Session 0032 : The Hills Have Eyes. Well, mostly.

Having made their final purchases in Toller's Point, The Heretic decide that it's time to move on. They huddle together to discuss the best path towards Mythan Belanore. It was decided unanimously that Ilthmar was to be avoided. No one wanted to risk obtaining an illness, even though three of The Four of them were healers.   Instead, a path due East from Toller's Point to The Starfall Trade Route was chosen. Wasting no time, the party took to path and began the next leg of their journey. East of Toller’s Point, the terrain begins to shift from high prairie and marsh-scattered lowlands to wide stretches of gently sloping grasslands, where the horizon rolls like a sea of green and gold. The marshy scent from the west fades quickly, replaced by the dry, clean smell of sunbaked grass, distant wildflowers, and the occasional faint smoke from traveling hearthfires. Wild herds—primarily antelope and highland cattle—can sometimes be seen moving in the distance, accompanied by circling carrion birds or shadowy predators trailing just out of sight.   Towards the end of the day, as the party crested a low ridge in the rolling highlands, their eyes fell upon a peculiar sight nestled in a shallow vale below. What should have been a tranquil shepherd’s encampment stirred with an uneasy stillness. A ring of weather-worn hide tents, patched and staked with horn and bone, circled a dying cookfire. Smoke curled from it in lazy spirals—too thin, too listless, as though reluctant to rise.   The Heretic decided to investigate the camp. Perhaps it would be a good place to camp for the night, thought Cathlynn. Any place with livestock made her feel better in any case, so even if they decided to move on for the evening, the visit with them would make the small detour worth it. The party slowly migrated towards the camp. It seemed abandoned for sure, as not a soul stirred. Naturally, Lilly was the first one to spot the stew boiling in a kettle hovering from a trip-pod just above the camp's central fire. Surrounding the campfire were five tents, made of goat-hides and cloth. Small but efficient, they seemed to be just large enough to house 2 sleepers at most. The sixth tent at the head of the camp stood out immediately. It was taller and more slender, seeming to be designed more for standing room than sleeping. This tent caught Lev's eye immediately as they passed it. He noted to himself that he would do what he could to find out what was inside as quickly as possible.   As the party found an appropriate spot to station the cart and graze the donkeys and Luriel, Cathlynn's mount, they all noticed a small area just west of the camp where the soil seemed recently tilled, as though a garden were being established. Cathlynn thought to herself that this would be odd behavior of a people that shepherded animals, a lifestyle that was presumably migratory by nature. The mounts were hitched near the goats the party spotted from a distance. There seemed to be somewhere between 100 - 200 goats, if one were to guess. They were all in a pen. Anyone who's been around animals would know that these goats should have been loud, a constant roar of bleating, snorting and stomping should have filled their ears at this point. However, they were relatively extremely silent. Scarcely any sound came from the pens at all. Lilly wanted to investigate this immediately. She leaned down and put her arms through the fence line, calling a goat to her. A smaller goat came to her immediately, following the sounds of her comforting calls. Lilly saw something on its face that horrified her.. it had no eyes. Where they eyes belong, there instead was a membrane of skin. She examined it closely, looking for signs of cuts or disease and saw none. It appeared as though the goat was simply born without eyes. Surveying the rest of the herd, she saw that about one-third of them had the same condition.       During this, Dorian and Lev decided to investigate the boiling kettle while Cathlynn tended to the mounts. As Dorian and Lev approached the kettle, they realized that someone had been sitting there all along. Camoflaged to near invisibility by the mud that covered his nearly nude body (save a small loin-cloth), the color of the mud matched the color of the ground around them. It seemed that after he applied the mud, he must have taken his fingers to form geometric designs in the mud around his face and neck area. Cathlynn spotted him as he rose and thought that he must have been some sort of Shaman for sure, though she didn't recognize any Shaman dressed like this thus far in her life.   The man stood slowly, his sinewy form cracking as though he had not moved in some time. The dried mud caked across his chest and arms flaked as he moved, revealing glimpses of sun-darkened skin beneath. The geometric designs carved into the dried clay on his face and neck glowed faintly with an unsettling purple hue. He raised a hand in greeting, palm open and fingers splayed, then bowed his head.   "Peace upon your travels," he rasped in a voice as dry as the wind. "I am Kharun. This is my daughter, Tessari."   At the sound of her name, a young woman emerged from the tent nearest the fire. Her expression was neutral, eyes downcast, and she held a clay jug close to her chest.   Kharun gestured to the bubbling pot over the fire. "You are welcome to share our stew. Goat and wildroot. We’ve plenty and you would honor us to share it."   The Heretic exchanged cautious glances but eventually agreed. Lev posed the question on everyone’s mind.   "Where are the rest of your people?" he asked, eyeing the surrounding tents.   Kharun smiled with lips too thin and teeth too small. "The others are tending the herds across the plain. They will return after dusk... or perhaps by morning. Goats stray, and our people follow."   Tessari stepped forward then, her silence broken by ritual hospitality. "Would you take wine, travelers?" she asked, lifting the jug slightly. "From our goats. Sweet, spiced, and old in the earth."   Lilly and Cathlynn accepted with polite curiosity. The wine, creamy and tinted golden by herbs unknown, was as Kharun promised—spiced with subtle warmth and faintly floral, clinging to the throat like honeyed air. It lingered in memory as much as taste.   "Mmm," Lilly mused, her eyes bright. "Might I trade some of my own for yours? Equal weight, of course."   Kharun bowed slightly. "Fair trade is a sign of good faith. Yes."   While the others talked, Lev circled quietly to the tall purple-draped tent. He did not enter, but the smell of sandalwood and the dim flicker of purple light confirmed his suspicion—it was a shrine, dark and quiet, filled with incense smoke and the distant, disquieting sense of being watched. The sigils marked upon the cloth matched what few descriptions he had read in the forbidden tomes: Vathra the Pale, an obscure god that associated with the death / life phase of the life cycle.       As dinner ended, The Heretic prepared to leave. They declined the offer of camp tents, opting to sleep nearer their own gear and cart.   As they drifted off toward their camp, Lilly glanced back one final time. Kharun stood alone at the fire, circling it in slow, counter-clockwise steps. His arms were raised, his voice low and rhythmic, intoning words in a language that curled the hairs on the back of her neck.   Instinct and druidic curiosity pulled her toward the goat pens. She crouched low, laying a hand upon the gate, and whispered to the animals in the language of root and leaf. The goats responded—not with sound, but sorrow.   "He takes them. He takes our eyes. The man."   Lilly’s face went pale. She turned and sprinted back to the others.   "We need to leave. Now."   The party uprooted their temporary camp. The moment their intent to leave became clear, Kharun grew agitated. He stepped toward them, not with pleading, but accusation. Tessari fled into her tent. Kharun raised his hands to the night sky and shouted a word older than bone.   From the tilled earth rose four figures—bodies half-rotted, skin sun-leathered, clothed in torn remnants of shepherd garb. Their eyes were long gone.   The fight that followed was swift but costly. The zombies were dispatched easily enough, but Kharun, no shaman but a necromancer, proved formidable.   At first he watched passively, leaning on the goat pens, but when The Heretic pressed the battle, he began casting. Cathlynn, anticipating danger, struck first—Hold Person locking him in place just long enough to give them hope.     Then came Circle of Death. The spell blasted outward from him in a sphere of withering energy, halving the party’s vitality and felling the herd of goats, 111 in number. Luriel and the two donkeys collapsed.   On the next breath, Kharun unleashed Cloudkill, a yellow-green fog that filled the camp with choking, caustic gas. The Heretic faltered.     But resolve held. With grit and magic, they pushed through. Cathlynn and Dorian rallied their strength. Lev called down radiant might. Lilly, furious, struck true.   Kharun fell in the bloodied dust, his final breath exhaled in the same syllables he had uttered to summon the dead.   The party searched the camp. Tessari was found lifeless in her tent—too close to the Circle of Death, her fragile body no match for the necromancer’s wrath.   Lev used Prayer of Healing to revive the animals, miraculously pulling Luriel and the donkeys back from the edge.   The Heretic spent the rest of the night harvesting the goats—wool, horns, hooves—quietly and reverently. Waste not, want not, after all.   A shrine was ransacked. A dark tale put to rest. And on the morrow, the road would once again stretch eastward into the lands of the unknown.