Fraens-ship is Magic
Supporting Cast
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Daga
A wiry, barefoot elf with dwarfism with amber eyes and a rope-burned belt. Wears a patchwork raincoat and carries a carved nautilus shell that he holds to his ear as if it whispers. Rumored to have connections with the Fangs.
Sessions Archive
Session 16: It's all in the cards
Session 15: Singing Fish
Following their investigation of the hollowed warehouse and the discoveries made beneath it, the party was advised to disappear for a few weeks and avoid drawing unwanted attention. Valden initially struggled with the idea of inactivity. Hoping to remain useful, he adopted a disguise and attempted to work at a local tavern so he could cultivate contacts and gather information. The effort was short-lived. Whether through intuition or paranoia, he quickly became convinced that people were paying too much attention to him and decided that truly lying low was safer than merely pretending to do so. The rest of the party settled into a quieter routine. Tolliver spent much of his time experimenting with the alchemical supplies Padgett had acquired for him. Nerissa devoted herself to studying local plants and herbs, sketching several species she remembered seeing around the Gray Monastery. Brikk maintained his training regimen and continued to challenge both himself and his companions while sharing his beliefs whenever the opportunity presented itself. Two uneventful weeks passed before a knock sounded at the door one stormy evening. When the party answered, they found a small drow standing outside in the pouring rain. The visitor delivered a brief message without explanation. *"You're expected. Where the fish sing. Tonight."* The messenger then departed as quickly as they had arrived. The party recognized the reference. Rumors circulated among the riverfolk of strange singing fish that gathered somewhere along the southern fork of the Myrrowen. More importantly, the wording made it clear that the invitation was not one they should delay answering. The group spent considerable time debating how they should travel. The weather was abysmal. Gale-force winds swept through the river valley, and rain fell nearly sideways. Traveling on foot would mean hours of trudging through mud and darkness, while traveling by boat carried its own obvious risks. They also had practical concerns to consider, including Valden's armor and the fact that none of them actually owned a boat. In the end, they hired a seasoned riverman willing to ferry them upstream in a vessel barely large enough to accommodate the entire group. The journey proved miserable almost immediately. The wind howled through the trees and along the riverbanks with tremendous force, bending ancient cedars and blackwoods beneath its weight. Lightning repeatedly illuminated the forest in brief flashes, revealing sights that seemed increasingly strange the farther upriver they traveled. The party glimpsed pale figures standing motionless among the trees, woven charms hanging improbably high in the branches, a lantern burning atop a tree despite the storm, and antlers lodged among exposed roots where no animal could reasonably have reached. As the boat continued upriver, the atmosphere gradually changed. The current slowed, the sounds of the forest disappeared, and an unnatural stillness settled over the river. Frogs, insects, and birds fell silent. Thick mist rolled across the water and quickly swallowed the surrounding landscape. Within that fog, green lights appeared. At first the party mistook them for distant lanterns. It soon became clear that they were eyes. The lights belonged to a boat crewed by rotting sailors whose glowing green eyes burned through the mist. The undead closed rapidly, and battle erupted in the darkness. The fight was chaotic and dangerous. Waves, rain, and cramped footing turned every movement into a hazard. Combatants were thrown across the decks of both vessels, and several combatants ended up in the river. The party's hired navigator came dangerously close to being killed during the encounter and survived only because the group intervened repeatedly to protect him. Despite the difficult conditions, the adventurers eventually prevailed and sent the river dead back beneath the black water from which they had emerged. With the destruction of the undead sailors, the unnatural mist dispersed as suddenly as it had appeared. The party continued their journey upstream. Several hours later, a new sound emerged beneath the storm. It began as a faint whistle that seemed almost indistinguishable from the wind itself. Soon additional notes answered from farther upriver, creating a strange chorus that rose and fell across the water. When the boat rounded a bend, the source became clear. Thousands of pale silver fish gathered in the shallows surrounding a small island in the middle of the river. Their long translucent bodies moved beneath the dark water while haunting whistles and flute-like cries echoed through the storm. The fish were not merely making noise—they were singing. The Maharluini call these creatures *Awit-Isda*, or singing fish. According to local stories, they are river spirits given physical form and gather only in places where the boundary between worlds grows thin. At the center of their gathering stood the destination the party had been seeking. The island rose from the river as a tangled mass of ancient roots and dark earth. At its center stood an enormous tree whose trunk was wider than a house. Hundreds of charms hung from its branches, including shells, bones, prayer strips, sealed jars, rusted keys, and woven reed dolls that rattled in the wind. Beneath the tree stood a weathered hut built from driftwood and salvaged pieces of old river barges. As the boat approached, the singing fish gathered around the hull in ever greater numbers. Their voices filled the storm while the river current seemed to ease, guiding the vessel toward shore. There, extending from the roots of the island, stood a crooked dock illuminated by a single lantern. Its flame burned green despite the rain. The party had arrived at the place where the fish sing, and at last they stood on the threshold of meeting Mother Tihani.
Read the Report
Session 13: Through the Graveyard
The cemetery of the Gray Monastery proved to be something more than a place of graves. As the party moved among the leaning stones and broken crypts, something in the air began to shift. The ground itself seemed to breathe with old memories. One by one, visions pressed into their minds—moments that did not belong to them, fragments of lives that had once been lived within the monastery walls. They heard the tolling of a bell that would not stop ringing. They felt the quiet scrape of a chisel removing names from grave markers. They stood at a long table where monks shared a final meal in silence, each one knowing it would be the last night they spent within those walls. Other memories were stranger. A corridor that stretched too long, bending the shape of the building itself. A confession that could not be spoken, where even the shape of a forbidden name caused pain to the one who tried to utter it. An aging abbot standing in a chamber of relics, calmly ordering the lower halls sealed while something unseen breathed slowly in the darkness behind him. The deeper the party walked among the graves, the heavier the memories became. They felt the sorrow of monks standing atop the cemetery wall while villagers begged for help they could no longer give. They witnessed the burial of the nameless—souls whose identities had been stripped so completely that even their prayers could not be spoken aloud. They felt the final night of the monastery itself, when its inhabitants slipped away barefoot into the forest, abandoning their home to silence. Then came the last memory. A tired monk sat at a small desk, writing by candlelight. As he studied the records before him, the truth settled upon him with quiet horror. Whatever lay beneath the monastery was not a beast to be slain. It was something that learned from the magic around it. Something that fed not on flesh, but on connection—on names, memories, and the invisible threads that bound souls to one another. The monks believed they had starved it. They sealed the lower halls. They abandoned the monastery. They left the place to rot beneath the trees. But the memory ended with a darker realization. They had not destroyed it. They had only taught it patience. The visions faded as the party reached the blackened pool in the cemetery. There Brikk began the ancient rite meant to restore the water, drawing on the quiet wisdom the monks had once practiced. As the chant rose into the cold night air, laughter answered. High-pitched. Hungry. From between the headstones came the nuglubs. What followed was chaos. The gremlins threw themselves into the fight with savage glee, darting between graves, dragging warriors to the ground, clawing and biting with wild delight. Steel rang against stone. Boots slipped in wet moss. Blood splattered across old grave markers. More than once it seemed certain the creatures would overwhelm the party completely. But somehow they held. Blow by blow, inch by inch, the party fought the creatures back while Brikk continued the ritual beside the pool. At last the chant reached its end. The water shuddered. The blackness loosened. And slowly, the pool cleared. The nuglubs shrieked in frustration and fled into the dark forest beyond the cemetery walls. Now the graveyard lies quiet once more. The water has been restored. And beyond the leaning stones and broken crypts, the crumbling Gray Monastery waits in the moonlight.
Read the Report
Session 11
Session 4: A Very Grateful Cricket
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The Protagonists
Brikk
Nerissa
Valden Guanga
Tolliver Goldfinch
Padget Olevskadottir
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