Blackrot 2 Session 1 Report

Deep within the Shroudlands, a vast, round chamber hums with the low murmurs of schemers, manipulators, and those who feast on misery. Their chattering abruptly stops as heavy, ancient doors groan open.   A sardonic man, clad in dark greenish-blue, steps into the room, a bitter grin stretching his lips. "New colleagues!" he announces, his voice laced with disdain.   Some figures recoil, a wave of disgust rippling through the assembly. Others tilt their heads, their curiosity piqued.   "Yes, yes, I know. Rumors have spread about new methods, about a deeper involvement. And who better to address such... contention... than its very source?"   He paces the chamber's perimeter, his eyes sweeping over each colleague with a predatory gleam. "My approach is, I admit, revolutionary. It is the very art of suffering. Some of you delight in acting like petulant children, spiting our cast for a cheap laugh. Others seek validation by forcing them to re-enact your own petty torments. And some," he pauses, turning his gaze to an ominous, hulking mass of raw darkness, "mistake gluttony for talent in our grand production."   He shakes his head slowly. "My vision for suffering strips bare the mortal condition. It exposes one's rawest self, unburdened by comforting illusions. It is through the cruelties of mortals and the harsh hand of fate that we glean the insights necessary to reveal what one truly is. That is my production."   A voice hisses from the shadows, "And what, pray tell, makes your approach so revolutionary?"   He smirks, a sharp, knowing curve of his lips. "Oh, in previous episodes, we have watched our cast bumble, domain after domain, cursing the abstract. The fog? The endless forest? The untouchable essence of fate? Utterly mundane! Who wants to watch them shake their fists at a faceless void, or even mere coincidence?"   "No, no," he continues, his voice rising with conviction. "I propose we put a face to their suffering. That way, our cast will second-guess their curses, or even their prayers. Nothing, my dear colleagues, could be more unsettling than a listening god who can grant a blessing... or a curse."   A murmur spreads through the chamber. Some figures erupt in applause, while others clap reluctantly, their cynicism warring with intrigue. They cannot deny that a new show is about to begin...

For as long as you have been out, you only recall searching for an answer, or perhaps, to escape one. The forest has swallowed what came before. Its fog thickens until the shapes of trees no longer feel familiar. Where oaks and birch once stood, only pines rise now, jagged and wrong.   Just as dusk begins and the clouded skies trickle as a prelude of what's to come, a manor is seen ahead. A nearby sign thankfully reads "Strathmore Residence". Atticus is almost in reach. Hopefully there, you can find some respite from these troubles. It does appear you are expected as a lone servant waits by the front door holding a lantern.

An old, withered man as if hollowed by time, descends down. Despite the sophistication of his garments, his face is more skeletal than full of life. His weary eyes blink slowly as he surveys the room. His spine creaks just from giving a simple bow of his head, "Welcome, welcome. I had not expected visitors so soon if not so many."

"Listen carefully to the chimes. Keep your eyes closed and hear the rhythm..."

With each bounce, you softly enter into a trance. You slowly feel yourself relax as the tension melts... an inhale, then exhale... inhale... exhale... The rhythm of the chimes continue to ring back and forth as a small warm feeling hovers over you initially before wrapping gently around.

A smell of grass and soil... a subtle sound of swaying trees... why, even gentle, childish laughter and a few happy barks from a dog. It's a feeling of innocence, of a time where nothing could ever have gone wrong. A time of exploration and fascination.

This beautiful feeling begins to swell, an aura that envelopes you fully. A loving brightness takes hold as you begin to feel weightless... it's almost time... though... Just as a bright light overwhelms your senses, it's gone...

As the stars shine overhead, and all falls into comfortable silence, Catherine looks at each room and then turns to the aeroplane project in their backyard. She let's out a sigh, "We always dream of touching the sky as kids, to fly high above where our imagination resides. But who I am to hold you down? Was I too cruel in reminding you that you're just a boy? Was my worry justified? I feared every scraped knee and bruise when you got into your adventures. I didn't mean to expose you as a fraud. I only hope you forgive me, to understand why I wanted to shelter you. Sleep well. You have so many adventures ahead...

The stage lights flash, painting Viclean in stark relief as he sweeps a languid hand towards 6 peculiar Actors assembled upon the stage. In the very center, Atticus stands, arm casually wrapped around the shoulders of a dark elf woman who glares with cold disdain. To their left, a monstrous machine figure pulses with barely contained rage. Further left, almost overlooked, stands a woman of unsettling normalcy. To their right, a hunched, feathered creature twitches. And at the far right, a figure shrouded in grime and stillness awaits. The proud writer's lips curve into a slow, unsettling grin.   His gaze drifts to the central figures of Atticus and the dark elf woman. "And now, I present the Strathmore family, a meticulous production brought to you by Atticus and... his devoted counterpart. A lineage defined by preventable tragedies, by the most exquisite of accidents. For while love may indeed bind, even the tenderest of emotional bonds pale, my friends, against the raw, unblinking violence innate to our cruel world, and the silent, corrosive ache that consumes the soul."   He turns, gesturing broadly to the other 4 figures. "This grand tapestry of inevitable decline, this exquisite theater of torment, is made possible by the dedicated contributions of our finest artisans of affliction. Witness, if you will, the roaring furnace of defiance that fuels Ego in Rahdian, where righteous fury burns eternal."   The monstrous humanoid machine figure pulses with raw, contained rage, its eyes burning with a blinding light.   Viclean doesn't regard the one who resembles Catherine, curiously...   "Observe, too, the suffocating embrace of Nar'thul's Matriarch, where safety becomes a cage, and love a chain of purest steel."   "Behold the whispering deception of Arvura's Crow Queen, where veiled truths weave sorrows from lost trust and forgotten comforts."   "And finally, gaze upon the fragile, forgotten world in the Hideway's crumbling solitude, where precious loss is held so tightly, it starves the spirit."   "'Why me?' you'll naturally ask, each of you a fresh canvas, a new instrument for the symphony. The answer, my dear guests, is exquisitely simple: because suffering is the true art through which we come to know what we truly are. Go forth, then, if you must. Attempt to restore these fractured tragedies. Endeavor to amend the perceived cracks in your own paltry lives and, perhaps, emerge from the Shroud anew. Or don't. Rage against the intangible fog that consumes all, or fall, prone and weeping, upon your very faces from woe. Whichever path you choose—rage or pray—know this: the gods are indeed listening. Do take care."   The lights plunge into darkness. When they flicker back on, a dignified figure, the Director, the Sage, steps forward, bathed in a solitary spotlight. "That is all for today's showing. Come again another time or stick around for the after show."