Session 21: The Circus Comes to Town, and Revelations about the Circle

Scene 1: Setting up for the Circus

The troupe had been moving north for ten days, their spirits still somewhat dampened by the brutal attack that claimed their leader, Zorin, and left Ren gravely wounded. They had cobbled together what remained of their wagons, barely enough to continue as a makeshift circus. Under Zenscha's direction, they salvaged their supplies and restored just enough to press onward through the snow-covered Midlands, stopping in small towns to put on modest shows.   Orian, however, had been troubled by something other than grief. His dreams had been plagued by the looming presence of Inquisitor Ilarik. In one dream, just before they arrived in Gorlavka, he found himself standing in a twisted version of his childhood home—a place he had never truly belonged. As a foundling, Orian had been raised by many foster mothers, and in the dream, these familiar figures appeared warped and wrong. The walls of the house flickered, distorting between solid and liquid, and in the midst of this unsettling vision, Ilarik appeared, wearing the face of one of those foster mothers.   “Where are they? What are they planning?” Ilarik’s voice was calm but seethed with menace. “You have given me nothing but shadows and false promises. Do not make me take you, Orian.”   He warned that if Orian didn’t provide him with the information he sought, he would come for it himself. “I will cut them open one by one until I find what I seek,” Ilarik had promised.   Orian recoiled from the mental assault, summoning his growing powers to resist. After a fierce struggle, he forced himself awake, his body drenched in cold sweat, his mind racing. Ilarik was becoming more dangerous by the day. But he was fairly sure he hadn’t accidentally revealed their plans to him. Not yet, anyway.   The following morning, the troupe arrived in Gorlavka, a small, quaint town nestled at the crossroads of two old trade routes in the southern Midlands. The houses were simple, their wood-framed structures blanketed in snow, and the streets were lined with thick drifts. The air was cold and sharp, the first true sign that winter had come. As they set up their wagons just outside the town square, the troupe felt the weight of the coming performance. This show, unlike the ones they had done in the previous week, would be significant.   As they worked, an old man approached. He wore a cloak of heavy gray furs and moved with a slow, deliberate gait. His voice, though soft, carried an edge that made the troupe uneasy.   “I’ve come quite a long way to see this show,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the performers. “The Magnificent Zorin—where is he?” Upon hearing of Zorin’s death, he sighed and lowered his eyes. “Ah, well. I still want to see the show. And there are things in this world that hide in plain sight... I have seen much that others miss. Perhaps, after your performance, we can speak in private.”   Though something about the old man seemed off, the troupe had little time to dwell on it. Tonibore's suspicions were raised by his appearance, but the show had to go on.  

Scene 2: The Circus and the Witch

As night fell, the snow continued to thicken, casting an ethereal glow over the circus grounds. Lanterns swung from ropes tied to the tent poles, their flickering light creating a haunting, almost dreamlike atmosphere. The troupe began their performance under the shelter of the large canvas tent, their acts unfolding with a mixture of determination and practiced skill.   Orian took the stage first, conjuring a series of vivid illusions that dazzled the audience. At one point, his magic brought forth the terrifying form of a Tovag using his Nightmare abilities, the same creature that had claimed Zorin’s life. The illusion was almost too successful—some in the crowd gasped in terror, while others clapped with nervous excitement as Rolandus leapt into the fray, staging a mock battle with the phantasm. Though the display ended with cheers, a few in the audience seemed shaken or even traumatized by the sight, their superstitions stirred by the eerie spectacle.   Nika followed with another series of haunting songs. Her melodies carried through the tent, resonating with the hearts of those watching, while the Ostrov Twins, Karl and Alexey, performed their daring acrobatics, defying gravity as they tumbled and spun across the stage. Their feats, combined with Desmond's larger-than-life presence as he led a raucous boxing match, brought the crowd to its feet in cheers.   The boxing match itself was a lively affair. Desmond had arranged for a local farmer’s son to challenge Rolandus in a stick-fighting match. The boy, though eager, was soundly beaten. Yet when they switched to boxing, the lad proved surprisingly resilient, holding his own against Desmond for four full rounds before finally succumbing. The crowd cheered wildly, and the troupe briefly considered recruiting the boy, impressed by his tenacity.   But just as the final act was closing, a shout rang out from the square: “She’s a witch! Burn her!”   The performers and audience were drawn towards the sound. The PCs were alarmed to see a group of Regiment soldiers dragging a woman into the street. Lyuba Novak, the town’s healer, had been accused of witchcraft by the drunken soldiers. Leading them was Sgt. Mikhail Pyotr, the overseer of the town appointed by the Watch. By his side was Ivan Bartik, a grief-stricken father whose son had recently died after receiving treatment from Lyuba. Now, in his desperation, Bartik blamed her for his loss.   The tension in the square was palpable. Some townsfolk stood by, watching with grim anticipation, while others remained uncertain, torn between fear and a lingering respect for the woman who had healed them in the past. Among the crowd was Alena Viskova, a woman whose life Lyuba had saved years before. Yet even she remained silent, unable to muster the courage to speak on the healer’s behalf.   Zenscha, recognizing the danger Lyuba faced, stepped forward. Using her knowledge of herbs, she explained to Bartik that the symptoms he described—his son’s insides “melting” and turning black—were more likely caused by a toxic mushroom that grew in the region. Though Bartik was resistant at first, Zenscha’s calm demeanor and precise explanation eventually convinced him. Reluctantly, he withdrew his accusation, and without a clear charge against her, Sgt. Pyotr had no choice but to release Lyuba. The crowd, now deflated, dispersed quickly, the threat of violence fading as swiftly as it had appeared.  

Scene 3: The Revelations of Eluane

Once the performance had ended and the crowd had gone home, the old man from earlier approached the troupe again, motioning for them to follow him. He led them to a quiet corner of the circus grounds, away from the lights of the tents and wagons. There, beneath the softly falling snow, he removed his cloak, revealing his true identity.   The man was not human at all. He was Anarien Eluane, a prince of the Feyn. His pale, bone-white skin gleamed under the moonlight, and from his head curled dark antlers, lending him an otherworldly, almost godlike appearance. His raven-black hair cascaded down his back, blending into his raven-feather fringed cloak.  

“You see me now as I truly am,” Eluane began. “Anarien Eluane, a prince of the Feyn, though I suspect you know little of what that means. My people are older than the cities of men here in Alterran, older than the towers that rise and fall with the tides of history. And yet, for all our wisdom, my people have chosen to hide, to retreat into the depths of the world and watch as mortals burn it to ash. They believe themselves safe from the flames, but they are wrong. We are all wrong.”   “I founded The Circle of Sendiir without the consent of my people. The Feyn would never approve of such an act, for they think that mortal affairs are beneath us—that we should remain as distant observers. I even took the steps to seed some of its chief architects-to-be, here amongst your people.   For I know the truth: the Feyn will be eradicated, forgotten, if we do not act. The Witch-Hunters do not discriminate; they burn everything they do not understand. Magic, in all its forms, is their enemy. If we do not stand against them, the Feyn will be nothing but a fading memory, and the world will be left to mortals who do not even comprehend the nature of this world they have colonized.”   “The Circle of Sendiir is my answer. I needed allies, and I found them not only among the Feyn, but among your people as well. House Vireynal, the family of your friend Tashi, has supported me from the beginning. With their wealth and influence, we have been able to plant the Rebellion throughout the land. Stoking resistance where we can, weakening the Crown’s stranglehold on magic and those who would wield it. We are few, but we are clever. We move unseen, a network of mages, rebels, and dissidents, bound together by the belief that magic must survive.”

  He turned towards Danyar.  

“Danyar, there is much I have kept from you. Not out of cruelty, but because there are truths that must be revealed when the time is right. And that time has come. You, and others like you, are part of a greater plan I have sewn—one that stretches across Chernaya itself. Karlu-Chatil, a child of two worlds, born of Feyn and mortal blood. You have half-brothers and half-sisters scattered across this land, each of you connected by a bond you do not yet understand. I have watched over you all, guided you from the shadows, shepherding you toward the place where your fates will intertwine."   “Your very existence, Danyar, is part of something much larger than any one life. You carry within you the hot blood of your mortal lineage, but also the perspective of the Feyn—a power that may yet tip the balance in this world.”   “Your mother... I visited her many years ago, on a night like this, when the world was quiet, and the stars were hidden behind clouds. The encounter... was brief, but it was not without purpose. I chose her, Danyar. She was strong, and I saw in her the potential to give life to something greater. From that night, you were born, carrying the essence of both Feyn and mortal within you.”   “You may wonder why I speak of this now. Why you, among all your brothers and sisters, matter so much. It is because I have seen what you are capable of. The Oyun ways run through your veins with a strength I have rarely seen in your kind. You have a gift, Danyar, a connection to the forces that move between worlds. This is why you are important—not just to me, but to the Circle, to the future of Alterran itself.”   “There are others like you, Danyar, and I have been drawing them toward Rostova. Each of you is unique, each of you has a role to play in the days to come. But among them all, I believe you may be the one to carry the greatest burden. You have shown more natural talent with the Oyun ways than any of your siblings. It is not a coincidence. You were meant for this. You have always been meant for this.”   “Whatever you may think of me, whatever you may feel about the circumstances of your birth, know this: you are not just a child of chance. You are part of a plan, one that could reshape the fate of both our worlds. My purpose was to prepare a generation of Karlu-Chatil, and to guide you all toward what is to come.”   “The Circle needs you. I need you. And if you can harness the power inside you, you may yet help save this world from the fires that are already rising. I believe this is why Eldryth, one of the last of the forgotten Gods born in the times before Chernaya, has taken favor on you.”

  He turned his attention back to the group...  

“These are desperate times. You must understand—the Purge in the south has grown so extreme that entire towns are rising up against the Crown and its Witch-hunters. In Duvik, the people are in open rebellion, fighting back with whatever they can. The Purge there has been so brutal, so unrelenting, that even the common folk have had enough. But rebellion alone will not save them. Without leadership, without guidance, they will fall, crushed under the boot of the Regiment and the fires of the Witch-hunters.”   “Even now, the Crown’s Regiment is marching north, their sights set on Beren the Bald in Skalliheim. They believe him to be the mastermind behind the rebellion, but they are mistaken. Beren is no rebel; he is a warrior and even former Inquisitor, a leader in his own right, but he has had no part in our cause. Still, they will use him as a scapegoat— to justify their bloodshed. They will burn him alive, if they have their way... claiming it will bring peace.”   “I had hoped to make an ally of Beren, to eventually bring him into the Circle, but now it may be too late. He is their fall-guy, their excuse to continue the Purge. And while they march against him, the fires of rebellion will continue to spread, unchecked and uncoordinated. The south burns, and soon the flames will reach the north. The Witch-hunters will not stop at Skalliheim. They will come for us all.”   “You may think you are safe here, hiding among the circus, and for now, that may be true. The circus is a clever cover—a mask that hides you in plain sight. The Witch-hunters are looking for rebels and mages, not performers. But this safety will not last. Do not grow too comfortable, for the storm that brews in the south will not be contained. It is coming for you, for me, for all who still hold to magic.”   “I must reach Skalliheim in advance of the Regiment. With luck, I will meet you again in Rostova. There, we will have time to plan, to speak more freely. But you must keep moving. The road ahead is perilous, and the forces that hunt us are relentless. Trust no one outside the Circle. Be cautious, but do not delay. Time is not on our side, and every moment wasted brings us closer to the end of all that we hold dear.”