08th November - Bringing Justice to Vallaki
General Summary
The party gathered themselves, their breaths steadying as they surveyed the aftermath of the skirmish, eyes darting over the shadowed corners of the room for any sign of the missing relics—the sacred bones of St. Andral.
Vidar, undeterred, whispered words of magic, extending his senses. His spell, meant to illuminate and traces of magic. His gaze fell upon a faint, infernal shimmer—a lurking, concealed creature that had eluded their notice until now. Its beady eyes flickered as it watched the invaders of this room. The imp, began to scuttle toward the door, its tiny, clawed feet barely skimming the floor.
Vidar struck first, his magic flashed out. The fight was swift and brutal, Lars bolting the door just as quickly to trap their quarry within.
A scuttling sound scratched against the wood. Lars’s hand hovered near his weapon, ready—but only a rat scurried from beneath the frame, crossing the cellar floor with frantic little feet. Without a second thought, Lars’s boot met it with a crunch, a smear of entrails left in its wake. The room fell silent once more.
Satisfied, the party made their way to the cellar's exit, only to find it barred from the outside. They exchanged glances, knowing this would be no simple escape. Taking the stone stairwell that led upward, they ascended into the Wachterhaus, a house thick with secrets and heavy silence. Along the walls, iron sconces cast shadows that danced, and from hooks in the entry room hung coats and aprons, hints of the servants who ghosted through the house.
They crept forward, alert. The air smelled of stale dust, the furniture arranged with an almost militaristic precision. They slipped into a room of four austere beds, each as unadorned as the next. Lars tested a nearby window, pushing it open, and began his climb. Vidar moved to follow him out, but a whisper of movement caught his eye.
Ernst, Lady Wachter’s loyal spy, stood poised to strike, crossbow drawn. Marcus and Aeli, quick to act, forced the door shut and dragged a bed across it, locking him out. Ernst's curses could be heard from within, but they were already slipping away, darting down alleys as the house fell behind them, a dark blot on the horizon of Vallaki.
Under the waning light, they found their way to the Burgomaster's mansion, presenting their findings to Baron Vargas Vallakovich with solemn urgency. Lady Wachter’s treachery, her alliance with dark cults—these accusations left little room for doubt. At the mention of deputizing them, Vargas’s face lit up with sudden, eager resolve. He rummaged through his desk, unable to locate the town’s ancient oath, before excusing himself to retrieve a copy from Izek’s quarters. Aeli and Sorrow exchanged uneasy glances as they peered into the room after him. Every wall, every corner was littered with delicate, porcelain dolls. Their powder-white skin and auburn hair captured the likeness of the same woman. The legion of dolls, some finely dressed, others plain, but all bearing that same, haunting face: Ireena. The Baron returned with a worn piece of parchment—the words of Vallaki’s ancient oath of vigilance. Vidar, Sorrow, Aeli and Lars, in turn, pledged their loyalty.
As fresh members of the Vallaki guard, they returned to the Wachterhaus, this time with authority, though not entirely with a plan. Lars, choosing a direct approach, rapped his knuckles on the heavy door, which creaked open under the force. He entered first, Aeli close behind, their steps careful. The sound of rattling metal drew Lars’s attention to the kitchen. He approached with care, only to find a boiling kettle, left to hiss and spit on the stove. After a tense pause, Aeli called for Vidar and Sorrow, who joined them to continue the ascent. On the second floor, they encountered an eerie hallway lined with gilded mirrors and portraits, eyes that seemed to follow them with a cold judgment. Before they could advance, Ernst and a cultist sprang from a hidden alcove, bolts flying. Glass shattered, mirrors cracked, and the fight became a blur of flashing steel, Sorrow’s silver sword cutting through the air as Aeli’s whip snapped with lethal grace. A shimmering field surrounded the cultist, deflecting blow after blow until it finally shattered under Vidar's unyielding assault. With a final clash, the foes fell, and silence once more returned to the hall. In the darkened upper rooms, their search led them to a cramped, musty chamber. Sorrow slipped inside, her eyes falling upon a strange sight—a young woman in a tattered nightgown, crouched on all fours like a feral creature. She hissed, baring her teeth. “Little kitty doesn’t know you!” she shrieked. “Little kitty doesn’t like the smell of you!” Sorrow backed away, feeling the weight of the girl’s madness, knowing that she was yet another of Lady Wachter’s twisted legacies. In the library, Lars discovered that one of the many feline companions had a key tied around its neck. Coaxing it with a scrap of ration, he retrieved the key, an unexpected treasure in a house that seemed bent on denying them every answer. At last, they stood before the final door—the master bedroom. Sorrow’s deft hands worked the lock, and it swung open to reveal a room cloaked in shadows, a flickering hearth casting dim light over the cold, stately furnishings. A portrait hung above the fire, capturing a noble family frozen in a moment of faded glory. The father and mother, stern; their sons with sly, knowing smiles. On the bed lay a man, his eyes covered with copper coins, his likeness unmistakably that of the man in the painting. Lady Wachter slept beside him, peaceful as a queen in repose. But as Sorrow and Aeli crept closer, her eyes opened. A smirk twisted the corner of her mouth, cold and unsettling. They froze, feeling the chill of her gaze. Was she smiling?
Under the waning light, they found their way to the Burgomaster's mansion, presenting their findings to Baron Vargas Vallakovich with solemn urgency. Lady Wachter’s treachery, her alliance with dark cults—these accusations left little room for doubt. At the mention of deputizing them, Vargas’s face lit up with sudden, eager resolve. He rummaged through his desk, unable to locate the town’s ancient oath, before excusing himself to retrieve a copy from Izek’s quarters. Aeli and Sorrow exchanged uneasy glances as they peered into the room after him. Every wall, every corner was littered with delicate, porcelain dolls. Their powder-white skin and auburn hair captured the likeness of the same woman. The legion of dolls, some finely dressed, others plain, but all bearing that same, haunting face: Ireena. The Baron returned with a worn piece of parchment—the words of Vallaki’s ancient oath of vigilance. Vidar, Sorrow, Aeli and Lars, in turn, pledged their loyalty.
"The Oath of Vigilance" “I, [Name], stand here before the people of Vallaki, before my comrades, and before the powers of this land, to take up arms in defense of this town. With solemn heart and unwavering will, I swear this oath. "I am the shield of Vallaki." No harm shall reach our people so long as I breathe and fight. No shadow shall corrupt our town so long as I stand guard. No enemy shall break our spirit so long as I hold this line. This I swear, with my life and my honor. In shadow or in light, I am the guard of Vallaki. So it is sworn. So it shall be."
As fresh members of the Vallaki guard, they returned to the Wachterhaus, this time with authority, though not entirely with a plan. Lars, choosing a direct approach, rapped his knuckles on the heavy door, which creaked open under the force. He entered first, Aeli close behind, their steps careful. The sound of rattling metal drew Lars’s attention to the kitchen. He approached with care, only to find a boiling kettle, left to hiss and spit on the stove. After a tense pause, Aeli called for Vidar and Sorrow, who joined them to continue the ascent. On the second floor, they encountered an eerie hallway lined with gilded mirrors and portraits, eyes that seemed to follow them with a cold judgment. Before they could advance, Ernst and a cultist sprang from a hidden alcove, bolts flying. Glass shattered, mirrors cracked, and the fight became a blur of flashing steel, Sorrow’s silver sword cutting through the air as Aeli’s whip snapped with lethal grace. A shimmering field surrounded the cultist, deflecting blow after blow until it finally shattered under Vidar's unyielding assault. With a final clash, the foes fell, and silence once more returned to the hall. In the darkened upper rooms, their search led them to a cramped, musty chamber. Sorrow slipped inside, her eyes falling upon a strange sight—a young woman in a tattered nightgown, crouched on all fours like a feral creature. She hissed, baring her teeth. “Little kitty doesn’t know you!” she shrieked. “Little kitty doesn’t like the smell of you!” Sorrow backed away, feeling the weight of the girl’s madness, knowing that she was yet another of Lady Wachter’s twisted legacies. In the library, Lars discovered that one of the many feline companions had a key tied around its neck. Coaxing it with a scrap of ration, he retrieved the key, an unexpected treasure in a house that seemed bent on denying them every answer. At last, they stood before the final door—the master bedroom. Sorrow’s deft hands worked the lock, and it swung open to reveal a room cloaked in shadows, a flickering hearth casting dim light over the cold, stately furnishings. A portrait hung above the fire, capturing a noble family frozen in a moment of faded glory. The father and mother, stern; their sons with sly, knowing smiles. On the bed lay a man, his eyes covered with copper coins, his likeness unmistakably that of the man in the painting. Lady Wachter slept beside him, peaceful as a queen in repose. But as Sorrow and Aeli crept closer, her eyes opened. A smirk twisted the corner of her mouth, cold and unsettling. They froze, feeling the chill of her gaze. Was she smiling?
Report Date
08 Nov 2024
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