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Monster Stats

Characters prepared spells

Lini

Cantrips – Detect Magic, Know the Way, Stabalise, Tangle Vine, Vitality Lash
1st Level Spells – Fear, Pummeling Rubble, Summon Fey
2nd Level Spells – Entangle Flora, Speak with Animals

Nyra

Cantrips – Daze, Forbidding Ward, Shield, Vitality Lash, Void Warp
1st Rank Spells – Heal (x5), Mystic Armour, Sanctuary
2nd Rank Spells – Calm, Translate

Renka

Renka knows the following
Cantrips – Daze, Figment, Prestidigitation, Telekinetic Hand, Telekinetic Projectile
Rank 1 Spells – Charm, Mending, Soothe
Rank 2 Spells – Laughing Fit, Telekinetic Maneuver

Scene 16: Petals and Whisper

The mist had thinned, but the glade still held its hush — the kind that made footsteps sound too loud and thoughts feel borrowed. Lark Pindle crouched beside a patch of pale blossoms, hopeful, uncertain. The jewelled locket glinted faintly in Branwen’s hand, and the journal fragment remained unreadable, its script curling like smoke.

Then it happened.

A sudden gust of wind — unnatural, too warm for the season — swept through the glade. It carried with it a flurry of petals, not from the nearby flowers, but from elsewhere. They were deep crimson, edged in gold, and they spun like dancers before settling in a perfect ring around Droogami.

The snow leopard sneezed.

Renka blinked. “That’s not normal.”

Nyra stepped forward, her eyes narrowing. “Those petals… they’re not native.”

Lini knelt beside them, brushing one with her fingers. “These are blessing blooms. They only grow near places of consecration. Or desecration.”

Branwen scanned the trees. “So which is it?”

Before anyone could answer, a voice — faint, melodic, and entirely unfamiliar — echoed from deeper in the woods:

“You carry what was never buried.”

Lark clutched her basket tighter. Droogami growled low.

The wind had stilled. The crimson petals lay in a perfect ring around Droogami, and the voice — “You carry what was never buried” — still echoed in the minds of the companions.

Then, without sound, another figure stepped from the trees.

Tall. Lean. Cloaked in green so deep it drank the mist. Her leathers were weathered, her longbow slung across her back like a memory. She moved like shadow, like habit, like someone who had walked these woods long before the village had names.

Liora Windwhisper.

She said nothing at first. Just watched. Her gaze passed over the locket, the journal fragment, the petals, and finally settled on Lark Pindle, who stood frozen, basket clutched tight.

Then, softly:

“The forest remembers.”

Branwen shifted, instinctively respectful. Nyra inclined her head. Lini, sensing no threat, offered a quiet nod. Droogami blinked once, then sat.

Renka, ever curious, broke the silence. “Do you?”

Liora’s lips curved — not quite a smile.
“Enough.”

She stepped forward, knelt beside the petal ring, and touched one with two fingers. “These bloom near grief. But not all grief is fresh.”

Her eyes flicked to the journal fragment. “That script… it’s older than Willowshade’s founding. Older than the oath that was broken.”

Lini leaned in. “Can you read it?”

Liora paused. “Not here. Not now.” She stood. “But I know where the forest keeps its secrets.”

She turned, already fading into the trees. “Follow, if you seek what was buried.”

Scene 17: Beneath the Boughs of Echo Woods

The forest grew older as they walked — not darker, but deeper. The trees leaned in, not to threaten, but to listen. Liora moved like a shadow stitched to the path, her steps soundless, her gaze always just ahead.

Renka, ever curious, matched her pace. She didn’t press — not exactly — but her questions were gentle, her tone respectful. And Liora, after a time, spoke.

“The forest remembers what the village forgets.”

Renka glanced at her. “And what does it remember?”

Liora’s eyes didn’t leave the path.
“Love buried. Oaths broken. Names unspoken.”

They walked a few more paces in silence. Then Liora added, almost reluctantly:

“Something stirs. Not new. Not old. Just… waking.”

Renka’s voice dropped. “Is it dangerous?”

Liora stopped. Turned. Her eyes were pale as frost and just as clear.

“Not yet. But grief, when ignored, becomes hunger.”

She looked back toward the others — toward Lark, who was humming softly to herself, unaware.

“The girl walks close to something forgotten. It may reach for her. Or through her.”

Renka’s hand drifted to her shamisen, fingers brushing the strings like a warding charm.

Liora’s voice softened.
“Protect her. Not from the forest. From what the forest might remember.”

Then she turned again, and the path ahead opened — not because she led, but because the woods allowed it.

Scene 18: Encounter At The Shrine Beneath the Roots

The forest deepens, its canopy thick with age and silence. Moss-draped branches hang like curtains, muffling the party’s footsteps as Liora Windwhisperer leads them along a forgotten trail. The air grows colder, tinged with the scent of damp stone and old magic. Lark Pindle clutches Lini’s sleeve, her wide eyes fixed ahead.

Then the path opens into a hollow — a shallow depression where the forest floor sinks and the trees lean inward, as if bowing to something ancient. Half-buried in earth and ivy lies a crumbling shrine, its stonework etched with faded celestial motifs. A fallen tree, massive and gnarled, sprawls across the approach like a barricade. Beyond it, motionless in the gloom, stand six skeleton warriors, their spears held like grim sentinels. Their bones are yellowed, their armor rusted, but their posture is unnervingly alert.

At their center looms a figure in tattered vestments — the Abandoned Zealot. Once a priest, perhaps, now twisted by undeath and forgotten purpose. Its hollow eyes burn with violet flame, its shapeless mass of smoke and shadow coils behind a broken mask and its voice rasps through the clearing spiting and shrieking a hateful cacophony of bitter lamentations. It raises a broken holy symbol, and the skeletons shift, spears lowering in unison.

Branwen instinctively steps forward, bow drawn. Lini murmurs to Droogami, who crouches low, muscles tense. Nyra’s hand glows with divine light, while Renka hums a protective chord, her tails flicking with anticipation. Liora whispers, “This shrine was once sacred. Now it’s a wound in the world. We must cleanse it.”

The battle is not yet joined, but the forest holds its breath.

Then the Zealot raises one arm, its shadow coils point toward the young Lark.

Its voice cuts through the silence, dry and resonant:
“Give me the girl.”

Lark Pindle gasps, shrinking behind Lini and Droogami, who instinctively steps between her and the shrine. Branwen’s bow is already half-drawn. Renka places her Shamisen back in its case behind her, her eyes narrowing, tails twitching. Nyra’s grip tightens around her holy symbol, divine energy gathering like a storm behind her gaze.

Liora Windwhisperer does not flinch. Her voice is low, steady. “This place remembers pain. And it wants to make her part of it.”

The skeletons shift, spears ready. The shrine waits, hungry.

Renka’s voice is steady, her bardic charm woven into every syllable. “What do you want with the girl?” she asks, her tone both curious and commanding.

The Abandoned Zealot’s gaze does not waver. Its voice, dry and resonant, echoes through the clearing:
“She bears the mark. The promise. She must complete the rite.”

Renka takes a step forward, tails flicking with concern — but Liora’s hand lands firmly on her shoulder, halting her advance. “Not too close,” the ranger warns, her eyes never leaving the undead priest.

Renka presses on, trying to reach the remnants of reason within the creature. She speaks with conviction, her words laced with bardic cadence. But the forest holds its breath as the Zealot’s expression remains unchanged.

The Zealot does not answer. Instead, it shrieks in anger and anguish, and the skeletons shift, spears ready to advance . The moment for parley has passed.

Branwen nocks an arrow. Nyra’s hand glows with divine light. Lini whispers to Droogami, who crouches low, ready to pounce. The shrine is no longer a place of negotiation — it is a battlefield

As Renka’s words fail to sway the Zealot, the clearing erupts into motion.
The skeletons rattle forward, spears raised, lumbering over the fallen tree. The Zealot lifts itself into the air, violet flame flickering in its eyes.

As the Zealot lands among them, its incorporeal form flickering like smoke through the branches. It lands in the center of the party, violet flame wreathing its broken symbol. Lark screams as its hollow gaze locks onto her.

Renka spins, rapier flashing — but the blade passes through the Zealot’s mist-like body with no resistance. “It’s like smoke!” she cries, tails lashing in frustration.

Droogami snarls and leaps, claws raking through the air. The snow leopard lands beside Lini, growling low. Lini steps forward, her voice low and firm. “You won’t take her,” she says, raising her hand. Vines of shimmering green energy, a primal rebuke to the undead, lash out from her fingertips.

The Zealot recoils as the spell strikes true. Its form flickers, violet flame sputtering.

Branwen, too close to risk her bow, pivots and looses a shot at one of the advancing skeletons. The arrow thuds into bone, splintering ribs. One down, five to go.

Nyra steps protectively in front of Lark, her voice steady as she invokes Sanctuary. A shimmer of divine light surrounds the girl, warding her from harm. “You’ll not take her,” Nyra says, her holy symbol glowing.

Liora Windwhisperer draws her enchanted shortsword, its edge gleaming with arcane light. She lunges at the Zealot, blade slicing through its form. This time, the magic bites — not deeply, but enough to make the creature recoil.

The shrine pulses. The skeletons close in. The Zealot’s voice echoes once more:
“She must complete the rite.”

The battle hangs on a thread. The Zealot hovers above Lark, incorporeal and relentless, its voice echoing with ancient grief. Sanctuary flickers around the girl like a fragile halo, Nyra’s divine protection already waning.

Branwen’s hand trembles as she reaches into her pouch. Beneath layers of dried petals — once ceremonial, now funeral blooms — she finds the locket. It’s simple, tarnished, and warm to the touch. Lark’s flowers still cling to its chain, their color faded but their meaning intact.

She steps forward, holding it aloft. “You want the girl,” she says, voice low. “But you’ve already had her promise.”

The Zealot’s gaze locks onto the locket. Its form shudders, violet flame guttering. A sound escapes it — not a scream, but a wail of memory, of rites half-finished and faith long abandoned.

It recoils, spectral limbs flailing. “No… not again… the rite… undone…”
Its incorporeal form flickers violently, then surges backward, retreating into the shadows of the shrine. The air grows colder, but the pressure lifts — for a moment.

Renka, still poised with her useless rapier, glances toward the treeline. “I hate to mention this,” she says, voice dry, “but the skeletons are almost upon us.”

The party turns. The shrine still pulses. The battle is far from over.

The moment teeters. The shrine pulses. The forest waits.

The Zealot reels from the locket’s revelation, its incorporeal form flickering with anguish. But the skeletons press forward, spears lowered, their advance relentless. Sanctuary around Lark fades like morning mist, and the shrine pulses with a hunger not yet sated.

Branwen’s eyes scan the treeline. “We can’t win this,” she says, voice tight. “Not here. Not now.”

Renka nods, already guiding Lark toward the path. “We’ve stirred something ancient. Let’s not be here when it wakes fully.”

Lini calls Droogami to heel, the snow leopard bounding beside her. Nyra casts a final warding prayer, divine light trailing behind them like a protective veil. Liora lingers a moment, her enchanted blade still drawn, then turns and slips silently into the forest.

The party flees down the path back towards Willowshade, the shrine vanishing behind them in shadow and silence. The skeletons do not pursue — not yet. The Zealot watches, its voice a whisper on the wind:
“She must complete the rite…”

to be continued.

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