Session 58

Recap

• Having dealt with the corruption of the forest you began your journey back to Leth'Taelar
• The forest was indeed healing
• You found yourself in a clearing, a small grove with a wide stone slab, half-covered in moss, this stone slab was inviting
• As each of you placed your hand upon the stone, you had a flashback, a vision? a memory perhaps?
• You all continued to Leth'Taelar and were invited to stay for a feast, after which you all rested and you found yourself waking up this morning.

Vision Recap

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:

Ceremony

As the first golden light of dawn begins to filter through the towering trees of the Abnoba Forest, a soft knock rouses you from your rest. A young druid of Leth’Taelar stands at your door, bowing gently.

“The Heartbough awakens. Tantha calls for you.”

You're led through mist-veiled bridges and platforms to the center of the village, where the Heartbough — an impossibly massive, ancient tree — rises toward the heavens. Its trunk glows faintly with a golden sheen as the sun touches its uppermost branches.

A circle of druids and clerics waits in silence beneath the tree. Birds chirp gently, and the air carries the scent of fresh dew, blooming flowers, and something older — sacred. Tantha , draped in robes of pale green and soft gold, steps forward, leaning gently on a gnarled staff woven with living vines.

🌞 1. Dawn Invocation – “The First Light”

Tantha raises her staff. As sunlight spills across the clearing, a hush falls over the grove.

“As light returns, so does life.

As roots hold fast, so does memory.

The Abnoba awakens because of you.”

Druids begin to hum, a low, melodic chant that seems to resonate with the rustling leaves above. The light grows warmer, enveloping each of you in a soft radiance. For a moment, it feels as though the entire forest is watching… and approving.

🌿 2. Waters of Renewal (player interaction moment)

One by one, you’re invited to kneel before a smooth stone basin. Morning dew — gathered from sacred leaves before sunrise — glistens inside. Tantha gestures for you to wash your hands in the water.

(As each character does so, you may narrate a brief vision — unique and personal. You can improvise or use the ones below as inspiration.)

🌳 Sample Vision Prompts (brief player narration):

Keph: You see a sapling sprouting where no seed was planted — at the foot of the Heartbough, bathed in golden light.

Elswyth: You see yourself sitting cross-legged on a boulder, meditating as roots slowly rise from the earth to cradle you.

Zannotah: A great stag stands in a burnt clearing, unafraid, its antlers tangled with ivy and flame.

Djinn: A flame flickers at your palm, then unfolds into a glowing flower. Around you, the forest watches silently.

🍃 3. Bestowal of the Verdant Gifts

Four bundles wrapped in soft moss and spiralled leaves rest atop a vine-draped pedestal. One by one, Tantha unwraps them and presents them to each of you, speaking in a clear, reverent tone:

“These gifts were not crafted. They were grown — shaped by the forest in the days after the corruption was lifted.

They bear your essence, as you now bear ours.”

(As each player receives their item, describe it briefly — its appearance, warmth, or magical resonance. The items can pulse, hum softly, or glow as they are attuned to the bearer.)

🌳 4. Rite of Binding

Tantha beckons you forward. She touches the Heartbough’s bark, and it seems to breathe. You are asked to place one hand on the tree.

As you do, you feel a warmth travel up your arm. A faint leaf-shaped glow forms on your palm or wrist — not a brand, but a mark of living light. It fades slowly, but you sense it can return when the forest calls.

“You are now bound to the forest — not as outsiders, but as kin.

Protectors of the balance.

Guardians of the waking wild.”

🍞 Closing – Meal of the Morning Grove

The ceremony ends not in fanfare, but in peace. A meal is shared beneath the canopy — fresh fruit, sweet breads, herbal teas. Children bring you woven wreaths of vine and flower. Elders offer carved charms, soft-spoken blessings, or knowing nods.

One wrinkled druid leans close to you and whispers:

“The forest remembers what was healed… but it also remembers what was lost.

Not all roots grow toward the sun.”

Departing the Forest

As you make your way down from the treetop village of Leth’Taelar. The air is fresh and rich with the scent of moss and morning dew. Birds call cheerfully overhead, and the trees — once twisted by corruption — now seem to breathe easier. The forest feels alive again.

Villagers gathered on high walkways call soft farewells and blessings, tossing down woven garlands and charms that catch in your gear and hair. Tantha watches silently, her expression unreadable, but she places a hand over her heart in a gesture of deep respect as you pass below.

As your boots touch the forest floor once more, it’s as though the forest exhales with you. Your path ahead is dappled in sunlight, flanked by lush undergrowth and the soft murmur of waking wildlife. You follow the winding trail eastward, the road gently sloping out of the ancient heart of Abnoba.

As you round a bend in the trail, you hear a soft grunt, followed by the clatter of tumbling packages and a high-pitched voice cursing in a language that sounds like squirrel-chitter mixed with Common.

You see a tiny cart — barely larger than a wheelbarrow — stuck in a rut between two tree roots. Behind it stands a red-cheeked forest gnome with wild tufts of mossy green hair, a pointy satchel hat, and a badge shaped like an acorn with wings.

🧝‍♂️ NPC Description: Tibbin Fizzwhistle

Title: Courier of the Forest Gnome Postal Guild

Race: Forest Gnome

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Occupation: Magical parcel runner, scroll wrangler, chaos enabler

Voice: High-pitched and fast-talking, like a squirrel who had too much coffee

---

🎭 General Demeanor

Tibbin is a whirlwind of energy in a body barely three feet tall. He moves like he's constantly late for something and talks like he’s narrating his own life in fast-forward. Despite the mild chaos surrounding him, he’s extremely competent — or at least very lucky — and sincerely proud of his job.

He's covered in ink smudges, twigs, and moss, and wears a crumpled red-and-blue acorn-shaped hat with a tiny silver mail badge on the brim. His satchel is visibly overstuffed and hums ominously. One of his boots squeaks when he walks. He doesn't seem to notice.

---

🧾 Appearance (at a glance)

• Height: 3'1"
• Hair: Wild and mossy green, like wind-blown grass
• Eyes: Bright hazel with gold flecks, always darting around
• Clothing: Patchy leather vest, a forest-green scarf covered in wax stamps, acorn hat
• Gear: Miniature handcart full of enchanted mail, scroll tubes, twitching packages, and an emergency acorn-shaped horn labeled “For Fey Interference Only”

---

🗣️ Personality & Roleplaying Notes

• Talks Quickly, often forgetting to pause. Interrupts himself. Easily distracted by things like mushrooms, sparkles, or misbehaving letters.
• Unflappable in chaos, but deeply annoyed by anything boring.
• Has memorized dozens of postal laws, most of which are oddly specific (e.g., “Clause 17B: No teleporting a letter after tea unless the envelope is oiled.”)
• Speaks Common, Gnomish, and some Fey, and peppers his speech with postal jargon like "scrollburst" or "classified druidic priority."
• Thinks your party are "heroes and eligible for first-class enchantment upgrades."

---

🧠 Motivation

Tibbin’s life goal is to deliver every parcel on time, no matter how weird, cursed, or misaddressed. He believes the postal system is the backbone of civilization — even in forests with no towns.

He throws up his hands in frustration.

“Oh for the love of root and berry, I’m gonna miss the morning post window again! Are any of you big folk capable of basic leverage physics? Or have at least one good kick in your boots?”

You’ve encountered Tibbin Fizzwhistle, a courier for the Forest Gnome Postal Guild — an ancient and chaotic organization responsible for delivering enchanted mail across remote druidic and fey territories. His cart is overloaded with scroll tubes, mossbound parcels, and letters that try to flap away on their own.

The cart is stuck, some of the packages are enchanted, and one of the letters is actively flirting with your sorcerer.

Player Opportunities (no combat)

• Help Tibbin Free the Cart:
  • Strength check (DC 20) to lift the cart
  • Nature or Survival (DC 15) to guide it safely around the roots
  • Arcana to identify which packages are misbehaving
  • Creative use of cantrips or Wild Shape encouraged
• Chaotic Parcel Antics: While helping:
  • One parcel opens and releases a bunch of magically flying mushrooms that bonk the party harmlessly.
  • A scroll unrolls and reads a dramatic romantic poem very loudly.
  • A bundle marked “Do Not Open – To the Fey Courts Only” starts shaking and playing fey fiddle music.

Once the cart is freed, Tibbin thanks the party profusely and insists they take one of the “extra parcels” accidentally routed to the wrong dimension. He rummages through the cart and tosses you a small gift:

🎁 Random Boon – roll or choose:

• A feather quill that translates any written language (once per day)
• A bag of ginger-root taffy that grants 1 temp HP when eaten (5 pieces)
• A stone that tells the weather for the next 24 hours… in riddles

Before he leaves, Tibbin waves a hand and says: “If you ever need a letter sent to someone in a dream, look for a squirrel with a little blue cap. And don’t open any parcels that whistle. Trust me.”

Poem

“O Whispered Vow Beneath the Bough”

O whispered vow beneath the bough,

Where moonlight touched her furrowed brow,

She said: ‘Return, when spring is near—

With thistle’s bloom and owl’s tear.’

I wandered far, through storm and flame,

Through riddled woods that sang my name,

But still I kept her words in hand,

Like bark-bound runes upon the land.

O heart of thorn! O kiss of vine!

The sylvan oath is still divine,

Though time may twist the trail I tread,

I’ll find her where the forest bled.

So mark me well, ye stars above,

I carry root, and leaf, and love.

My vow remains, though roads grow wild,

To her — the forest’s wayward child.

(Pause)

If undelivered, please return to: Lord Thistledown of the Weeping Glade.

Do not fold, bend, or enchant with bees. 🐝