Session 5: Ash and Salt, Steel and Shadow Report

They fell from the sky like broken stars.   The Graveyard’s Tongue had them in its jaws before they even knew the storm’s teeth. Harpoons screamed from the heavens, ripping through crystal and canvas, until their ship plummeted—wounded, smoking, helpless—to the jagged spit of Mournrock. The crash was a cacophony of splintered wood and shattering bone, the sand swallowing the wreckage like a hungry tide. And when the silence settled, only whispers remained—whispers that tasted of copper and clung to the crimson mist that rolled ceaselessly over the black shore.   The beach was no mere graveyard. It was a kingdom of carrion and wrecks, where gulls shrieked like mourners and crabs wore armour scavenged from drowned sailors. Amidst the ruins of forgotten ships, a crate cracked open in the fall, revealing the sigil none wished to see: a serpent entwined around a bleeding rose. The Crimson Lady had touched this place. Esme’s hand reached further than any of them had dared imagine.   Yet survival demanded toil before terror. The airship, battered but not beyond hope, needed mending. So the party scavenged amidst the skeletal hulks, a desperate symphony of sweat and skill. Adeline’s keen eyes unearthed crystals among the bones of ships. Rhaz’korr steadied fractured runes with flame-wrought patience. Silas heaved broken timbers with holy strength while Barry, ever watchful, stood sentinel against the unseen. Piece by jagged piece, they stitched their skyborne coffin back into reluctant flight.   But the mist was not idle. From the wrecks scuttled the Rashers—pale-eyed scavengers that hunted in pairs, their claws sharp as shipwreck nails. Six of the creatures danced through the fog, and with them came a golem of driftwood and rust, a hulking effigy animated by shamanic spite. The clash was savage. Steel rang, magic crackled, and still the Rashers pressed their relentless rhythm. Only when the wooden brute crashed to the sands did the scavengers scatter with shrill cries, fading into mist that never truly emptied. And deeper still, hammers rang—steady, unyielding. The Rashers were building. Gods alone knew what.   From the wreckage, the party pulled more than shards of hull. They found secrets etched in blood and ink: a scroll marked with destinations—Crimson Shoal, Turtle Island, Drex’s Vein—and the crest of a noble house long drowned in Velmara’s soil. This was no smuggler’s crate. It was a vein of power, pulsing unseen through the archipelago. Esme’s web had roots.   Their patched vessel limped onward, dragging smoke and secrets alike, until Turtle Island rose from the waves like the barnacled spine of a leviathan. The Maw awaited them—a chaos of rope, steel, stench, and sin. Adeline paid the price of passage in gold, and the crew stepped into the hive, where gulls stole scraps, goblins chased sparking machines, and laughter clashed with the cries of the damned.   There, amidst the raucous tide, strode Legrand “Blackeye” Drex. Scarred, grinning, his blackened eye burning with the mirth of a king who knew his crown was carved from other men’s bones. He clasped the party as brothers, ushering them into Serpent Haven, his mansion built from the ribs of his dead flagship. Maps and rum, trophies and teeth—his hall was a banquet of plunder. Drex’s smile never faded as he promised answers, but only at the cost of favours. “You want coin of truth?” he growled. “Then earn it in blood.”   Before his tasks could be weighed, the party sought the pulse of the island. The Rusty Hook’s smoke and shouts welcomed them with games of chance and blood-bound wagers. Adeline’s sly hand brought coin to her purse, though not without sidelong glances from sharper eyes. Then the Salt and Smoke Market whispered temptation, and from its alleys emerged Maelenna Coalwake, the Smoke-Binder, whose name smouldered on tongues never eager to speak it aloud.   It was there that Silas signed his soul.   The Ashen Forge Contract, written in dust and oath, bound paladin and vampire alike into steel. Maelenna drew from his divided spirit and forged Soulrender, the Ashen Oathblade—a longsword where light and ash war eternally, where each dawn forces a choice between radiance and hunger. A blade of power, but also a curse, its whispers clawing at the paladin’s soul with every strike.   When the ink dried and the steel cooled, the party’s path was clearer, though no less perilous. Drex’s task loomed, Guzmán Martinez’s return neared, and the Republic of Misty Waters awaited their plea for alliance.   But beneath it all, the mist still whispered. And in the Rashers’ hammering, something monstrous took shape.   The sea remembers, dear listener. And it is not kind.