moment later. This was betrayal and he would go down fighting. He barely noticed the dark fey and the strong wind coming in from the flanks to take down the ogre warriors, his eyes fixed on the old crone that came hovering towards him with glaring emerald eyes...
----------
"Lady Tzaratziah, we are under attack..." The heavily wounded hobgoblin commander shouts as he stumbles into the throne room. "I told you to hold the palace...wait...trickery..." The old crone says and suddenly she is right by the hobgoblin commander, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him up, his appearance changing to that of the dark-haired man. "So you are the pesky mortal who has been so troublesome, coming this far just to walk into my grasp, I shall enjoy watching you die and then I will torment your soul for an eternity, how did you ever think you could stop me mortal?" She says cackling madly at her victory. "I didn't...I didn't think I could stop you...but they can..." The dark-haired man says, barely able to breathe, but at his words the old crone turns and sees the tiny blonde, the dark fey and the wind elemental making quick work of the arcane circle holding the arch fey queen, and in the next moment the freed queen is suddenly standing in front of the old crone, her radiant glamour almost overwhelming to the arch hag. "LEAVE!" The queen says, her voice carrying the power of eternity, and with a scream of defeat the old crone is torn from the palace and hurled into the netherworld.
-----------
"You have served me well mortal, you and your companions..." The blonde and radiantly beautiful archfey queen says softly, her melodious voice enchanting. "...but I know you must return to your quest and I have much to rectify in my city." She says, her tone filled with both sorrow over her losses and resolve over how to overcome them. "I wish we could stay and help out but...however unlikely it sounds, there are others who need us too." The dark-haired man says with an apologetic smile. "Oh, and you should have this, I think it was the youngest sister who didn't seem to mind parting with it." He says and hands the archfey queen the soul bag from his own magical bag. "Thank you, I am so relieved, you don't know what this means to me." The archfey queen says with a warm smile that would melt the hearts of mortals. "Now farewell and the best of luck to you and your companions."
----------
"I had the strangest dream..." The dark-haired man says at the morning meal by the campfire, looking around at his companions, scratching his head, the tiny blonde giggling quietly behind his back.
30 Years ago...
In the secluded Ironspire Mountains, a secret haven among the towering peaks, the Order of the Nineteen lived a disciplined existence. Their order had endured for generations, guarding sacred texts that contain wisdom about the balance between light and darkness. Among them was Giles, of Salthill, a devoted, yet young monk whose quiet strength belied an inner fire forged in the mines and halls of his ancestors.
One moonless night, an unholy presence descended upon their sanctuary: Calzareth, the Ebon Shade, an ancient vampire of formidable power and insatiable hunger. Cloaked in shadow and grace, Calzareth did not merely feed; he reveled in the anguish he brought, twisting light into darkness wherever he tread. The Monks fought valiantly, their martial skills and spiritual strength shining even as their numbers dwindled. But the vampire was unstoppable, his speed blurring against their strikes, his sorcery tearing through their defenses like whispers of death.
Giles survived only by fate—or perhaps, by the cruel design of Calzareth himself. As Giles fled, he began to understand the sinister intent: Calzareth wanted him to run, to be consumed by guilt, and to fear the inevitable confrontation.
Later...
After wandering the lands for some time, Giles, full of guilt, self-doubt and sorrow, came upon the rural town of Trostenwald. There, he met others and became part of another group. A group destined to save the world, or die trying with it.
20 Years ago...
Leaving a tavern in the town of Hupperdock, the ancient vampire once again arrived. After a brief fray, Giles was able to get to the local Church of Helm before the vampire could overwhelm him. He still has the scars on his back from that brief encounter. While no coward, the monk was no fool, he knew he was no match for Ebon Shade.
10 Years ago...
After too many years of looking over his shoulder, feeling the unseen presence in every shadow, Calzareth returned. This time the vampire launched into a vivid account of that night at monastery, driving the disciplined monk into a frenzy. The monk launched a brutal attack, calling on every skill in the martial arts he had learned. While his punches, kicks, and acrobatics were impressive to watch, they did little to harm the vampire. As powerful as the blows were, only magic could truly hurt this ancient monster. The vampire left Giles lying in the street, breathing heavy, with nothing to show for his efforts, except a broken arm and four missing teeth.
Now...
As the wind from the mountains blows out the last coals of the fire, Giles tightens his cloak around him. He doesn't need the fire to see, but this high up, the cold bites without it. It is his turn on watch, and as always, he is on task and focused.
That is when he feels the presence. Again.
That is when Giles realized his fear. He realized that it was gone. Perhaps not fully gone, he is no fool, but he was ready for this. His time with the Fellowship of the Wind has changed him more than his years at the Monastery. He had found allies and friends in this motley crue of thrown together heroes. They have seen many adventures together, though most of them are just memories to all of them. But their bond is strong.
The events of the monastery will not be repeated, not tonight.
"I've been waiting" the dwarf says, tightening the magical wraps around his fists. Wraps he retrieved from the hoard of a Black dragon that got in the way of the Fellowship.
His comments are met with laughter, deep, and mocking. "Oh, little dwarf, after all these years, you think you would have just given up by now. Just died. Perhaps tonight I'll take the rest of your teeth."
"I see you brought friends" Giles says, as he senses other undead lurking in the shadows surrounding the camp.
"Good!" he hears Ylis say, somewhere behind him, "I’m BORED!"
Instantly, all hell breaks loose. The other members of the Fellowship converge on the undead ringing their campsite. Giles walks up to Calzareth, casually, but with purpose. At the exact same time, they both say, "It is time."
The vampire is caught off guard, for just an instant at the confidence of this dwarf, who has been his plaything for the last 30 years. Giles' face doesn't change.
He takes a sip of his Potion of Pugilism and punches the vampire square in the face. For the first time in three decades, he hears the vampire howl in pain. The monk and vampire descend on each other like two mountains smashing together, fist and foot verse fang and claw. Both combatants deliver lethal blows, and each draw on their own powers to heal those wounds as quickly as they appear. On the two fight, long after the fight around them had ended. Giles has no doubt the others have prevailed, but his focus is too great on the vampire to give it notice.
Both thoroughly exhausted, they fight on, fueled by the hatred of their past. Shouting the name of his Abbot from the Order of the Nineteen, the dwarf puts his fist through the chest of the vampire, snapping bones, both his own and Calzareth's. Upon pulling his hand out, the vampire's wound immediately begins to close.
"Not this time” says the dwarf, and in his other hand he holds a small vial. Something Joy had given him a long time ago. A small bottle of holy water, blessed by the paladin of Lathander. He smashes the vail into the exposed ribs of the undead monster where a heart should be, who howls again in true agony.
"I said it was time" says the dwarf, who falls to the ground, covered in his own blood, missing a few more teeth, and possibly an eye.
As things go dark around him, he sees many pairs of boots coming towards him. He smiles, he feels free. Finally. The vampire is gone.
Now I just need to save the world...
The Fellowship finds themselves past the base of the dead mountain. The events that had transpired seemed to be out of order, passing from forest to the lifeless mountain. When the party looks behind them, they can still see a fracture in spacetime, like a broken mirror. They can see themselves experiencing the adventures they all shared or had done alone. All of them happened, but not in what you all understand as chronological order. The party can remember exiting the forest before they entered it, and fighting off fiends and undead in the mountains before traveling through the Ashkeeper Peaks.
As they watch themselves having their recent adventures, the fractures splinter and meld together, creating an impossibly twisted menagerie of memory. Joy mentioned earlier that the time dilation is getting worse. Now it seems apparent that time is not just advancing, it is breaking under the strain of whatever is causing the time dilation. As you watch the adventurers, they suddenly stop and stare back at you. The Fellowship at each fractured mirror all look at you while you look at them. As it happens, you remember it, as if it fit somewhere in the middle of your adventures where your future selves watched you. The shattered glass windows in reality close, and the sky is still.
Ahead of them, the party can see that the mountain they are on is barren. The ashy dirt that grays the mountain itself also powders the trees, coating the trunks in gray soot. There are no sounds of nature here. The forest, spooky as it was, at least harbored the sounds of life. Even the other mountains of the Ashkeeper Peaks were vibrant with life. On this mountain though, it seems that all the animals avoid this peak. Even the birds do not fly over it.
There is a lonely path up the mountain. It seems clear, yet, there is a sense that it is not a path that came to be from frequent use. Rather, it seems out of place… installed and then abandoned. The path to the climactic end, whatever that end shall be, is before you.
DM mostly, Player occasionally | Session 0 form | He/Him/They/Them
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"Hahaha" the dwarf laughs. Not a common sound amongst the fellowship over the years, but more common lately. A weight has been lifted from the dwarf, a lifetime long weight of guilt, loss, and sorrow. Gone. Earned.
Whatever comes next, which the monk believes to most likely be a horrible end, he is ready to meet head on.
"Come on fellowship, our path is clear" he says, pointing at the ominous trail and humming a song. He hums quietly, not oblivious to the danger they are walking into. But he hums none the less.
He pulls the wraps tighter around his hands, caked with years of blood and gore, and pats Jack on the back. "Let's see if we can get where we need to go before more people die."
And he starts running up the trail, humming a song Vazo'yn taught him long ago. He thinks it was about a halfling love triangle, but he never cared about the lyrics, just the melody...
Jacaranda cloaked the group in the earths shadow ( Pass Without A Trace) and moved slightly ahead to scout the path.
Stealth- 24
Perception- 17
Survival- 28
Feeling tension rising as the fellowship sets on the lonely path up the ominous mountain, what he assumed was the last leg of their journey together, the dark-haired man cautiously follows along, the gravity of the circumstances bringing him to uncharacteristical silence, stopping briefly to send his witch eye further ahead to avoid any unpleasant surprises, the tiny blonde staying by his side for now.
Jack
Stealth: 38 (disadvantage on perception to spot him)
Perception: 11 (improved darkvision and truesight, always using arcane eye to scout ahead of the fellowship)
Lily
Stealth: 30
Perception: 9
Ylis wonders if she should try to be sneaky too. Being all shadowy and creep around is fun but it takes a lot of patience.
Bah, let everybody else be sneaky sneaky this time. If something jumps out at her, they'll back her up. What a surprise THAT would be!
She makes no effort to be stealthy, walking the center of the path and tapping her staff every step of the way.
Passive Perception 20
"Sooner or later, your Players are going to smash your railroad into a sandbox."
-Vedexent
"real life is a super high CR."
-OboeLauren
"............anybody got any potatoes? We could drop a potato in each hole an' see which ones get viciously mauled by horrible monsters?"
-Ilyara Thundertale
Vazo'yn, moulded by all they've experience in their short, though also very long, time together, joins Randa in the darkness. They are so close to their goal now that he will not risk it to chance or hubris. He is focused on their success, for if they fail then his purpose, so core to his being, iss meaningless, and therefore so is he.
His golden eyes dart from shadow to shadow as they continue, his hand never far from the card pouch at his waist, ever ready to defend their destiny.
Stealth: 35
Perception: 27
Joy forgoes stealth as well due to her armor and proceeds next to Ylis', gripping her shield and sword hilt in quiet readiness.
Passive perception: 15
Riven lingers with the group, the edge of his cloak brushing the soot-covered ground as he walks. He doesn’t speak. He rarely needs to. But his gaze turns to Yils as she strolls confidently up the center of the path, tapping her staff with every step.
The sound of her staff echoes farther than it should in a place so dead. There’s no wind. No birds. Just her rhythm, beating against silence.
A slow smile tugs at the corner of Riven’s mouth.
He watches her a moment longer, the soft gleam in his eye betraying the fondness he would never voice. Then, as if remembering himself, he steps forward without sound.
Riven raises one gloved hand, not in warning, but in invitation. From beneath his cloak, he produces a narrow, curved hunting horn, its surface carved with faint, almost imperceptible sigils. It looks more bone than ivory. His voice is low, just for her.
“One sound,” he says, tapping the mouth of the horn with a single finger, “all clear. Two?” His eyes narrow faintly. “Danger." A faint smirk ghosts across his lips. “You’re the only one who’ll hear it.”
He holds her gaze for just a moment longer, enough for her to know he’s not teasing. Then the humor is gone, replaced by the calm, practiced stillness once more.
Without another word, Riven turns and steps into the ash-covered trees, the mountain seeming to swallow him whole.
Stealth: 29
Umbral Sight once he gets into the shadows
Survival: 23
Passive Perception: 26
Every tree looms like a petrified specter, its gnarled branches stretching skyward in a desperate plea for escape from this desolate mountain. Stripped of leaves, they stand as stark skeletons against the horizon, offering no refuge from the rising sun. A lingering sense of haunting desperation clings to them, exuding an eerie beauty even in their lifeless state.
Giles races ahead of the group, his laughter echoing off the rugged cliffs as he bounds toward the peak. His energy is infectious, and he moves with the spryness of a man half his age, each step reflecting a joyous determination. The sun glints off his silver hair, highlighting the deep lines of his face that tell stories of adventure and experience. In the crisp mountain air, he shouts encouragement to his companions, the thrill of the climb evident in his vibrant spirit as he navigates the rocky terrain with surprising agility.
Randa glides silently over the uneven dirt path, her movements almost ghostly, discernible only to Riven and Vazo'yn, who have honed their senses to track her with remarkable ease. As she scouts ahead, her keen eyes scanning the terrain for threats, the rest of the Fellowship grapples with the uncertainty of her absence, their anxious whispers barely breaking the stillness of the surrounding forest. They can only spot her when she steps cautiously out from behind a gnarled, dead tree, its bark charred and blackened as if scorched by a forgotten fire. Randa's focus sharpens as she inspects a looming presence of potential danger, the air thick with tension and the scent of damp earth mingling with the faint, acrid smell of decay.
Randa often finds herself navigating the precarious edges of the winding path. Flanked by meticulously constructed stone borders, the ashen trail meanders alongside steep cliff faces, offering breathtaking views of the valley below. The air is crisp and carries a hint of an old, dusty smell, while the sunlight casts dappled shadows on the ground.
As she ascends the mountain, Randa’s keen sense of observation allows her to pinpoint sections of the path that have begun to succumb to the relentless passage of time. Cracks spider across the surface, and loose gravel shifts beneath her feet, a reminder of the fragility of this ancient route. She knows that if anyone were to tread carelessly along these treacherous stretches, they might unwittingly trigger a collapse, potentially tumbling into the abyss below. Randa understands the importance of vigilance; her diligence is not merely for her safety but for anyone who may follow in her footsteps.
Jack, to everyone's astonishment, seems to melt into the surroundings as he traverses the open path. His movements are so subtle and deliberate that even Riven, known for his keen instincts and razor-sharp senses, is left speechless by Jack's newfound ability to blend seamlessly into the environment. The soft rustle of leaves and the gentle whisper of the wind do little to betray his presence, as he navigates the terrain with an agility that defies expectation. It's as if he possesses an uncanny mastery of stealth, rendering him nearly undetectable, a mere shadow among the trees. Riven, taken aback, finds himself questioning how Jack has honed this skill.
Jack’s luminous emerald eyes roamed the winding road and the towering trees, unclouded by illusions or hidden beings. Yet, as he cast his gaze into the shimmering depths of the Ethereal Plane, a chilling spectacle unfolded before him: a torrent of restless souls was being inexorably drawn up the mountainside toward the looming summit.
Dozens of spectral figures writhed in his vision, accompanied by otherworldly creatures like djinn, their forms twisting in desperation as they clawed at the earth. Their anguished efforts to find traction were futile against the beguiling force that pulled them upward, a heartbreaking sight that told tales of lost souls—those unable to ascend to the embrace of their divine realm or beings trapped in the liminal space of the Ethereal.
The Arcane Eye hovered nearby, an impeccable scout, scanning for any lurking dangers. Yet, in this moment, an eerie stillness prevailed; no threats ventured close enough to breach its vigilant gaze.
Lily weaves gracefully among the trees, her form a whispering shadow that flits between the gnarled branches. Much like Randa, she often evades the notice of the crew, and were it not for their deep connection, even Jack would struggle to keep her in sight. Her Heart Sight, a precious gift, would prove invaluable if there were any creatures lurking nearby to observe. But in this moment, all she perceives is the oppressive aura of the looming mountain, a somber presence that weighs heavily on her, urging her to retreat from its jagged heights.
Ylis stands out as an alluring target, quietly enticing the attention of those shrouded in Stealth, though not nearly as much as the boisterous Giles, who has dashed ahead with little care for subtlety. Both Ylis and Joy remain cloaked in magical concealment, their presence softened within the surrounding landscape. Ylis firmly taps her cane against the packed dirt road, yet the sound barely breaking the stillness, while Joy's greaves whisper softly with each cautious step, blending seamlessly into the muted ambiance of their surroundings.
Vazo'yn's golden eyes shimmer like molten metal, practically piercing through the dense foliage that lines the narrow, winding path leading up the rugged mountain. He strides closely alongside Joy and Ylis, his movements deliberate and measured, fully prepared for any unexpected surprises that might lurk in the shadows. Meanwhile, Riven melds seamlessly into the thinned trees, his presence vanishing like morning mist. Despite the absence of shadows to cloak him, he miraculously becomes undetectable to the eye. Unbeknownst to the rest of the group, Riven is acutely aware that on this rare day, there is someone among them whose talent for stealth has finally eclipsed his own, a fact that adds an intriguing tension to the already charged atmosphere.
Randa, Riven, and Vazo'yn feel an unsettling shift in the air as the wind sweeps through, defying logic by tugging at Randa's hair and lifting it skyward. Their gaze is irresistibly drawn to the summit, where ominous clouds begin to coil and twist in a menacing dance. A vortex starts to form, an ethereal funnel of darkness stretching from the heavens down toward the peak, as if the sky itself is being pulled into a tempestuous embrace. The clouds, heavy and charged with energy, swirl tighter, racing toward the pinnacle in a chaotic whirlwind. Their hearts thunder in their chests, a mixture of fear and anticipation rising to their throat. Though they have never witnessed such a phenomenon before, an instinctual certainty grips them—they know that the storm is about to unleash its fury in the form of a purple wave.
DM mostly, Player occasionally | Session 0 form | He/Him/They/Them
EXTENDED SIGNATURE!
Doctor/Published Scholar/Science and Healthcare Advocate/Critter/Trekkie/Gandalf with a Glock
Try DDB free: Free Rules (2024), premade PCs, adventures, one shots, encounters, SC, homebrew, more
Answers: physical books, purchases, and subbing.
Check out my life-changing