The Old Lands - Session 6 (3-31-2025)
Echoes from the Murk
"Where the fog breathes, time twists, and roots drink more than rain."
I. Gold, Oaths, and New Shadows
Back at the Black Doe, the mood was quiet but thick with tension. Gyna Lombardi, ever the matriarchal powerbroker of Qyn’ki’s hidden underworld, rewarded the party with 3,000 gold apiece, a tidy compensation for recent efforts. Yet beneath the shine of coin lay darker currents—Billy, a Black Church operative and close friend of Stevia, had gone missing during a mission to the north, near her hometown of Drowsbridge. Stranger still, other operatives, including Pol Simone, a bard of notable rank and fame, had vanished along the same route.
Gyna, confident but uneasy, authorized the party to investigate and recover these lost assets. But this wasn't just another job—it was personal. Stevia's demeanor was more resolute than ever, her cheerful mask slipping as the weight of old ties and unfinished business beckoned her back to a past she'd long avoided. Stevia was determined they would save BILLYYYYYYYYYY!
In their journey to Drowsbridge the party was introduced to a new ally—Morrigan, an Aasimar paladin of the Black Church, marked by cold determination and the ancient might of her patron, Malar, an Ainhera of the Undead Legion. Clad in black steel and religious fervor, Morrigan bore the authority of the inquisitorial branch of the Church. Her mission was one of blood and judgment: the execution of Tarrow Quin, cruel steward of Drowsbridge, and potentially, the judging of Orinthal, exiled Veilborn warlock tied to Oberyn’s tragic past.
Though the party welcomed Morrigan, tensions flared briefly as Grim, ever suspicious, drew steel the moment her beastly companion—a towering spectral figure with lupine features—entered the room. After a few clarifications and some forced camaraderie, the group set out with renewed focus and sharpened edges.
II. Drowsbridge: The Town at the Edge of Memory
Drowsbridge lay nestled in a valley where the a fog similar to Qyn’ki’s never lifts and the roads seem to forget where they lead. Once a quiet agricultural town known for its flowering groves and fruit spirits, Drowsbridge now stood half-consumed by the Murk—a creeping, sentient fog that fed on memory, distorting time and space in its hunger. Only the Blessed Roads, ancient paths reinforced with divine protection, held the corruption at bay.
Stevia guided the party through the town with deliberate caution, avoiding her sisters’ estate and steering clear of attention. Their destination: a local tavern, recently reopened, where rumors of the missing agents last coalesced. There, they met Timothy Shallymay, the barkeep, whose ever-widening smile and nervous manner made for a deeply unsettling combination.
Timothy struck a deal: recover a missing cask of Dusk Wood Red (DWR)—a prized bloodwine lost in the Grove after an “unfortunate misadventure”—and he’d provide what he knew about Billy, Paul Simone, and the creeping corruption spreading through the region. Despite the absurdity of the request, the party agreed, sensing that the alcohol was a pretext for something else
Before departing, Morrigan commissioned a scythe from the locals—more tool than weapon—but with her grim dedication, she turned it into an instrument of divine judgment. This new scythe (great axe +1) was good enough to replace Morrigan’s trusted, old scythe.
III. The Grove That Watches
Entering the grove was like stepping out of time. The birdsong looped unnaturally. The trees, though untouched by flame, stood warped, their branches curling toward the party like grasping hands. Webbing, nearly invisible, crisscrossed the trail. The air tasted of iron and ferment, of sweet things spoiled and left to rot.
Midway through the cursed wood, the party encountered a witch-like figure, old with violet glowing magic and her breath fogging the air even as no chill lingered. She warned cryptically of Honeybranch Hollow, the darkened estate tied to Stevia’s childhood and to the mysterious Tarrow Quin. She spoke of cursed bloodberries, sacrifice-laden crops, and of the price of keeping things sweet. Before fading into the moss itself, she offered the party four vials of “Mother’s Insight”, a potion that protected against aberrant influence—and a fifth vial, unlabeled, with a shimmer that flickered in colors unknown.
As the wind whispers through the dark canopy, the old, eccentric woman lifts her hood slightly, revealing eyes too sharp and ancient for the creases on her face. A waft of vanilla fills the air. She leans forward over her walking staff, a faint glimmer of violet light flickering across the worn wood. Her voice is smooth and low, like silk soaked in oil.
“When the roots rot beneath the bloom, the fruit turns to hunger, not harvest. Blood calls to blood in the orchard where memory withers. The Beast drinks not from a cup, but from the hollow where the name once was. If you would survive the wretched harvest, strike at the seed before the blossom turns inward. And beware—when one mouth is silenced, others will sing in its place.”
She pulls five small flasks from her belt—etched with a strange spiral, 4 are red and 1 is blue —and places them gently in the palm of the nearest party member.
“A gift,” she murmurs, “for the thing that dreams with no mouth.”
Mother’s Insight (x4)
When you drink this potion, you gain advantage on saving throws versus aberrations for the next hour. One time use
Vial of Mother's Insight - Magic Items - Homebrew - D&D Beyond
IV. The Taproom of Teeth and Silence
The tavern in the Grove appeared abandoned but not aged. Vines curled around it, and moss hung thick from its eaves, yet the windows bore no dust. Inside, the scent of fresh blood warred with old wood and spilled wine. Grim, ever the detective, found a tripwire trap and deftly disarmed it. Within the cellar they recovered the keg of DWR—alongside a private stash of expensive whiskey, a false ledger implicating Timothy in theft, and a locked chest holding something the barkeep clearly wanted hidden.
Before they could leave, the tavern grew unnaturally silent. The walls wept ichor. The shadows moved. Suddenly, creatures erupted—Sorrowsworn and Star Spawn, horrors from realms unspoken. Their bodies twitched against geometry itself. Their minds pressed against the party’s thoughts.
But the party held.
Grim fought like a man possessed, weaving between cover, firing rounds that boomed through the mists.
Stevia summoned vines from the floor, entangling two of the aberrations, giving her companions critical time and halving the creatures they had to contend with.
Oberyn, silent as stone, cut down his foes with surgical violence. His blade glowed briefly, perhaps in recognition.
Morrigan fought with elegance and fire, scythe cleaving through corrupted flesh, her voice echoing with holy verse. She was an unshakeable wall who punished her foes.
One Sorrowsworn was slain in the roots outside, another banished by fire and steel. The final one was pinned and executed via a coordinated Black Church firing line, the echoes of the shot swallowed by the Murk.
V. Honeybranch Hollow: Land of Living Rot
Having retrieved the wine and broken the silence of the Grove, the party turned toward Honeybranch Hollow—the ancestral estate of Lord Bertram Honeybranch, and the true source of Drowsbridge’s prosperity… and its curses.
The orchard’s trees bore blood strawberries, their smell nauseatingly sweet, their sap sticky and black. Shrines to Udrim and Saint Krajevi lay desecrated, their iconography clawed away by non-mortal hands. Grim’s fury boiled silently at the blasphemy, while Morrigan knelt at the corrupted altar, murmuring prayers for vengeance.
The fog grew thicker. Time lagged. Birdsong repeated. A figure darted across the trail, seen only for a heartbeat, then gone—into the greenhouses that loomed ahead like mausoleums of ivy and glass.
As the session closed, the party stood at the edge of something far older than Honeybranch’s greed, deeper than Bertram’s crops, and more dangerous than even Ahriman’s flames.
Final Notes:
Billy remains missing, though the trails grow warmer.
The Grove is haunted, not just by fey mischief, but true aberration—perhaps signs of An Teàrrachar Analach.
Tarrow Quin awaits somewhere deeper in the estate.
Oberyn’s past is beginning to stir in the shadows ahead.
The Murk is watching.
Next time: Through the fog and into the Hollow, where root and ritual, memory and madness intertwine.
