Session 0031 : The Book Delivery

19 Weißhexe 3023

The Heretic made their final preparations in Lankhmar before departing on their journey to Mythan Belanore. With the cold nipping at their resolve, they spent the morning attending to final tasks. Lilly focused on stocking food supplies and acquiring additional cooking equipment, determined to feed the party well on the road. Cathlynn made sure that sleeping arrangements were sorted: she and Lilly would share the two-man tent, Dorian would sleep beneath the cart, and Lev, as usual, would curl up among their belongings inside it.   The group debated their route. The King's Road south to Elaysia and eastward across the Sea of the East was one option. Another was a long southern trek to Kokgnab and a sea voyage from there. But ultimately, they agreed upon the third route—leaving east through the Marsh Gate, crossing the Great Salt Marsh to Seabridge, traveling through the Sinking Lands to Toller's Point, and finally taking the Starfall Road south.   On the day of departure, the weather was unusually harsh—30 degrees below the seasonal average, barely reaching freezing. The journey from Lankhmar to Seabridge passed mostly without incident, until just a quarter mile from the town limits, when a lynchpin on the rear cartwheel snapped. Lev casually repaired it with a Mending spell, and the group carried on.   Seabridge was bustling. Though its year-round population hovered around 200, its location at the edge of the Sinking Lands made it a critical trade hub. Merchants, travelers, and locals crowded the narrow streets. As the sun dipped toward the horizon, the party sought an inn.   Cathlynn approached a teenage bread vendor and, after buying a loaf, received clear directions to The Drifting Lantern, a modest but charming inn perched just beyond the canvas stalls of the bustling flea market known as The Seepwalk.   While making their way through the crowds, Cathlynn happened to check her coinpurse and discovered that one of its drawstrings had been cleanly cut—an expert’s hand, likely during their earlier stroll through the market. A quick count revealed she was short nearly 30 gold pieces. Though The Heretic quietly discussed the incident, the press of bodies in Seabridge made identifying the culprit impossible. With no real leads, they could only accept the loss and move on.   While Dorian and Cathlynn opted to turn in early, Lilly and Lev browsed the market. Lilly, realizing she had forgotten some essentials wanted to purchase some extra foods.   Supplies obtained by Lilly:

• 2 x 50lb bags of "root vegetables" like a mix of carrots, turnips, potatoes and such (Donkey Food)

• 10 lbs carrots

• 10 lbs potatoes

• 10 lbs other roots

• 10 lbs rice

• 10 lbs barley

• 10 lbs salted meat

• Barrel wine

• Barrel water

  At around 2 a.m., Cathlynn awoke to the sound of footsteps. A note was slid under her door, followed by the patter of hurried retreat. Reading the note, she found:  

"When the road is drowned but the sky remains dry, One of four shall carry what was never given. The ink will bleed before the page is turned. The vessel shall either open, or be opened.   Beware the hand that offers salt without thirst, And the voice that speaks your secrets aloud.   In the white city of mirrors, the devouring will begin again."

 

20 Weißhexe 3023

She waited until breakfast to share its contents. Some of the note’s meaning felt personal and pointed—especially references to the book in her possession and the land bridge ahead. Yet other lines left them confused and uncertain.   Later, they arrived at the water's edge, where the landbridge stood exposed. A wooden sign beside the trail announced it had been above water for one hour, the number placard hanging on a peg.   While considering their options, they noticed a barge moored just north of the bridge, tended by a Halfling Lilly recognized: Gerry Underleaf of The Merry Mug in Oakhaven. A regular patron, Gerry was affable but notorious for "finding" unattended items.   Gerry greeted Lilly with exaggerated delight and offered to ferry them across the Sea of the East to Toller's Point—for 10 gold pieces total. He warned that although the landbridge was passable now, it could sink at any time, stranding travelers on one of The Four floating islands scattered through the Sinking Lands.   After discussion and a vote, the party chose Gerry’s barge. Lilly negotiated to pay half up front, and they waited six hours until the landbridge finally sank.   As they boarded, Gerry tried to get ahead of a story: “If that Farah from The Merry Mug says I broke a tray of your mugs, she's a liar! She drinks on the job, I’ve seen her take shots when no one’s looking.”   Lilly, unimpressed, recognized the deflection as a clear admission of guilt.   The fog rolled in a few hours into the voyage. Dorian, Lilly, and Gerry remained clear-headed, but both Lev and Cathlynn found themselves dazed and disoriented. Cathlynn’s book began to hum.   A shimmering hummingbird appeared and hovered before her. Lev identified it as a creature from The Feywild. The bird danced in a triangular pattern, urging Cathlynn emotionally—almost spiritually—to open the book.   Cathlynn explained her experience, and Lilly instantly warned her not to open it, under any circumstances. Cathlynn resisted the pull, and the hummingbird eventually flitted over to Gerry, who smiled and nodded at it before it darted off into the fog.   Given the hummingbird's nature and distance from land, the encounter unsettled the group. Lilly suspected Gerry knew more than he let on, but he simply said, “I just like hummingbirds.”   Later, Gerry turned in to rest and offered someone else the helm. Cathlynn volunteered and steered the barge with competence for two hours. Once Gerry awoke, he guided them into Toller's Point.   21 Weißhexe 3023 Lilly paid him only four gold instead of the five owed, citing the cost of broken mugs. Gerry objected, once again calling Farah names, but Lilly ignored him. Ultimately, he relented, wished them luck, and added, “If you can, avoid Ilthmar. There’s a plague.” This concerned The Heretic, so they decided to wander the market stalls to see if they could glean some information from overhead conversations about a plague.   The market at Toller’s Point assaulted the senses in every direction—clamor and color, smoke and sweat, the brine-sting of the nearby shallows mixing with the spice-slick air of makeshift cookstalls. But Lilly Genrill wasn’t deterred by the chaos—she was energized by it. She had set out on a hunt, not for monsters or relics, but for flavor. Threading her way through the food carts and side-vendors, she sampled crisp Eel Cracklins, eyed the twitching Brined Froglegs on Reeds, and recoiled only slightly at the garlicky steam puffing from freshly cracked Bog Puffers. A squat woman in a marsh apron handed her a wax-wrapped package of Swamp Cress Tartlets—savory, peppery mini-pies dotted with shaved bog truffle. Each one bore a tiny, handwritten blessing scrawled in charcoal ink. Lilly took a bite and nearly swooned. That was when she knew—this was a good market.   Wiping her fingers on her scarf, she caught a new scent in the air—faint, complex, not just spice but something older, almost ceremonial. It tugged at her like a memory half-remembered. She followed it instinctively, weaving between spice-crusted fish vendors and loud peddlers of pickled things, until she came upon a modest tent framed by slender poles of white birch and strung with dangling chimes made from hollow seed pods. The air here felt heavier, the sunlight filtered through fine layers of dyed silk in hues of saffron, rust, and ochre. The name, burned into a dark cedar plank above the entrance in curling Sarheenian script, read: “Emberkiss.”   The interior was dim, cool, and thick with the mingled scents of the rare and the sacred. Rows of tiered wooden drawers fanned out along the curved interior of the tent, each drawer cracked open just enough to release threads of aroma into the air. Bundles of dried roots and slivered barks hung in rings from the center pole like garlands, their colors ranging from dusty lavender to deep crimson and jet black. Shallow stone bowls rested on sun-warmed slabs of slate, holding pinches of colored dusts, curled husks, and long, glistening pepperpods. Braziers filled with softly smoking coal kept certain resins and ground seeds warm—allowing their scent to bloom, intensify, and tease.   At the back of the booth stood Sabrin Nharazi, tall and quiet, with olive-brown skin, sharp eyes rimmed in kohl, and hair woven into tight cords threaded with beads of salt-glass. She wore an apron crusted with old pigment stains and rings of blackened spice oil at the edges, and her voice, when she spoke, was low and deliberate. “You’ve a forager’s nose,” she told Lilly, almost without looking up. “Not many spot this tent unless they’re already seeking it.”   Lilly beamed, instantly at ease, and soon the two were kneeling beside a wide slab of driftwood where the rarest goods were kept. Together they discussed ratios and steeping methods, how oils burned differently on copper than on stone, and what time of day best preserved the sting of root-based spices. Lilly ended up negotiating for three prized ingredients: Sun Ant Husk—thin golden flakes harvested from armored desert ants, pungent and slightly sweet; Stingroot Shavings—fiery-red curls that left the tongue tingling; and Cinderpepper Dust—a volcanic spice from Rime Isle that burned hot and floral, perfect for meat rubs or courage-brewing teas.   As they traded, Lilly offered a few of her own stores, and her observations on pairing Stingroot with fermented honey caught Sabrin’s attention fully. The merchant gave a slow, approving nod and disappeared briefly behind a hanging curtain. When she returned, she held a small, worn sachet of silken cord, from which she drew a smooth, amber-colored token engraved with a symbol: a spice blossom curling around an ember at its core.   “This,” Sabrin said, pressing it into Lilly’s palm, “is a rare spice token. I don’t give these often. If I’m not here next time you come through, show this to whoever’s tending Emberkiss. They’ll know to treat you as I would—a preferred trader with good taste and a sharper nose than most.”   Lilly blinked, stunned for a moment, then grinned so wide her ears lifted. She tucked the token carefully into the deepest pouch of her bag, heart racing with the thrill of recognition. In a world where she often had to prove her worth twice over, she’d been seen, not just as a cook or traveler—but as a kindred purveyor of fire, flavor, and rare craft.   Cathlynn first noticed the booth not for its colors or noise, but for its quietude—an unnatural hush in the crowded market that made the air seem thicker, softer, like walking into a grove muffled by falling snow. The stall was tucked between two loud, garish vendors, yet it seemed untouched by their chaos, wrapped in pale linen curtains that drifted despite the still air. A low arch of woven reeds crowned the entrance, blooming here and there with faintly glowing blossoms that looked freshly plucked but bore no scent. Hanging from the arch were delicate charms made of bark, pressed flowers, and moth wings bound in golden thread. They turned slowly, gently, like they were breathing. The sign over the stall read simply: "What the Wild Remembers."   Inside, the space opened into a modest but otherworldly alcove. The scent of crushed herbs, damp moss, and distant rainfall hung in the air. The booth had no formal structure—no tables or counters—but was instead layered in natural materials: baskets woven of vine and birch bark, slabs of driftwood arranged like low shelves, and stones arranged in deliberate spirals. The walls were made of hanging tapestries—dyed with natural pigments and embroidered in looping, uneven script—depicting scenes of transformation: women shedding their skin for bark, deer emerging from roots, wolves asleep in beds of lilies.   Elarra stood near the back, partially obscured by a veil of ivy strung with beads of bone and seed. Her presence was serene, grounded. She wore a cloak of sheer, layered linen dyed in autumn hues—amber, rust, and faded green—and her black hair was plaited with threads of silver and thistle bloom. When she spoke, her voice seemed to enter the space rather than cut through it, and when her eyes met Cathlynn’s, it was with the kind of calm recognition one sees between fellow keepers of memory.   Around the interior, the perimeter was filled with items only a druid or attuned seeker would recognize: seed bundles bound with red thread, lichen-stripped scrolls pressed between glass plates, and jars filled with foggy liquids in which bits of root, feather, or shell floated like captured memories. A low shelf held wooden tokens etched with runes of the Old Grove—a language Cathlynn had only seen once before in her travels. Near the center, atop a moss-covered pedestal, stood a circle of small, carved figurines: women at different stages of transformation—some blooming, some decaying, some mid-shift into animal or elemental forms.   Though many things called to her, it was the stillness that held Cathlynn longest. There was no promise of power here, no polished presentation or eager merchant’s voice. Only a sense of recognition. This booth was not selling wares. It was offering inheritance.   As Cathlynn browsed herbal wares and met Elarra, who asked if her sister Cuuthalion knew she was here. Surprised, Cathlynn inquired how Elarra knew her. In a veiled way, Elarra admitted to having once been romantically involved with Cuuthalion.   Then she shared something deeply personal: Cuuthalion’s attempted suicide. Handing over the dagger her sister had used, carved from a single piece of bone, Elarra simply said, “Tell her she's always welcome home.” Cathlynn nodded silently.   Virellen stood just outside the entrance of his tent, his chisel catching sunlight with each careful strike. He worked with meditative precision on the torso of a half-formed statue—its features emerging slowly from a block of pale stone that might have once been part of a temple’s fallen column. His lean frame was weathered and sinewy, his face framed by streaks of gray-black hair tied loosely at the nape, eyes deep-set and intent as though peering into a world unseen. A leather apron dusted in stone grit hung over simple robes, and a long scar curved under one eye like a crescent moon, lending his expression a quiet severity.   Lev’s attention was first drawn by the tent itself—unlike the makeshift stalls and patchwork booths of the market, Virellen’s tent was tall and solemn, its canvas dyed in muted earth tones, streaked faintly with celestial motifs: a crescent moon kissing the crown of a flame, vines curling around forgotten runes, and a distant figure kneeling beneath an eclipsed sun. Hanging over the tent’s entrance was a windchime of sculpted hands, each frozen in gestures of prayer, benediction, or divine wrath. They clinked gently in the breeze, echoing not with metal but with something softer—like whispered names.   Inside, the air shifted, cooler and still, thick with the scent of resin, stone dust, and old incense. The tent’s outer walls were ringed with narrow wooden shelves rising from floor to ceiling, each carefully packed with finished pieces. Every shelf was a devotional archive: towering wooden idols wrapped in cloth and copper wire, clay busts of obscure river gods, glass reliefs capturing moonlight with eerie precision, and metal effigies that seemed to hum faintly if stared at too long. Some pieces were small enough to rest in a palm; others radiated such presence it felt as though they were watching.   At the heart of the tent was a wide, circular glass display case forming a low island in the room. Its countertop gleamed, and within it rested smaller, more intimate works—pendants, etched tokens, rings, statuettes of gods in repose or judgment. It was here that Lev's gaze settled on one particular piece: the Petal of the Last Summer, a pendant shaped like a delicate flower blossom caught mid-fall, rendered in translucent rose crystal with gold veining that traced the edges like sun-touched memory. The display label bore no price—only a single word in Elvish script that Lev recognized as meaning “remembrance.”   Everything within the tent seemed bound by a single, silent law: each piece bore the mark of divinity—not as worship, but as witness. Whether the gods had touched these forms or been born of them was unclear, and perhaps to Virellen, irrelevant. He merely carved what he saw in visions, or dreams, or silence.   Later, the party followed Lev into a tent occupied by Virellen of The Flower That Lingers. Among wood-carved deities and floral resin statues, Lev admired the Petal of the Last Summer priced at 300 gp, but ultimately declined.   Lilly attempted to negotiate but noticed Lev’s heart wasn’t in it and stopped. Virellen, in poor taste, joked about throwing in his troublesome child to sweeten the deal. The comment struck a nerve with Cathlynn, who was still haunted by recent events involving missing children in Karja Tal. She stormed out.   Lilly followed, offering a bite of Swampcrest Tortlette and a moment of quiet support.   Later, Virellen showed Lev a different piece—a Statue of Titania made of translucent green floral resin. Lev purchased it immediately.   Meanwhile, Dorian discovered a structure covered in canvas and bearing a simple but sharp-tongued sign: “ The Silent Notch : If you have to ask, you don’t need it.”   Intrigued, he entered to find a tent crowded with rare, esoteric items—a blend of organized chaos and subtle mystique. The inventory within is cluttered but precise. Every item has a purpose. Every piece was earned, not bought. The whole place smells of leather, pine ash, animal musk, and faintly acrid herbs used for masking scent or preserving kills.   It doesn’t stand out visually—it looks like the kind of place a hunter passes without comment unless they know what to look for. But for those like Dorian, the contents speak loudly in the language of the wild. The upper beam of the stall is strung with tanned hide straps and weathered hooks, from which dangle an assortment of handmade snares, bone-set traps, and cruelly shaped metal caltrops—each one crafted with the brutal precision of a lifelong hunter. Three longbows hang in pride of place: one forged from darkheart yew with a whispering grain, another wrapped in sinew and stained a deep, ominous red, and a third carved from driftwood, its nocked ends reinforced with sharktooth. Nailed beside them is a broad, drifted wyvern scale, its surface etched with what might once have been a map, now faded by wind and years; beside it hangs a small bundle of smoke-dried feathers said to come from a whisperhawk, a bird most hunters only know from stories. The table beneath is cluttered yet orderly, lined with leather-wrapped vials marked with crude pictographs—oils to keep bowstrings supple, salves for masking scent, repellents against biting insects, and Poisons designed not to kill, but to dull the senses of prey. Nearby lie bundles of dried bark and grass tied with copper wire—quick-burning materials that muffle flame crackle and offer cover in the field. An open bone box, its interior padded with moss, displays a collection of Hunter’s Tokens: amulets carved from tooth, antler, obsidian, or even petrified fruit, each one whispered to carry a different omen or protective charm. Behind the stall, available only to those who ask the right way, lies a folded canvas roll labeled simply “Untraceables”—rare and secret tools for vanishing from magical pursuit, including obsidian arrowheads, scent-breaking clay disks, and small tokens etched with runes of silencing. A weather-notched journal rests nearby, its pages rumored to reveal, when bled upon in the right place, the final path of a hunted target. Last is a rolled beast-map of the Sinking Lands, hand-drawn and annotated with ominous glyphs: never wait here after rain, eyes in the reeds, she breathes beneath this mud.   Dorian was drawn to a finely crafted weapon: the Bow of the Red Hunt. Though initially priced at 750 gp, Brannick offered to barter. Dorian produced two sets of manticore trophy teeth, taken during the party’s earlier expedition beneath The Portal. Brannick’s eyes lit up, and they settled on a deal: both sets of teeth, plus 150 gp.   Dorian, bow in hand, left the shop with a rare grin.   With purchases made and new mysteries in hand, The Heretic readied themselves to set out along the Starfall Road, the path stretching southward—and into whatever fate waited beyond.