Session 8 - 18GC/HF/
General Summary
As the party returned from their harrowing adventures in the Shattered Shallows, the salty air of Fjall was alive with celebration. Guildcaptain Eamon Hackett greeted them at the dock with a triumphant grin, declaring that Fianna’s Favor was seaworthy once more. “We set sail at dawn,” he announced, his voice cutting through the evening wind. Behind him, the settlement of Fjall was abuzz with preparation for a grand feast to honor the adventurers and their journey ahead.
That night, the heart of Fjall blazed with firelight as the villagers gathered in celebration. Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, hearty stews, and flagons of mead. Sigrid the Goði presided over the feast with solemnity and pride. As the revelry reached its peak, she stepped forward, her voice carrying the weight of tradition.
“You have brought honor to Fjall and to the Whaleheart Clan,” she proclaimed, presenting each member of the party with a token carved from whale ivory and etched with swirling runes. “These tokens mark you as friends of the Whaleheart Clan. Wherever you go, you will always be welcome in Fjall.”
The cheers of the villagers rose like waves crashing against the cliffs, but the celebration soon took a darker turn. Njal, the gruff lighthouse keeper, approached Amalfi, Alana, and Nightshade with a weary gait. His pale skin and heavy coughing betrayed the signs of winterchill, a dreaded seasonal affliction of the northern realms. Before they could react, his sneezing fit sprayed the air, and the trio—despite their best efforts—found themselves succumbing to the illness. Feeling unwell, they returned to the ship early, missing much of the evening’s events.
Later in the evening, Kaldor, observing Njal’s decline, called him over. “Despite a rough start,” Kaldor said with uncharacteristic warmth, “you came through for us out there.” Njal’s weathered face softened at the unexpected gratitude, clearly unused to such kindness. When pressed about his future, he admitted, “I’ll continue tending the lighthouse, but there’s something I’ve been thinking about… exploring the ruins of the god tree.” His voice carried a mix of reverence and curiosity as he described the ancient giant tree, said to have been the home of the gods before it was felled by the legendary hero Beorn. He also spoke of a colossal wolf—Fenrir, a rumored ally of the Winter Wolf Clan—and a blue dragon that laired within the maelstrom to the west.
Meanwhile, Pharox and Gale found their own mischief. Challenging each other to a game of Five Finger Fillet, Pharox managed a respectable streak before nicking his finger. Gale, ever the entertainer, composed a ballad in his honor:
“We’re here for the Runestorm Compass on behalf of my blue majesty. We understand the trouble you went through to get it and so are happy to pay for it,” Drakaris said, his tone professional but sharp as frost. When Kaldor feigned ignorance, Drakaris snapped, “We know you have it. There’s no need to waste time.”
Tensions rose as the dragonborn’s demands grew insistent. An insult to Njal prompted Maylin to bristle. “Hey! He’s kind of our friend. Sometimes,” she shot back defensively. But diplomacy failed, and with a weary sigh, Drakaris ordered his acolytes forward. “Remember: non-lethal damage,” he commanded.
The battle began.
In the first clash, Kaldor cast Blur, his form becoming a shimmering, hard-to-hit mirage. Maylin hurled an Ice Knife at Drakaris, but he countered the spell with a flick of his wrist. Pharox, activating his Symbiotic Entity, stumbled drunkenly as his usual vibrant mushrooms drooped into inky, wilted caps. Gale, retaliating against an electric fireball that singed his fur, unleashed Dissonant Whispers, driving one acolyte to madness.
Drakaris retaliated with a crackling breath of lightning, felling Maylin and severely wounding Kaldor and Pharox. The latter revived Maylin with a desperate Healing Word, while Gale inspired Pharox with a bardic flourish.
As the skirmish wore on, Maylin summoned a spectral bear to challenge Drakaris, but the dragonborn slipped from its grasp. Pharox, rallying with Gale’s inspiration, conjured a Flame Blade and struck down an acolyte with a thunderous blow.
Seeing his forces dwindle, Drakaris decided retreat was the wisest course. Gale, casting Suggestion, said smoothly, “Tell your master this party is not worth the trouble.” Pharox, with drunken bravado, added, “Yeah, bitch.” Overwhelmed, Drakaris conceded, ordering his remaining acolytes to collect their fallen and slink into the night.
In the aftermath, the party scavenged intriguing items from the defeated foes. Maylin found a Dragonbone Talisman inscribed with runes of protection, Kaldor discovered Dragonborn Prayer Beads, and Pharox uncovered a weathered map marked with suspicious locations along the coast. With their spoils in hand, they returned to Fianna’s Favor, where Gilly greeted them with greasy beastburgers—a much-needed comfort after the night’s chaos.
Swift as the wind, his hands take flight, A blur of steel in the dim-lit night. The knife, his partner, sharp and keen, A whispering shadow, sleek and unseen. It twirls and arcs with effortless grace, A glint of silver in fleeting space. The hilt obeys his deft command, An artist's touch in a calloused hand.The tune brought laughter and applause, but Pharox, emboldened by drink, took his revelry too far. Standing unsteadily on a table, he raised a toast.
"Here’s to a life well-lived, a belly full of ale, and a wench on every knee. May our pockets be heavy, our hearts be light, and our loins be ever ready. To a night of debauchery, may our sins be forgiven, and our reputations forgotten! And fuck the Skeggs!!"The room fell silent. Kaldor, a native of the Skeggs, bristled at the insult, but seeing Pharox’s drunken state, he let it slide with a grudging chuckle. As the night wore on, the party decided it was time to return to the ship. The plaza was quiet, blanketed by freshly fallen snow. But as they approached the docks, Maylin’s sharp ears caught the crunch of footsteps. Turning, they saw five blue dragonborn clad in fine robes, their leader, Drakaris, exuding an aura of authority.
