Session 18: Web of Memory Arc 2

After their union with Krexis, the party took their free time to explore the Worms Den. Among scattered gears and humming crystals, they found some familiar faces, Zarasha and Seraphim, who were speaking with Thandor in the ground market. In the soft buzz of his workshop, truth sparked to life: how the orphanage burned, how Lady Lysara — once pure of purpose — had twisted into a malleolus monster, for in a tragic twist of fate, one of the few survives of those fires was a young Thandor, who tried to put back together the frame of his surrogate mother, but for as much as he tried, he could not fix hbroken heart, for the fires, and whoever set them, took more than just her limbs, but the life of Liran, her partner and husband. Now his machinations fueled her misguided crusade for vengeance, which had already lead to countless losses of innocent lives. So, a proposition occurred, if they could bring an end to Lysara’s torment, then perhaps the same salvation he created could be fashioned anew for another in need of a new frame, Seraphim, the wheeled menace with the pure heart.

Seraphim, eyes clouded by memory, confessed: she had once come to that orphanage as a child to visit friends. But Thandor, one of the last true orphans, not only being much older, additionally confessed he had never seen her there. A mystery in her eyes and a gap in time lingered.

But before they could embark on their next quest, our heroes, still battered by past battles and unslept nights plagued with nightmares, where in need of protection from the demon’s grasp, so they could recover their strength and press on. Advised by Krexis, the party headed to the medical ward of the Worm´s nest, entering a quiet chamber, where Zorish performed rites of cleansing, begrudgingly lifting the curse from the afflicted souls. He revealed that those suffering could sometimes ward off the madness by clinging to keepsakes, Botas Feather and Rhyia’s black necklace seemed to be qualified contenders in the priest’s eyes.

Through ritual, these tokens became anchors of spirit. Botas brushed the veil and spoke with the Raven Queen herself. The black veiled goddess of porcelain white mask told him the tragic tale of two lovers, of how they birthed a kingdom cradled by shadows as a haven where their love could flourish, of how they were ripped from each other by a senseless war, campaigned by a jealous sister in search to usurp a throne that did not belong to her. The story of the goddess of death, her deceitful sister fallen from grace, and that of the two souls that clashed together in conflict, only to love and depart unjustly and painfully. The Goddess offered cryptic guidance, pleading to the heroes to free the souls twisted by deceitful manipulations, to offer peace to the remnants lost in this dark cradle, so that one day she may aid them in their fight against the demon orchestrator. Botas made a vow, and as a reward, the goddess made him his vassal, a vessel through which her will could be heard, but spoken by his own voice alone.

The ritual took Rhyia across a calcified world of memory and dreams, a purgatory where she found a new, and yet, familiar face, that of Susana Wheatflow, the first victim of the demon, now trapped in perpetual loop, in the moment of her own death, her soul still bound to the necklace she wore in that very moment, locked from moving on until the true was unraveled. She spoke of her intentions, the suspicions, the dreams in the village, the thirst for knowledge and truth that motivated her to explore the bowels of the mountain, that fueled her very being. She spoke of the ambush made by the emissaries, of how they taunted her for failing to reach the truth, and the sense of emptiness and incompleteness that plagued ever since she took her last breath. She proposed a deal, to shield Rhyia from the nightmares, to aid her in translating any scriptures out of her knowledge, and to even aid her in communicating with lost souls similarly bound like her was, in exchange to uncover the truth, to find who and what the demon his, and unveil his plans, so that she may find rest. The raven haired druid did not hesitate, and a deal was struck.

After leaving the chamber, in a hushed ward, Krexis knelt beside a tiefling — his “cousin,” though the blood that bound them was more secret than spoken. The ward was full of suffering souls — tieflings and aasimars — all unknown to the public, their existence scrubbed from the record. Yet they recognized the true nature of the heroes, and the visage of such unfamiliar creatures drown their hearts in dread, one strong enough to be easily mistaken by madness.

Finally, a rest well earned, and a pleasant and uneventful night, for most…at least.

A serene dream took over Rufus, a communion forged by his patron, the angelic Zakaria. The deity congratulated its disciple in finding the raven warrior and the new champion of the Raven Queen. It was her that requested aid from the rest of the pantheon, and such aid came forth in the form of the might and cunning of this dutiful warlock. The deity promised to reward its follower, only to be stopped by the same, claiming that aiding the gods and those in need was enough reward for him, and that he to had a debt still to be paid to his patron. The discussion ended in mutual understanding, but Zakaria promised to offer its aid whenever the warlock requested. If it were ever necessary to shield his companions from the plague of the nightmares again, all Rufus had to do was to commune with it and serve as a shield for the night. The shifter quickly fell into a deep slumber once again.

For all that the ritual was worth, Kats did not possess any keepsake worth bounding to. All the remnants from her past were long abandoned, purposefully so, after she joined the order of the Lycans, the brood thirsty monster hunter who forsake their humanity to face the abominations of this world. But just how much of herself had she given up, how much could she give, before she'd lose sight of the reason she sacrificed so much in the first place? ....A house, small and smelling of mold, a cold breeze freezing the bed sheets, invading by the cracks of broken windows. That was the dignified life, in the decrepit BlightTown. The city was a wall, a makeshift society built with the purpose of presenting a frontier and a border patron against the invading, pervasive forces of unknown origin that had already eaten at the south of the continent. Demons, monsters and nightmares untold, all twisted beyond what little recognition was possible, a permanent trench against an eldritch horror, all on a regular day in BlightTown, the worst place on heart to live. And yet, human life still found a way to persevere, in the form of a beautiful boy with dark curly hair and a smile that shined through so much agony, that’s what Kats fought so hard for, for him, for her son, for her one ray of hope. But the sun is often absent from that smog covered dark hole, where the few precious rays of light were easily snuffed out. The monsters at their door were not the only concern, and it was no coincidence that their home was called Blight…Town. Air and Bloodborn disease, a natural source of warfare capable of piercing even the tickets of walls. The blood and flesh of their enemies, abundant and contagious, often intoxicated the inhabitants, morphing them, changing them into the beings they feared the most. This led to numerous religious orders conducting violent inquisitions within the town, cleansing the sick and the profane. Human on human on beast, nail on claw on teeth on fang, no one was safe…on BlightTown, no matter how innocent they were. The sight of her child mangled by her own neighbor made her blood boil for vengeance, a fire sought after by zealotry of nefarious intent. The order of the Lycan soon came, promising to gift her the strength to hunt down these beasts as much as her heart desired, but a steep priced needed be paid…for to hunt a monster, one needs…another. Bound by ritual, accursed blood runned on her veins, claws and fangs and fur adorned the warrior anew, and soon the legend of the big black Wolf came to be, a ruthless war beast, bloodlust, feasting on the guilt…and the innocent. It was known that the affliction acted differently upon everyone, for some lost their minds and became no more than animals untamed, while others adapted, persevered, their will not shattered by the beast’s blood. It made no difference to a heartbroken hunter. One night on an empty street, a trail of blood lit by the moon glow led to a corpse of a changeling creature covered in old rags, being thorn apart by a black lican with claws made of crimson ice. In front of this scene, there was a small child crying, her face covered by a veil but could not hide the pair of malformed horns protruding from her forehead. Those cursed horns, that imperfection, the mark of a beast…must kill them all!!! Gutted and lifted with a single harm, the glow of the moon revealed the face of her most recent trophy, not a small girl, but a boy…with curly dark hair. Kats panicked, the floor fell to the ground, the blood on her hands tainted her, drowned her, the moon itself was bloodshot. And in front of the wolf, was a dark figure, a slender image of a man made of shadows, and with two burning purple eyes… “You have sacrificed so much, of yourself… and of others, and yet, look at you” The pool of blood forming from the corpse reflected the huntress´s visage, that of a black, bloodstarved beast. “Tell me, what is the difference between…the monsters you hunt…and… your…self?” “Let…the beast…out”

After much deliberation, it was the evening of the next day when the companions finally emerged from the hidden lair. Dusk had fallen like a veil of ash across the undercity, and the air itself trembled. From beyond the ruined alleys and shattered stone, the mournful wail of a violin began to rise, high, slow, discordant. A song of grief, or madness, or both. The melody was unmistakable. Lady Lysara, the Broodmother and the Ironmaiden prowled the dark once more.

They turned to leave quickly, but someone followed. Seraphim, still childlike in form and stubborn in spirit, clutched the edge of Minerva’s cloak and refused to let go. “I’m going with you,” she declared. “My friends were there. I need to remember. I know a path, across the old plantation fields. It's safe. They never go there.” The group hesitated. Seraphim was insistent, loud, obnoxious, filled with a fire too large for her small frame. But her knowledge was valuable, and in the end, they relented.

Through the dying light, the companions reached the overgrown fields. Tangled stalks, long since abandoned, reached up like withered arms. They set it alight a controlled blaze to draw the spiders away. In the smoke and rising sparks, they passed swiftly, eyes scanning the hills for glinting legs or shifting silk.

At last, the orphanage came into view. What remained of Dusk Haven Orphanage clung to the earth like a corpse on a cliff. The once-proud building, blackened by fire, now hung over a gaping chasm, the land beneath it long since collapsed. Webs of gleaming metal bound it together, stretching like sinew across the broken foundation, keeping its bones from tumbling into the void. It was no longer a home. It was a trap, a spider’s den wearing the skin of memory. They crossed a twisted walkway of rusted beams and wire, stepping into the hollow husk of the front hall.

Inside, time had died. The scent of char still clung to the scorched stone. The corridor ahead, once a place where children ran and sang, had become a webbed gauntlet. Shimmering strands of razor-sharp wire danced between fallen beams, glinting with menace in the torchlight. Most of the party moved deftly, ducking under, stepping over, slipping through. But Kats, weary and distant, struggled. She had not slept well. Her eyes were sunken, and she walked as though the night still held her by the ankle. She caught a strand. It sliced into her arm. She yelped, pulled back, but caught another. Blood ran in thin lines across her skin. She was trapped.

Rufus turned. His expression, unreadable. There had been a coldness to him of late, not just distance, but something closer to disdain. He raised his hand and conjured an orb of acid, hurling it at the webs to free her. It sizzled but the metal strands held. Above, the webs quivered. The sound of many legs scuttling across silk echoed from the ceiling. “They’re coming,” Rufus said coldly. And then, with a flick of his wrist, he lit the braziers on the walls. Flames burst into life, heat blooming across the corridor. The fire touched the metal strands, and they melted, shrieking as they fell into slag. The way was open.

The party pressed forward. They reached what was once the heart of the orphanage, the main chamber now a shattered room bisected by a bottomless gulf, the foundations broken clean through. Only webs and narrow ledges remained, stretching from one half of the ruin to the other. They crossed in tense silence, eyes on every shadow. At the far end, they found an old kitchen, its windows cracked, and walls scorched but still standing. They slipped inside, closing what doors they could. For a moment, the silence returned.

Seraphim clutched her knees and eyes wide. The shadows shifted, but not with danger…with memory. The air shimmered. Shapes bloomed around her, translucent and flickering like candlelight: Children… Morgana, book in hand, rolling her eyes as Seraphim ran past, covered in dirt. Thalindra, quiet and acrobatic, perched on a windowsill like a watching cat. And there, Lysandra, older, eyes burning with a purpose far beyond her years. “My brother’s out there,” Lysandra whispered, her voice echoing through time. “He’s purple — a tiefling. I know he’s real. I just... I don’t know his name anymore.”

“You shouldn’t tell people that,” Thalindra murmured, glancing toward the door. “It’s not safe.”

The vision faded like smoke in the wind, leaving Seraphim with tears on her cheeks and a spark in her eyes.

“They were real,” she said, her voice shaking. “I didn’t make them up...”