3rd Qindirsday of High Winter, Second Age 1853: The Festival of the Longest Night began with such promise—tables laden with bounty, the air alive with celebration. Yet, as we kindled the lanterns, an unnatural darkness descended, smothering all light. Even my eyes, accustomed to shadow, struggled against it. A denser void shrouded the temple of the Winter Queen, whispering of something ancient and unsettling. I longed to study its nature, to understand its source, but there was no time for contemplation.
Malakar and Talindra returned from their rite at the ancient oak, and Grikz with Malakar immediately ascended to the temple to identify the threat. They failed to breach the temple’s gloom, so we ascended the hill ourselves. The darkness was a palpable force, blurring the line between our world and the shadow realm. It felt like a puzzle, one I yearned to unravel through careful observation, but urgency demanded action over analysis.
The battle was disorienting—pixies and other shapes darted within the murk, nearly impossible to track. We prevailed, though I found little joy in the chaos. Afterward, we surveyed the graveyard, now a frozen pond encasing a figure Malakar named a spirit of sorrow. While the others discussed her release, Lady Aria wanted the source of the darkness found, so Isenara wandered off towards the entrance into the temple's depths. We reached the temple stairs when light returned—the group had freed the spirit by easing her grief, and she rewarded us with illumination and a cryptic message: winter harbors dissenters, and shadow’s agents move among them. This intrigues me—what factions stir, and to what end?
Beneath the temple, we found images of past Longest Nights, their gifts hidden elsewhere. In another wing, an icy prison held souls from the Long Winter. I felt Drustanus’s presence stir within me, urging prayer. Their anguish was sharp at first, but as I spoke, it eased, and with Zaelith’s earnest aid—mirroring my words—we freed them all. It was a profound act, one I wish I could reflect on further, perhaps in quiet conversation with a scholar of spirits.
The final chamber revealed a fae with icy talons, controlling a lantern of Rhodante to drain light and strengthen herself—the darkness’s heart. Isenara focused on the lantern, helping wrest it from her power, while the others banished her. The artifact vanished, likely to its true owner, and clarity returned, though night still cloaked the world. Below, the city’s lanterns flickered back to life, a quiet beauty I could’ve studied for hours.
Selestiel’s report from Nyxthranis showed no activity, granting us rest. Morning brought gifts for those of us who’d reclaimed the lantern— ours was a holy symbol of Drustanus, as if its giver peered into my mind and saw what happened in the darkness. Who could know us so well? I’d love to discuss this mystery over a warm hearth.
Isenara's plans with Zhyrissa were disrupted, so she's making amends by preparing her breakfast, and leaving a jade lion statue—born of a magical envelope—and jewelry crafted for her horns as customary gifts for the holiday. She appears to be quite smitten with the drakania, as I have never experienced her do so much for someone else, let alone cook. She can't cook.