DM: Geokhan

Characters: Styg, Thiala, Emily, Sir Frederic, Kylgore, Barendd

The scroll is written entirely in flowing Elvish script.

My first foray into the wilds was dreadful.

Only one member of the group was of proper heritage. There was a half-breed among them, but he was strange. Perhaps the mutt in him caused the behaviours. It was hard to tell.

I joined up with the others just in time to save them from a group of massive snakes. Though one of the gutter rats stabbed me for my efforts, the creatures were no match for my skills with a blade and they each fell. Before they died, however, we were each poisoned by their gaze, which seemed to have some sort of sickening effect.

Reluctantly, I followed the red eyed human to the shrine of the Morninglord. Though my faith lies with the Creator of All Elves, I joined the rabble in offering tribute to Lathander. The offerings seemed to please him, as we were cleansed of the snakes’ sickness shortly after. 

We stayed til the sun was at its peak, at which point we were approached by the caretaker of the shrine. He went by Malachite, and was willing to offer information about the man known as Tsaran.

He told us that Tsaran’s cultists had ranged far across the known land on the isle, from the sea to the Neathy Woods, and all the way to the northern plains. However, recently he retreated into his fortress in the Jub-Jub Peaks, withdrawing his forces there as well.

There was supposedly an entrance and portal to the fortress in the foothills of the Peaks, which our glorious “leader” decided that we should scout out. We made our way there, and found a spot to lie in wait for the night so that we might ambush any cultists who came our way.

During the night, we heard the approach of something from the direction of the mine/entrance. They were speaking Undercommon, and appeared to be searching for us. I hoped to parlay with them, seeing as I spoke their language, but instead combat began and we engaged in a battle for our lives.

Two of the combatants were humanoid rats who could breath a necrotic cloud. It ate away at our very life force, and nearly every one of us fell to the repeated assault. Those who did not were bombarded by claws and fangs, and fell in turn.

Just when I thought I had breathed my last breath, by some act of Corellon Larethian’s grace, I was awake. I invoked my Bladesong and fled, waiting on the edges of the darkness in hopes that someone might find themselves similarly blessed. 

Unfortunately, by the time I awoke, everyone lay still. The creatures, thinking their prey dead or fled, left. I returned to the bodies and searched, hoping for supplies or perhaps a miracle. 

And a miracle there was. The gutter rat himself, Sir Frederic, was unconscious but still breathing. I took potions from the corpses of our fallen companions to revive him, and imbibed one myself, before we took shelter in the bushes.

Come morning, a group of Jub-Jub dwarves found the remains of our battle. They assisted us in carrying the dead back to their mine, and from there we returned to town.

The red-eyed paladin and the elf were revived. The other two were not.

May the Preserver of Life grant them a peaceful rest.