Session 57

Recap

• Fought the corruption
• Salve Arrows
• Near death
• Cured the corruption
• Rested
• Levelled up!

Plot Points

• The Forest Anew
• Pope Froggington

The Morning After

As dawn breaks over the Abnoba Forest, soft golden light spills through the high canopy, catching on dew-laced leaves and casting dappled warmth over the forest floor. The air is crisp, almost cool, but alive — not with the stench of rot and corruption, but with the earthy scent of growing things. Birdsong returns in hesitant notes at first, as if testing a world it had fled from, then slowly grows into a morning chorus, shy but joyful.

The trees around the source of the corruption still bear the blackened scars of what once was — bark split and weeping dark resin, roots twisted from their agony. But already, new shoots push through the rot, impossibly green and defiant. Moss creeps back across the stones, and tiny wildflowers bloom in defiance of the taint that once clung here.

The stream that runs nearby, once thick and sluggish with bile-dark sludge, now runs clear. It babbles gently as if whispering gratitude. The water sparkles where the light touches it — not with magic exactly, but with the promise of healing.

Insects buzz, timid but returning. A fox darts past, lean and cautious, and disappears into undergrowth that no longer recoils from life. All around you, the forest feels as though it's exhaling for the first time in a long while.

Yet traces of the past remain. The grass is patchy in places where shadow once fell too long. Some trees still stand dead — silent sentinels, reminders of what was endured. The corruption is gone, but the memory lingers in bark, stone, and soil. This place will heal, yes — it is healing — but it will carry the marks of this battle for seasons yet to come.

You awaken sore, your wounds aching but closed. There’s a lightness in your limbs, and perhaps more telling, in your hearts. The darkness has passed. You have given the forest a future.

And in return, it gives you peace.

Journey back to the village

With the corruption cleansed and your purpose fulfilled, you set your course northeast through the Abnoba, aiming for the elven city of Leth’Taelar. The forest that once bristled with hostile energy now feels subdued, as though in recovery from a long illness. Though still scarred in places, there is life again — hesitant, curious, and new.

You follow old druidic paths once overgrown and lost, but now emerging like veins through the woods, lined with buds, soft ferns, and fungi glowing with gentle bioluminescence. The journey is slow, the terrain uneven and disrupted by the past corruption, but the air is clearer now, and shafts of sunlight pierce the canopy more frequently than before.

As you travel, wildlife cautiously returns — a silver-feathered hawk watches from above, and once-silent groves now stir with birdsong and the fluttering of insects.

Non-Combat Encounter: The Memory Grove

By midday, you enter a clearing that feels… different. The trees here form a natural circle, their trunks pale and smooth like old bone, their bark untouched by the corruption. A thin mist hangs low, and the light within this grove has a silvery quality, as though refracted through memory itself.

At the grove’s center stands a wide stone slab, half-covered in moss, ringed with delicate blue flowers you don’t recognize. As you approach, your footsteps hush — sounds dampen, as if the grove is listening.

Suddenly, each of you hears a whisper — not out loud, but in your mind. A memory surfaces, unbidden. A moment of pain, guilt, or failure from your past. Not necessarily from the recent battle, but something unfinished. The grove invites you — gently, silently — to place your hand on the stone and confront it.

You may choose to:

1. Touch the stone and face the memory.
2. Decline, and leave the grove unchanged.
3. Investigate the grove’s magic and try to understand it further.

---

🌘 If they touch the stone:

Each character experiences a personalized vision, drawn from their backstory or previous campaign events (you can tailor this per PC). The memory is not cruel — it's reflective. The character may:

• Speak aloud to someone long gone.
• Apologize.
• Forgive.
• Or simply understand.

Zannotah

As Zannotah places his hand on the stone, the forest vanishes like smoke on the wind.

You're standing high above a cloudline. Cold air bites at your skin. The stone beneath your feet hums faintly — familiar, structured, laced with arcane currents. Home? No… not anymore.

There’s a voice. Raised. Familiar. Your brother.

You can’t make out all the words — just fragments:

“…you never understood…”

“…the timeline needs control…”

“…chaos if we don’t…”

A flash of movement — the glint of a time-scepter in his hand, runes flaring like pulsebeats. You remember arguing — about fate, about choice — but the exact words slip away, like water between fingers.

You stepped forward. Or maybe he did. The edge was closer than you realized. Someone reached out — too late.

A push? No… a shove? Or did you just lose your footing?

Then: weightlessness. The sound of rushing wind. His voice, distant, calling your name — sharp, afraid, but already fading.

You never hit the ground. The memory ends there — torn, frayed at the edges.

And then you’re back in the grove. Still. Breathing. The stone cool beneath your fingers.

Keph

The stone beneath your hand is warm. Then, for a moment, it feels like old, familiar wood — a cabin floor, sun-warmed and worn smooth by generations.

You're small again. A child, no taller than a bow, with twig-thin arms and a tangle of leaves in your hair. Outside, forest light filters through green canvas, dappling the walls of the small lodge where you grew up. It smells like pine sap, baking bread, and dried herbs.

In front of you, a bow — far too big for you — rests across your knees. Your last shot had gone wide. Again. You can still hear the distant laughter of the others. Older cousins, quicker hands.

You look up — and there she is: Granny Bear.

A mountain of a wood elf, her hair gone silver but her eyes sharp as a hawk's. She kneels in front of you, creaking as she lowers herself. Her hand, broad and calloused, settles over yours.

From across the room, you glimpse your parents. Silent. Their faces are kind, but tired. Your mother’s hand is on your father’s arm. Neither speaks.

You’re too young to name it, but you know what that look means. Not anger. Not shame. Just… doubt. Quiet, buried deep — and maybe that’s worse.

But Granny Bear? She just squeezes your hand.

“You’re going to do something that matters, Keph,” she says. “The trees already know it. You will too, someday.”

Her words linger as the memory fades — not gone, just distant.

You’re back in the grove. Older now. Wiser, maybe. And still walking that long path between doubt… and belief.

Elswyth

As Elswyth's fingers brush the stone, her breath catches — not from pain, but from a sudden stillness, as if the world itself holds its breath.

She is no longer standing in the forest, but floating behind memory. Not hers — not quite — and yet, familiar.

A winter night. The stars hang low over silver hills, and a pale moon casts its light on the snow-covered steps of a quiet monastery. Built of white stone and old devotion, it glows gently in the moonlight, like it was born from it.

A woman stands at the gates — tall, cloaked, her features hidden by a hood trimmed with starlight. In her arms: a baby swaddled in midnight blue.

The child doesn’t cry. She stares, wide-eyed, at the moon above — silent, aware.

The woman leans close to the bundled infant, her voice barely more than breath:

“You’ll be safe here. Watched. Prepared. The goddess sees you. She always has.”

A soft knock. A pause. Then the heavy doors open with a low creak, revealing robed figures lit by lanterns.

One of them reaches out to take the child. Hesitation. Then the woman nods — and lets go.

As she turns to leave, her final words hang in the cold air, though no one seems to hear them but you:

“When the time comes… you’ll remember who you are.”

Then it all fades — the moonlight, the snow, the memory.

You’re back in the grove. The stone beneath your hand cool, solid, real.

But something inside you lingers — like a chord still ringing, somewhere just out of hearing.

Elswyth alternate

As Elswyth’s hand touches the stone, the grove fades — replaced by a vast silence, deep and timeless. Then, slowly, a memory stirs. Not from the mind… but from something older.

A snow-covered hill beneath a pregnant moon. Silver light drapes everything in hush and shadow. Before the great stone gates of the Moon Temple, a cloaked woman stands, her breath misting in the night air.

She carries a child swaddled in midnight cloth, marked only by a soft glow beneath the wrappings — faint, pulsing, like a heartbeat made of starlight.

“She’ll be safe here,” the woman murmurs. “Watched. Taught. Trained.”

A faint shimmer dances across the snow, barely visible — a ripple in the air, like heat over summer stone, though the night is bitter cold. The monastery doors open. Gentle, hooded figures step out, their eyes soft, their movements reverent.

One of them hesitates as they see the infant’s glow. Not from fear — from awe.

The cloaked woman kneels, brushing her lips to the child’s brow. Then, almost to herself:

“The blood of the higher realms… hidden in flesh. But not for long.”

She stands, turning without another word. As she walks back into the darkness, the wind catches her cloak — and for the briefest moment, you see it: wings. Not feathered, not fully formed — a shimmer, a suggestion of radiant limbs folded close, vanishing as quickly as they appeared.

“When the time comes,” her voice echoes faintly, “she will remember who she is.”

And then it’s gone.

You return to the grove. The moss is cool beneath your fingertips, and your heartbeat is steady… but something deep within you stirs. A warmth. A memory not fully yours, but carved into your soul. Not just watched… but meant.

Djinn

As Djinn’s hand meets the stone, there is a sudden stillness — and then, the flicker of heat. Not external, not from the stone… but within. A familiar warmth surges in their chest, and the grove melts away.

Darkness surrounds you — vast, quiet, and cold.

You remember this. Not a place, but a moment. A pause between life and death. Between was and will be.

Then, faintly at first, you hear it:

“Kheyuton vey… kheyuton vey…”

The words drift like smoke — sacred, ancient. They pull you from the dark, word by word, syllable by syllable.

You see flashes — a ring of robed figures beneath a pale desert moon, their arms raised, fire circling around you. You lie still at the center, small and broken, eight years old. Your flame — once wild, chaotic — had gone out.

Until it didn’t.

The chant intensifies. One voice rises above the others — not pleading, but commanding. With reverence. With authority. A calling not to what you were… but to what you could become.

“Kheyuton vey.”

Return, child of flame.

You gasp.

Heat floods your lungs. Fire erupts along your arms. But it isn’t the wild red-orange fire of your childhood. This flame is blue — precise, unnatural, controlled. It licks your skin like silk and lightning.

You awaken — changed.

The robed figures recoil, not in fear… but awe. Something has answered their call. Something old, something beyond them — and it chose you.

In that moment, you don’t understand. But in the years to come, the power within you will surge with each breath. Not learned, not gifted… inherited. Born in death. Made in fire.

The blue flame is not just a mark.

It is your origin.

And now, back in the grove, it stirs again — quietly — as if remembering too.

Afterward, they feel lighter, as if a burden has been subtly eased. Mechanically, you may reward them with:

• Inspiration

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🔍 If they investigate:

A successful Arcana (DC 15) or Nature (DC 17) check reveals the grove is a remnant of an ancient elven ritual site — likely older than Leth’Taelar itself. The flowers are soulbloom, which only grow in places touched by deep, healing magic.

A failed check still provides the feeling that the grove is not dangerous, only potent with introspective magic.

---

🚶 If they decline:

The forest does not punish them. But as they leave, the grove closes behind — subtly, the path twisting to guide them away. That particular chance at reflection is lost… for now.

---

Conclusion of the Encounter:

The grove fades into the trees behind you. Whether you chose to face something or not, the journey feels changed. The forest is not only healing itself — it's helping you heal too.

You reach the forest edge two days later, where the soaring white spires of Leth’Taelar pierce the trees like moonlight made stone. You are expected — and the city is ready to hear your tale.

Return

The woven bridges and platforms of Leth’Taelar stretch high among the towering ancient trees, their wooden homes and halls nestled within boughs heavy with leaves and blossoms. As you approach, the fresh scent of moss, blooming wildflowers, and sun-warmed bark fills the air — a sharp contrast to the lingering shadows of the corrupted forest you’ve left behind.

The villagers emerge from their tree-homes and lookout perches, their faces bright with relief and joy. Children scamper along rope bridges, waving leafy garlands, while elders lean on polished wooden staffs, eyes gleaming with pride.

The soft patter of feet on wood and the gentle creak of ropes accompany your every step. Hunters, rangers, and artisans clad in bark and leaf-woven garments step forward, bowstrings lowered in honor.

Drums made from hollowed logs begin a steady rhythm, joined by the hum of flutes and chimes woven from twigs and shells. The voices of the village rise in a chorus — songs of the forest’s healing, of the courage shown to cleanse its heart.

You cross a grand wooden archway carved with ancient symbols of the Abnoba — twisting vines, protective spirits, and the moon’s gentle light — as villagers greet you with open arms, offerings of fresh fruit, nuts, and small carved tokens shaped like leaves and flames.

Soon, the main platform is transformed into a festive gathering space, lit by lanterns nestled in flowering branches and glowing softly with captured fireflies. Long tables fashioned from polished tree trunks groan beneath plates of roasted game, wild herbs, honeyed breads, and sweet berry tarts. Bowls of spiced mead and floral infusions sparkle in woven cups.

The village elder, her silver hair woven with fresh blossoms, steps forward beneath a canopy of flowering branches, her voice steady and warm.

“Brave guardians of the Abnoba, your strength has breathed new life into these trees and into our hearts. Tonight, we celebrate not only your victory but the rebirth of the forest itself.”

Laughter and song ripple through the treetops. The feast unfolds beneath the stars, cradled by the ancient forest — a home restored, a promise renewed.