Not much to report from last night, unless you're interested in what desert I made? I found a recipe that used a can of pumpkin, and so I made these kind of cakey pumpkin-spiced and chocolate chip things that Dan announced were, "half way to scone," and I think he was right about that. I wasn't thrilled with that part of them, but they tasted great. So, I will consider them at least a partial win.
The story of The Caravan continues below in Idriyl's latest letter home.(Also, if you're wondering why I am bringing characters not in the party into this story it's because we are using a character tree as part of this game, so I have pre-generated Idriyl's sister Ave and the bastard son who is mentioned in this missive as PCs, in case Idriyl dies or... I guess the party gets tired of him, or we want to switch out for funsies, etc.) Also, I keep not knowing how to spell my own character's name, thank you dyslexia. I think I've settled on this spelling since I am pronouncing it: ID-RE-YELL.
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November 2
Sloshing Boot, the Port City of Brekenforth
My dear sister Ave,
I am cursed.
I’m sure you imagine me prone to melodrama--particularly after my previous letter--but I must assure you that in this case I am being perfectly literal.
There is so much to relate. Fortunately, The Caravan was paid and I have plenty of paper and ink once again. Likewise, I’m comfortably ensconced back at the Sloshing Boot. I’ve nothing but time on my hands since, unlike my human and halfling companions, I have little need for eight hours of sleep. (I have no idea what our Triton friend, Nerys, does at night. Perhaps she rents a bath?) Aiyu, my bar cat friend, is curled up in my lap, snorting the adorable snores of felines, and, together, we sit by a crackling fire in a nearly empty, pre-dawn tavern. It’s nothing like the fine and gentile life I once had (and which I pray you are still living) but it is, for the moment, quite pleasant.
If only I weren’t under a mysterious curse.
Let’s see how well I can retrace the steps that brought me back here. When last I wrote, I believe I was coming down off one of my furies, as we had just defeated a number of the puckwudgies in their underground den. There was, to our misfortune, more of that cavern to explore. Retracing our steps and following the opposite fork in the path, we discovered a rope-locked door. Bellamey, the nimble-fingered farmer, untied the complex knot with no trouble. Inside, we found two, long suffering, hogtied hunters. We freed them and I shared my waterskin and rations with them. Once we were assured they could walk without aid, we took them with us further into the interior of the underground tunnels, since they were missing another of their party, a hunter named Gretchen, and had grave concerns regarding her safety. As we were still carrying weapons from the archer puk-wudjies, we outfitted them for battle, despite their wretched state.
It was good that we did.
Despite Xavala proclaiming to the hunters, “Rejoice, my brothers, your savior has arrived,” I am not sure who, in the end, did the saving.
For we almost immediately stumbled upon an unworldly scene. In this otherwise crude cave that seemed to have been dug out by a large mammal, there was a boulder-like altar in the center of the room. All around it were tall, pillared platforms, almost like an amphitheater. We could see the poor woman, Gretchen, on the altar, tied, with two porcupine-like puckwudgies apparently on the verge of some dastardly deed. As the first one in the room, I could hear the mutterings of a spell being cast.
After that… well. I’m afraid details become murky. Just at the sight of those fey creatures my blood boiled. Once again--twice in one day, Ave!--I flew into a blind and unstoppable rage.
When next I came to, our enemies lay wasted, all dead except for the giant weasel that Papa Bernard seemed to have somehow charmed. I think, too, that once again I owe Xavala my life, for at some point in my haze of battle, I remember a cool and soothing touch. Even so, dear Ave, I must admit I was barely clinging to life. The battle must have been quite fraught; I believe Papa Bernard said something about it being a matter of who missed the least. I have a sense of having once been keenly focused on murdering the spellcaster, only to suddenly no longer seem interested in targeting her. I can only imagine that much dark magic was afoot, which caused our blades to not strike true.
You might assume that this sinister and wily spellcaster was the cause of my woes, but, instead, it was during the puzzling out of the aftermath that I became cursed.
Our monk, Gregor, immediately freed the bound woman. I offered her a blanket from my bedroll to cover herself and food and drink, but she was quite sick with poison. Even so, she was able to paint a picture for us of the dastardly deeds she and her companions had endured.
The altar, which later revealed runes to this nature, was some kind of sacrificial conduit for siphoning the energy of Souls. This Soul-energy was then being transmitted into a gate or a doorway, much, I suspect, like the kind you and I often traversed in our youth, that might take an Elf between The Beech Wood and the Feywilds. All of this unholy preparation was being done, according to our survivors, for one of the Fey court rulers. A mysterious figure known only to us as the Queen Below.
Between the Queen Below and the Hag, I fear the number of our powerful enemies are increasing tenfold.
The monk astutely suggested that this was no longer a minor incursion by the Fey for trinkets and baubles any more; this was clearly a preparation for all out war, a full-on invasion.
In our concern that this altar was a means for transport into the Kingdom, Gregor and I attempted to mar the runes written upon the altar’s base. We, perhaps, should have been more cautious, as the mere attempt to deface these fiendish markings caused us to feel a pulse of energy that took something from the both of us, though, at the time, it simply felt like a little wave of nausea or illness.
Since we could not destroy the altar, it was decided that, after coaxing the weasel and her kittens from the room, we should collapse the entrance to that space. Though it will not likely serve as a fully impenetrable deterrent, perhaps we have slowed down the Fey army’s immediate advance. Hopefully, too, the disrupted ritual will cause them to abandon this gateway.
On the trip back to the hunter’s camp, I finally heard tales of our final battle. It seems that Gregor is in possession of a magical blade. Even on obvious misses, it shoots out crossbow bolts with stunning and deadly accuracy! It apparently even works this way, when only being held? This story seemed to me the most preposterous, but Gregory insists that he had thrown a spear he thought had only done minimal damage, only to see a bolt come out of nowhere and kill the archer he’d struck.
I did notice Bellamey’s smirk as that last story was being told around the campfire. Yet, it seems to me that if an altar can curse a person with bad luck, it is reasonable that a mysterious short sword given by one’s venerable monkish master might also confer good luck. Still, I do agree that “a bolt out of nowhere” is a bit of an odd power for a sword to possess (although I did see columns of fire drop down from the sky apparently directed by the gods that Theophania calls her own). Anyway, I don’t know how Bellamey can be so judgmental when, once again, he disappeared for most of the fight.
The next morning we left the hunters and returned to the city to tell our tale to the Captain of the Guard, Thelma Thompkins. She was pleased to hear that the hunters were, for the most part, recovered alive, and, after Papa Bernard’s coaxing, she granted us an additional boon. It seems her relationship with the half-elf Captain of the Watch is strained, and so she gave us a writ of passage and tasked us with reporting the news of the Fey invasion to this Philip person, who is stationed two days to the north of Breckenforth.
This means, dear sister, that we will finally be allowed free passage out of this wretched port town. I can not tell you how tired I am of these streets and how grateful I will be to be on the open road once again.
But, first, we will detour to the marshes to the south to see a Witch, who lives there. We had attempted to ask a priest of Pallas for aid regarding the curse, but--and I hate to speak so unkindly of a holy man--he was a scam artist. He meant to charge us 250 gold per person to lift the curse and he could not be bargained with. The best we could afford was 50 gold a piece just to discover the nature of this curse. It is, he told us, simply bad luck.
I feel this is the sort of grifting even I, who has no natural charm, could manage--wave my hands around for five minutes and claim that a person suffers from ill omens. Bad luck. Dark juujuu. Honestly, I knew as much already, given my life to-date.
Fifty gold may seem like nothing to our family, my sister, but out here far from home, it is a fifth of the cost of a pot of ink. Think of the letters this charlatan has denied you!
Priests.
They’re now on my list of things that make my eye twitch with a burning rage, right after the Fey.
At any rate, it is at The Caravan’s insistence that we turn south to see this Marsh Witch. Neither Gregor nor I feel particularly oppressed by this curse, but there is some general curiosity among our party as to the nature of this Witch and so, if the majority wishes us to see if our affliction can be relieved, so be it.
At least the cheating priest did seem to get some kind of celestial vagaries regarding the number eight.Thus, it is believed, perhaps, that this curse has some kind of time or “use” limit--we are uncertain. Again, I’m probably foolishly inured to the dangers due to the inhuman invulnerability I feel when possessed by the savage madness, but it seems a waste to have to go so directly out of our way.
However, I have decided that I will put that annoyance aside for the excitement I feel at the prospect of the open road. And to be headed north! Each step I take, I shall imagine myself that much closer to you and to the home I miss so dearly.
I do hope you’re faring well. I have quite a collection of letters in my pouch that I have been unable to send, due to the barricaded nature of this town. Once we are outside the walls, I will endeavor to seek a courier. Perhaps someone under the Captain of the Watch’s command might be hired to send these missives on their way. I hate to think of what you must be imagining has befallen me since that fateful day that I was so shamefully cast out.
Speaking of home--are you behaving? Have you finally decided to declare adulthood? I feel so foolish writing to a sister who is only younger than me by a decade and still using her baby name. You could finally become Avelynn, you know. You’re a hundred and fifteen already, and you have responsibilities! Especially given my protracted absence and the lack of any other suitable heir, you should consider finally taking the big step to adulthood.
Since we are on the subject of inheritance, have you heard any more about mother’s supposed bastard? When I was still enmeshed in all the politics of home there had been some hope that perhaps he might have been caught up in all of this Pact War nonsense. I had not really understood the implications at the time, knowing as little as I do of matters outside our political sphere of influence. I only remember that the sense of relief at the thought of his demise was palpable throughout the court. Now I understand a bit more why, given how the priest reacted to the presence of Nerys, who is very clearly a warlock.
Can you imagine? Mother must be beside herself if the rumors are true and a love child of hers has taken up a dark pact! The shame of it must almost be equal to knowing that her firstborn has a temper that makes him unsuitable for diplomacy… and a perfectly capable daughter who refuses to grow up.
Humph, cursed, indeed. This family of ours seems quite well acquainted with bad luck.
From one failed Trevalian to another, I remain--
Your brother, Idriyl.
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