Alaric awoke in the middle of the night, breathless, with the words still echoing in his skull. It was the voice of his mysterious patron. The words settled over his mind with an oily weight. When he rose to light a candle, he found a single black feather smoldering on the floor beside his bed. Beneath it, scratched into the wood ... directions to a meeting place.
...
While praying at a roadside shrine, a sudden gust of wind blew the devotional book from Cassian’s hands. When he retrieved it, a torn page he’d never seen before had wedged itself into the binding. The page was brittle and old, scrawled with unfamiliar handwriting. It read:
'Halvhrest Manor bleeds ... but it is not to late to set things right.'
...
Hoping to find some clue as to his magical predicament, Gooterat had sought a fortune teller. In a filthy alley, she had laid out the cards atop a wooden crate. During the reading, her eyes went white, and she spoke with a voice that was not her own. "What the house takes, it keeps. You must find it ... before it finds you." When the fortune teller had come to, she’d claimed to remember nothing about the past few moments and refused Gooterat's copper coins. She had hurriedly made a protective gesture to ward against evil and left as fast as she could. That had been three days ago ... but the directions had been whispered into Gooterat’s head haven't stopped echoing since.
...
While hiking near a sandy oasis, Rats heard someone calling for help. "The land is not what it seems! We are trapped!" The young halfling had rushed over ... but no one was there. A trail left in the sand led him to a small cairn, a ceremonial mound of stones. One of the stones had been etched with symbols that shimmered briefly in the desert-born ranger’s vision. When he blinked, they had become a map, and for reasons he could not describe ... he felt drawn to seeing the destination it described with his own eyes.
...
While examining a tattered book full of folktales in an old Neverwinter inn, Shinrei found a stanza scrawled in the margins—one he didn’t remember being there before. "Sing to the bones, and they will answer." When he read the words aloud the fire began to sputter, blue and cold. The tavern went quiet. An old man at the bar raised his head and gave Shinrei a grin with far too many teeth. Before his very eyes, the man vanished! Leaving only an empty tankard and a charcoal sketch of a crossroads, one path of which led to an iron gate within a stone archway.
...
"Not all debts can be paid." Zepharion found the message inside the cover of a stolen book — one he had lifted from a careless traveler days ago. The words weren't inked, rather, it had been branded into the vellum. Upon first glance, the ominous phrase, and the directions that accompanied them, had been been completely illegible ... but once Zepharion had whispered the name of his former master ... the words had transformed before his very eyes!
...
Each of you received a bizarre message accompanied by equally mysterious directions. Unable to shake the idea from your head ... you have traveled to the mysterious crossroads described in the message.
Hours ago, you left the last familiar road behind. The trail you now followed was overgrown and half-lost to time — roots clawed up from the earth, and pale weeds swayed in a chill wind.
The sky darkened as a fine, misting rain began to fall. It beaded on your skin, on your cloak, and upon the twisted trees that crowded close to the path. The birds were too silent. The forest felt wrong. Somewhere along the way, the world changed ... and you didn’t notice.
Eventually, you reached a lonely crossroads at the edge of the woods. There was no signpost, only the faint impression of long abandoned wagon ruts.
A short distance away, a dark cloaked figure stood at the very center of the crossroads. Rain clung to their hood. They made no sound, gave no greeting.
Motionless. Watching. Waiting.
Each of you has arrived, solo, to the scene described above. Right now, as far as you can tell ... the only characters present in this scene is the hooded character and your character. To learn more about the current scene, you may roll one skill of your choice (Arcana, Insight, Nature, Perception, and Survival would all be appropriate ... but if you have another skill in mind just let me know)
Alaric sees the lone figure and feels uneasy. He quickly summons his blade to his hand, a red longsword appearing out of thin air. He carefully starts to approach while scanning for any other threats that might be present. His first thought with how unnatural everything is, is that magic must be at work (Arcana - 19)
The firelight flickered as Shinrei whispered the words. “Sing to the bones, and they will answer.” He wasn’t even sure why he said it aloud. Just… a tug. The kind he’d learned not to ignore. And then, silence. No crackle of flame. No laughter. Just the creak of stool legs as the old man at the bar turned, teeth too many, grin too tight. And then, gone. Only a tankard left behind. And beneath it: a charcoal sketch, smudged but readable.
-------
Shenrei follows the path as it narrows to little more than a rut lined with brambles and old weeds. He clutches a black walking stick, a gnarled length of blackened wood, twisted as if it grew writhing in pain. Rain has painted the forest in dull silver. Even the air tastes gray.
Looking for a signpost, Shinrei can see where it might’ve stood, but the ground is now just covered in weeds. And in the middle of it all, a cloaked figure, silent in the falling rain.
The figure stands motionless. So does he. His hand involuntarily clutches his black walking stick. He narrows his eyes. The rain patters against his cloak, soft but relentless, a rhythm without melody. This is strange. And Shinrei knows strange. He has encountered many strange occurrences. Each time, he was tempted to act quickly, to strike the match, to ask the question, to follow the sound.
But he has learned better. Let the mystery unfold. Let it wrap its fingers around you like a fog. Do not chase it. Let it notice you. So he waits. Letting his breath slow, his heartbeat settle to the rhythm of the rain. He lets the figure see him. Finally, he speaks. “I sang the words. The bones answered,” he says not to the figure, but to the space between them. “Why am I here?”
Cassian approaches the crossroads slowly, his boots soft in the wet earth, his cloak heavy with rain. One hand rests near the hilt of his sword, the other clutches the worn devotional book against his chest—its pages now water-stained, but the strange message still burned fresh in his mind.
'Halvhrest Manor bleeds...but it is not too late to set things right.'
The words had gnawed at him from the moment they appeared, like a prayer left unfinished. He doesn’t understand how the page came to him—or why—but if it is a cry for help, he can't bring himself to ignore it.
He slows as he nears the crossroads, his mismatched gaze locking onto the cloaked figure standing there like a statue carved from the mist. Cassian swallows hard, feeling the weight of the silence. Even the forest seems to hold its breath.
With a quiet resolve, he steps forward. “H-hello...Are you the one who s-sent the message?”
The land is not what it seemed indeed. Those trees look funny. Birds are usually pretty loud. Wait, there's no trees in the desert. How long have I been walking?
Rats is fearless to a fault. And far too sure of his capabilities as a survivor. Trusting his experiences (Survival: 22), he believes that his current position is not of his own lack of direction.
There’s something else at play…it couldn’t be me…not possible…wait, who’s that?
Rats approaches the cloaked figure with naive confidence and bursts out a series of rapid fire questions. “Do you live here? Or are you trapped. Or am I now trapped? They said the land is not what it seems. What does that mean? The seams like in my pants? Maybe where the land meets itself? I don’t like riddles. Never could do them. Or maybe it’s just a strange land. Why don’t you talk?”
"What the house takes, it keeps. You must find it ... before it finds you."
Gooterat had been in or around enough gambling halls to know that the house always keeps what it takes, but the odd way the mystic woman behaved led him to believe that this had more to it than dice or cards would settle.
He pondered the whole strange encounter as the drizzle began to fall. His mind worked, but his sharp eyes never strayed from his surroundings. He spotted the lone figure from a distance. He walked towards the man, cloak clutched at his neck to keep the chill rain at bay. He scanned the woods for signs of an ambush, but his curiosity was peaked by this odd development, so he focused on him.
"Lovely day for a stroll..." he says. His fingers brushed against a small bit of purple crystal in his pocket, his confidence grew. He didnt fully understand his new abilities, but he knew he could defend himself if needed. He watched the figures reaction closely.
Zepharion sees the lone figure and attempts to learn more through observation. Unfortunately he steps in a puddle and can't see due to the mud in his eyes. He curses his former master softly under his breath.
"How in all the hells do I still suffer from their treachery."
The figure stood silent in the crossroads, draped in a heavy, rain-slick cloak. Droplets slid down the folds of its hood without sound. Though the wind stirred the trees and brushed across the travelers’ cloaks, the stranger’s garments did not move, did not flutter in the breeze.
Each of the heroes reacted, still under the illusion that only they and the dark figure shared the crossroads.
Alaric stepped forward first, and although it had not been there previously — a red-bladed longsword materialized, conjured into his hand. He neared the figure, and a pressure behind his eyes and the faint crackle of unseen threads in the air told him what the others could not yet sense — this place pulsed with old, subtle planar magic. Not a portal, not quite — but something very much like it. He stood upon a hinge between worlds ... or a wound. [Arcana, success. There is planar magic at play]
Cassian’s voice cut through the stillness, questioning. Shinrei followed, his tone curious, measured. Rats, in a rapid fire series, also had questions too for the figure — and in the asking, the halfling realized the truth. This forest was too damp. The air too cold. The stars above bore no resemblance to the ones over his desert homeland. Indeed, the sky was full of alien constellations the ranger had never seen. Although he did not know the how or the why .... Rats realized that he was far, far, far from home. [Survival, success. Rats recognizes that he has been transported to another land ... indeed ... another world.]
Zepharion watched in silence, his hand near the hilt of a blade never meant for show. Gooterat too, stood half in shadow, his eyes narrowed beneath his tangled hair. But something about the figure felt … calm. Peaceful even. The gnome became convinced that this dark figure was interested in observing and was not hostile. [Insight, success. Gooterat has a gut feeling that this dark figure means no harm.]
Then, with a jolt the dark figure raised its head.
Eyes — bright, feral, yellow — met theirs. The cloak ... no, not a cloak ... unraveled in a rush of feathers, revealing not cloth but wings, vast and black. One beat, powerful and sudden, sent a blast of damp air and swirling mist through the crossroads. The figure rose, impossibly fast, wordlessly vanishing into the mist above.
Silence fell again, but the scene before the heroes was not the same.
As each of the six heroes turned — each expecting to find themselves alone upon the road — they were surprised to see five other travelers joining them. Each one emerging from trails they hadn't seen before. Six paths, six heroes. Each had taken a different road to arrive at this peculiar place.
As this realization dawned ... the world shifted.
With a low groan, like the earth itself turning in its sleep, the trails behind each of them twisted and merged. Trees bent at wrong angles. Roots clawed over ruts in the road. The paths the heroes had followed only moments ago folded, kaleidoscopically, in upon themselves, impossibly blending one into the another like ink mixed in water.
When it was done, the six paths they had previously seen were no more. Only a single path remained.
The drizzle continued. The woods pressed closer. The world had changed before their very eyes ... and it soon became clear ... none of them were going home tonight.
Gooterat survived as long as he did on the streets by being a good judge of character. What he lacked in formal schooling he more than made up for with street smarts. He knew people, and he sensed no malevolence from the strange, cloaked figure. Be that as it may, the shock of its sudden transformation had him back stepping as quickly as his short legs could carry him. A tree prevented him from going any further. He winced, rubbing the back of his head as he turned around. A clear trail had been behind him just moments ago...
The sudden appearance of five strangers was more unnerving to the startled gnome than the lone figure had been. Hoping that none had yet noticed him, he plucked a bit of fleece from his vest and snapped his fingers softly. Where the wide eyed Gooterat once stood a lovely bush appeared. He stood motionless, barely breathing, waiting, watching... From the "safety " of his illusion, his fingers found the small bit of purple crystal tucked away in his pocket. He held it like a drowning man holds a life preserver. All of this was a bit overwhelming to the already jumpy sorcerer.
Just shy of 3 feet, Rats is an unkempt young halfling with patchwork leather armor, sewn from different sets made to fit his small frame. His hair is obviously cut short by his own knife and appears to be poorly dyed red from the dark staining on his scalp. He is thin, sinewy, and tanned in such a way that only those who spend their entire lives outdoors achieve. And for those with a keen eye, a small cockroach can be briefly seen, scurrying on his pack into a small compartment.
He looks up at this new party, shifts his pack weight, and sighs, "I do not know about the lot of you, but I am not where I should be. This place is not what it should be. Why is it so cold and wet! It is clear that magic got me here. Or maybe that bird man did. Maybe that bird man took the other birds. Either way, I am trapped. We are trapped. And they are trapped."
Rats points down the new path, "I'm going that way, who's coming? I'm Rats"
Shinrei spins around like a shadow in candlelight, fluid but uncertain. He is middle aged, and the lines beneath his eyes suggest a life of sleepless nights and lantern-lit pages. His black hair, streaked with white, falls just past his jaw, tucked behind one ear. He has a large dark beard, also sporting a wide patch of white.
His eyes are dark grey, flecked with the faintest silver, like ash caught in stormclouds. He seems not to look at the others, but through them, weighing the story beneath their skin. When he focuses, his gaze sharpens with almost uncomfortable clarity. His clothing is simple, functional, but steeped in some kind of ritual symbolism. A long coat of dark wool, reinforced with faded leather and etched along the seams with old glyphs in near-invisible thread. His studded leather is likewise engraved. His boots are dusty, his satchel heavy. He carries a walking stick of dark, gnarled wood, which he wields as both walking stick and ward. He half-lifts it reflexively, clearly startled.
He steps forward, his staff tapping once against a root as he pauses. His voice is quiet, but it cuts through the silence like a page turning in a forgotten book. When he speaks, it is with a soft, deliberate cadence, like someone used to telling stories to those who need them. “If you hear laughter in the dark tonight… don’t answer it. Not until you know whose mouth it came from.” He tilts his head slightly, as if listening to something no one else can hear, and smiles grimly. “Shinrei Kurayami. Folklorist. Occult scholar. I study the things stories forget to warn you about. You all seem… interesting. Which means either you're worth saving… or your deaths will make excellent footnotes.”
Replying to Rats, he adds: "I wouldn't suggest any of us travel alone. Whatever has happened, wherever we are, we've caught the attention of something quite unusual."
Cassian stands tense in the mist, eyes fixed where the winged figure vanished. The eerie stillness presses in, but it’s the shifting paths that rattle him most—the way the world seemed to fold in on itself like a waking nightmare. Despite the dread curling in his chest, he doesn’t panic. He’s used to the unnatural, after all. His curse has shown him worse than shifting roads.
As the others step forward and speak, his protective instincts begin to surface, dulling the edges of his usual shyness. He takes a small step toward them, boots squelching in the damp earth, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword more for reassurance than threat.
He’s average height for a human, broad-shouldered beneath his rain-dappled cloak. His long, curly red hair is pulled loosely back, and his skin is sun-warmed from years of fieldwork. His right eye is a soft, earthy brown—the other jarring and inhuman: a white iris set in an inky-black sclera. The contrast is startling but not monstrous, though it marks him as someone touched by something beyond.
“I-I’m Cassian Beaumont,”he says, his voice quiet but steady. “Paladin. I, um…I don’t know w-what’s going on here, but it seems we’re not meant to face it alone.” He glances around at the others, eyes lingering on Zepharion a bit longer than the rest with something between pain and nostalgia, then turns toward the single, unnatural path ahead. “If anyone needs a shield between them and w-whatever awaits…I’ve got the armor for it, at least.” He gives a faint, uncertain smile.
Zepharion, dressed in mottled blacks and grays, slowly stands while flashing a dagger and storing it somewhere on his person. He begins walking toward Cassian, Shinrei and Rats, and says, "I'm Zepharion Nightshade, Rogue by circumstance, and I agree that working as a group is the preferable course of action."
"Now I've seen my share of magics, but does any of this,"Zeph gesticulates wildly around the former crossroads and then into the air,"seem particularly strange, or is it just me?"
Shinrei watches Zepharion with a curious tilt of the head, as if studying the rhythm of his voice more than his words. His fingers slowly drum once along the blackened wood staff, and a subtle creak answers him from within the wood (Prestidigitation).
“Strange is a relative term. To a man drowning, the ocean is vast. To the ocean… the man is noise.” He takes a single step forward, rain dripping from the brim of his hood, and looks toward where the crossroads should have been. “But yes. Something here is... layered. There are echoes in the mud. Threads of meaning left unraveled. Places where the story stutters.”
His gaze flicks between Zepharion, Cassian, and Rats, then settles again on Zepharion, lips twitching into the hint of a grin. “So no, it’s not just you. That always means trouble. But it also means we’re standing somewhere very old… or very important. Possibly both.”
He lifts the staff slightly, as if listening through it. “The question is—are we supposed to be here? Has something been waiting for us to arrive?” Then, with a conspiratorial glance: “Either way, Rogue-by-circumstance, I suggest we don’t waste the welcome. Off we go!”
"I don't think the birdman was responsible for this," says the large, particularly healthy looking Spotted Laurel bush. Stepping from the "bush" you see a young forest gnome. His traveling clothes are fairly ordinary, but they look new. His wet hair is dark, but will dry to a light brown. Green eyes sparkle with curiosity, and something else, as they quickly glance into the woods. When he is convinced that nothing is lurking and about to pounce he turns his full attention to the assembled strangers.
"Gooterat," he says with a slight, formal bow. "I have a nose for intentions, and I sensed nothing wicked from the creature"
He glances back at his illusion, then back to the group. "I sensed no malace among you either. Can't be too careful though. A gnome should feel fine to have a stroll in the woods, following mysterious and cryptic directions that he can't seem to get out of his head. Uh, nevermind. The way this started, it was bound to get weird pretty quickly. It all seemed quite interesting, right up to the where the hells am I part. Speaking of which, where the hells are we?"
Once the floodgates opened, Gooterats mental chatter just seemed to spill out of his mouth. He quickly realized this and flashes the group a charming smile. He brushed off some nonexistant dirt from his vest and pulled himself quickly together.
"Well then," he says, standing "tall" and dignified, "I suppose we can save the small talk for the road. It looks like we have but one direction to go."
The trees thinned as the road made its way through the forest, the last clutching branches giving way to a treeless, wind-scoured hilltop. There, hunched against the colorless sky, stood the ruins of a forgotten fortress. Only one corner of the original structure remained — a grim, narrow tower of black stone.
Attached to — as if growing from — the base of the tower, a three-story manor house had been built against the ruins. The manor sprawled across the top of the hill, its walls weather-stained and veined with ivy the color of old bruises. The porch sagged under the weight of time and disrepair, and the crooked eaves bowed like a spine ready to break. The front door hung open. From within, a flickering light cast erratic shadows that danced along the threshold.
Movement stirred on the porch.
Two women hauling crates, lanterns, and other equipment. One of them, tall and armor-clad, carried herself like someone who expected danger at any moment. A curved blade hung at her hip — its silvered edge catching the light. Her eyes swept the hilltop with wary precision as she passed a sheaf of parchment to her companion.
A companion that — somewhat improbably — looked exactly like the first woman. Twins!
The second woman was unarmed and unarmored, and carried satchels stuffed with all manner of alchemical tools and journals. A long coat hung over her shoulders, pockets heavy with tinctures and tonics. Her expression was thoughtful, but tight at the edges, as if haunted by a question she dared not ask aloud.
"Interesting arctictecture," Gooterat muses. He had seen and lived in some real shoddy spots; a flea ridden blanket draped over a trash bin and a broken prosthetic leg was among the worst.
"If that ruined keep aint 1000 its older, and it looks like a good gust of wind could bring the house down. Maybe not the best spot to bed down, but those ladies may be able to help sort out our predicalment." He eyes the dilapidated structure with trepidation. Gooterat was not fond of filth, and that place had filth written all over it.
"Or, it could be a trap!" he said in a hushed whisper. Gootera's sharp eyes scanned the tower and manor windows for others.
Perception: 5
"I don't see anyone else in the windows, but better safe than sorry." He began to chant softly, making then repeating a warding sign with his right hand. He sighed softly, feeling better already with some measure of protection. ***blade ward Concentration 1 min.***
"Shall we go and see what they are about? They also live here, so they should be able to tell us where here is."
Gooterat looks at his new companions expectantly. He clears his throat, glances back to the woods a few times, then fixes his gaze upon the manor.
***OoC: Gooterat is A OK to say the groups hellos, but he is better at "stretching" the truth than making friends the old fashion way. He will go with anyone who cares to, but he would never go alone. Also, his lack of formal education will pop up from time to time when he tries to use big words. ***
Cassian tightens his cloak around his shoulders against the chill wind, his eyes fixed on the sagging mansion. The name slips from his lips in a low breath, almost without thinking: “Halvhrest Manor…”
His gaze lingers on the two women hauling crates across the sagging porch. The equipment they carry looks heavy, purposeful — not the belongings of someone living comfortably, but rather of those preparing for work…or something worse. The unease settles like a stone in his stomach. Do they really live here? The manor barely looks fit to stand, let alone house anyone safely.
Still, they need information. And it is better to ask before assuming the worst. “I can go talk t-to them,” he says quietly, offering a faint, reassuring smile. “If any of you want to hang back...I don’t mind.”
Zepharion whispers to his companions, "this may be just a supply cache, but we should approach with caution and conceal our numbers nonetheless. Although I am well read, I am ill equipped to approach strangers on our party's behalf. I will, however, try to gather more information for you before I conceal myself."
Zepharion looks over the scene in front of them trying to glean any other information for the party. Perception 22 (16 + 6)
Zepharion relates any additional information he has found, and then moves quickly to the left side of the party and attempts to enter stealth. Stealth 15 (9 + 6)
The group lingered at the edge of the tangled yard. The crooked house loomed ahead, its broken porch half-surrendered to ivy and rot. The two women continued their preparations, seemingly unaware of the silent watchers — at least at first.
Zepharion narrowed his eyes, his keen senses sharpening against the gloom. [Perception, success] His gaze picked out the details others might have missed: bundles of iron stakes, small vials stoppered with wax, coils of braided rope, and tomes bound in cracked leather. One crate, now half-unpacked, revealed mirror fragments and silvered implements, charms strung on blackened cords, and a battered, well-used spirit board. This was no ordinary expedition. The women came prepared for rites and rituals — occult tools of warding, banishment, and study.
Clearly, they anticipated more than dust and echoes within these crumbling walls.
It was the sword bearing twin who noticed them first. Her hand fell instinctively to the hilt of her sword, though she made no move to draw it. She exchanged a quick look with her sister, who set down a heavy satchel and turned toward the gathered strangers.
"You're not from around here." The woman called out, more statement than question.
Her sister offered a small, cautious smile."You may as well come closer." She said, brushing a strand of hair from her face, revealing a gruesome scar covered, in part, by a silken eyepatch. She laughed with a bit of self deprecating humor. "No sense skulking about. If I've managed to spot your group ... well, than everything else has too."
The first twin stepped down from the porch with measured steps, leaving the door to the manor yawning open behind her. "I'm Laurie Weathermay-Foxgrove." She said, by way of introduction. She gestured to her sister. "This is Gennifer."
"We're here to investigate the spirits of Halvhrest Manor. You are welcome to join us ... it seems, after all, that the house called you here." Gennifer added.
Behind them, the open door seemed to breathe, the flickering light within growing ever so slightly dimmer, as if the house itself listened ... and waited.
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It’s time. The door has opened. Step through.
Alaric awoke in the middle of the night, breathless, with the words still echoing in his skull. It was the voice of his mysterious patron. The words settled over his mind with an oily weight. When he rose to light a candle, he found a single black feather smoldering on the floor beside his bed. Beneath it, scratched into the wood ... directions to a meeting place.
...
While praying at a roadside shrine, a sudden gust of wind blew the devotional book from Cassian’s hands. When he retrieved it, a torn page he’d never seen before had wedged itself into the binding. The page was brittle and old, scrawled with unfamiliar handwriting. It read:
'Halvhrest Manor bleeds ... but it is not to late to set things right.'
...
Hoping to find some clue as to his magical predicament, Gooterat had sought a fortune teller. In a filthy alley, she had laid out the cards atop a wooden crate. During the reading, her eyes went white, and she spoke with a voice that was not her own. "What the house takes, it keeps. You must find it ... before it finds you." When the fortune teller had come to, she’d claimed to remember nothing about the past few moments and refused Gooterat's copper coins. She had hurriedly made a protective gesture to ward against evil and left as fast as she could. That had been three days ago ... but the directions had been whispered into Gooterat’s head haven't stopped echoing since.
...
While hiking near a sandy oasis, Rats heard someone calling for help. "The land is not what it seems! We are trapped!" The young halfling had rushed over ... but no one was there. A trail left in the sand led him to a small cairn, a ceremonial mound of stones. One of the stones had been etched with symbols that shimmered briefly in the desert-born ranger’s vision. When he blinked, they had become a map, and for reasons he could not describe ... he felt drawn to seeing the destination it described with his own eyes.
...
While examining a tattered book full of folktales in an old Neverwinter inn, Shinrei found a stanza scrawled in the margins—one he didn’t remember being there before. "Sing to the bones, and they will answer." When he read the words aloud the fire began to sputter, blue and cold. The tavern went quiet. An old man at the bar raised his head and gave Shinrei a grin with far too many teeth. Before his very eyes, the man vanished! Leaving only an empty tankard and a charcoal sketch of a crossroads, one path of which led to an iron gate within a stone archway.
...
"Not all debts can be paid." Zepharion found the message inside the cover of a stolen book — one he had lifted from a careless traveler days ago. The words weren't inked, rather, it had been branded into the vellum. Upon first glance, the ominous phrase, and the directions that accompanied them, had been been completely illegible ... but once Zepharion had whispered the name of his former master ... the words had transformed before his very eyes!
...
Each of you received a bizarre message accompanied by equally mysterious directions. Unable to shake the idea from your head ... you have traveled to the mysterious crossroads described in the message.
Hours ago, you left the last familiar road behind. The trail you now followed was overgrown and half-lost to time — roots clawed up from the earth, and pale weeds swayed in a chill wind.
The sky darkened as a fine, misting rain began to fall. It beaded on your skin, on your cloak, and upon the twisted trees that crowded close to the path. The birds were too silent. The forest felt wrong. Somewhere along the way, the world changed ... and you didn’t notice.
Eventually, you reached a lonely crossroads at the edge of the woods. There was no signpost, only the faint impression of long abandoned wagon ruts.
A short distance away, a dark cloaked figure stood at the very center of the crossroads. Rain clung to their hood. They made no sound, gave no greeting.
Motionless. Watching. Waiting.
Each of you has arrived, solo, to the scene described above. Right now, as far as you can tell ... the only characters present in this scene is the hooded character and your character. To learn more about the current scene, you may roll one skill of your choice (Arcana, Insight, Nature, Perception, and Survival would all be appropriate ... but if you have another skill in mind just let me know)
Happy Hunting!
Alaric sees the lone figure and feels uneasy. He quickly summons his blade to his hand, a red longsword appearing out of thin air. He carefully starts to approach while scanning for any other threats that might be present. His first thought with how unnatural everything is, is that magic must be at work (Arcana - 19)
After joining more my signature got out of hand so I am now a proud member of the extended signature club!! :)
The firelight flickered as Shinrei whispered the words. “Sing to the bones, and they will answer.” He wasn’t even sure why he said it aloud. Just… a tug. The kind he’d learned not to ignore. And then, silence. No crackle of flame. No laughter. Just the creak of stool legs as the old man at the bar turned, teeth too many, grin too tight. And then, gone. Only a tankard left behind. And beneath it: a charcoal sketch, smudged but readable.
-------
Shenrei follows the path as it narrows to little more than a rut lined with brambles and old weeds. He clutches a black walking stick, a gnarled length of blackened wood, twisted as if it grew writhing in pain. Rain has painted the forest in dull silver. Even the air tastes gray.
Looking for a signpost, Shinrei can see where it might’ve stood, but the ground is now just covered in weeds. And in the middle of it all, a cloaked figure, silent in the falling rain.
The figure stands motionless. So does he. His hand involuntarily clutches his black walking stick. He narrows his eyes. The rain patters against his cloak, soft but relentless, a rhythm without melody. This is strange. And Shinrei knows strange. He has encountered many strange occurrences. Each time, he was tempted to act quickly, to strike the match, to ask the question, to follow the sound.
But he has learned better. Let the mystery unfold. Let it wrap its fingers around you like a fog. Do not chase it. Let it notice you. So he waits. Letting his breath slow, his heartbeat settle to the rhythm of the rain. He lets the figure see him. Finally, he speaks. “I sang the words. The bones answered,” he says not to the figure, but to the space between them. “Why am I here?”
Nature check: 3 + 4 = 7
Cassian approaches the crossroads slowly, his boots soft in the wet earth, his cloak heavy with rain. One hand rests near the hilt of his sword, the other clutches the worn devotional book against his chest—its pages now water-stained, but the strange message still burned fresh in his mind.
'Halvhrest Manor bleeds...but it is not too late to set things right.'
The words had gnawed at him from the moment they appeared, like a prayer left unfinished. He doesn’t understand how the page came to him—or why—but if it is a cry for help, he can't bring himself to ignore it.
He slows as he nears the crossroads, his mismatched gaze locking onto the cloaked figure standing there like a statue carved from the mist. Cassian swallows hard, feeling the weight of the silence. Even the forest seems to hold its breath.
With a quiet resolve, he steps forward. “H-hello...Are you the one who s-sent the message?”
Insight: 9
The land is not what it seemed indeed. Those trees look funny. Birds are usually pretty loud. Wait, there's no trees in the desert. How long have I been walking?
Rats is fearless to a fault. And far too sure of his capabilities as a survivor. Trusting his experiences (Survival: 22), he believes that his current position is not of his own lack of direction.
There’s something else at play…it couldn’t be me…not possible…wait, who’s that?
Rats approaches the cloaked figure with naive confidence and bursts out a series of rapid fire questions. “Do you live here? Or are you trapped. Or am I now trapped? They said the land is not what it seems. What does that mean? The seams like in my pants? Maybe where the land meets itself? I don’t like riddles. Never could do them. Or maybe it’s just a strange land. Why don’t you talk?”
"What the house takes, it keeps. You must find it ... before it finds you."
Gooterat had been in or around enough gambling halls to know that the house always keeps what it takes, but the odd way the mystic woman behaved led him to believe that this had more to it than dice or cards would settle.
He pondered the whole strange encounter as the drizzle began to fall. His mind worked, but his sharp eyes never strayed from his surroundings. He spotted the lone figure from a distance. He walked towards the man, cloak clutched at his neck to keep the chill rain at bay. He scanned the woods for signs of an ambush, but his curiosity was peaked by this odd development, so he focused on him.
"Lovely day for a stroll..." he says. His fingers brushed against a small bit of purple crystal in his pocket, his confidence grew. He didnt fully understand his new abilities, but he knew he could defend himself if needed. He watched the figures reaction closely.
Insight: 17
Zepharion sees the lone figure and attempts to learn more through observation. Unfortunately he steps in a puddle and can't see due to the mud in his eyes. He curses his former master softly under his breath.
"How in all the hells do I still suffer from their treachery."
Perception 4+6= 10
The figure stood silent in the crossroads, draped in a heavy, rain-slick cloak. Droplets slid down the folds of its hood without sound. Though the wind stirred the trees and brushed across the travelers’ cloaks, the stranger’s garments did not move, did not flutter in the breeze.
Each of the heroes reacted, still under the illusion that only they and the dark figure shared the crossroads.
Alaric stepped forward first, and although it had not been there previously — a red-bladed longsword materialized, conjured into his hand. He neared the figure, and a pressure behind his eyes and the faint crackle of unseen threads in the air told him what the others could not yet sense — this place pulsed with old, subtle planar magic. Not a portal, not quite — but something very much like it. He stood upon a hinge between worlds ... or a wound. [Arcana, success. There is planar magic at play]
Cassian’s voice cut through the stillness, questioning. Shinrei followed, his tone curious, measured. Rats, in a rapid fire series, also had questions too for the figure — and in the asking, the halfling realized the truth. This forest was too damp. The air too cold. The stars above bore no resemblance to the ones over his desert homeland. Indeed, the sky was full of alien constellations the ranger had never seen. Although he did not know the how or the why .... Rats realized that he was far, far, far from home. [Survival, success. Rats recognizes that he has been transported to another land ... indeed ... another world.]
Zepharion watched in silence, his hand near the hilt of a blade never meant for show. Gooterat too, stood half in shadow, his eyes narrowed beneath his tangled hair. But something about the figure felt … calm. Peaceful even. The gnome became convinced that this dark figure was interested in observing and was not hostile. [Insight, success. Gooterat has a gut feeling that this dark figure means no harm.]
Then, with a jolt the dark figure raised its head.
Eyes — bright, feral, yellow — met theirs. The cloak ... no, not a cloak ... unraveled in a rush of feathers, revealing not cloth but wings, vast and black. One beat, powerful and sudden, sent a blast of damp air and swirling mist through the crossroads. The figure rose, impossibly fast, wordlessly vanishing into the mist above.
Silence fell again, but the scene before the heroes was not the same.
As each of the six heroes turned — each expecting to find themselves alone upon the road — they were surprised to see five other travelers joining them. Each one emerging from trails they hadn't seen before. Six paths, six heroes. Each had taken a different road to arrive at this peculiar place.
As this realization dawned ... the world shifted.
With a low groan, like the earth itself turning in its sleep, the trails behind each of them twisted and merged. Trees bent at wrong angles. Roots clawed over ruts in the road. The paths the heroes had followed only moments ago folded, kaleidoscopically, in upon themselves, impossibly blending one into the another like ink mixed in water.
When it was done, the six paths they had previously seen were no more. Only a single path remained.
The drizzle continued. The woods pressed closer. The world had changed before their very eyes ... and it soon became clear ... none of them were going home tonight.
Gooterat survived as long as he did on the streets by being a good judge of character. What he lacked in formal schooling he more than made up for with street smarts. He knew people, and he sensed no malevolence from the strange, cloaked figure. Be that as it may, the shock of its sudden transformation had him back stepping as quickly as his short legs could carry him. A tree prevented him from going any further. He winced, rubbing the back of his head as he turned around. A clear trail had been behind him just moments ago...
The sudden appearance of five strangers was more unnerving to the startled gnome than the lone figure had been. Hoping that none had yet noticed him, he plucked a bit of fleece from his vest and snapped his fingers softly. Where the wide eyed Gooterat once stood a lovely bush appeared. He stood motionless, barely breathing, waiting, watching... From the "safety " of his illusion, his fingers found the small bit of purple crystal tucked away in his pocket. He held it like a drowning man holds a life preserver. All of this was a bit overwhelming to the already jumpy sorcerer.
Stealth: 8
Just shy of 3 feet, Rats is an unkempt young halfling with patchwork leather armor, sewn from different sets made to fit his small frame. His hair is obviously cut short by his own knife and appears to be poorly dyed red from the dark staining on his scalp. He is thin, sinewy, and tanned in such a way that only those who spend their entire lives outdoors achieve. And for those with a keen eye, a small cockroach can be briefly seen, scurrying on his pack into a small compartment.
He looks up at this new party, shifts his pack weight, and sighs, "I do not know about the lot of you, but I am not where I should be. This place is not what it should be. Why is it so cold and wet! It is clear that magic got me here. Or maybe that bird man did. Maybe that bird man took the other birds. Either way, I am trapped. We are trapped. And they are trapped."
Rats points down the new path, "I'm going that way, who's coming? I'm Rats"
Shinrei spins around like a shadow in candlelight, fluid but uncertain. He is middle aged, and the lines beneath his eyes suggest a life of sleepless nights and lantern-lit pages. His black hair, streaked with white, falls just past his jaw, tucked behind one ear. He has a large dark beard, also sporting a wide patch of white.
His eyes are dark grey, flecked with the faintest silver, like ash caught in stormclouds. He seems not to look at the others, but through them, weighing the story beneath their skin. When he focuses, his gaze sharpens with almost uncomfortable clarity. His clothing is simple, functional, but steeped in some kind of ritual symbolism. A long coat of dark wool, reinforced with faded leather and etched along the seams with old glyphs in near-invisible thread. His studded leather is likewise engraved. His boots are dusty, his satchel heavy. He carries a walking stick of dark, gnarled wood, which he wields as both walking stick and ward. He half-lifts it reflexively, clearly startled.
He steps forward, his staff tapping once against a root as he pauses. His voice is quiet, but it cuts through the silence like a page turning in a forgotten book. When he speaks, it is with a soft, deliberate cadence, like someone used to telling stories to those who need them. “If you hear laughter in the dark tonight… don’t answer it. Not until you know whose mouth it came from.” He tilts his head slightly, as if listening to something no one else can hear, and smiles grimly. “Shinrei Kurayami. Folklorist. Occult scholar. I study the things stories forget to warn you about. You all seem… interesting. Which means either you're worth saving… or your deaths will make excellent footnotes.”
Replying to Rats, he adds: "I wouldn't suggest any of us travel alone. Whatever has happened, wherever we are, we've caught the attention of something quite unusual."
Cassian stands tense in the mist, eyes fixed where the winged figure vanished. The eerie stillness presses in, but it’s the shifting paths that rattle him most—the way the world seemed to fold in on itself like a waking nightmare. Despite the dread curling in his chest, he doesn’t panic. He’s used to the unnatural, after all. His curse has shown him worse than shifting roads.
As the others step forward and speak, his protective instincts begin to surface, dulling the edges of his usual shyness. He takes a small step toward them, boots squelching in the damp earth, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword more for reassurance than threat.
He’s average height for a human, broad-shouldered beneath his rain-dappled cloak. His long, curly red hair is pulled loosely back, and his skin is sun-warmed from years of fieldwork. His right eye is a soft, earthy brown—the other jarring and inhuman: a white iris set in an inky-black sclera. The contrast is startling but not monstrous, though it marks him as someone touched by something beyond.
“I-I’m Cassian Beaumont,” he says, his voice quiet but steady. “Paladin. I, um…I don’t know w-what’s going on here, but it seems we’re not meant to face it alone.” He glances around at the others, eyes lingering on Zepharion a bit longer than the rest with something between pain and nostalgia, then turns toward the single, unnatural path ahead. “If anyone needs a shield between them and w-whatever awaits…I’ve got the armor for it, at least.” He gives a faint, uncertain smile.
Zepharion, dressed in mottled blacks and grays, slowly stands while flashing a dagger and storing it somewhere on his person. He begins walking toward Cassian, Shinrei and Rats, and says, "I'm Zepharion Nightshade, Rogue by circumstance, and I agree that working as a group is the preferable course of action."
"Now I've seen my share of magics, but does any of this," Zeph gesticulates wildly around the former crossroads and then into the air, "seem particularly strange, or is it just me?"
Shinrei watches Zepharion with a curious tilt of the head, as if studying the rhythm of his voice more than his words. His fingers slowly drum once along the blackened wood staff, and a subtle creak answers him from within the wood (Prestidigitation).
“Strange is a relative term. To a man drowning, the ocean is vast. To the ocean… the man is noise.” He takes a single step forward, rain dripping from the brim of his hood, and looks toward where the crossroads should have been. “But yes. Something here is... layered. There are echoes in the mud. Threads of meaning left unraveled. Places where the story stutters.”
His gaze flicks between Zepharion, Cassian, and Rats, then settles again on Zepharion, lips twitching into the hint of a grin. “So no, it’s not just you. That always means trouble. But it also means we’re standing somewhere very old… or very important. Possibly both.”
He lifts the staff slightly, as if listening through it. “The question is—are we supposed to be here? Has something been waiting for us to arrive?”
Then, with a conspiratorial glance: “Either way, Rogue-by-circumstance, I suggest we don’t waste the welcome. Off we go!”
Insight: 18
"I don't think the birdman was responsible for this," says the large, particularly healthy looking Spotted Laurel bush. Stepping from the "bush" you see a young forest gnome. His traveling clothes are fairly ordinary, but they look new. His wet hair is dark, but will dry to a light brown. Green eyes sparkle with curiosity, and something else, as they quickly glance into the woods. When he is convinced that nothing is lurking and about to pounce he turns his full attention to the assembled strangers.
"Gooterat," he says with a slight, formal bow. "I have a nose for intentions, and I sensed nothing wicked from the creature"
He glances back at his illusion, then back to the group. "I sensed no malace among you either. Can't be too careful though. A gnome should feel fine to have a stroll in the woods, following mysterious and cryptic directions that he can't seem to get out of his head. Uh, nevermind. The way this started, it was bound to get weird pretty quickly. It all seemed quite interesting, right up to the where the hells am I part. Speaking of which, where the hells are we?"
Once the floodgates opened, Gooterats mental chatter just seemed to spill out of his mouth. He quickly realized this and flashes the group a charming smile. He brushed off some nonexistant dirt from his vest and pulled himself quickly together.
"Well then," he says, standing "tall" and dignified, "I suppose we can save the small talk for the road. It looks like we have but one direction to go."
The trees thinned as the road made its way through the forest, the last clutching branches giving way to a treeless, wind-scoured hilltop. There, hunched against the colorless sky, stood the ruins of a forgotten fortress. Only one corner of the original structure remained — a grim, narrow tower of black stone.
Attached to — as if growing from — the base of the tower, a three-story manor house had been built against the ruins. The manor sprawled across the top of the hill, its walls weather-stained and veined with ivy the color of old bruises. The porch sagged under the weight of time and disrepair, and the crooked eaves bowed like a spine ready to break. The front door hung open. From within, a flickering light cast erratic shadows that danced along the threshold.
Movement stirred on the porch.
Two women hauling crates, lanterns, and other equipment. One of them, tall and armor-clad, carried herself like someone who expected danger at any moment. A curved blade hung at her hip — its silvered edge catching the light. Her eyes swept the hilltop with wary precision as she passed a sheaf of parchment to her companion.
A companion that — somewhat improbably — looked exactly like the first woman. Twins!
The second woman was unarmed and unarmored, and carried satchels stuffed with all manner of alchemical tools and journals. A long coat hung over her shoulders, pockets heavy with tinctures and tonics. Her expression was thoughtful, but tight at the edges, as if haunted by a question she dared not ask aloud.
The pair of women have not yet seen the heroes.
"Interesting arctictecture," Gooterat muses. He had seen and lived in some real shoddy spots; a flea ridden blanket draped over a trash bin and a broken prosthetic leg was among the worst.
"If that ruined keep aint 1000 its older, and it looks like a good gust of wind could bring the house down. Maybe not the best spot to bed down, but those ladies may be able to help sort out our predicalment." He eyes the dilapidated structure with trepidation. Gooterat was not fond of filth, and that place had filth written all over it.
"Or, it could be a trap!" he said in a hushed whisper. Gootera's sharp eyes scanned the tower and manor windows for others.
Perception: 5
"I don't see anyone else in the windows, but better safe than sorry." He began to chant softly, making then repeating a warding sign with his right hand. He sighed softly, feeling better already with some measure of protection. ***blade ward Concentration 1 min.***
"Shall we go and see what they are about? They also live here, so they should be able to tell us where here is."
Gooterat looks at his new companions expectantly. He clears his throat, glances back to the woods a few times, then fixes his gaze upon the manor.
***OoC: Gooterat is A OK to say the groups hellos, but he is better at "stretching" the truth than making friends the old fashion way. He will go with anyone who cares to, but he would never go alone. Also, his lack of formal education will pop up from time to time when he tries to use big words. ***
Cassian tightens his cloak around his shoulders against the chill wind, his eyes fixed on the sagging mansion. The name slips from his lips in a low breath, almost without thinking: “Halvhrest Manor…”
His gaze lingers on the two women hauling crates across the sagging porch. The equipment they carry looks heavy, purposeful — not the belongings of someone living comfortably, but rather of those preparing for work…or something worse. The unease settles like a stone in his stomach. Do they really live here? The manor barely looks fit to stand, let alone house anyone safely.
Still, they need information. And it is better to ask before assuming the worst. “I can go talk t-to them,” he says quietly, offering a faint, reassuring smile. “If any of you want to hang back...I don’t mind.”
Zepharion whispers to his companions, "this may be just a supply cache, but we should approach with caution and conceal our numbers nonetheless. Although I am well read, I am ill equipped to approach strangers on our party's behalf. I will, however, try to gather more information for you before I conceal myself."
Zepharion looks over the scene in front of them trying to glean any other information for the party. Perception 22 (16 + 6)
Zepharion relates any additional information he has found, and then moves quickly to the left side of the party and attempts to enter stealth. Stealth 15 (9 + 6)
The group lingered at the edge of the tangled yard. The crooked house loomed ahead, its broken porch half-surrendered to ivy and rot. The two women continued their preparations, seemingly unaware of the silent watchers — at least at first.
Zepharion narrowed his eyes, his keen senses sharpening against the gloom. [Perception, success] His gaze picked out the details others might have missed: bundles of iron stakes, small vials stoppered with wax, coils of braided rope, and tomes bound in cracked leather. One crate, now half-unpacked, revealed mirror fragments and silvered implements, charms strung on blackened cords, and a battered, well-used spirit board. This was no ordinary expedition. The women came prepared for rites and rituals — occult tools of warding, banishment, and study.
Clearly, they anticipated more than dust and echoes within these crumbling walls.
It was the sword bearing twin who noticed them first. Her hand fell instinctively to the hilt of her sword, though she made no move to draw it. She exchanged a quick look with her sister, who set down a heavy satchel and turned toward the gathered strangers.
"You're not from around here." The woman called out, more statement than question.
Her sister offered a small, cautious smile. "You may as well come closer." She said, brushing a strand of hair from her face, revealing a gruesome scar covered, in part, by a silken eyepatch. She laughed with a bit of self deprecating humor. "No sense skulking about. If I've managed to spot your group ... well, than everything else has too."
The first twin stepped down from the porch with measured steps, leaving the door to the manor yawning open behind her. "I'm Laurie Weathermay-Foxgrove." She said, by way of introduction. She gestured to her sister. "This is Gennifer."
"We're here to investigate the spirits of Halvhrest Manor. You are welcome to join us ... it seems, after all, that the house called you here." Gennifer added.
Behind them, the open door seemed to breathe, the flickering light within growing ever so slightly dimmer, as if the house itself listened ... and waited.