The party woke at the Bark and Buzzard after their first full night’s rest in Emberwood Village. Holger and Carin, the proprietors, kept the common room warm and the food plentiful. Most of the group took the rare opportunity to wash properly — Mike insisted on a proper bath, declaring it essential for both hygiene and morale. The bathhouse did little to improve the smell, but nobody complained.
Virgil gathered the group before breakfast and shared a warning he had picked up during his time around Drakkenheim: do not stare at the moon while inside the city, or you might go mad. The superstition rattled Mike more than he let on. He spent the rest of the morning muttering under his breath, glancing at the sky as though expecting something to stare back.
Mike also took the opportunity to experiment with the contaminated water from the region, testing its properties with cautious curiosity. The results were unsettling, though he kept the details close to his chest.
Meanwhile, Mia, Marcos, and Faradrim had climbed onto the roof of the Bark and Buzzard for reasons that were never fully explained. They stayed up there for some time, looking out over the village and the hazy silhouette of Drakkenheim in the distance.
Virgil, for his part, spent the morning practicing. He had been working on adding a signature flourish to his combat style — a personal touch that would mark his strikes as unmistakably his own. The name was still a work in progress.
The next morning, the party prepared for the road ahead. They stocked up on provisions: water and food for seven days, along with a sturdy pickaxe. Whatever they were walking into, they wanted to be ready.
Before they could leave, a commotion at the edge of the market drew their attention. A towering figure had set up a crooked stall, his wares clinking and sloshing in mismatched bottles. This was Aldor the Immense, a potion peddler whose reputation was as broken as his merchandise. Most of his bottles were cracked or poorly sealed, their contents of dubious origin. He spoke in grand promises no one quite believed, but the party listened all the same before moving on.
The party made their way to the old watchtower held by the Hooded Lanterns. Petra Lang greeted them and provided clear directions for their next move: take the north road out of Emberwood, cross the river, and pass through the fields beyond. That route, she said, would lead them toward the areas they needed to investigate.
Before they parted, Petra pulled Virgil aside. She spoke quietly and plainly: Faradrim was an assassin — politically motivated, with a history that ran deeper than he let on. It was not an accusation, but a warning. Virgil filed the information away without comment.
The party followed the northern road toward Hendrix Farm. What they found there was not a farm in any working sense. The land had been claimed by the Fallen Fire cult, their camp sprawled across the property like a stain. Makeshift tents and a central fire marked their presence, but their leader, Lucetta, was notably absent.
They were met instead by Nathaniel Flynt, a priest of the cult who spoke in riddles and half-truths. His words carried an unnerving calm, as though he knew far more than he was willing to say. He explained the schism that divided the two faiths:
The Sacred Flame, the dominant religion of Westemär, saw the meteor as a catastrophe — a divine punishment or a cosmic accident that had shattered the land.
The Falling Fire believed the opposite. To them, the meteor was not destruction but transformation — the beginning of a new world, forged through purgatory. The haze, the monsters, the delerium — all of it was part of a painful rebirth, and those strong enough to endure it would inherit what came after.
Nathaniel had a task for the party. He asked them to retrieve a holy symbol from the Chapel of Saint Brenna, deep within Drakkenheim itself. He spoke in cryptic terms about why it mattered, offering few clear answers. The party accepted, though trust remained thin.
The party returned to Emberwood Village to resupply one final time. Among their purchases was a map of the region and the ruins beyond — an essential tool if they hoped to navigate the wreckage of the city.
On the road toward Eckerman Mill, the party came across a lone house standing in the middle of the field. Faint music drifted from within — a melody played on a piano, mournful and out of tune. As they approached, the music stopped.
Through grime-caked windows, they could see a shattered piano and the slumped skeletons of its former players, frozen mid-performance. The silence that followed felt heavier than the music. The party decided — wisely or not — to leave the house undisturbed and press on toward the mill.
Near the river, they discovered a broken-down village, its buildings sagging and hollow. Mia spotted something glinting in the water — a necklace, half-submerged and glittering in the murk. She reached for it.
The necklace moved.
It was not jewelry. It was a lure.
A shambling mound erupted from the river, a mass of rotting vegetation and the remains of dead villagers animated by a malevolent will. The fight was brutal — the creature lashed out with tendrils of muck and stone, dragging at the party’s feet and crushing the ground where they stood. But they held together, fighting as a unit, and eventually brought the thing down.
When the waters settled, the necklace lay still at the bottom of the river. No one reached for it again.