Session 5: The Waters of Forgetfulness

Resting for the night on the edge of the Serth Hatama, the party set watches and tried to get what sleep they could under the ominous shadow of the dead wood. At first light, they began to make their way into the forest, Orusen leading the way and trying his best to follow the trail the cultists had left through the stone trees. Somewhere in the woods, Teithbor dropped away from the rest of the companions. [Teithbor's player was absent last night, and so we will have to wait until next time to learn his fate and that of Varanjala.]

The Serth Hatama is not what you would have expected, looking at it from the outside. True, most of the trees have withered and turned to stone, but somehow this does not prevent the trees above you from blocking out the sun. Now and then a glint of gold in the distance hints at the presence of Amber, but when you get closer you see you are mistaken. The faint cries of animals--you hope they are animals--echo faintly in the distance, the only sound except for the crunch of your feet over dead branches and dead leaves, and the murmuring of the trees. This only seems to grow louder as you get deeper into the forest, although you do not feel any wind, and anyway you are not sure the stone trees would move in any such wind. But there is something alive here, or at least something which used to be alive. Now and then through the trees, you can make out a long finger of mist, stretching menacingly towards your path. A cry sounds overhead, the unmistakable croak of a vulture. A cold hand grips your heart, and you wonder just what this wood was before the malice of Orkon crept over the land.

After what seemed to be many hours of tracking, the party stumbled onto the shore of a large bowl-shaped glacial lake, with water so clear they could have seen the bottom of the lake were it not so deep. As it was, the deep blue was purer than anything any of them, even Orusen in all of his wanderings, had ever seen. The surface of the lake was perfectly still, save for a flock of waterfowl gliding across its surface in the distance. There was a small cottage some three-hundred yards off to the party's right, a faint wisp of smoke rising from its chimney. The party began walking towards the cottage, led by Reiana, who knocked at the door. There was no answer, but looking in through the window she could see a small, clean cottage, with furnishings for two, and a man's clothes laid out neatly on a bed. 

As the party stood there, wondering what to do, one of the birds broke away from the flock and began gliding towards the shore. As it neared, the party saw it was a swan. When it came near to the bank it began swimming back and forth in an s-shaped pattern, as though curious about the newcomers. Hasanyah walked towards it with an outstretched hand, trying to befriend it. Evidently she was successful, because...

Hasanyah could never tell when the change happened. One moment she was looking at a beautiful, graceful swan who was returning her gaze with the wild intelligence of a person; the next moment, she was looking at a beautiful woman clothed in a corslet of white feathers, who returned her gaze with the wild grace and intensity of a swan. The Swan-Woman stepped forward and introduced herself as Alyeitalya, ushering the party in and giving them to drink from a pitcher of water--presumably taken from the lake. The water was deep and sweet and refreshing, and those who tasted it--only Tengelbur chose not to accept the Swan-Woman's hospitality--felt all care and weariness lift from their shoulders. So much, in fact, that it took an act of the will to remember that they were still on a quest, and had an oath to fulfill. 

Hasanyah and Reiana were full of questions about the Swan-Woman. Was she a woman who had been made into a swan, or a swan who had been made into a woman? Had she always been able to transform in this manner? To whom did the suit of men's clothing belong?

Some questions the Swan-Woman answered; others she did not understand. When asked whether there were others like her, a sad look came into her eyes--the first emotion they had seen in her, other than curiosity, since they had entered the cottage. Then Alyeitalya began to sing:

Seven silver maidens swam

  under a gleaming moon

Upon a mere by golden sands

  with lustrous pearls strewn.

They knew no bond, nor love of man,

  they wandered far and free

Until one day a traveler came

  to the cottage by the lee.

His heavy head was flecked with gray

  and toil beyond his years;

And heavy sorrows there he bore

  from the world of doubt and tears.

And seven maidens saw he there

  like seven silver swans.

And the seventh maiden loved the man

  and fell into his bond.

"Little sister, know you not

  this mortal soon must die?

And sooner must we leave this place

  and from the Dark Wood fly."

"Sisters, I must tarry here,

  and love him for a while.

For I would trade my wandering

  for the moment of his smile."

But the mortal did not tarry long,

  but went he way of men.

And the youngest sister tarried there

  and wept upon the sand.

And there she tarries evermore,

  until the far-off day

When one will come from the sons of men

  to break her ancient chains.

As the song finished, Alyeitalya pointed out along the lake, to where a dark island hung low like a cloud above the water. It was the first time the party had noticed it since they had come to the lake, and whether it had been there before they could not say. "My love is out there upon the Island of the Dead. But I cannot bury him after the fashion of men, and for that cause he is still unquiet, and I cannot escape the bond I took to myself long ago."

Captivated by the great beauty and sadness of Alyeitalya, Orusen stepped forward and said, "Then, lady, what must we do to free you? For I would do for you whatever is in my power."

"There is no compulsion," the Swan-Woman said. "There is nothing you must do. You may stay here with me, and drink the Waters of Forgetfulness, or you may go and return into the world of men. But if you would free me from my bonds, you must go to the Island of the Dead, and lay my love to rest."

Then a great division arose in the company, for Orusen (who drank a second time, and deeply from the water which the Swan-Woman offered) desired above all things to set the cares of the world--and his troubled past, and his curse and exile--behind him, and to endeavor to free this lovely creature. But the others were greatly troubled by reason of the bond which was already laid on them to find their companions and rescue the caravan, and the peril that Hural-Yalir lay in if the supplies could not be delivered. Tengelbur furthermore feared the meaning of "the Waters of Forgetfulness," and Reiana, watching the large, fat, gray geese which glided across the surface of the lake in the distance, began to suspect that they might have once been other travelers who had come to the cottage by the lake and tarried too long. In the end, the company resolved to leave--all save Orusen, who stayed with Alyeitalya. For a long moment the four companions stood at the edge of the wood, and the hearts of those who drank Alyeitalya's water were moved with great longing and regret, but at last they turned and headed back into the Serth Hatama. When they looked back over their shoulders, there was no sign of the lake, or the cottage, or the Swan-Woman, or Orusen.

With heavy hearts they continued their search, and Tanurendal managed to find the trail of their quarry once again. After another indeterminate period of time--for, despite the fact that the dead branches above them were for the most part stripped of leaves, the only light under the canopy of the Serth Hatama was gray twilight, and the company could no longer see the sun--they came at last upon what they were seeking.

The narrow track you have been following suddenly widens into a grizzly clearing overshadowed by eight black yew trees, each bending inward, half-living, half-fossilized, around the now-ossified trunk of a once-mighty oak. It becomes clear you have stumbled across the scene of some grizzly ritual, for the branches around you are decorated with the butchered corpses of birds, beasts, fish, and men, all hung from cruel leather thongs.

Among those corpses which hung from the trees of the Bent Grove, the party recognized the twins, Klorpeim and Karalin. A strange red amber gleamed from among the trunks of the nine trees of the Grove, and on the great oak in the center a great vulture had been painted with blood now dried to black. And there in the midst of the Grove, waiting with blades drawn, were six of the bronze-masked cultists, accompanied by a shadowy figure in tattered robes whom Tanurendal seemed to recognize.

"MAWISH!" he cried, setting an arrow to his bowstring. The rest of the party drew blades and charged into the clearing without hesitation. Should the party ever return to the lands of men, the Battle of the Bent Grove will be remembered in song, for many great deeds were done there. Six times the comrades fell, and six times they were rallied by the harsh words of Tanurendal or the piercing battle-cry of Reiana. At last Tanurendal grappled with Mawish the Gaunt Man, whose flesh was a mass of writhing worms, in whose voice was terror, in whose eyes glinted the malice of Orkon. And Tanurendal, who had himself twice fallen in the battle, rose again and struck Mawish down, and the worms which were his flesh scattered into the Withered Wood. 

Then one of the cultists, who was known by now to be Verekan (his companion, Thorinta, was also revealed to be a cultist, but he had been slain earlier in the battle), cried out, "They must not be allowed to return to Cheykor!" and fell upon Hasanyah. The two of them rolled along the ground, blades flashing. Tengelbur stepped forward and swept Thorinta's head from his shoulders, but it was already too late--and Hasanyah lay dying of her wounds. Then the three cultists who still remained alive fled the Glade, and the battle was ended. Of the seven companions who had set out from Karet Cheykor, only three remained now to stand in bitter victory, masters of the grisly glade--for Varanjala and Teithbor had been lost along the way, and Orusen had forsaken his oath and the cares of the world of men, and Hasanyah had been slain beneath Verekan's knife. 

Session 4: Voices in the Mist

After crossing the Cheyth, mule teams were hitched and the drivers took their places on the three wagons: The swaggering Thorinta in the front, the enigmatic twins Klorpeim and Karalin in the middle, and the surely Verekan driving the wagon at the rear. Just before they began the journey northward, Tanurendal pulled the rest of his new companions aside (sans the drivers, whom, despite having known them about the same amount of time, he trusts less than his fellow guards). Tanurendal voiced his concerns about the four drivers, attributing variously shifty motivations to them--fears which were shared by other members of the party. He wasn't particularly subtle about it, however, for when (evidently devising some plan by which they could keep an eye on the drivers) he asked which one of his companions was "good at sneaking up on people," Karalin tapped him on the shoulder. "I'm good at sneaking up on people," she said. She had apparently stolen up quietly and heard the entire conversation, and although she did not seem particularly insulted, she was at least put off enough by the party's distrust in her to decline Tengelbur's invitation to join him in the vanguard, where he and Hasanyah planned to scout out the road ahead of the rest of the party.

The sky above you is gray and bleak as the wheels of your wagons creak under their heavy loads, sinking deep into the muddy ruts of the road--really it is more of a track--beside the river. To you right, just a few hundred yards away, is the Serth Hatama--the Withered Wood. You can see it fairly distinctly now--a series of huge petrified trees rising up like stone pillars from the earth. Petrified trunks send out legions of twisting branches which seem to curl away from the sun and brood threateningly over the forest floor below. The strange thing about all of it--and it shifts from strange to simply disturbing the more you think about it--is how, despite the fact that the trees of the Serth Hatama are completely leafless, the shadow of the forest is no less, and you imagine it must be almost completely dark beneath those trees. Between the forest and yourself there is a low border of thorny scrubland, of shallow creeks and rivulets that carry strange black waters out of the forest and down to the river. On your left is the relentless, comfortless chilly flood of the Cheyth, and beyond that, almost blue in the distance, the high and lonely moor. 

At camp that night, Tengelbur tried get a bit of information out of Verekan. "Your companion," he said, "has been rather vocal about his bravery. But why have you chosen to risk the peril of this journey a second time? Why not stay in Cheykor? One assumes you'd be much safer sitting at home."

"I'm guessing you haven't been long in the North," Verekan said, glowering at Tengelbur with the irritation of a man who would rather be left alone. "Cheykor won't be much safer than anywhere else. Not for much longer. Besides," and here he grinned, "men who sit comfortably at home don't get rich. they get gutted in their sleep."

Sitting nearby, Tanurendal shifted uncomfortably and a shadow passed across his face, as though this last remark had somehow hit home for him.

Just before bed that night, Karalin stood and snatched up her spear and began walking off into the darkness. Her brother followed her, laying a hand on her arm.

"Where are you going, Karalin?"

"Where do you think?" she asked, trying to pull away from him.

"You promised you wouldn't, this time. We have a job to do now."

"Leave me alone."

"If you go, I will have to follow you. You know that." 

Karalin frowned. "Fine," she said, and sat back down.

The next day the party observed that there were several times where Karalin seemed uneasy or impatient with the caravan's pace. At these times, she would grab her spear and swing down out of the wagon, walking ahead of it or off to one side, always straying nearer to the verge of the Serth Hatama. Although he said nothing, Klorpeim always followed her with his eyes. During one of these occasions, Hasanyah swung up into the cart next to Klorpeim and asked him about his sister.

"Your sister has seemed rather... depressed the last couple of days."

"Depressed? Oh... Do you just mean the way she is?"

"Is she always... like this, then?"

"My sister is prone to... strange and dark moods," Klorpeim said, frowning as he watched Karalin in the distance. "Every now and then she goes off on her own. Sometimes, like last night, I can restrain her. Other times the best thing I can do is to try to follow her and see that no harm comes to her." The hunter paused and turned and looked at Hasanyah, perhaps trying to gauge how much he could trust her. "When we were children, Karalin went away into the Cheyth Wood. It was not the first time--she was a strange child, even then--but it was the longest she had ever been gone. We all went searching for her. I found her on the third day of the search, sitting quietly by herself in a glade. She was covered in blood. Not her blood. Someone, or something else's. She would not tell me then what it was, and now, to speak to her of it, it is as if she has no memory of what happened. But when the fell mood comes upon her in force, then she forgets that she is not a wild beast, and neither love of force can stay her from wandering. At those times, the best that I can do is to try to follow her and keep her  from harm. Twice now she has gone into the Serth Hatama. When we took this job, I had hoped it would be enough to satisfy her... her madness. But now I am afraid I have only made it worse."

That morning, a heavy mist had lain on the Cheyth. Now an east wind was blowing the mist up from the river towards the Serth Hatama, and a heavy fog obscured the vision of the companions. Teithbor, the watchful Weixranbori, thought he heard voices coming out of the eerie twilight, a faint chanting distorted by the cold wind. Moving in the direction of the chanting, he soon found himself enveloped completely in fog, and when he reached out his hand in front of him, he felt a pillar of cold stone. He realized, after a moment, that it was a tree, and that he had somehow wandered to the verge of the Withered Wood. He glanced back over his shoulder, intending to tell the rest of the party that they were off course--but that was when he realized that he was alone.

The rest of the party had little time to notice that Teithbor was missing. Throughout the day, the steady increase in wind had been accompanied by the harsh croaks of some carrion bird hidden within the shadow of the Wood. Now, a series of croaks and calls echoed through the gray and twilit river valley as two dozen figures wrapped in tattered scarlet robes appeared in the mist, surrounding the caravan and attacking on all sides. Each of the figures concealed his face beneath a mask of solid bronze, and as they came on they set to chanting some fell hymn in a language the companions could not understand.

Tanurendal and Tengelbur managed to fell two of the figures with arrows from their longbows as Orsuen wounded a third in the thigh before the battle was joined. Spread thin between the three carts and attacked from all sides, the heroes fought valiantly. Tengelbur took a javelin to his chest, which pierced his armor, while several of the party soon became weary from the work of fighting off multiple opponents. Hasanyah slew one of the masked figures while Orusen managed to cut down the one he had wounded earlier. But Verekan, Thorinta, Karalin and Klorpeim were overcome as the robed men swarmed up onto the wagons, overpowering the drivers and driving the wagons eastward towards the Serth Hatama, vanishing into the fog. The party loosed arrows at the vanishing wagons, though Tanurendal's alone seemed to hit. Who it hit, however, remains to be seen.

Tengelbur alone remained fighting, dueling with the cultist who had put a spear in Tengelbur's chest, and who had not managed to flee with his companions. Hasanyah and Tanurendal overpowered him, and as Orusen tried -- and failed -- to staunch the bleeding of Tengelbur's wound, the rest of the party began to question him. Teithbor eventually managed to stabilize Tengelbur's injury thanks to some rudimentary battlefield medicine.

The captive was unmasked, revealing... a fairly ordinary looking man that none of the party recognized. "Tauran-Tauror, the Red Vulture, will come for all of you. I will see you hanging..." The man broke off in a cackle and began to count the companions. "It would be better if there were nine of you... but under the circumstances it will have to do."

Tengelbur audibly wished that Varanjala, the party's herbalist, was there, since she might have (or at least know of) some herb which might make the cultist a little more amenable to their questioning. From his travels, Orusen recalled the honey which the bees of the moorland make from the blooms of the purple heather. In great quantities, such honey could make men mad. In smaller quantities, it could act as a relaxant or even a mild sedative. But in the right proportions, when mingled with wine, it might loosen the lips of someone otherwise reticent to speak. Although they were not actually on the Moor (and in fact, as far as Orusen knew, on the wrong side of the river), Orusen, Teithbor, and Reiana went in search of hives while the rest of the party stayed back to question the cultist.

Orusen did not find a hive, although he did manage to find and make a cutting of Ruby Wort, a strange, red, flat-leafed plant growing on the surface of a stagnant pool. From experience, Orusen knew this herb would make a useful plaster for treating wounds and preventing infections.

Teithbor wandered into the scrubland bordering on the Serth Hatama, where the thorny plants seemed to be undergoing the process of petrification, almost as though whatever had turned the great forest to stone long ago was slowly spreading. There he found a cutting of Purple Sorrel, useful as a diuretic and for treating fevers. Both men kept the herbs they had found, but they saw no sign of any beehives. Hasanyah and Tanurendal, meanwhile, had absolutely no luck interrogating their prisoners, and Hasanyah eventually become so frustrated that she slapped the man in the face and walked away.

As night approached, the party searched the bodies of the cultists, revealing tattered robes, weapons, and blood-stained vulture amulets carved from a variety of materials. With most of the party weary and Tengelbur still recovering from his wound, they had to decide what to do:

• Reiana was in favor of pursuing the caravan into the Serth Hatama at first light. They might have gone sooner, but she deemed the party too weary to be effective under the present circumstances.
• Tanurendal was in favor of continuing on to Hural Yalir (the beleaguered fort to which they had been delivering supplies), hopefully raising a larger force there, and then marching in to the Serth Hatama.

Ultimately the party chose to follow Reiana's lead, making camp there on the road between the Withered Wood and the River Cheyth. 

A Letter Home: Hasanyah

14th day of Orupeim, in the year 451 of the Third Eon

My dear Vanera,                                             

I hope this letter finds you in a better temperament than I left you. Even though our parting was bitter and filled with many a harsh word, you are still dear to me and that is the reason which compels me to write this letter. I shall try to keep it short knowing that you are unlikely to read it otherwise.
As you know I headed out to seek my own fortune, the reason being--well you already know the reason. I found myself in the North, in the town of Karet Cheykor to be exact, two days ago. I was approached by Lt. Samlon. He is the right-hand man and aide-de-camp of Sir Ralus, commander of the River Forts. I must say he is not unpleasant to look at.

Apparently one of the River Forts, Hural Yalir, has been rather low on supplies of late due to the winter and raids by the Nalshbori. Since the river has been rather swollen this time of year, the idea of taking them supplies by boat was unthinkable. So, they sent them supplies by land, only they never made it. Then, Sir Ralus himself sent another load that was ambushed and only two men survived (more on them later).

Sir Ralus is now raising a group to go as escort for the next shipment, and the payment for it (should I not die first) is nothing to turn your nose up at. So, I agreed to go.

Today I met the rest of my soon to be companions. You see, when I first arrived in Cheyker I met a man named Tanurendal at the Cracked Beaker. He was with me when Lt. Samlon made the offer. But before I explain any more let me back up. You know that I’ve come in search of treasure, so I thought that since there are tombs of the Stone Kings in this area, that perhaps it would benefit me to investigate them. I stopped at the Norinlakor to see what documentation there might be that would help me and met the scribe who works there. His name is Palfeinan the Scholar, a strange man who seems obsessed with his work. Although I really don’t know how he can do his job properly. First, the building is very small and simply filled with parchments and books. Second, he thinks he has some type of organization system that might have something to do with the calendar? I really could not figure it out and found myself flustered when he asked me to help by carrying books in a circle for him.

Well, all that to say, I couldn’t get the book I wanted until that evening because it was in Autumn. As I was coming out of the dusty building, my eyes lighted on Tanurendal who seemed to be interrogating a group of well-armed individuals. I stepped up to the group sensing that things would become hostile if I didn’t step in and smooth things over and suggested that we all get drinks at the Cracked Beaker. Perhaps the fact that I mentioned that Tanurendal would pay for drinks all around helped.

While at the tavern, Lt. Samlon approached the newly arrived group and extended an invitation to all of us to sup with him. We all joined him, and he made the offer to the rest of the group to join us in guarding the caravan. Lt. Samlon told us where we could find the two survivors of the second caravan and we went to ask them questions about the attack.

We found the two survivors Thorinta and Verekan in the Market square talking to what looked to be identical twins.  We approached them and I, being the fairest of speech and looks, was voted the spokeswoman. I must say Thorinta seemed to be quite charmed with me and spoke rather freely about the ambush. How much of it was truth, I know not. I fear most of it was boasting, but when relaying the accounts of battle to a lovely lady what else can a man do? When asked why they wanted to return as the drivers for the caravan, Thorinta said for vengeance, but something about it does not feel right.

This letter has been far longer than I intended, and perhaps you will never finish reading it. Farwell, brother. I hope to see you again.
Hasanyah

P.S. I have included a copy of the parchment I copied from the parchment on the Stone Kings. Please read it and improve your mind.



By Hope/Hasanyah