Session 3: Echoes in the Sand Report
As recorded (and only slightly embellished) by Dorian Frostquill, Chronicler of Shadows and Sand
General Summary
With the Princess's farewell still fresh in the dry Dum Ramil air, “This is where we part ways, " our weary travellers stepped alone into the City of Sects. The desert wind, thick with incense and iron, carried them through twisting alleys and thrumming bazaars. Yet even amid the chaos of this sun-blasted sprawl, the party was not without purpose.
They made their way to The Brawny Barrel Tavern, a squat, sun-cracked establishment where stories are drowned in ale and anonymity can be bought with coin. After securing rooms and a round of drinks, Silas and Rhazh’Korr slipped out under the cover of darkness, restless and searching for something unspoken.
In the winding alleyways, they discovered that they were not alone. A stranger had been shadowing their steps, a woman with sharp eyes and sharper instincts: Vanya. Her presence was not hostile, but her interest in the party was clear. She introduced herself with guarded words and quiet purpose.
Returning to the tavern, the party regrouped around a thick wooden table, bowls of stew steaming, mugs of ale heavy with promise. As the firelight flickered and the tavern filled with the murmur of strangers, Adeline steered the conversation into dangerous waters, asking about their pasts.
It was here that Silas, eyes dark with old pain, revealed his pursuit of a Vampire, an ancient enemy who had once left him wounded, scarred at the neck. His voice wavered only slightly as he spoke of the hunt, the memory of battle, and the curse that perhaps still lingered.
Rhazh’Korr, ever the watchful predator, offered little. A life before time itself was not so easily unpacked in a single evening.
Echoes in the Sand: Rhazh'Korr's Search for the Past
The following day, as golden sunlight spilt over the market, Rhazh’Korr was drawn into its heart by an irresistible pull. Among the barkers and hawkers, he found it in a stall filled with forgotten debris and counterfeit relics: a fragment of stone, etched with sigils of The Eternal Empire.
His Empire.
Before he could react, others moved. Blades were drawn. A rival faction revealed itself.
And then chaos.
Pottery shattered. Stalls collapsed. Sandstriders screamed.
And amidst it all, Barry, in an attempt to strike down one of the attackers, loosed a radiant Guiding Bolt—only for it to veer wildly and slam into Silas’ back.
The blast knocked Silas forward, pain igniting something far worse than anger. A Blood Rage overtook him, primal and vengeful. As his eyes burned red and his breath grew ragged, he turned, not toward his enemies but Vanya, who had drawn too close.
His blade lashed out.
The party's new companion was nearly struck down, saved only by the swift reactions of her allies and a desperate shout that snapped Silas from the edge of madness. The battle raged on, but the tension lingered—wounds inflicted by magic and mistrust do not heal easily.
As the dust settled, the enemy fled with the relic, but left behind their mounts, provisioned Sandstriders, still breathing and saddled. Fate, it seemed, was willing to forgive one mishap for now.
Desert Warnings, Forgotten Vaults, and Ancient Hunger
From there, the party followed the trail into the desert, confronting Dune Wardens, ancient masked watchers who warned of forgotten places best left buried. But warnings are wind in the face of purpose.
Their path led to the entrance of a half-buried pyramid, its stone bones groaning with the weight of history.
Inside, they found the rival faction already at the threshold of something terrible, a door sealed for ages, now trembling as its lock was undone. Sigils of blackened stone shimmered with forbidden light. The air groaned.
“No more! Their power shall be ours!” the rival leader cried.
The door opened. The seal shattered. And with a breathless silence, the darkness spoke.
What emerged from the void was no mere creature. It was a thought made flesh, a hunger carved from the bones of time, a shadow that should never have had form. A mass of coiling limbs and glistening eyes unfolded from the unnatural dark—its presence warping the air, reality flexing and groaning around it. The Forgotten Hunger, sealed for centuries, now stood free in a tomb that had waited far too long to be disturbed.
The following battle was not fought with honour; it was survival in its purest, most harrowing form.
Silas, already wearied from days in the desert, stood first against the beast, calling upon the divine light of Order to smite the unnatural form. But even as his holy light struck true, the creature’s shadows writhed, reforming as though laughing at his efforts. Then, in the chaos, Barry loosed another spell—whether through panic or poor aim, it is not for the bard to judge—but the bolt of radiant force struck Silas square in the back for the second time in as many days.
Whatever restraint Silas still held frayed in that moment. Blood Rage consumed him, and though he did not lash out this time at Vanya, his focus became primal, single-minded, destroy or be destroyed.
The beast surged forward, its limbs tearing at stone and flesh alike. Silas gave it everything he had, divine smites, and his great sword, which was held high, but the hunger was vast and unrelenting. A crushing blow from one of its shadowed limbs struck him full in the chest, lifting him from his feet and slamming him into the stone. The world fell away in darkness.
Silas lay unconscious, blood seeping into the ancient dust.
The battle teetered on a knife’s edge.
Adeline, nimble and relentless, darted through the gloom, her blades flashing with purpose. She struck again and again, carving into the creature’s pulsing form, each strike guided by instinct and fury. Beside her, Barry, shaken by his misfires but no less determined, called upon all his remaining arcane strength. His spells now struck true—searing lights, binding magic, bursts of radiant force that tore into the creature’s mass.
Each blow from Adeline was precise. Each spell from Barry, devastating. Together, they became the storm within the storm.
The creature writhed. Shrieked without sound. And as Adeline’s blade carved through the final tangle of shadow, the beast let out a deep, voiceless howl.
Its body dissolved—not in gore or flame, but as if it had never truly been there. Wreaths of smoke unravelled into nothingness, and silence fell.
Then—a spark. The torches, long extinguished by the Hunger’s presence, flickered to life one by one, casting their orange glow upon the tomb's ancient walls. The shadows receded. And with them, the dread.
Aftermath in the Tomb
The chamber was still. The only sound, your breath, heavy and ragged.
As the echoes of battle faded, the party moved to tend to Silas. He still breathed, though barely, bloodied, unconscious, his body marked by the fight in ways that would not fade with rest. Vanya knelt beside him, her expression unreadable, though something like concern flickered behind her eyes.
While he was tended to, the others began to search the tomb. Hidden beneath dust-laden altars and crumbling plinths, they found the rewards buried alongside the threat, artefacts still thrumming with faint magic. Sigils of the Eternal Empire, engraved tools, and enchanted remnants long forgotten were claimed, examined, and divided. Not all their secrets were immediately clear, but their power was undeniable.
These were not trinkets; they were echoes of a time before Order and Chaos drew their lines in the sand.
And so, burdened with new knowledge and relics heavy with meaning, the party emerged from the pyramid as the sun dipped below the horizon. The wind was cool. The sky, quiet.
At the edge of Dum Ramil, the Iron Sentinel waited. The ship loomed like a beast in slumber, its moorings groaning softly, its engineer barely looking up as they approached.
Raumper stood at the gangway, a rag in one hand and a wrench in the other.
"Well then? You're late. Ramp's down. Storms are building to the east. If you’re flying, now’s the time."
And for a moment, just a moment, the party hesitated.
Their gaze turned back to Dum Ramil.
The City of Sects. The fractured heart of the desert. A place of brutal philosophies, brutal people, and yet... something had changed. They had seen its underbelly and survived. Fought beside its strangers. Spilled blood on its stones and drawn breath beneath its sky.
There was potential here, not just for refuge, but for resistance.
Not all wars are won from the skies. Some must be fought in the dust and stone of cities that refuse to bow.
The party stepped away from the gangway.
They would return to the city, for now.
The war with Chaos was coming, and Dum Ramil would need to decide where it stood. Perhaps, with the proper guidance, the city could become something greater than just a haven for broken sects and power-hungry mystics.
Perhaps, it could be an ally.
Rhazh'Korr
Adeline Hawthorn
Silas Brattenward
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