Session 3: Sing No More
General Summary
The storm rolled in like judgment. Fat rain pounded cobblestone and slate, and thunder cracked above Brambleward like iron tearing. Beneath that fury, the party moved, cloaked in darkness and water, guided only by a whispered riddle passed through backchannels and broken mouths:
“Find the safehouse beneath the brick lady who don’t sing no more.”
It led them to a forgotten shrine of Rii’Ella, goddess of memory and ink, now long disused and disavowed. The steeple’s stained glass eye was shattered. The front doors nailed shut.
They circled the chapel, careful not to draw eyes. A narrow window above a barricaded rear door offered a way in. Behind them, a second-story window flickered with movement. Someone was watching. They timed their efforts to the thunder, attempting to pry loose the barricade, but it held too firm, and the noise risked raising alarm.
Padget, ever the adept climber, scaled the temple’s wall, rain streaking down the stone. She cut her hand on a jagged sill but slipped inside. The air was thick with mildew and memory.
Inside? Rubble. Collapsed pews. Splintered iconography. Shattered statues of scribes and saints. Scripture scrolls turned to mush underfoot. Not a flicker of candlelight. No scent of incense. No warmth. And no sign of Cricket Thimblewhistle.
She unbarred the door from within, and the others joined her in the darkness.
They barely had time to spread out before the sound of hammering at the front doors echoed through the nave, not subtle, not cautious. Someone was tearing the barricade down with force.
The party took cover, positioning themselves behind broken columns and crumbling rail. Brikk, not the sort to let others get the upper hand, opened the door, surprising the those outside. As the doors swung open, Brikk saw who knocked, five figures framed in the lightning:
A lean elf with a bow that looked like it had killed before and would kill again. A soft-faced man clutching a flute, no threat, but too calm. A snarling dwarf with rust in his beard. And two thugs bearing the lacquered nails of House Dalomir, their cruelty unmistakable.
They called for Cricket Thimblewhistle, demanded he be brought out. The party stalled, truthfully, they hadn’t found him. The tension cracked. So did the fight.
The door became their shield. They baited the intruders to step forward, but the foes hesitated. The party struck first. Brikk showed himself and was quickly penetrated like a pin-cushion. Valden charged like a drawn sword, quickly dispatching his adversary before running back into the church. Nerissa’s arcane force rippled through the sanctuary, illuminating her foes, the scent of electrified meat hanging in the dampair. Padgett darted from shadow to shadow. Brikk stood behind the door, baiting them in, mocking their refusal to enter. Tolliver peppered the enemy from the back of the temple ducking behind cover. The party snapped on their enemies like jaws, trapping, pressing, breaking.
In what felt like seconds, it was over. The survivors fled into the storm, bloodied, beaten, and terrified.
The party moved fast. Behind the pulpit they found two trapdoors. One led to a cellar of spoiled sacramental wine, thick with mildew and old faith. The other, through a narrow ladder, descended into the foundation.
As they climbed down, a horn sounded in the district, a long, sharp call meant to summon those loyal to Dalomir. They had little time.
Beneath, they found a small space thick with moisture, fungus, coral. A door with venom in its intent. Beyond the door, old brickwork cut through with a forgotten cistern tunnel. And there, just past the door laced with a crude trap, they found him, Cricket Thimblewhistle.
Muddy, shaking, soaked to the bone. Breathing through a hollow reed, hidden in the shallow water like prey.
He spoke quickly, eyes wide with guilt and fear. He had taken something, not gold, not secrets, but something alive, something sacred. And now the owners wanted him gone. Burned. Swallowed. Erased like the ink slipping off the scroll. He claimed to not have a clear understanding of what he took, only that it was something that was significant and far more dangerous than he ever imagined.
Brikk
Nerissa
Valden Guanga
Tolliver Goldfinch
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