Story

Our Story Thus Far

Deep in the Lucaiian Greatwood, the adventurers suddenly, unknowingly, slipped into the realm of Faerie.

There, or in some in-between place, they encountered beings of great power: three sisters, each with the means to do as they will with their surroundings. The first, a medusa, was killed. The youngest, seemingly an elf maiden, fled as a swarm of scarabs. And the third, well, her tale is still unfolding.

Amidst the destruction and debris, Nyxilis Greywynd witnessed a woman, pale and beautiful, rise from flame and disappear into the treeline. Her form phased in and out, revealing a horrible visage to the wizard.

Not two days later, Nyx fell to his death. His body was not recovered.

The adventurers followed a series of leads to a vault deep underneath the Magick City of Rosalia, where they discovered unsettling truths.

Their friend was not dead, but being kept in a sort of stasis, alongside three other mutated beings. Their receptacles, stone sarcophagi, were connected to a clay vessel that housed a comatose woman.

The Mother of Monsters.

City of Magick, City of Storms

The vassals, farmhands, and merchants traveling through the dales surrounding Rosalia did not expect the events of that day. Tremors in the weeks before perhaps heralded the destruction, but most shrugged them off as a byproduct of the summer storms. Official news from the Court of Seven explained away the rumblings, citing a mining operation nearby. Curious, then, that no F.L.A.N. crews were seen for many miles.

When the lightning ripped into the ground, people began to panic.

Great carapaced beasts emerged, tearing earth and flesh asunder. The entirety of the capital city lumbered into the sky, and soon after was enshrouded by black storm clouds and cracks of arcane lightning. What did not rise into the sky fell deep into Edda’s depths, miles and miles of the Lucaiian peninsula shattered, bleeding.

Refugees scraped what little they could and began to seek haven in the Greatwood to the west.

They did not anticipate the Gaunts. They did not know that the elves were enthralled to Death himself.

Three Months Later

The Holy Kingdom of Eriast prepares for war. Royal Outriders bring news of Rosalia-in-the-Sky, and rumors abound of elves—fanatic and nigh-cannibalistic—harrying travelers and merchant caravans in the Greatwood. The Knights of the Silver Sanctum, under the keen leadership of Rene Carmi, continue their dogged search for the fugitive Vhaant Cal’ynnden. The people look for solace in dark places.

Rosalia is in disarray. Thunder and lightning wrack the skies around the City of Magick. Cut off from the outside world, citizens have resorted to looting, theft, and violence. Her Majesty, Queen Elys, has locked herself in the palace at the heart of the city. The Court of Seven rule by fear, enforcing tribute through Mr. Anatol and his cadre of shamblemen.

Witchblood

Arthus Oban and Ekelhaft Ratte managed to escape the chaos of that ritual chamber through a coin of teleportation. However, they did not leave empty-handed. With a stolen crown of gossamer-thread and a vial of ichor from the alchemical tubes, they have started an empire.

Setting up a discrete storefront in Eriast, the two have begun replicating and hawking the Witchblood. The substance, when ingested, sends the user into a state of euphoria and confidence. Never mind that some are saying they have lost hair and teeth to the drug, or have new boils.

To aid in the processing of the material, Ekelhaft has recruited a fenwitch, Rakka L’ir, while the centaur barbarian Krehos of Ur-Namtar lends his muscle as added protection. Success breeds enmity, after all.

All the while, Arthus follows up on rumors of Vhaant’s whereabouts. He feels close, but with the Sanctum Knights sniffing around as well, it has become a race to locate the influential figurehead first.

Loredagger

Lady Clara Antinof, daughter of the deceased Duke Harhold Antinof, cowers in her family’s estate, praying to the gods that the monsters will not discover her. Since the stormclouds enveloped Rosalia, the streets have bled. Her own father was taken by the Doorknockers, the gangling half-men Mr. Anatol sends about on errands and patrols.

Clara would be dead, she is certain of it, if not for her Grim Knight.

She continues to rebuild power in the city, righting a few wrongs as best she can, with more confidence thanks to her new sellsword Roche. He seems to sense violence before it besets them. He speaks to both sword and dagger, and they speak back. She only asks that he keep his strange companion on the other wing of the estate. The wailing has subsided, but the cloaked man paces the halls, muttering unsettled words of demons and a black throne.

Her storybooks are all false. Heroes are not clad in shining armor. They come with dread blade and darkening shadow.

The Dark Throne

Sylvanar waits. His love lies on a cold slab, breathless, without sign of soul or anima. Yet the Court of Seven, through their proxy Mr. Anatol, continues to monitor her.

The shrouded mages of the Court have begun his indoctrination in earnest, sending him on tasks throughout Rosalia and granting him full access to the arcane libraries. They have even assigned Chuuk-Rah, a clockwork golem, to aid in his tasks. The construct is eager to help, if only to add new entries into its memory crystals.

The desire to be near the one he lost, and the continuing promises of being placed on The Dark Throne, lure the druid ever closer to a sinister destiny.

Power comes with a price, however. Since that fated day in the bowels of the Maze Vault, all knowledge of the Eldertree has been lost to Sylvanar. It is a vague silhouette in his mind, and a keen ache in his heart.

Sylvanar waits.