Lost Mine of Phandelver

Fall Back!
Wait to take on monster island until the whole gang is here.

Nightal 19, Year of the Scarlet Witch, 1491 DR

Brother Seeker Rosch Uskevren, distracted by events beyond his control, fell back to the gate to southwester Tyar-Besil while the rest of the Called explored what remained of the the northeastern section of the ruins.

The Called were offered the ability to leave this section of Tyar-Besil unharmed by someone named Thuluna Maah. She had identified herself as the new Mistress of Monsters, and said she only wanted to be left alone to govern her monstrous minions in their new lair. Gundren Rockseeker declared Thuluna’s plan unacceptable, when asked, and the Called endeavoured to discover the rest of the ruins, while steering clear of the middle, which was where Thuluna and her monsters had set up. As well as the area of the underground lake they knew was inhabited by the dragon turtle, Bronzefume.

The Called fought through some nothics and ghouls, however they ultimately decided on not taking on Thuluna and her monsters until they were fully assembled. Instead, they went back to southwestern Tyar-Besil, where they discovered Rockseeker and Bouldershoulder scouts had arrived. The dwarven scouts said forces from both clans would be arriving in about a tenday, and the Called agreed to help the scouts keep an eye on things, as well as regroup and take care of personal matters, until the forces from both clans had arrived.

Nightal 29, The Year of the Scarlet Witch, 1491 DR

Small detachments from the Bouldershoulder and Rockseeker clans arrived and began fortifying southwestern Tyar-Besil. The dwarven scouts had some minor skirmishes with some of the cultists, however the fighting have diminished somewhat since the other dwarves have arrived in force.

With a foothold established in Tyar-Besil, and being fully rested, the Called set out to return to southeastern Tyar-Besil and reclaim the section of the ruins from Thuluna and her monsters.

10 days of downtime for every character.
As a note, Nightal 20 is Winter Solstice, there would definitely be a festival of some kind so, happy Solstice!

A Prophet of Elemental Evil Falls
You can't eat the claw...

Nightal 19, Year of the Scarlet Witch, 1491 DR

Continuing their journey through southwestern Tyar-Besil, in the area the Cult of the Crushing Wave was calling the Temple of the Drowning Wave, the Called discovered the middle part of the ruin was inhabited by monstrous allies of the cult. The Called also discovered huge stores of recently pilfered goods, no doubt the spoils of the recent increase in river pirate activity that had been plaguing the Dessarin Valley.

After a close call with a dragon turtle called Bronzefume, the Called eventually made their way into the Alter of the Crushing Wave. There they stood against the Prophet of Olhydra, Gar Shatterkeel. The Called destroyed the servant of the Princess of Evil Water, a few of her priests, and some lizardmen servants. However, the remainder of monsters within what was once the cultist’s temple remain acutely aware of the Called and their presence within the ruin. The Called found the treasury of the cult, as well as an entrance to a deeper level, guarded by a powerful demon Discord recognized as beyond the adventuring band’s abilities.

Treasure: 925 sp, 742 gp, a silver ewer (100 gp), scrolls of vitriolic sphere and tidal wave (Unusable by anyone in the party but can be traded for Warlock and/or Bard spell scrolls of equal level.), and Gar’s magic trident, Drown, a weapon with qualities unknown, but radiating a malicious cold aura.

The Called will get the benefit of the recovered trade goods, 1,000 gp in total, once this section of Tyar-Besil is cleared.

Into the Temple of the Crushing Wave
Beer-weirds! Truly, the cults evil knows no bounds.

Nightal 19, 1491 DR

The Called, having been rejoined by Discord, made their way into southeastern Tyar-Besil, which the Cult of the Crushing Wave was using as their temple.

Upon entering, the Called did battle with strange a cultist who identified himself as Morbeoth, and seemed to have command of over powers of ice and cold. The Called defeated Morbeoth and the cultists who accompanied him, men and woman who fought with shark-toothed longswords and shields made from the carapace for large horseshoe crabs, as well as bugbears. After the battle the Called discovered some letters written a fairly distinct style, a combination of block letters and script, that detailed the actions of the Called, as well as the Heroes that came before them, as they pertained to what the groups were, and had been, doing in Red Larch. These letters confirmed what the Called had already suspected, that cult had a spy in Red Larch, and these letters might be able to identify who it was. An even more startling discovery was that Morbeoth’s workshop was used for creating strange magical backpacks that radiated elemental magic. The Called discovered that the backpacks were made to contain waterweirds, as they had to fight three that were being kept in the tanks of what was once the Thunderhammer Brewery. These magical backpacks would allow for a cultist to transport the dangerous beats, and even allow them to fight on land, a proposition that could only spell disaster for the people of the Dessarin Valley.

Having taken a short rest, and defeating the waterweirds, the Called pressed further into the Temple of the Crushing Wave.

Treasure- 6 pp, 66 sp each. Potion of healing and potion of gaseous form. Spy’s letters and up to five of shark-toothed longswords which, if used against a target that is wearing no armor, does an extra die of damage.

Remember to take a look at other chars personality, bonds, flaws, etc as I am pretty much making you guys responsible for granting Inspiration to one another.

Southwest Tyar-Besil Reclaimed
Umberhulks are Rosch's Nemesis!

Nightal 18, 1491 DR

Having forced the Cult of the Howling Hatred members to flee the southwestern section of Tyar-Besil by running off their prophet Aerisi Kalinoth, the Called decided to secure the rest of the ruined area that had once served as the Temple of Howling Hatred. Although Discord vanished for a time, the remaining Called pushed further into the ruin, doing battle with strange beast such as a cloaker, and an umberhulk.

Having rid the ruins of cult and monsters, the Called reemerged from Tyar-Besil and sought some much-needed rest among Gyr’Squall‘s conclave in the Sighing Valley. Gyr’Squall was thankful the Called had removed the evil presence from the Sighing Valley, however bore grim tidings. From their vantage on the cliff face that contained the conclave’s cave, Gyr’Squall showed the Called a procession of refugees headed in the direction of Red Larch.

Redknife Savra Belabranta and Brother Seeker Rosch Uskevren flew out to meet the refugees atop Winddancer, Savra’s hippogriff companion. Upon meeting up with the refugees, the Called discovered that the battered and tired procession was from a small mining village called Shalesburg. They refugees spoke of how strangers, adorned in robes and jewelry of shells and driftwood, walked into the village square with a strange metallic orb. The strangers opened the orb as they chanted, and then a monsoon began battering the village. Although land-locked, suddenly a giant tidal wave appeared ,and and laid waste to the village.

Savra and Rosch went to the site of the what was once Shalesburg, to see the devastation first hand. Rosch could not help but notice the similarity of the village that now lay in ruin, and his adopted hometown of Phandalin. It was as the survivors had said, and though hard to believe, the village had been destroyed by a tidal wave.

Rosch and Savra flew back to Gy’Squall’s conclave and regrouped with the members of the Called that remained behind. While in Tyar-Besil the first time had discovered an access gate to the southeastern section of Tyar-Besil, which they had a suspicion was being used by the Cult of the Crushing Wave as a temple, as the Cult of the Howling Hatred had used the southwest section of the ruin. The Called decided they needed to take action, and on the morrow they would try and stop the water cult from doing any further damage to the innocents of the valley.

Nightal 19, 1491 DR

Having rested for the evening among Gyr’Squal’s conclave, the Called readied themselves to once again enter Tyar-Besil in hopes of striking another blow against the evil elemental cults. While they slept, Gyr’Squall had flown to Red Larch and acquired the supplies the Called had requested of him. Still another aarakocra from Gyr’Squalls enclave departed with three missives written by Gundren Rockseeker. All three told of the discovery of Tyar-Besil and contained a call for dwarves to return to the lost ruin and establish a foothold in the southwest section, as the Called worked to reclaim the lost ruin. One missive was to be delivered to Wave Echo Cave, to the Rockseeker clan, another to the dwarves of the Vale of Dancing Waters, and the last to the far away Bouldershoulder clan, the closest relatives of the Flametongue clan that was decimated when Tyar-Besil was lost.


Treasure: 3,342 gp. Ancient dwarven figurines, keepsakes, and funerary masks x26 (50 gp each), miniature electrum anvil with etchings of funerary rites in honor to Moradin (150 gp), and an immovable rod.

Prophet of Air
Finally, a boss!

Nightal 18, 1491 DR

The Called were able to rescue some captives the Cult of the Howling Hatred had taken from Yartar, and another man named Bero Gladham who claimed that his wife, Nerise, was “taken below”. They left the recused captives in Gyr’Squall‘s care, as the druid called upon a couple of griffons to return the freed torture victims and return them to Red Larch. Unfortunately, Gyr’Squall needed to accompany the griffons to prevent them from eating those that had just been rescued.

The Called returned to the part of Tyar-Besil that the cultists had claimed, and were calling “The Temple of Howling Hatred”. They were reacquainted with an old friend, Gundren Rockseeker. Gundren had left Wave Echo Cave, to pursue the location of lost dwarven ruins in the north. Tyar-Besil was the first in his quest to reclaim. Fighting their way through the temple at times, posing as cultists at others, and often a combination of both, the Called finally arrived at the center of the temple. Which was surrounded by a huge moat with an occasional glint of ancient coin resting deep beneath the water.

Arriving within the throne room of of the pyramid, the Called had an audience with Aerisi Kalinoth, leader of the Cult of the Howling Hatred. Aerisi bored of the Called’s charade at beings members of her cult quickly and ordered her drug-addled cultists in the chamber, as well as her invisible stalker servant, Whisper, to attack. Once the scrap began, Aerisi summoned a djinni named Ahtayir, bound to a horn in the throne room since the days of Torhild Flametongue, king of Tyar-Besil, to aid her against the Called.

Brother Seeker Rosch Uskevren, remembering an early conversation with the djinni, used his mastery of psychic powers to transport himself and Redknife Savra Belabranta to the ancient djinni’s horn, allowing Savra to destroy the ancient device. With the device sundered, Ahtayir was freed of his forced servitude, and left Aerisi to her own devices.

With her djinni gone, and her cultists falling quickly, Aerisi fled the chamber, leaving Whisper and her remaining cultists to cover her escape. The Called ended up defeating Whisper and discovered that the remaining cultists within the Temple of Howling Hatred had fled..

The Called took a brief reprieve in the throne room while they prepared to finish exploring this section of Tyar-Besil. While they were resting, Ahtayir the djinni returned form his home plane with slender, azure crystalline vials, the contents of the vial looked like swirling air, and emanated the sound of the slightest breeze. When their rest had been concluded, the Called set out once again in the remains of Tyar-Besil.

All characters advance to 7th level.
Treasure: 38 gp each worth of lose coins, small gems, and trinkets of value. 1 bottled breath each.

The Rockseeker
Gundren Hears the Stone's Songs

Nightal 15, 1491 DR

Gundren Rockseeker squeezed the last of the air from his pipes, the final notes of his somber dirge echoing sonorously off the walls of Wave Echo Cave. Wave Echo Cave had not been under Rockseeker for control for a full two months, yet already the tombs of two Rockseekers were being crafted. The first tomb was that of Gundren’s older brother, Tharden Rockseeker. Tharden was killed before he ever entered what was now Clan Rockseeker’s home, by the drow mage, Nezznar, the Black Spider.

The second tomb, which was not yet started although the slab that would be the tomb had been selected, was the tomb of Gundren’s cousin, Orsic. It was Orsic’s death that was the reason for the somber clan gathering. The whole clan was here, save those that were sent to the Allfaith’s Shrine in Phandalin to retreibe Orsic’s body. Were it not for Orsic, the Rockseekers would not be in Wave Echo Cave. Likely Gundren would have died at the hands of the Cragmaw Goblins if Orsic and his friends hadn’t saved him.

Gundren stopped letting his mind race toward the memories of his captivity, instead focussing on the eulogy being offered by Muriwen Rockseeker, wise-woman of the clan, and the oldest living Rockseeker. Muriwen stood strong as she gave her praiseful oration to Moradin and the life of Orsic.

Gundren looked over at the chest that contained Orsic’s belongings. Nundro Rockseeker, Gundren’s oldest and only remaining brother, was the one who had received the chest from the angelic messenger who called herself Moda. Nundro offered Moda rest amidst the cavern, as he had said she looked weary from flying through the night to bring the clan the news. Moda had graciously declined, saying she had more pressing matters to attend to, but expressed gratitude and condolences for the clan’s loss.

“…and such a loss,” Gundren caught the tail end of Muriwen’s words, a little surprised at how well they echoed his own thoughts.

Such a loss indeed. The Rockseeker’s were not a large clan. Nor were they famous like the Battlehammers or the Warcrowns. Their ancestral histories had heroes aplenty, and Gundren had no doubt that he lived longer, Orsic’s deeds would have certainly rivaled those of any iconic Rockseeker of ages past.

“Or maybe not,” Gundren thought. “Maybe we can’t help but remember the dead as better than they were because we hope those that survive us will do the same?”

“…and let those that survive him do the same,” Muriwen was saying. “For in following in this young one’s example, we bring honor to the clan, and Moradin.”

Gundren watched Muriwen give the rest of the eulogy, refusing to get lost in his own head. Although she was venerable, the wise-woman was solid as the stone walls that surrounded them. Muriwen was from one of the line of the clan that had darker skin, like polished teak wood. Yet her hair, now streaked with gray, was the forge-fire orange of the fairer complexioned members of the clan, and gathered into ropey strands. Muriwen leaned heavily upon the clan hammer, a symbol of the clan, but in no way ceremonial. The Rockseeker Maul was still very much an instrument of war, and currently resided in the hands of arguably one of the greatest warriors of the clan, even at Muriwen’s advanced age. Voices solemn and hoarse from regret and refrained use, echoed a final prayer to the Forge Father under Muriwen’s guidance.

The prayer concluded and Muriwen looked to Gundren, her eyes shining like emeralds in the dim light of the chamber that had been repurposed as a tomb. “Play,” Muriwen’s voice echoed hollowly. “Play the song of our clan on yer pipes to ease the journey of our fallen clansmen to Moradin’s forge.”

At this wise-woman’s command Gundren begun to fill the bladder of his pipes after dipping his head to recapture the mouth piece. Gundren began to squeeze and play, his keening pipes thick with loss and solemnity. Nundro’s snare drum joined Gundrens pipes, the staccato notes falling to the stone floor like tears. And Clan Rockseeker bid farewell to Orsic.

Nightal 16, 1491 DR

Gundren was exhausted. His head was still a little fuzzy from Orsic’s death vigil last night, and
this morning. The water clock on the stone desk told him it was evening again, and Gundren realized it had been too long since he had slept. He piled the loose sheafs of parchment splayed across the desk and tucked them in into a stone box whose joints were so well disguised it looked as if the whole thing had been formed from a single piece of highly polished agate.

Gundren had just finished reading missives from his friend Sildar Hallwinter, now the town master of Phandalin. Sildar was in communication with a small enclave of Waterdahvian wizards that had expressed an interest in relocating to Wave Echo Cave.

Another correspondence now secured in the box with the others, was from the famed gnomish artificer, Luftvarger Von Listleschlepin. Luftvarger and his acolytes had accepted a temporary residence at Wave Echo, eager to learn about the Forge of Spells.

Phandelvers Pact would be renewed. Wave Echo Cave would again be a place of creation and discovery for the finest artisans of three races, all under the vigilant protection of the Rockseeker clan. Gundren knew he should feel excited that he had resurrected a piece of history. Yet he didn’t.

Gundren loved the history of his people. He had spent as much time in his life studying books, maps, scrolls, and songs of Delzoun’s past as he had at the forge. That love for the lost things of the dwarves was what had led him and his brothers to find Wave Echo in the first place. And now that it was coming together, Gundren felt as if he should be more…something. But what was coming next was not exciting to Gundren. Statecraft would be necessary to appease the visiting human and gnomish artisans. Stonecraft and smithing would be used to restore Wave Echo Cave to its original splendor after decades of neglect and the attack that destroyed the original inhabitants. And while Gundren appreciated all these things, they did little to captivate him.

“Sure’n I have seen some things me day young Rockseeker,” Muriwen’s voice echoed warmly off the chamber walls, her brogue thick like summer honey and just as sweet. “Ye be hearin’ the stone’s call or I am maid fresh faced and new”

Gundren dipped his chin respectfully to the wise woman and stood offering her the only chair in the chamber. Muriwen declined with a wave of her gnarled hand, and instead leaned heavily on the haft of the Rockseeker Maul as one might lean on a walking stick. “Evening clan mother,” Gundren offered, careful to use the honorific due the wise-woman.

“Ye can be stowin’ all that formality lad,” She smiled. “Tis’ too late in the evening, and has been too long a day. But ye can’t hide from me Gundren. Ye have heard the stone’s song. Ye have heard it all your life. It is in your songs, and in the tales ye tell. Ye be blessed and be cursed, for ye be a Rhok seeker.”

“I am not fer follwin’ ye Muriwen,” Gundren said. “Sure’n all the Rockseekers in this halls are Rockseekers brave and true.”

“Aye, lad,” Muriwen said behind her tired smile. “But I said ye be a Rhok seeker. In all your tales did ye ever come to know how this clan got it’s name?”

“Aye Muriwen,” Gundren began, “In the time of Regnir-”

“That was six three centuries past,” Muriwen interrupted. “Twas, but a little more than yesterday. Sure’n ye be knowing our clan is older than that?”

“I suppose,” Gundren said. “I was fer thinkin’ we had another name in those times.”

“We did,” Muriwen said distantly. “And we didn’t. Long ago, when our kind first came to the north, before time was recorded, Moradin knew that we would be needin’ a stronghold to fortify and a place for our forges. He called this place Rhok, and within its sunken stonewalls the first of our kin made ready to face the north. It didn’t take long for the other ancient races, then new to the north as we were, to become jealous of the things we made within the stone halls of Rohk. They wanted our steel for making war on each other, and our stone to shelter them from the cold winds above. And so the jealousy caused those defilers to unite, at least for a time. They raided the Rohk as they have done for many centuries since, and the stronghold fell, as so many of our halls have since.”

Without interrupting, Gundren poured Muriwen a cup of cool water from a clay pitcher on his desk. Being a story teller himself, Gundren knew her voice would be getting hoarse, and he didn’t want her tale to stop. Muriwen received the cup with a grateful nod and continued.

“Eventually we ended up forming Delzoun, and those tales be vast and well known. But those that remembered Rhok remembered the great gift the Forgefather had given us. They didn’t want to forget, and so it was said that tasked a skald to sit with the stones for one hundred and one tendays to teach them the songs of Rhok. Once the skald had taught the stones his songs, he died. With his dying breath the Sklad asked that the stones to sing to those that could hear them, and through the old songs, help our people remember Rhok and what we had lost. As time went on, we lost more of our ancestral homelands, and though it took place over centuries for us, that was but as a second to the stones. The stones that had learned the songs grew confused, unable to remember which dwarven halls were to be sung about, as so many had fallen in so short a time.”

“And so,” Muriwen continued after another sip of water. “Each stone began to sing about the hold they liked best, for our homes are always pleasing to the stones. As they sang, their songs became confusing, and many stopped listening to them. The people were convinced the stones were old and senile.”

“Yet, some among them still listened to the stone’s songs. A very few would hear their words, and go find the halls lost, and forges too long cool. Ofthose few that heard the stone’s song, even fewer would hear the songs of Rhok. Those few strove for nothing more than to find Moradin’s original gift to the dwarves of the north. They were called the “Rhok finna” which in the old tongue means Rhok Seekers."

“After a time even our clan became distracted from the quest for Rhok, Because we were well traveled from our journeys to find lost halls, were well suited to the task of King Regnir that
eventually earned us the place we have today. Yet every once in a great while, there is still one in our clan that hear’s the stone’s songs. That feels the call to find the lost halls of our people, and perhaps even one day, rediscover great Rhok itself.”

Gundren found himself exhaling slowly as Muriwne finished her tale and he realized he had held his breath through most of her legend. How had he never heard this tale before? There was so little dwarven lore Gundren hadn’t at least encountered, let alone studied. Gundren had so many questions, yet as he looked up he could already see Muriwen disappearing down the dim light of the hallway.

“Go to the place where stones sing Gundren. Listen to them as the call your cousin home. See what song they sing to ye.,” Her voice echoed back to him.

Nightal 17, 1491 DR

Gundren awoke not the least bit sore from his slumber upon the stone floor of the tomb. He had done as the wise-woman had said. He had come to the tomb and tried to listen, yet he had been so tired. He had slipped into sleep quickly. Yet during that sleep he had dreamed of a place called Tyar-Besil. He had heard the songs the dwarven craftsmen sang as they built it. And he had heard the mournful ballads that had been sung when it was lost.

Pushing himself off the floor and springing to his feet Gundren made his way to the two chests in the room.

“Brother, I’ve a journey ahead of me,” Gundren said reverently. Kneeling before the the stone slabs that would soon be tombs “I’ll be needin’ yer boots, the same that Orsic wore, to carry me far.”

“Cousin, I will be needing yer gauntlets, the same ye claimed when bravely you cleared Wave Echo Cave for our clan, to carry me load and make strong me sword arm. I’ll be swearin’ to ye both that I will return em to ye once I have found the lost halls and forges of our ancestors. Until that time, I will carry a piece of both of ye with me, and together, maybe we three Rockseekers will find Rhok.”

Gundren didn’t know what to expect, but as nothing seemed adverse to his request, nor was nay ill omen given, he rifled through Orsic’s chest as he had the guantlets and the boots. Gundren considered carrying Orsic’s axe, Hew, as well. But that thought was short lived. Hew had been too long among the Ruins of Thundertree. The blade deserved to rest back with its people for a time.

In just a few short hours Gundren had provisioned himself for his journey. He gathered a few works or lore, and some maps with potential information about the location of Tyar-Besil. It was close, he knew that, and somewhere to the east. Gundren would start with the Bellows Road. The underdark path went under the mountains and Wyvern Tor, and although somewhat dangerous, would be the fastest way to what was called the Dessarin Valley on the surface.

Taking his baldric off the hook in his quarters that contained his longsowrd and dagger, Gundren shouldered his weapons and secured the straps. Lastly he gathered up his pipes. they had not been used since the funeral, and the deflated bladder hung familiarly at his side once he had thrown the instrument’s strap over his as opposite shoulder.

“Sure’n ye are damned fool,” Nundro said from Gundren’s door, his face split with a grin and naught but pride showing in his eyes and he surveyed his younger brother once again in his adventuring gear. Gundren wasn’t sure how long his brother had been standing there “Ye’ll never find a place that’s lost,” Nundro’s voice was heavily steeped in sarcasm.

Gundren grinned at his older brother thinking again of the recently reclaimed Wave Echo Cave, now bustling with activity, and soon it would be restored to its former glory. He remembered those same words being said not too long ago to himself, Nundro, and Tharden before they left for the lost site of Phandelver’s Pact by some of their clanmates that now resided with the halls of Wave Echo cave.

Gundren flung his chin Nundro’s way with a wry look, “That’s what I be hearin’.”

Starry Lucidity
Discord is propositioned.

Nightal 18, 1491 DR

Discord‘s interest in the poor bastards strapped to the alter of Moradin could be best be described as “academic”. The warlock didn’t particularly like seeing people in anguish. It was more that she had spent her life being threatened by shadows. Their icy-cold, and sibilant voices had threatened her with so many torments over the years that when she encountered actual torture, she could not help but momentarily mentally transpose herself with the victims. As if sensing Discord’s thought process, the shadows around her began to shriek and writhe. Since everyone else seemed to not notice the shadows frenetic activity Discord did her best to not react past darting her eyes back and forth a few times.

Discord felt a pulsating thrum, as much in her mind, as on her chest, from Myrkur. She was surprised to find herself holding sword and scabbard tightly to her chest. The blade, recently satiated, emitted only the smallest sense of desire for lifeforce. Discord knew that Myrkur was voracious, and soon it once again call to her with the hunger.

“The hunger steady grows,” Discord and the Mrykur voiced in unison, although only Discord could hear Mrykur.

Discord watched as her companions began releasing the captives of the kenku from the alter they were being tortured upon. There was still a galvanic tingle in the air from Gyr’Squall’s lightning bolt. All that remained of the birdmen was a few scorched feathers, and their shadows forever burned into the stoney floor.

“Dead shadows,” Discord whispered under her breath. “Captured. Haunt no more.”

Discord buckled Myrkur’s scabbard back around her waist. She reached absently for the hilt to adjust the position of the sword, however as soon as her hand closed around the hilt shadows swarmed her vision.

Discord was no longer in Tyar-Besil. Amidst the writhing blackness she saw glimpses of her companions freeing the captives through sepia toned windowpanes whose edges flared with purple eldritch fire. The ever creeping chill of shadow stuff permeated Discord, and she could see her breath.

Suddenly the shadow-solid mass beneath her vanished, as if the floor had been dropped out from beneath her. She was falling through a lightless sky, wind whistling past her. Oily black tears began to form at the edge of Discord’s eyes. There was a loud “snap” that resounded suddenly as Discord’s wings, made of shadow-stuff and three times larger than she remembered them, suddenly unfurled.

And then Discord was soaring above a lone mountain that issued forth steaming water as if expectorating contemptuously unto the surrounding land scape. A huge plume of billowing steam rose above the mountain, casting the surrounding area in shadow with an inky shadow.

Others flew beside her now, a dozen, maybe more? Their shapes were umbral wisps, yet their blades, like Myrkur, but not Myrkur, formed weapon-shaped darker masses in an already lightless sky. The blade-shaped voids and their bearers descended and gathered at the foot of the mountain, as if waiting to be called. Discord smell the acrid stink of the plume and the far off his of the steam escaping the mountain jarred her teeth. Luke warm droplets of watery gray misted all the skin and clothes of all who waited at the base of the mountain.

“Will you take me up?” A voice that sounded like ice cracking spoke, being joined by a chorus of whispers, and a cacophony of ecstatic shrieks, each trailing the other slightly.

Discord’s whole body tingled, like when she thawed her limbs after being too long in the cold. The shadows swirled anew. Discord stood, a new blade in hand. This one was made of a starry sky. Instinctively she wielded the blade first against a rush of fire and a swirling gale. With another stroke of the blade she dispersed earthen hands as they grasped for her, then twirled the blade to a guard position in time to have a tidal wave crash around her harmlessly. Each time the starry blade sunk into the target Discord felt a rushing surge as she pulled the very powers of devastation into her blade, and then into herself.

Discord returned to darkness. The voice from before seemed to solidify like fractals of newly forming ice across the surface of her mind.

“Seek me when you are called. And through me, fear Her shadow no more.”

Discord found herself once again in a room in Tyar-Besil. She was sitting in a corner, her wings wrapped tightly around as if shielding her and a white-knuckled grip on the hilt of Myrkur. For the first time in as long as Discord could remember there was total silence. The silence was expansive and vast. It had weight, and it pressed upon Discord’s as if briefly holding her together. She could see her companions speaking, but no words resounded off the ancient dwarven stone walls.

And then the silence was gone.Her companions voices suddenly could be heard, faintly at first. The breathy mocking of the shadows returned. They once again promised to visit terrible tortures on her body and mind. They whispered that the longer Discord denied Her, the greater her suffering would be. The fear returned to Discord like familiar friend, and the moment of peace she had known seemed a distant memory.

If the other’s noticed Discord acting strangely they didn’t show it. Perhaps they were used to it by now. Either way, with the last of the captives freed Discord knew the group would soon be moving. That is what people did. They kept moving. If they stopped, their shadows would catch them.

Into the Temple of Howling Hatred

Nightal 17, 1491 DR

Brother Seeker Rosch Uskevren returned to Hillcrest Manor after burying his friend, Orlose Cherboga. There he found that were affairs were well in order, and although it had not yet yielded a profit, his trading post, as over seen by Mirna Drendar, had not lost any money either. Shortly after Rosch had squared everything away he met Watson Nettlebee at the Stonehill Inn. It was there that Watson informed Rosch of his family’s dark dealings with the Cult of the Black Earth, os well as gave Rosch his grandfather’s ledgers and journals in a bag of holding. Watson impressed upon Rosch the need for his return to the Dessarin Valley in order to help end their troubles.

Discord returned to Hllcrest Manor with Rosch. It was there she discovered teh alchemy lab formerly used by Hadarai. She cleaned up the lab, as purposed it as her temporary quarters while in Phandalin.

Redknife Savra Belabranta, being home in Red Larch only a few days after her recent mission with the Agents, was approached by Gyr’Squall on behalf of the creatures within the Sighing Valley. Gyr’Squall’s conclave had made an arrangement with the griffons and manticores of the valley that if Savra could rid the valley of the presence of the Cult of the Howling Hatred they would allow her to reclaim Feathergale Spire. Savra was told to travel to Phandalin and seek out Rosch and Discord, as they would likely assist.

Nightal 18, 1491 DR

Savra, Gyr’Squall, Discord, and Rosch traveled to the Sighing Valley and entered the Cult of Howling Hatred’s temple, in what was once the dwarven stronghold, in disguise as cultists. The newly formed companions witnessed some rather disturbing and horrific practices within the temple, and have begun purging the cultists from this underground complex.

18 gp a piece in loose coins.

Victory at a High Cost
Evil cults claim another Seeker.

Nightal 13, 1491 DR

The remaining Seekers, Brother Seeker Rosch Uskevren and Orlose Cherboga, traveled back to Scarlet Moon Hall in order to exact vengeance of they that had slain Orsic. They were accompanied by a strange tiefling warlock calling herself, “Discord” and an elven priest of Shevarash called Soveliss.

Upon returning to the haunted keep, the Seekers discovered it was much as they had left it, and the ritual of the Wicker Giant had yet to have taken place. Attacking from the east, the party quickly became mired in a terrible battle with members of the Cult of the Eternal Flame, bugbears, worgs, and fire elemental. The battle was prolonged and terrible, first claiming the life of Soveliss, and then Orlose. During the course of the battle they learned that the rite had been a ruse, used to draw out potential recruits for the cult.

Eventually Discord and Roche were able to see the cult leader, Elizar Dryflagon, dead. Dryflagon plummeted from the burning tower of the ruins, sapped of strength by Rosch’s summoned shadows, in a failed attempt to climb down. As what remained of Dryflagon’s cultists descended upon Rosch and Discord, they both opted to flee the haunted keep, bereft of companions and badly taxed from the battle.

Please advance your characters to level 6.

Insult to Injury
A missive from the past.

Nightal 12, 1491 DR

Orlose Cherboga had never been to Red Larch before, so he was more than a little surprised as the man shakily approached him as he stood outside the Allfaith’s Shrine in the early hours of the morning. The man reaked of booze and piss, old and new, and he could barely say the fighter’s name. Even still, the man looked shaken, and he all but ran after he thrust what looked to be a dirty piece of parchment into Orlose’s hands.

Orlose stared at the parchment, so much had happened in the last twelve hours. He opened it numbly and saw that the missive was scrawled in a heavy hand, the strokes broad and blotted, with holes throughout where the author and ripped the sheet with the quill. The penmanship was beyond poor, yet Orlose managed to read the following:

Human Dog

Not so good to lose clan mates huh? Me heard you are called “Seekers”. Looks all you find is your mates’ death. I sad the druids put the dwarf in the dirt before I could. Heard the elf died too. Too bad. I was looking forward to choking that one. I like choking elves. Bones like birds. Little snaps, big gasps.

You make my vengeance easy, but rob me too. Going to be none left for killing if you keep getting your friends bodies dropped. You, the elf, and the dwarf came into my home. Killed my clansmen. And now you rob me again! Maybe when I come for that traitor Droop I will spend some time with your house-ladies. I like choking ladies. Bones like birds, like elves, only they scream. Oh how they scream.

I am right behind you. You are all that is left. Guess I am going have to kill you slow.


Oh ya! Say thanks to your mate what dropped that bear. I like the skin. It makes for good cloak.


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