Vazo'yn turns his gaze toward the window, searching the face that stares back at him. As an elf, signs of aging are subtle and not as pronounced as in other species. Usually, these signs don’t become significant until the last few years of life, with one exception: hair can lighten or darken over time. As Vazo’yn has black hair, this leaves only one option. Fully understanding this, Vazo’yn stands in front of the window, taking a few moments to examine his reflection. He studies every contour of his face—his sharp jawline, the golden eyes that reflect a mix of determination and curiosity, and the slight curve of his lips. Satisfied with the image looking back at him, he then turns his attention to his hair. He scrutinizes each strand, searching for any hints of change. So far, he finds no noticeable signs of lightening; the rich, black hair remains vibrant, a testament to his youth and vitality. With a final nod of approval, he steps away, ready to face whatever evil has come to this town.
Aunt Kristin gazes at Ylis, her eyes swollen and reddened from the weight of her sorrow. After a brief pause, she pulls herself from the depths of her own grief, letting her focus sharpen on the girl before her. Ylis, once a little child, has blossomed into a remarkable young harengon woman, and in this moment, Aunt Kristin is reminded of the bond they share—deep, familiar, and comforting amidst the heartache of her own lost youth. She knows this young harengon. “Y-Ylis? You look... How? I-I don’t understand. Why?” With a hesitant breath, she reaches out to touch Ylis, but the moment her fingers draw near, she recoils, a wave of uncertainty flooding her mind as she questions whether Ylis is truly there. The faint scent of damp earth surrounds Kristin as she kneels, her palms pressing into the cool, gritty dirt beneath her. Glancing around at the shadows cast by towering buildings, she pulls her gaze back to Ylis, whose fur shimmers with an almost ethereal glow. Gathering her resolve, Kristin steadies her breath and extends her hand once more, gently brushing her fingertips against Ylis’s cheek. “You do look wonderful,” she says, her voice steadier and more confident, the clarity of her words cutting through the lingering doubt. “Are you okay, dear? I am honestly hoping that you could tell me, with your nose always lightly dusted from reading old tomes.”
Randa sees many people in need of help, but she can offer little assistance in the way they desire. As she kneels to offer aid and comfort to those in need, they frantically reach out to her, desperate for help, healing, or any means to lift this mysterious curse. Thankfully, none of these desperate individuals turn violent; instead, they plead for a solution to this affliction that Randa has yet to identify. Randa eventually encounters a group of elderly individuals grappling with their new challenging circumstances. Among them is a frail old man who has tumbled to the ground, unable to rise. His thin legs flail weakly, a desperate attempt to regain his footing, but each effort only serves to exhaust him further. With paper-thin arms trembling, he struggles to push himself up, yet his frail body offers little support. Finally, he collapses back down, exhaustion etched across his features, his eyes wide and imploring as they search Randa's face for help. In the distance, Randa can see a pig pen. Many giant hogs fill this pen, but also many bones.
Jack finds himself in a similar predicament, surrounded by desperate souls seeking assistance yet presenting him with challenges that seem insurmountable in both the chaos and his own ignorance. Among them, several elderly individuals exhibit pressing needs, their sudden vulnerability and bewilderment starkly evident. One man, appearing to be in his mid-60s, reaches out to Jack, his gnarled hand grasping Jack's shoulder with surprising urgency. “Please… my parents,” he pleads, his voice trembling with a blend of fear and desperation. He gestures weakly toward a distant structure, presumably his home, his hand quivering like a leaf caught in a storm. “Just bones where they slept.” His once-bright eyes, now clouded with grief and confusion, search Jack's for some form of solace or solution, a flicker of hope fading as he stands on the precipice of despair.
Riven observes a pervasive decay, not merely in the townsfolk but in the very heart of the town itself. The wooden beams, once sturdy and proud, now sag under the weight of neglect, their surfaces marred by peeling paint that has surrendered its vibrant hues to the relentless passage of time. Buildings that once vibrated with a kaleidoscope of colors now stand as muted ghostly shells, their life faded to a dull whisper.
The Crownsguard have secured the town, their presence heavy in the air. From Riven’s hidden vantage point in the shadows, he can discern the state of their armor: dull and tarnished, the metal glistening dully in the morning light. Each chest piece appears to have been cloaked in a layer of rust-colored dust, as if the very essence of decay has clung to them, mirroring the deterioration surrounding him.
As Joy channels some magic to enhance her senses, she finds that she can identify someone who is more calm, if only barely. An older halfling man, seemingly in his 50s, stands out among his kind with his unusual height, nearly reaching that of a dwarf. His demeanor is frantic as he barks orders at the surrounding soldiers, his voice a mix of authority and urgency. Adorning his attire is the emblem of the Dwendalian Empire, marking him as a state-appointed official of some significance. His bright blue eyes, sharp and penetrating, contrast sharply against his bushy white eyebrows, conveying a sense of determination and focus. Adding to his peculiarity, this halfling boasts a full, impressive off-white beard, further enhancing his distinctive presence in the chaotic scene unfolding around him.
As Giles settles into meditation, he reaches beyond the confines of his own mind, extending his senses to embrace the world around him. An undercurrent of unrest pulses through the air, a silent echo of the people's turmoil that he can feel deep within his bones, even if their words could not be heard. He becomes attuned to the subtle shifts in the spiritual energy that weaves through every living thing, a vibrant tapestry of existence that hums with potential. As he listens intently, a profound stillness envelops him, and in the depths of his awareness, he senses the approach of someone—an impending presence that stirs the atmosphere, charged with anticipation, mystery, and hopefully, answers.
A relieved sigh escapes Vazo'yn's lips as he realises he has been spared the debilitating effects of aging that have ailed many of the townspeople. That weight lifted from his mind is balanced by the weight in his heart as guilt settles there; he swells with pride and potential while others around him suffer with anguish. The luminous orbs around his hand dissipate as he turns his attention to the curse befallen the town.
There are so many people who need help, Vazo'yn finds it difficult to know where to start. Something flickers at the edge of his mind, an almost-remembered talent that slowly blooms. The words fall from his mouth as his hands automatically reach for the mystical cards that rest in the pouch at his side. He pulls on a thread of the weave that he instinctively knows is bound to the cards, intertwines it with his senses, and then casts it out around him. He suddenly feels his mind attune to the flow of magic and searches for signs of the arcane.
[[Vazo'yn is casting Detect Magic with Magic Initiate].]]
Vazo'yn scans the area, finding no magical presence in the area, save for a faint glow around the emblem of the Dwendalian Empire that sparkles with Abjuration energy on the chest of the same halfling that Joy is observing.
From the shelter of a shadowed alcove, Riven observed. He had seen decay before—rust creeping over steel, rot eating through wood—but this was different. This was not the slow passage of time. Something was feeding. Draining.
His eyes scanned the town, noting every detail. The buildings wood weathered, paint peeling, other structures showing signs of quiet decay. The Crownsguard armor showed signs of rust, their movements sluggish, the absence of authority in their presence. The townsfolk looked tired, moved slower than before, their expressions carrying a weight of age that hadn't been there moments before.
Riven shifted, moving along the edges of light, always in shadow. He would watch, listen, learn. The Decay had to have a source. A pattern
He would start where the town still held color, where the edges hadn’t yet begun to rot. Somewhere untouched—or at least, less touched. That was what he needed to do and from there try and trace it back to a source.
Perception Check: To determine if Riven can make out any part of the towns structures that seem untouched and use that as a reference to see of how the decay is spreading
It's not what he had hoped to find, but the officer's protective badge is something—anything—for Vazo'yn to focus on amidst the chaos roiling around him. He moves through the crowd of people toward the halfling and his glowing emblem. Vazo'yn's movements are slow and deliberate, trying to seed some sense of calm among those nearby on the verge of panic. He stops a little short of the Dwendalian officer. Within earshot, but not close enough to draw attention to himself.
Instead, he looks for any others that, like himself, appear more determined and focused as a result of this strange phenomenon.
This post has potentially manipulated dice roll results.
Ylis looks at her aunt and cups her hand to her face, "I'm fine Aunt Kristin, it doesn't hurt. But you...are you in pain? " the bunny girl's brow furrows with concern. She glances around at the chaos around her but those things are secondary to family. This human right here showed her family a world of kindness from before she was born. "If there is something I can do, tell me. Hmmm, it must be some kind of magic."
This statement gives her pause. She has been studying the arcane arts and there is virtually no limit to what a wizard or witch could do. That is a frightening though. But who would attack this town? What could they want?
Ylis experiences a wave of anger and she stands with a growl.Touching a fighting stick, she infuses it with green tendrils of natures force. Who dares attack her family and her town?! She looks for beings that might be a threat, while keeping a calming hand on Aunt Kristin's shoulder.
Perception check 19
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?"
The not quite so young dark-haired man looks around him as he enters into the panicking streets of Trostenwald, feeling the fear and desperation around him, almost overwhelming, trying his best to exude calm and reassurance as well as empathy with the townsfolk. "It will be alright, help is coming."He says to reassure people although he hasn't the faintest idea what could be done to handle the effects of this very very weird event.
As the elderly man approaches him and pleads, he tries his best to calm and comfort him, embracing him and speaking to him in a reassuring tone. "I do not yet know what happened here this morning but I vow to find out and do what I can to reverse this tragedy."
Meanwhile the tiny invisible blonde flies over to the indicated building to start the investigation, trying to find the remnants of the parents and see if there was something to be learned to understand what was going on.
Joy narrows her eyes, letting the divine magic sharpen her senses, tuning out the panic just enough to notice someone different—not calm, exactly, but focused. Her gaze lands on the tall halfling barking orders. The imperial emblem on his chest and the disciplined bearing of the soldiers around him mark him as someone important. Someone who might have answers. Hopefully with her disguise spell active and the addition to her age she won't be recognized by anyone. She hates to be deceptive, but they might turn away her assistance otherwise...She approaches the tall Halfling after casting guidance once more.
“Excuse me, sir. I’m Joy, a paladin of Lathander. I’ve seen what’s happening, and I’m here to offer aid in any way I can.” She glances around briefly, taking in the reflection-induced chaos, then meets his eyes again. “Please tell me, what have you been able to learn so far?”
Giles, accepts the energy he feels around him, as well as the profound stillness when it comes. Then the sense of someone, something approaching. A strong feeling, no doubt tied to the chaos around him.
He opens his eyes, stands, and scan's his surroundings.
A few of the others seem to be converging on a tall halfling, perhaps one of the town leaders? He will makes his way there.
As he stands near the halfling, he listens as the others introduce themselves, the last one, being a paladin of Lathandar.
"I am Eighteen... I mean Giles, you can call me Giles. Someone or something is approaching, I believe it is the cause to this mysterious aging. We should all prepare for ... something. However that might be."
Giles will calm his breathing, open his hands to the sky, and try to see if he can more accurately detect this impending presence.
Randa Though Randa would typically find it challenging to assist a human to their seat due to their comparative mass, this emaciated old man proved to be surprisingly light. His frail frame felt almost weightless as she guided him gently into the chair, her hands steady and careful. The old man's sunken cheeks puff with the effort of the move and frail limbs quake as he muttered a faint "thank you."
As she straightened up, Randa's attention shifted to a small cluster of other elderly individuals nearby. They were huddled together, their eyes squinting against the crisp wind that stirred the air, causing leaves to swirl playfully around them. Their murmured comments about the gusty weather floated over to her.
“It was the wind. I felt it because I struggle with sleep, always been a light sleeper. I didn’t realize it did this…” one woman says loudly to grab Randa's attention as she gestures down at her aging body, “... until this morning.”
Riven Try as he might, Riven is unable to find anything untouched by the lurching advancement of time, save for possibly a few elves walking the streets. Even among those however, some have been visibly impacted, as they seem to hold locks of faded or darkened hair in their hands. Their lips, tightly pressed together, reveal a silent disappointment as they gaze forlornly at the remnants of their former luster. Those of mixed elves ancestry, dwarves, and gnomes seem to have noticed some change as well. As he searches for clues and listens to the chaotic speech among the people, based on the information that he collects and analyzes, he is led to one possibility: everyone and everything seems to have been impacted by a relative decade of aging; that is to say that what would be 10 years for a human would be about 75 years for an elf, about 35 years for a dwarf, and so on.
Vazo’yn Vazo’yn can see only a handful of people who meet that criterion, beyond the halfling man giving orders and the Crownsguard who now have completed their perimeter and hold the town under guard. The gates to the town are now closed and they man the 15ft wall that encloses the town. Vazo’yn can see, just within his general vicinity, a halfling man issuing orders to the Crownsguard. He is approached by a human woman and a dwarf male. Two harengon women, one a young woman and the other, an older, middle-aged woman, stand nearby with a determined gaze. A human male stands to the side of the halfling, he would otherwise be unremarkable but for the fact that he appears curiously at ease on this turbulent morning. An elf woman and a human male also seem to be helping the people around them in a determined manner. Though they may feel fear, they are quite in control of that fear and are not allowing it to prevent them from helping others.
Ylis “No, dear. No pain in any physical sense. I just feel like something was stolen from me. Something important.” As Ylis stands and glares daggers at everything around her, nothing, in particular, seems to be the source of this madness, but when under threat, anything and everything can appear to be one. This can make identifying a single threat nigh impossible. Aunt Kristen sees rage bubbling up in Ylis’ heart and pulls her attention back to her no longer youthful aunt by returning the comforting gesture—a gentle hand on Ylis’ tense shoulder. She looks at Ylis with loving eyes and smiles warmly. “But not everything was taken from me.”
Jack The little blonde familiar zips through the still-open front door to the building and bobs around from room to room to find the one that the ancient man had pointed to. She finds it easy enough. Two very decayed skeletons in nightgowns that have all but wasted away lie peacefully in a single bed. The love they shared in life is easily apparent in what was their final, and now, eternal embrace.
Giles & Joy The halfling initially turns a dismissive eye toward Joy, but he lingers on her for a moment when she mentions that she is a holy warrior. “Eh? An ardent of Lathander? What an odd coincidence having you here. I am the mayor of this town, Rinad Giantstorm.” He says with a curt nod. He opens his mouth to say more but is interrupted by Giles’ warning. Hearing it, he looks around warily, Joy's ask now forgotten. The officer next to him brandishes a rusted sword and also looks about.
As Giles turns his hands toward the heavens again, he can feel his hold loosening on the spiritual, a consequence of breaking his meditation. Yet he can still feel, barely, the approach of someone of import.
“Perhaps the witch, sir?” The officer standing next to the mayor says in a hushed tone, as if the mere mention of her name would summon her.
“Bah! The senile old woman is a huckster at best, peddling potions that do nothing more than stink up the room. Even if she could do something, it was never of this scope.” the mayor dismisses the suggestion with a sharp flapping of his arm, as if it were a passing odor.
“Right you are, Giantstorm. Eh he he.” Comes a cackle some 20 ft away. A heavily bent over woman is seen on quaking knees that barely seem to be supporting her frame. She wears a robe over a tattered, knee-length green dress. Numerous Crownsguard turn at their posts, shock and frustration etched upon their faces at the old woman having gotten past them somehow.
She scoots her feet forward, dragging over the dirt main road and leans heavily on her gnarled staff. Limp, lifeless hair falls before her ancient face as she looks up at Giantstorm with a smile containing exactly three teeth. “I was told to make the trip here 10 days ago.” she says stopping before the main square where the halfling stands with his officer, who points his rusted sword at her, silently threatening her to come no farther. She stops. “Good thing I came when I was told. I doubt I would have been able to make the trip now, eh he he.” she says while holding her arms out and looking down at her hunched over form.
Vazo'yn was about to join the conversation with the mayor and the human woman and dwarf man that seemed uncommonly determined amid all this turmoil. That was until the so-called witch arrived, who herself seemed on the verge joining the other villagers who had succumb to their suddenly advanced age. He moves to place himself between the pointed blade and the frail woman. He sympathises with the outcast and misunderstood, and is inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt.
"She is as drained as anyone," he says in her defense while moving forward and offering her his arm. Though he has not been withered by the aging, he has always been a lithely-built man and the arm he offers is thin.
"Who told you to make the journey, elder?" he asks her, his voice solemn with respect. "Did you know this was coming?"
Riven crouched beneath the overhang of a slanted rooftop, just off to the side of the mayor, his gaze continues to sweep the town with renewed calculation. His initial observations had yielded nothing—no untouched ground, no singular point of origin. Whatever had drained this place of its time had done so indiscriminately. No pattern. No obvious source.
But there was precision in its effects. The stolen years had been relative—ten for a human, seventy-five for an elf, thirty-five for a dwarf. That meant intent. Someone, or something, had measured out the decay.
His jaw tightened as he shifted focus. If the cause could not be traced through its effects, then he would have to adjust. Someone here knew something. The mayor’s reaction to the witch’s name had been telling, initial fear, masked beneath dismissal. The guards, hesitant, had been caught unprepared. And yet, others in the square moved with intent. One by one a group of composed strangers who did not allow fear to dictate their actions, began to appear before the mayor.
Riven would start there. He remained motionless beneath the overhang, a silent observer in the gloom. Watching. Listening. As conversation began unfolding, threads of information started to be presented. Someone had to have expected this. Someone had to have known.
“I was told to make the trip here 10 days ago,” the witch declared.
Interesting.
Riven's focus sharpened. He remained still, letting the words settle, weighing their implications. There were always secrets. And if he listened long enough, they would reveal themselves.
Joy watches the exchange with a quiet but growing tension in her chest. The dismissive tone from Mayor Giantstorm stirs something old and familiar—that too-familiar word: witch. Her own thoughts flash back to the nervous villagers who once called her the same, staring at her with suspicion because her eyes glinted strangely in the sun or because her skin bore the green hue of something not quite mortal.
So when the old woman appears—stooped and shaking, grinning with only three teeth but unafraid—Joy steps forward, gently lowering her shield. She nods at Vazo’yn’s kindness, touched by his instinct to defend her. “He’s right,” she says softly but firmly, her voice carrying with surprising clarity. “She’s not the enemy. Please let her speak."
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
To post a comment, please login or register a new account.
Giles Perception: 24
Ylis Arcana check 8
"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
Jack Persuasion: 16
( Randa Persuasion- 17
and I'll throw in a Nature as well to see if any of the livestock/pets have been affected ( and are most likely either deceased or very old)- 4 )
Vazo'yn turns his gaze toward the window, searching the face that stares back at him. As an elf, signs of aging are subtle and not as pronounced as in other species. Usually, these signs don’t become significant until the last few years of life, with one exception: hair can lighten or darken over time. As Vazo’yn has black hair, this leaves only one option. Fully understanding this, Vazo’yn stands in front of the window, taking a few moments to examine his reflection. He studies every contour of his face—his sharp jawline, the golden eyes that reflect a mix of determination and curiosity, and the slight curve of his lips. Satisfied with the image looking back at him, he then turns his attention to his hair. He scrutinizes each strand, searching for any hints of change. So far, he finds no noticeable signs of lightening; the rich, black hair remains vibrant, a testament to his youth and vitality. With a final nod of approval, he steps away, ready to face whatever evil has come to this town.
Aunt Kristin gazes at Ylis, her eyes swollen and reddened from the weight of her sorrow. After a brief pause, she pulls herself from the depths of her own grief, letting her focus sharpen on the girl before her. Ylis, once a little child, has blossomed into a remarkable young harengon woman, and in this moment, Aunt Kristin is reminded of the bond they share—deep, familiar, and comforting amidst the heartache of her own lost youth. She knows this young harengon. “Y-Ylis? You look... How? I-I don’t understand. Why?” With a hesitant breath, she reaches out to touch Ylis, but the moment her fingers draw near, she recoils, a wave of uncertainty flooding her mind as she questions whether Ylis is truly there. The faint scent of damp earth surrounds Kristin as she kneels, her palms pressing into the cool, gritty dirt beneath her. Glancing around at the shadows cast by towering buildings, she pulls her gaze back to Ylis, whose fur shimmers with an almost ethereal glow. Gathering her resolve, Kristin steadies her breath and extends her hand once more, gently brushing her fingertips against Ylis’s cheek. “You do look wonderful,” she says, her voice steadier and more confident, the clarity of her words cutting through the lingering doubt. “Are you okay, dear? I am honestly hoping that you could tell me, with your nose always lightly dusted from reading old tomes.”
Randa sees many people in need of help, but she can offer little assistance in the way they desire. As she kneels to offer aid and comfort to those in need, they frantically reach out to her, desperate for help, healing, or any means to lift this mysterious curse. Thankfully, none of these desperate individuals turn violent; instead, they plead for a solution to this affliction that Randa has yet to identify. Randa eventually encounters a group of elderly individuals grappling with their new challenging circumstances. Among them is a frail old man who has tumbled to the ground, unable to rise. His thin legs flail weakly, a desperate attempt to regain his footing, but each effort only serves to exhaust him further. With paper-thin arms trembling, he struggles to push himself up, yet his frail body offers little support. Finally, he collapses back down, exhaustion etched across his features, his eyes wide and imploring as they search Randa's face for help. In the distance, Randa can see a pig pen. Many giant hogs fill this pen, but also many bones.
Jack finds himself in a similar predicament, surrounded by desperate souls seeking assistance yet presenting him with challenges that seem insurmountable in both the chaos and his own ignorance. Among them, several elderly individuals exhibit pressing needs, their sudden vulnerability and bewilderment starkly evident. One man, appearing to be in his mid-60s, reaches out to Jack, his gnarled hand grasping Jack's shoulder with surprising urgency. “Please… my parents,” he pleads, his voice trembling with a blend of fear and desperation. He gestures weakly toward a distant structure, presumably his home, his hand quivering like a leaf caught in a storm. “Just bones where they slept.” His once-bright eyes, now clouded with grief and confusion, search Jack's for some form of solace or solution, a flicker of hope fading as he stands on the precipice of despair.
Riven observes a pervasive decay, not merely in the townsfolk but in the very heart of the town itself. The wooden beams, once sturdy and proud, now sag under the weight of neglect, their surfaces marred by peeling paint that has surrendered its vibrant hues to the relentless passage of time. Buildings that once vibrated with a kaleidoscope of colors now stand as muted ghostly shells, their life faded to a dull whisper.
The Crownsguard have secured the town, their presence heavy in the air. From Riven’s hidden vantage point in the shadows, he can discern the state of their armor: dull and tarnished, the metal glistening dully in the morning light. Each chest piece appears to have been cloaked in a layer of rust-colored dust, as if the very essence of decay has clung to them, mirroring the deterioration surrounding him.
As Joy channels some magic to enhance her senses, she finds that she can identify someone who is more calm, if only barely. An older halfling man, seemingly in his 50s, stands out among his kind with his unusual height, nearly reaching that of a dwarf. His demeanor is frantic as he barks orders at the surrounding soldiers, his voice a mix of authority and urgency. Adorning his attire is the emblem of the Dwendalian Empire, marking him as a state-appointed official of some significance. His bright blue eyes, sharp and penetrating, contrast sharply against his bushy white eyebrows, conveying a sense of determination and focus. Adding to his peculiarity, this halfling boasts a full, impressive off-white beard, further enhancing his distinctive presence in the chaotic scene unfolding around him.
As Giles settles into meditation, he reaches beyond the confines of his own mind, extending his senses to embrace the world around him. An undercurrent of unrest pulses through the air, a silent echo of the people's turmoil that he can feel deep within his bones, even if their words could not be heard. He becomes attuned to the subtle shifts in the spiritual energy that weaves through every living thing, a vibrant tapestry of existence that hums with potential. As he listens intently, a profound stillness envelops him, and in the depths of his awareness, he senses the approach of someone—an impending presence that stirs the atmosphere, charged with anticipation, mystery, and hopefully, answers.
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
The halfling that Joy sees issuing orders to the Crownsguard.
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
A relieved sigh escapes Vazo'yn's lips as he realises he has been spared the debilitating effects of aging that have ailed many of the townspeople. That weight lifted from his mind is balanced by the weight in his heart as guilt settles there; he swells with pride and potential while others around him suffer with anguish. The luminous orbs around his hand dissipate as he turns his attention to the curse befallen the town.
There are so many people who need help, Vazo'yn finds it difficult to know where to start. Something flickers at the edge of his mind, an almost-remembered talent that slowly blooms. The words fall from his mouth as his hands automatically reach for the mystical cards that rest in the pouch at his side. He pulls on a thread of the weave that he instinctively knows is bound to the cards, intertwines it with his senses, and then casts it out around him. He suddenly feels his mind attune to the flow of magic and searches for signs of the arcane.
[[Vazo'yn is casting Detect Magic with Magic Initiate].]]
Vazo'yn scans the area, finding no magical presence in the area, save for a faint glow around the emblem of the Dwendalian Empire that sparkles with Abjuration energy on the chest of the same halfling that Joy is observing.
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
Randa tries to assist the man to a seat but humans are much heavier than her own folk and she is having difficulty.....
Athletics- 16
She looks around at all the desperate people.
" Did anyone see what caused this?", she called out.
From the shelter of a shadowed alcove, Riven observed. He had seen decay before—rust creeping over steel, rot eating through wood—but this was different. This was not the slow passage of time. Something was feeding. Draining.
His eyes scanned the town, noting every detail. The buildings wood weathered, paint peeling, other structures showing signs of quiet decay. The Crownsguard armor showed signs of rust, their movements sluggish, the absence of authority in their presence. The townsfolk looked tired, moved slower than before, their expressions carrying a weight of age that hadn't been there moments before.
Riven shifted, moving along the edges of light, always in shadow. He would watch, listen, learn. The Decay had to have a source. A pattern
He would start where the town still held color, where the edges hadn’t yet begun to rot. Somewhere untouched—or at least, less touched. That was what he needed to do and from there try and trace it back to a source.
Perception Check: To determine if Riven can make out any part of the towns structures that seem untouched and use that as a reference to see of how the decay is spreading
Perception Check: 17
It's not what he had hoped to find, but the officer's protective badge is something—anything—for Vazo'yn to focus on amidst the chaos roiling around him. He moves through the crowd of people toward the halfling and his glowing emblem. Vazo'yn's movements are slow and deliberate, trying to seed some sense of calm among those nearby on the verge of panic. He stops a little short of the Dwendalian officer. Within earshot, but not close enough to draw attention to himself.
Instead, he looks for any others that, like himself, appear more determined and focused as a result of this strange phenomenon.
[[Insight: 25]]
Ylis looks at her aunt and cups her hand to her face, "I'm fine Aunt Kristin, it doesn't hurt. But you...are you in pain? " the bunny girl's brow furrows with concern. She glances around at the chaos around her but those things are secondary to family. This human right here showed her family a world of kindness from before she was born. "If there is something I can do, tell me. Hmmm, it must be some kind of magic."
This statement gives her pause. She has been studying the arcane arts and there is virtually no limit to what a wizard or witch could do. That is a frightening though. But who would attack this town? What could they want?
Ylis experiences a wave of anger and she stands with a growl.Touching a fighting stick, she infuses it with green tendrils of natures force. Who dares attack her family and her town?! She looks for beings that might be a threat, while keeping a calming hand on Aunt Kristin's shoulder.
Perception check 19
"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
Is that a butterfly?
"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
The not quite so young dark-haired man looks around him as he enters into the panicking streets of Trostenwald, feeling the fear and desperation around him, almost overwhelming, trying his best to exude calm and reassurance as well as empathy with the townsfolk. "It will be alright, help is coming." He says to reassure people although he hasn't the faintest idea what could be done to handle the effects of this very very weird event.
As the elderly man approaches him and pleads, he tries his best to calm and comfort him, embracing him and speaking to him in a reassuring tone. "I do not yet know what happened here this morning but I vow to find out and do what I can to reverse this tragedy."
Meanwhile the tiny invisible blonde flies over to the indicated building to start the investigation, trying to find the remnants of the parents and see if there was something to be learned to understand what was going on.
Joy narrows her eyes, letting the divine magic sharpen her senses, tuning out the panic just enough to notice someone different—not calm, exactly, but focused. Her gaze lands on the tall halfling barking orders. The imperial emblem on his chest and the disciplined bearing of the soldiers around him mark him as someone important. Someone who might have answers. Hopefully with her disguise spell active and the addition to her age she won't be recognized by anyone. She hates to be deceptive, but they might turn away her assistance otherwise...She approaches the tall Halfling after casting guidance once more.
“Excuse me, sir. I’m Joy, a paladin of Lathander. I’ve seen what’s happening, and I’m here to offer aid in any way I can.” She glances around briefly, taking in the reflection-induced chaos, then meets his eyes again. “Please tell me, what have you been able to learn so far?”
Persuasion: 9 + 3 guidance= 12
Giles, accepts the energy he feels around him, as well as the profound stillness when it comes. Then the sense of someone, something approaching. A strong feeling, no doubt tied to the chaos around him.
He opens his eyes, stands, and scan's his surroundings.
A few of the others seem to be converging on a tall halfling, perhaps one of the town leaders? He will makes his way there.
As he stands near the halfling, he listens as the others introduce themselves, the last one, being a paladin of Lathandar.
"I am Eighteen... I mean Giles, you can call me Giles. Someone or something is approaching, I believe it is the cause to this mysterious aging. We should all prepare for ... something. However that might be."
Giles will calm his breathing, open his hands to the sky, and try to see if he can more accurately detect this impending presence.
Perception: 22
Randa
Though Randa would typically find it challenging to assist a human to their seat due to their comparative mass, this emaciated old man proved to be surprisingly light. His frail frame felt almost weightless as she guided him gently into the chair, her hands steady and careful. The old man's sunken cheeks puff with the effort of the move and frail limbs quake as he muttered a faint "thank you."
As she straightened up, Randa's attention shifted to a small cluster of other elderly individuals nearby. They were huddled together, their eyes squinting against the crisp wind that stirred the air, causing leaves to swirl playfully around them. Their murmured comments about the gusty weather floated over to her.
“It was the wind. I felt it because I struggle with sleep, always been a light sleeper. I didn’t realize it did this…” one woman says loudly to grab Randa's attention as she gestures down at her aging body, “... until this morning.”
Riven
Try as he might, Riven is unable to find anything untouched by the lurching advancement of time, save for possibly a few elves walking the streets. Even among those however, some have been visibly impacted, as they seem to hold locks of faded or darkened hair in their hands. Their lips, tightly pressed together, reveal a silent disappointment as they gaze forlornly at the remnants of their former luster. Those of mixed elves ancestry, dwarves, and gnomes seem to have noticed some change as well. As he searches for clues and listens to the chaotic speech among the people, based on the information that he collects and analyzes, he is led to one possibility: everyone and everything seems to have been impacted by a relative decade of aging; that is to say that what would be 10 years for a human would be about 75 years for an elf, about 35 years for a dwarf, and so on.
Vazo’yn
Vazo’yn can see only a handful of people who meet that criterion, beyond the halfling man giving orders and the Crownsguard who now have completed their perimeter and hold the town under guard. The gates to the town are now closed and they man the 15ft wall that encloses the town. Vazo’yn can see, just within his general vicinity, a halfling man issuing orders to the Crownsguard. He is approached by a human woman and a dwarf male. Two harengon women, one a young woman and the other, an older, middle-aged woman, stand nearby with a determined gaze. A human male stands to the side of the halfling, he would otherwise be unremarkable but for the fact that he appears curiously at ease on this turbulent morning. An elf woman and a human male also seem to be helping the people around them in a determined manner. Though they may feel fear, they are quite in control of that fear and are not allowing it to prevent them from helping others.
Ylis
“No, dear. No pain in any physical sense. I just feel like something was stolen from me. Something important.” As Ylis stands and glares daggers at everything around her, nothing, in particular, seems to be the source of this madness, but when under threat, anything and everything can appear to be one. This can make identifying a single threat nigh impossible. Aunt Kristen sees rage bubbling up in Ylis’ heart and pulls her attention back to her no longer youthful aunt by returning the comforting gesture—a gentle hand on Ylis’ tense shoulder. She looks at Ylis with loving eyes and smiles warmly. “But not everything was taken from me.”
Jack
The little blonde familiar zips through the still-open front door to the building and bobs around from room to room to find the one that the ancient man had pointed to. She finds it easy enough. Two very decayed skeletons in nightgowns that have all but wasted away lie peacefully in a single bed. The love they shared in life is easily apparent in what was their final, and now, eternal embrace.
Giles & Joy
The halfling initially turns a dismissive eye toward Joy, but he lingers on her for a moment when she mentions that she is a holy warrior. “Eh? An ardent of Lathander? What an odd coincidence having you here. I am the mayor of this town, Rinad Giantstorm.” He says with a curt nod. He opens his mouth to say more but is interrupted by Giles’ warning. Hearing it, he looks around warily, Joy's ask now forgotten. The officer next to him brandishes a rusted sword and also looks about.
As Giles turns his hands toward the heavens again, he can feel his hold loosening on the spiritual, a consequence of breaking his meditation. Yet he can still feel, barely, the approach of someone of import.
“Perhaps the witch, sir?” The officer standing next to the mayor says in a hushed tone, as if the mere mention of her name would summon her.
“Bah! The senile old woman is a huckster at best, peddling potions that do nothing more than stink up the room. Even if she could do something, it was never of this scope.” the mayor dismisses the suggestion with a sharp flapping of his arm, as if it were a passing odor.
“Right you are, Giantstorm. Eh he he.” Comes a cackle some 20 ft away. A heavily bent over woman is seen on quaking knees that barely seem to be supporting her frame. She wears a robe over a tattered, knee-length green dress. Numerous Crownsguard turn at their posts, shock and frustration etched upon their faces at the old woman having gotten past them somehow.
She scoots her feet forward, dragging over the dirt main road and leans heavily on her gnarled staff. Limp, lifeless hair falls before her ancient face as she looks up at Giantstorm with a smile containing exactly three teeth. “I was told to make the trip here 10 days ago.” she says stopping before the main square where the halfling stands with his officer, who points his rusted sword at her, silently threatening her to come no farther. She stops. “Good thing I came when I was told. I doubt I would have been able to make the trip now, eh he he.” she says while holding her arms out and looking down at her hunched over form.
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
Vazo'yn was about to join the conversation with the mayor and the human woman and dwarf man that seemed uncommonly determined amid all this turmoil. That was until the so-called witch arrived, who herself seemed on the verge joining the other villagers who had succumb to their suddenly advanced age. He moves to place himself between the pointed blade and the frail woman. He sympathises with the outcast and misunderstood, and is inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt.
"She is as drained as anyone," he says in her defense while moving forward and offering her his arm. Though he has not been withered by the aging, he has always been a lithely-built man and the arm he offers is thin.
"Who told you to make the journey, elder?" he asks her, his voice solemn with respect. "Did you know this was coming?"
Riven crouched beneath the overhang of a slanted rooftop, just off to the side of the mayor, his gaze continues to sweep the town with renewed calculation. His initial observations had yielded nothing—no untouched ground, no singular point of origin. Whatever had drained this place of its time had done so indiscriminately. No pattern. No obvious source.
But there was precision in its effects. The stolen years had been relative—ten for a human, seventy-five for an elf, thirty-five for a dwarf. That meant intent. Someone, or something, had measured out the decay.
His jaw tightened as he shifted focus. If the cause could not be traced through its effects, then he would have to adjust. Someone here knew something. The mayor’s reaction to the witch’s name had been telling, initial fear, masked beneath dismissal. The guards, hesitant, had been caught unprepared. And yet, others in the square moved with intent. One by one a group of composed strangers who did not allow fear to dictate their actions, began to appear before the mayor.
Riven would start there. He remained motionless beneath the overhang, a silent observer in the gloom. Watching. Listening. As conversation began unfolding, threads of information started to be presented. Someone had to have expected this. Someone had to have known.
“I was told to make the trip here 10 days ago,” the witch declared.
Interesting.
Riven's focus sharpened. He remained still, letting the words settle, weighing their implications. There were always secrets. And if he listened long enough, they would reveal themselves.
Joy watches the exchange with a quiet but growing tension in her chest. The dismissive tone from Mayor Giantstorm stirs something old and familiar—that too-familiar word: witch. Her own thoughts flash back to the nervous villagers who once called her the same, staring at her with suspicion because her eyes glinted strangely in the sun or because her skin bore the green hue of something not quite mortal.
So when the old woman appears—stooped and shaking, grinning with only three teeth but unafraid—Joy steps forward, gently lowering her shield. She nods at Vazo’yn’s kindness, touched by his instinct to defend her. “He’s right,” she says softly but firmly, her voice carrying with surprising clarity. “She’s not the enemy. Please let her speak."