A Pause Between Pages.

After two months away from the blog, and as I recover from illness while wrapping up my final miniature painting commission, it’s time to return to our adventure. Stepping away from the game and the blog felt bittersweet—but the call of the story never faded. I’ve missed sharing these moments with you all.

But the story isn’t over—and neither is the game.
The Lich Lord still waits. The vial is in hand. The monastery stands ready.

Let’s pick up where we left off.

The Monastery of the Far Mountains

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting long golden rays across the jagged peaks of the Far Mountains. The monastery, carved into the stone like a sacred wound, stands resolute against the coming storm. Its ancient walls, etched with runes of protection and wisdom, shimmer faintly—activated by the clerics’ rituals in preparation for battle.

The five companions crest the final ridge, weary but unbroken. Hew adjusts his pack, feeling the weight of the vial—the key to ending the Lich Lord’s reign. Beside him, Culdus scans the horizon, his eyes narrowing at the sight below.

In the valley before the monastery, the Lich Lord’s army has gathered.

🌿 Scene: Crea’s Return

The mountain is quiet—too quiet. The wind barely stirs, and even the birds seem to hold their breath. As the companions emerge from the final stretch of rocky terrain, the silence feels heavy, expectant.

Then, from the shadows beneath a lone twisted yew, Crea steps forward.

Her cloak is damp with morning mist, her staff crowned with fresh ivy. She looks unchanged, yet something in her eyes is different—deeper, as if she’s seen something no one else has. She doesn’t speak at first. She simply looks at Hew, then at the pack slung over his shoulder.

“You carry it,” she says softly. Not a question. A truth.

The companions exchange glances. No one told her. No messenger could have reached her. Yet she knows.

“The mountains whispered,” she continues. “The rocks felt your passing. The wind carried your burden. The vial is awake—and the Lich Lord stirs.”

She turns without waiting for a reply, beckoning them to follow. “Come. The abbess waits. The ritual must begin before the dead rise.”

The Tunnel to the Monastery.

Crea leads them to a moss-covered outcrop, half-hidden by brambles. With a whispered word and a touch of her staff, the earth shifts, revealing a narrow tunnel entrance. The air inside is cool and damp, laced with the scent of stone and root.

As they descend, the walls seem to pulse faintly with druidic energy. Glyphs glow softly, illuminating their path. Some show scenes of ancient battles, others of rituals long forgotten. One depicts a skeletal figure shattered by light—a prophecy, perhaps, or a warning.

The tunnel is quiet, but not still. The companions feel movement in the earth—a tremor, a distant echo of something stirring above. The Lich Lord’s army is on the move.

Crea walks ahead, her voice low. “The abbess has prepared the circle. Twelve stand ready. But the ritual cannot begin without you—and without the vial.”

The tunnel opens into the heart of the monastery—a stone chamber lit by shafts of golden light filtering through narrow windows. The air is thick with incense and the low hum of sacred energy. The companions step out, weary but resolute, their boots echoing on the polished stone.
Above them, the great round tower rises like a sentinel. At its peak, Abbess Gabriella Alonia stands in her ceremonial robes, flanked by three clerics and druids. Her silver hair catches the light, and her eyes—sharp, wise, and kind—widen as she sees the party emerge.
She descends swiftly, robes billowing behind her, and meets them at the base of the tower.
“You’ve returned,” she says, voice trembling with relief and reverence. “And you carry the vial.”
Hew unslings his pack and carefully removes the object. The vial pulses faintly, its dark contents swirling like smoke trapped in glass. The abbess does not touch it—she merely nods, as if acknowledging a burden too great to hold.
“You’ve done what few could. Now, we must do what none have dared.”

The sky darkens unnaturally. A chill wind sweeps through the valley. The undead army begins to stir.

The abbess turns to the companions. “You must stand with us. The ritual will weaken him—but it will not destroy him. That task falls to you.”

She raises her hands. The vial floats between them, suspended in a column of light. The runes begin to glow. The air hums with power.

The Battle for the Monastery of St. Agnus

The wind howled through the valley as the Lich Lord emerged from the mists—his skeletal form draped in tattered robes, eyes burning with necrotic fire. Behind him, an army of the dead surged forward, a tide of bone and shadow bent on annihilation.

Within the monastery walls, the defenders stood ready.

🛡️ The Heroes Take Their Stand

• Hew, grim and resolute, took command of twelve Fox Fairies, their silver bows gleaming, their laughter sharp and wild.
• Strawberry, the fae foundling, led another twelve, her eyes alight with mischief and fury, her voice ringing with ancient fae commands.
• Culdus, staff in hand, called upon the pact made with the Fox Fairies. The staff pulsed with primal energy, and from the northern slopes came the thunder of paws—a pack of mountain wolves, summoned to tear through the undead ranks.
• Karina, bard of the wandering roads, stood atop the battlements, her voice soaring above the clash of steel and bone. Her song wove courage into the hearts of the defenders, a melody that turned fear into fire

The Ritual Begins

High in the tower, Abbess Gabriella Alonia, Crea, Rhian, and three other clerics formed the sacred circle. At its center lay the bones of St. Agnus, wrapped in linen and reverence, and beside them, Rhian, chosen vessel of divine will.

The vial, dark and swirling, hovered above the bones. The chant began—low, ancient, and powerful. The air thickened. Light and shadow danced. Elemental spirits flickered, drawn to the sacred rite.

Outside, the battle turned grim. The Lich Lord’s magic tore through the monastery’s defenses. Undead breached the outer wall. The wolves fought savagely, the Fox Fairies darted and struck, but the tide was rising.

The Turning Point

Just as the Lich Lord raised his staff to shatter the tower itself, the ritual reached its crescendo.

Rhian, eyes glowing with divine light, stepped into the circle. The bones of St. Agnus ignited in radiant flame. The vial cracked, and from it poured a scream—a soul unmade.

The light surged outward in a wave of holy fire.

The Lich Lord turned, too late. His form was caught in the blast. The undead army froze, then crumbled, bones falling like autumn leaves. The tower shook, the sky split, and silence fell.

Aftermath

The monastery stood—scarred, but unbroken. The defenders, bloodied and weary, gathered in the courtyard. The Fox Fairies vanished into the woods, their laughter echoing like wind through leaves. The wolves returned to the mountains.

Abbess Gabriella knelt beside the ashes of the ritual circle. “It is done,” she whispered.

And so, the tale of Hew, Culdus, Karina, Strawberry, and the defenders of St. Agnus passed into legend—a story of courage, sacrifice, and the light that endures even in the face of death.

Return to Winterton

The road to Winterton wound gently through the hills, now touched by early autumn. The air was crisp, the leaves golden, and the scent of hearth smoke drifted from distant cottages. The companions—Hew, Culdus, Karina, and Strawberry—walked side by side, their steps slower now, not from weariness, but from the weight of all they had seen.

They had faced death, darkness, and the end of all things. And they had prevailed.

A Village Awakens

Word had reached Winterton ahead of them—carried by fox fairy whispers and the wings of ravens. As the companions entered the village square, bells rang from the chapel, and the townsfolk gathered in awe and joy.

• Ranogg, the old mercenary, wept openly as he embraced Rhian .
• A week of celebration and rest is declared
• Children ran alongside Strawberry, who conjured tiny illusions of dancing foxes and glowing stars.
• Karina’s lute was never far from her hands, and her songs filled the tavern each night with tales of valor and laughter.
• Hew, never one to let silence steal the spotlight, strode into the village with a swagger that could shame a bard. Tales of his exploits spilled from his lips like mead from a cracked tankard—each one grander than the last.
• Culdus spent long hours with Alene Gallach, Abbess of the Enibrian Monastery at Winterton., sharing what he’d learned and quietly tending to this years ice wine.

Rest and Reflection

The days passed gently. No undead stirred. No omens darkened the sky. The companions found themselves sleeping deeper, laughing louder, and dreaming again—not of battle, but of futures.

The monastery sent word: the abbess had begun rebuilding, and the bones of St. Agnus now rested in a sanctified crypt. .

And so, in the quiet village of Winterton, the young heroes began to live again—not as warriors, but as friends, as protectors, and as part of a story that would be told for generations.