🎭Dramatis Persona

🏹Branwen Hollowmark, Human Ranger (level 3). She trusts her bow, her instincts, and little else.
🧙Lini Thistlekin, Gnome Druid (level 3). She believes the forest speaks in riddles and dreams.
Nyra of the Whispering Step, Suli Cleric (level 3). Her silence moves like starlight through shadow, and her grace is the hush before courage.
🎼 Renka, Kitsune Bard (level 3). Her music is a gift and a curse, coveted by many, feared by more. 

NPC’s of Note:
Lark Pendle – Human. Serves as Brother Cress’s assistant, handling daily temple chores.
Brother Cress – Human. short tempered priest at the small temple in willowshade dedicated to Shelyn
Elara Moonshadow – Fetchling. Ambitious mage, drive by the need to prove herself.
Granna Vell –  Human. She uses her decades of experience and travel to form surprisingly accurate insights.
Finnian Lightfoot – A charming rogue, knows the ins and outs of Willowshade and can be a useful informant or a cunning adversary.

The story so far.

The Ancestor’s Sin

• Long ago, during a time of crisis, a ritual at the shrine required the true name of a mourner or beloved to be spoken aloud. Lark’s ancestor refused—perhaps out of fear, shame, or rebellion—breaking faith with the forest spirits.
• Since then, the forest has “held that silence,” and the Order’s power has never fully recovered. The rift echoes through generations, and Lark now stands at the heart of it.

Venturing deep into the heart of Echo Woods, the party accompanied young Lark Pendle on a seemingly simple task — to gather ceremonial flowers for the temple. But the forest held more than blossoms. There, they encountered the enigmatic Crow-Speaker, a masked figure who guided them to a buried pendant, long forgotten beneath the loam.

Their path soon crossed with Liora Windwhisper, a lone ranger who spoke of grief rooted in the soil and oaths left to rot. She led them deeper still, to a shrine swallowed by roots and shadow — a place where memory had curdled into wrath.

There, the Abandoned Zealot awaited. Once a priest, now a vessel of sorrow and undeath, he demanded Lark be surrendered to complete a rite lost to time. Renka’s words could not sway him. Steel was drawn. Magic flared. But the Zealot’s fury proved too great.

Realizing they could not win, the companions made a harrowing retreat, the Zealot’s final words echoing behind them: “She must complete the rite…”

New to Willowshade? Read from the beginning, click here

⛪Scene 19: The Temple’s Threshold.

The companions return to Willowshade weary and shaken. The Zealot’s voice still echoes in their minds, and the shrine’s pulse lingers in their bones. Lark walks quietly between them, unsettled by the discovery of the locket, her hands still clutching the wilted blooms, she remain silent and hides her fear.

The temple doors stand open, golden light spilling across the stone steps. Brother Cress waits within, arms crossed, eyes sharp.

“You were meant to bring the ceremonial flowers,” he snaps, voice cutting through the hush. “Shelyn’s altar is bare.”

Branwen steps forward. “The flowers turned. They became funeral blooms. We were attacked—”

“I asked for blooms,” Cress interrupts, his gaze narrowing. “Not excuses.”

He strides forward and grabs Lark by the scruff of her neck, not cruelly, but with a force that makes Renka flinch. “Inside. Now.”

Lark doesn’t resist. She doesn’t speak. She simply lets herself be led, eyes downcast, petals trailing behind her.

Nyra’s hand tightens around her holy symbol. Lini watches in silence, Droogami growling low. Renka’s tails flick with restrained fury.

The temple doors close behind them.

Scene 20: Whispers in the Dust

The sun hangs low over Willowshade, casting long shadows across the cobbled square. The party lingers outside the temple, the weight of Brother Cress’s outburst still fresh in their minds.

From the edge of the square, a figure leans against the weathered wall of the apothecary — arms crossed, smile crooked, eyes sharp.

“Treats that girl badly, that priest,” Finnian Lightfoot says, voice low and casual, like he’s commenting on the weather.

Before Branwen can bristle or Renka can smooth the air, Lini steps forward. The gnome’s stride is calm, but purposeful. Droogami pads beside her, silent and watchful.

Lini looks up at Finnian, her tone flat. “What do you know?”

Finnian’s smile falters — just a flicker. He glances at the snow leopard, then back to Lini. “Enough to know it’s not just temple chores and sermons. Cress has a temper. And Lark’s the one who catches it.”

He pauses, weighing her gaze. “But you didn’t hear that from me.”

Finnian’s gaze flicks from Lini to Droogami — the snow leopard’s eyes gleaming, muscles taut beneath fur. He swallows, the coin in his hand forgotten.

“You’ve got a way of asking,” he mutters. “And that beast of yours doesn’t blink.”

He leans in, voice low. “Cress wasn’t always like this. Used to be gentler. But something broke in him — years ago. Some ritual went wrong. Some promise wasn’t kept. He buried it, deep. And now he takes it out on her.”

Lini’s brow furrows. “Lark?”

Finnian nods. “She’s tied to it. Her bloodline, maybe. Her presence stirs something in him — guilt, fear, I don’t know. But he sees her as both penance and punishment.”

He glances toward the temple. “The Order knows. Or at least the old ones do. But they won’t speak. Not while the rift festers.”

He straightens, brushing dust from his sleeve. “You didn’t hear that from me. And if you go digging, dig carefully. Willowshade’s roots run deep — and not all of them are kind.”

Branwen’s fists are clenched, dripping with fury. “We risked our lives,” she growls, eyes locked on the temple doors. “And he’s worried about flowers?”

Nyra steps beside her, calm as dusk. “We agreed to protect Willowshade,” she says softly. “But we can’t do it alone. Not without its truths.”

Branwen exhales sharply, but doesn’t move. Renka places a hand on her shoulder. “Elara Moonshadow might know more. She’s not bound by Cress’s rules.”

Lini nods, Droogami already padding toward the market square. “And Granna Vell,” she adds. “The old woman with the stall. She gave us those trinkets — said they were ‘for what’s coming.’”

The companions exchange glances. The temple may hold answers, but not yet. Not from him.

They turn from the shrine and head toward the winding lanes of Willowshade, where the low sun glints on silver charms and whispers stir beneath the leaves.

Scene 21: Gifts beneath the setting sun

The party make their way to Elira Moonshadow, who is pottering in her garden, a quiet place of shadowed herbs and flickering lanterns. She doesn’t ask what happened in the woods. She sees it in their eyes.

Renka steps forward, her voice gentle. “We need help,” she says. “The forest speaks in grief. We’ve seen it. We’ve felt it.”

Elara pauses, her gaze unreadable.

Lini chimes in, earnest and wide-eyed. “The woods guided us. Droogami felt it. The petals… they weren’t just flowers.”

Nyra remains silent, but her presence is steady — a quiet affirmation behind Renka’s words.

Then Branwen speaks, sharp and unfiltered. “Brother Cress would rather bury truth than face it.”

Elara’s expression tightens. She draws back slightly, the air around her cooling. “Cress is… complicated,” she says, voice clipped.

There’s a pause. A breath. Then Elara exhales, and the tension softens.

“You ask with care,” she says at last. “And the forest listens to those who listen in return.”

She opens a lacquered box nestled among the roots of a moonbloom. One by one, she offers the companions the items they’ll need — the Ghostbane Fulu, the Moonshadow Pendant, the Scroll of Spirit Wrack, and the Locket of Ancestral Remorse.

To Renka: Locket of Ancestral Remorse

A silver locket etched with weeping leaves. When opened, it whispers a forgotten name.
“This will stir memory,” Elara says. “And perhaps mercy.”

• Effect: Once per day, forces an incorporeal undead within 30 feet to make a Will save or become Frightened 1 and Fleeing for 1 round.
• Narrative Tie: Renka’s empathy and ancestral curiosity make her the perfect bearer — she channels sorrow into protection.

To Branwen: Moonshadow Pendant

A shard of obsidian wrapped in Fetchling silk. It pulses faintly in moonlight.
“It sees what others won’t,” Elara says. “And strikes where others fail.”

• Effect: Grants Spirit Sight and allows one strike per day to bypass incorporeal resistance.
• Narrative Tie: Branwen’s ranger instincts and outsider status align with the pendant’s shadowed clarity.

To Nyra: Scroll of Spirit Wrack

The parchment hums with divine tension. The ink is made from grave dust and moonflower sap.
“Use it wisely,” Elara says. “It speaks to what lingers.”

• Effect: Deals positive damage to incorporeal undead; forces a Will save vs. fleeing or stunned.
• Narrative Tie: Nyra’s quiet observation and divine calling make her the ideal wielder of this sacred strike.

To Lini: Ghostbane Fulu

A talisman inscribed with moonlight ink. When pressed to a weapon, it glows faintly.
“For your sickle,” Elara says. “Let it find its mark.”

• Effect: Grants Ghost Touch to Lini’s sickle for 1 minute against a specific incorporeal foe.
• Narrative Tie: Lini’s directness and bond with Droogami make her the party’s anchor — this gift sharpens her edge.

Then, to Renka alone, she offers something more.

“The melody you carry… it’s not yours alone. It mourns something unfinished.”

Her eyes linger on the shamisen slung across Renka’s back. “Play with truth, not pride. The forest may yet answer.”

The companions leave her garden with moonlight on their shoulders — and the weight of memory in their hands.

Scene 22: Granna Vells cottage of whispers

It is not hard for the companions to find Granna Vell’s rambeling cottage. She is outside with her handcart, surrounded by bundles of herbs, carved charms, and jars of things best left unlabeled. She beams as they approach, her eyes twinkling behind a veil of silver hair.

“Well now,” she says, clapping her hands. “Back from the woods, are you? I knew you’d be stirring things. Told you so, didn’t I?”

Granna invites the party into her cottage, the air inside is thick with the scent of dried herbs, beeswax, and something faintly floral. Bundles hang from the rafters. Jars line the shelves. A kettle murmurs on the hearth.

She gestures to the trinkets each carries — a carved fox for Renka, a dented brass locket for Branwen, a polished river stone for Lini. “Not magic, no,” she says, “but they remember things. Like I do.”

Granna Vell beams as Nyra steps inside, her eyes softening. “Ah, the quiet one,” she says. “You walk like moonlight on puddles.” She rummages in a drawer and produces a pendant — a crescent carved from bone, strung on faded ribbon. “For you,” she says. “It listens.”

Nyra accepts it with a nod, her silence saying more than words.

Lini, ever curious, steps forward. “Granna,” she says, “what do you know about the shrine beneath the woods?”

Granna’s eyes light up. “Oh, the shrine! Yes, yes — roots like fingers, stone like sorrow. I remember when the moss was brighter. Or was that the other shrine? No matter!”

She launches into a tale about a wedding that never happened, a fox that stole a ring, and a priest who turned into a tree. Somewhere in the middle, she mentions a vow, but it’s buried beneath tangents about mushroom tea and the proper way to dry lavender.

Branwen sighs. Renka smiles politely. Nyra watches, patient as ever.

Lini tries to steer her back, but Granna is already describing the time she danced with a ghost who smelled of cinnamon.

The shrine remains a mystery — for now.

Scene 23: Dusk on the Willowshade Road

The last light of day clings to the treetops as the companions leave Granna Vell’s cottage, her stories still echoing in their minds. The air is cool, the hush of evening settling over Willowshade like a shawl. They walk the winding path toward the tavern, weary but thoughtful.

Then — footsteps. Heavy. Intentional.

From the shadows ahead, Elric the Merchant steps into view, flanked by four thugs with cudgels and sneers. His coat is finer than before, his smile colder.

Branwen scowls, “Elric, and we thought you long since gone from Willowshade.”

“Well now,” he says, eyes fixed on Renka. “I’ve come for what’s mine, for what you refused me.”

Renka’s hand instinctively brushes the shamisen at her back.

“It was never yours,” she replies, voice steady.

Elric’s gaze hardens. “That instrument carries more than music. I’ve have seen its beauty. I have heard it’s song. You don’t deserve it.”

The thugs shift, readying themselves. Branwen’s fingers twitch toward her blades. Lini steps protectively beside Droogami. Nyra’s eyes narrow, her hand brushing the crescent pendant Granna gave her.

Renka doesn’t move. The shamisen hums faintly — not with sound, but with presence. A whisper, just for her: “Play with truth, not pride.”

The road is quiet. The tavern lights flicker in the distance. And the forest watches…

to be continued.

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