Session 16: Into the Blighted Forest

Pre-Session Scene: Orian's Dream

  Rolandus obtained a small vial of Orian's blood while Orian was incapacitated, at Volos' request.   As Orian awoke from his prolonged dream-like state, he struggled to reconcile the passing of several days. His recollections began with a haunting vision: he found himself in a dimly lit hall with high stone ceilings. The architecture was distinctly Chernayan, yet the room itself was unfamiliar.  

Heavy, opulent tapestries adorned the walls, their designs hinting at ancient, possibly arcane, origins. The air was thick with the scent of incense, mixed with the latent hum of magic. This presence of magic drew Orian’s gaze to the center of the room, where a large conjuration circle was inscribed on the stone floor.   Within the circle stood a strikingly beautiful yet undeniably eerie woman. Her eyes, stark white and devoid of pupils, flickered between fear and defiance. Bound by shimmering chains of light, her razor-sharp claws extended from delicate fingers, though they were rendered useless by the restraints. Orian could feel an unsettling familiarity, as though the woman was a specter from a past he could not recall.   Breaking the silence, a smooth voice echoed through the hall. Inquisitor Ilarik emerged from the shadows, his armor gleaming beneath his dark robes. His smile was disconcerting, a predator’s grin hidden behind a facade of cordiality. “Welcome, Orian,” Ilarik began, his tone almost conversational. He revealed that Orian was in a dream, yet simultaneously within the Hall of Binding in the Order of Inquisitors in Sevgorod.   Orian’s attention shifted back to the bound woman, and he hesitantly asked, “What is... who is... that?”   Ilarik’s smile widened, taking on a colder edge. “This, my dear Orian, is one of the demons we have bound.” He gestured to the woman. “They are called Meliae—they are all demons. We’ve captured several of her kind far in the north, though we’ve yet to pry many secrets from them. Still, they are incredible repositories of energy for us to draw on.”   The Meliae snarled softly, her eyes locking onto Orian with a mix of rage and desperation. The are known for their ability to blend into human society, using their shape-shifting abilities and potent pheromones to influence those around them. They are masters of subtlety, often mistaken for humans until it is too late.   “I saw what you did to my men in that doomed village,” Ilarik continued, his voice dripping with a mix of admiration and menace. “Your nascent abilities made them turn on each other. It was... impressive.”   As Ilarik spoke, the walls of the hall flickered, showing scenes of the chaos Orian had caused: soldiers fighting, screaming, and collapsing in a nightmarish frenzy. “I had the Watch look into you,” Ilarik said, his tone now almost a purr. “No teacher, next to nothing of note, aside from a loose affiliation with a... minor group of rebels. Sevgorod... I gathered that word from your mind last we had a little repartee. I assume some of your friends might be in the cells below as we speak. Or not. It's hard to keep track of so much rabble.”   Orian’s jaw tightened, but before he could retort, Ilarik stepped closer, his demeanor shifting from amusement to deadly seriousness. “But you, Orian, are different. You have potential. I want to offer you knowledge. Power.” Ilarik gestured to the conjuration circle and the bound Meliae. “Your companions don’t even need to know. We can trade in dreams and portents.”   With a wave of his hand, the conjuration circle flared with a bright, unsettling light. The energy from the circle surged through the chains binding the Meliae, and a portion of it flowed into both Ilarik and Orian. As the energy pulsed through her, the Meliae was brought to her knees, her form cracking and eventually bursting apart, leaving only a puddle on the floor.   At that moment, the dreamlike quality of the scene faded, and Orian felt truly present in the hall. His body thrummed with newfound energy, every detail in the room sharpened to a painful clarity. Ilarik picked up an ancient tome from a nearby shelf, its cover seemingly bound in human skin, and spoke again.   “Here’s a lesson for free,” Ilarik said, his voice taking on a more instructive tone. “Witch-Hunter Inquisitors are only made when their apprentices have learned our Ways well enough to slay their masters. As I am still here, well... So far, not one apprentice has survived the challenge.” He stepped closer, his expression deadly serious. “But one day, I might be a good enough teacher to be replaced. Do you understand?”   Orian felt a chill run down his spine, the weight of Ilarik’s offer pressing heavily on his mind. The temptation was palpable, the promise of power and knowledge almost too great to resist. But he knew the cost, the darkness that would inevitably consume him.   “And if I refuse?” Orian asked, his voice barely above a whisper.   Ilarik’s smile returned, colder than before. “Refusal is always an option. But remember, choices have consequences. I can offer you knowledge, power, and a path to mastery. Without me, you're flotsam lost in this world, and will surely be crushed by the rising tide of our Chernayan Empire. Sooner or later. All you have to do is accept the inevitable, and take it within your hands.”   As the dream began to fade, the conjuration hall dissolving into darkness, Orian felt himself being pulled back to wakefulness. Ilarik’s parting words echoed in his mind.   “Think on it, Orian. The choice is yours. Until we meet again.”

  Note: Orian gains the Guilty condition for the destruction of the Meliae’s material form. He also develops an interest in finding and freeing any other Feyn captives held by the Inquisitors, and he considers infiltrating their ranks to gather information, despite Tonibore warnings.  

Scene 1: A Path Through the Blighted Forest

  With food supplies running dangerously low, the group decided to take the low path through the Blighted Forest, a choice driven by necessity rather than wisdom. From the moment they entered, it was clear that this was no ordinary forest.   The towering evergreens loomed over them, their branches heavy with snow that muffled their steps. The stark contrast between the massive, ancient trees and the decaying underbrush beneath them was unnerving. Snow crunched underfoot, but the sound was quickly swallowed by the thick blanket covering the ground. The twisted forms of the trees seemed to press in closer, creating an oppressive environment that grew more disconcerting with each step.   The group moved cautiously through the forest, with Danyar riding atop Eldryth, his great stag companion, who pulled the wagon behind them. Elara rode alongside on Gordon, who had grown more accepting of her since she and Danyar had become close. The others exchanged glances, curious about the relationship between Danyar and Elara, though not particularly concerned.   Khurgan and Muzlik were with the group, though Muzlok’s condition had worsened. His wounds, sustained in a previous encounter, were festering, and he lay on the wagon, his breathing shallow. Orian, Zenscha, and Desmond also rode in the wagon, with Desmond keeping a careful watch over a barrel of whiskey, sneaking sips into his wineskin whenever he thought no one was looking. The others walked along beside.   Tonibore’s heightened sensitivity to the unnatural flared up. The others might have only felt the eerie stillness, but for Tonibore, it was as if the forest itself was alive, watching them, waiting. The cold air carried a faint scent of decay, barely noticeable yet impossible to ignore. Snow-laden evergreens stood tall above them, their branches drooping under the weight of the frost, while the ground was littered with rotting leaves and the skeletal remains of long-dead trees.   The light filtering through the dense canopy was dim and gray, casting long, eerie shadows that seemed to move just at the edge of their vision. The group’s progress was slow, each step forward feeling more perilous than the last.   Tonibore was the first to spot the signs that something was terribly wrong. Strange, irregular tracks marred the snow—something or someone with a loping gait had passed through recently. Claw marks scored the bark of several trees, and the putrid smell of decay occasionally drifted on the wind, a sickening reminder that they were not alone.   As they moved deeper, they noticed patches where even the sound of the wind through the trees seemed to cease, as if the forest itself was holding its breath. These areas felt profoundly unnatural, the silence suffocating.   Suddenly, Tonibore heard a rustling in the underbrush. He signaled the group to stop and cautiously approached the sound. There, among the tangled roots and fallen leaves, he saw a horrific sight: a deer carcass, half-eviscerated, yet somehow still moving. The creature had only two legs left, but it was dragging itself through the underbrush, its eyes dead, yet its body twitching and flailing as if animated by some invisible puppetmaster.   Without hesitation, Tonibore drove his spear through the deer’s body, pinning it to the ground. Yet even impaled, the creature continued to writhe, as if whatever force was animating it refused to let it die. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the unnatural movement ceased, and the forest fell silent once more.   The group gathered around the gruesome scene, their expressions grim. Orian examined the remains and quickly concluded that they were dealing with necromantic magic. Khurgan and Rolandus agreed, though Rolandus noted that this wasn’t the typical work of an Oyun. Oyun wielded powerful magic, often working with spirits to perform potent transformations, but they rarely created undead. This, he pointed out, was something far more twisted.   Tonibore suggested that they might be dealing with an Apostate—someone who had strayed from traditional Oyun practices into darker, forbidden arts. There were rumors that powerful Apostate magics were responsible for creating the Aberrations that plagued the world, though most occultists believed that while Apostates might be partly responsible, the true origins of such horrors were far older and more mysterious. However, Aberrations are living mutants of a sort, whereas these seem to be undead, directly animated by dark magic.   The group’s mood darkened as they considered the implications. They were traveling through a forest tainted by powerful, malevolent magic, and whatever was responsible for the twisted creatures they had encountered was likely still close by, watching them from the shadows.  

Scene 2: First Signs of the Ghouls

  As the group ventured deeper into the Blighted Forest, the atmosphere grew increasingly foreboding. The wind howled through the trees, creating a mournful sound that could almost be mistaken for distant wailing. The cold intensified, biting through their clothing and chilling them to the bone. It felt as if the forest itself was closing in on them, each step forward more perilous than the last.   Tonibore took the lead, his senses alert to the unnatural. As he scouted ahead, the dense trees parted just enough to reveal a small clearing. In the center of it lay the remnants of a campsite, now a scene of utter horror. Torn tents flapped weakly in the wind, splintered weapons lay scattered across the blood-stained snow, and the frozen, mutilated bodies of travelers were twisted into grotesque shapes, their faces locked in final expressions of terror.   The others soon joined Tonibore, approaching the grisly scene with caution. They quickly realized that the bodies hadn’t just been killed—they had been feasted upon. Deep, jagged bite marks covered the corpses, and the wounds, though old, suggested that whatever had done this was still in the area, lurking in the shadows. However, none of the bodies had been fully consumed, and in many cases what would have been the choicest areas for an animal to eat were left untouched.   Among the scattered belongings, they found a tattered journal half-buried in the snow. The pages were stiff with frost, but they could still make out the desperate entries within. The final pages detailed the travelers’ growing fear of being hunted, followed by a frantic account of an attack during the night. The last entry, scrawled hastily and with a trembling hand, read: “They came again last night. I’m not sure how long we can hold off.”   The grim discovery left the group with a critical choice: press on, knowing that danger lay ahead, or attempt to retreat, risking an ambush by whatever creatures were stalking them.   As they deliberated, Desmond noticed something in the nearby brush. Before he could sound a full warning, four ghouls burst from the undergrowth, their emaciated forms lunging toward the group with terrifying speed.   These creatures, barely more than animated corpses, were a nightmarish sight. Their mottled, decaying skin was stretched tight over their bones, and their sunken eyes burned like hot coals, filled with an insatiable hunger for living flesh. Their sharp, carnivorous teeth gleamed in the dim light as they snarled and hissed, driven by an endless, gnawing need to consume.   Eldryth Heartseeker, Danyar’s great stag companion, charged into the fray with a fury, his antlers goring several of the ghouls and sending them sprawling. The group quickly realized that these creatures were no ordinary foes; the ghouls’ bodies seemed unnaturally resilient, shrugging off significant physical damage from swords and spears.   Elara acted swiftly, rushing back to the wagon where she improvised a molotov cocktail from lantern oil. Returning to the clearing, she hurled the fiery concoction at one of the ghouls, shouting, “Burn! You blighted fucker!” The ghoul caught fire, its decaying flesh sizzling as it thrashed wildly. Though it continued to fight for a moment longer, the flames, combined with the group’s relentless attacks, eventually brought it down.   Rolandus ducked and weaved between them, his swords a blur. He managed to score two successive shots on a ghoul’s legs, one of his blows severing a limb entirely. Even with its leg torn off, the ghoul continued to drag itself toward the group, snarling and gnashing its teeth. Khurgan ended its miserable existence with a brutal strike from his staff, crushing the ghoul’s skull into the snow.   But just as the tide seemed to turn in their favor, one of the less devoured bodies from the campsite began to stir. With a sickening crunch, it rose to join the other ghouls, its eyes glowing with the same malevolent hunger. Orian fought bravely, but one of the ghouls latched onto him, its filthy, grotesque mouth tearing into his flesh. He cried out in pain as the creature’s teeth sank deep, leaving a wound that soon began to itch and turn bright red. Despite the severity of the injury, there seemed to be no immediate repercussions beyond the pain and discoloration.   The battle continued to rage, and Khurgan found himself grappling with a ghoul that had latched onto his neck, its jaws clamping down with terrifying force. The group’s situation grew even more dire when three more ghouls burst from the trees on the other side of the clearing, their eyes locked onto the scent of fresh meat.   The fight was brutal and relentless, but the group quickly realized that they were being overwhelmed. Rolandus was the most reluctant to retreat, holding the line as long as he could while the others began to fall back to the wagon. At the last moment, he turned and sprinted for the wagon, leaping aboard as Eldryth was re-tethered and spurred into action.   The great stag carried them down the path at a breakneck pace, the ghouls and their reinforcements quickly falling behind as the group fled deeper into the forest. The chilling howls of the ghouls echoed through the trees long after they had disappeared from view, a haunting reminder of the danger they had narrowly escaped.  

Scene 3: Camp - The First Night in the Blighted Forest

  Night descended upon the Blighted Forest with an oppressive finality, casting the twisted landscape into near-total darkness. The weak daylight had long since faded, and the thick canopy above blocked out what little light remained. The temperature dropped sharply, a biting cold that seeped through layers of clothing and chilled the group to their cores. The forest was eerily still, the oppressive silence broken only by the occasional creak of branches or the distant howl of the wind. The sense of unease that had plagued the group throughout the day now grew into a pressing need to find shelter before the forest’s darkness swallowed them completely.   Tonibore scouted ahead. He found a small, naturally protected cove nestled beneath a ridge of hills. The hills formed a natural barrier around three-quarters of the site, leaving only one likely direction from which enemies could approach. Along the hill-line, a row of easy-to-climb trees provided excellent watch-points, making it an ideal location to hunker down for the night.   In the tiny valley below the ridge, the trees were not as tightly packed, and the snow was slightly thinner, revealing patches of uneven ground where roots and rocks jutted out from beneath the frost. Setting up tents and bedrolls proved challenging on the rough terrain, but the group made do, with some opting to sleep in the relative comfort of the wagon.   As the group began to settle in, the tension that had gripped them throughout the day began to ease, though it never fully dissipated. The fire crackled in the center of the camp, its light casting flickering shadows on the surrounding trees, creating the illusion of movement in the darkness beyond.   Elara approached the campfire, leading Danyar by the hand. There was a quiet intensity about her, a seriousness that caught the attention of the others. Danyar appeared hesitant, but with Elara’s gentle encouragement, he stepped forward, drawing the group’s full attention.   “Show them,” Elara urged softly, her eyes reflecting the firelight.   Danyar took a deep breath, then raised his arms wide. As he did, his eyes turned milky-white, and a haunting sound filled the air—a chorus of squawking that grew louder with each passing moment. Suddenly, a flock of ravens descended from the night sky, their black feathers gleaming ominously in the firelight. The birds landed on Danyar’s outstretched arms, eerily silent as they settled around him, their dark eyes fixed on the group.   For a moment, Danyar seemed lost in silent communication with the birds, his expression distant and unreadable. The group watched in stunned silence, unsure of what to make of the sight before them. The ravens, a symbol often associated with death and the Feyn, carried an otherworldly presence that only deepened the mystery surrounding Danyar.   As Danyar’s eyes returned to their normal color, the ravens took flight, disappearing into the night as quickly as they had come. Danyar lowered his arms, his voice tinged with uncertainty as he spoke.   “These birds… they carry the spirits of the dead. And… I can talk to them, although they do not always respond. So… that’s a thing I can do now?”   The weight of his words hung in the air, and the group exchanged uneasy glances. The ability to communicate with spirits, especially those of the dead, was not something to be taken lightly. It hinted at a deeper, more complex connection to the Feyn and their dark powers, a connection that Danyar was only beginning to understand.   After showing his new ability, Danyar hesitated for a moment before speaking again, his voice quieter, more vulnerable. “Once… when my mom was especially drunk, she got this look in her eye, like she was seeing someone else. She told me she met my ‘father’ a year after I was born. The next day, she shrugged it off, apologized for drinking too much. But… with everything that’s happening to me now, I can’t help but wonder…”   His voice trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air. The others might have had their suspicions about what this revelation meant, but it was clear that Danyar’s origins were more complicated than he had ever known. The group fell into a thoughtful silence, each member processing the implications of Danyar’s newfound power and the possibility that his lineage might be tied to the Feyn. Indeed, Orian was well aware that it is common for Karlu-Chatil to only begin to show signs in adolescence, or after a recent trauma.   The fire crackled and popped, sending sparks into the cold night air as the group settled into an uneasy rest. Though they had found a defensible campsite, the darkness of the Blighted Forest pressed in on them from all sides, and the sense of foreboding that had haunted them all day remained, lurking just beyond the reach of the firelight.