Session #2 - Part I: Runes

General Summary

During this session, the characters finally reached their destination: the small town of Oakwood, a remote settlement in northwestern Keraian, near the border of the elven Kingdom of Zolirak. Upon arrival, they quickly realized that this inhospitable place had far more problems than they had anticipated.

But before they could begin to untangle Oakwood’s troubles, the four heroes were forced to confront something far more personal. That night, each of them was haunted by unsettling dreams; visions so vivid, so uncanny, they would mark them forever.

This is Part I of the session report, focusing on those dreams, and the revelations that followed.

Dreams & Powers

Night fell over Mael, Zara, Darvin, and Ondrea; and it felt heavy. The four barely knew each other, yet something strange lingered between them. Something that felt a lot like destiny - or fate, if you believe in such things - bound them together, speaking in a language of cryptic symbols. It had already happened more than once. It had already sown paranoia, sparked arguments.

And so, wary and confused, the four heroes lay their heads on the cold stone of their cave shelter, hoping sleep might silence the shadows of disbelief and fear. But sleep did not bring peace. Instead, it carved those shadows deeper, made them permanent - made them part of who they were, once and for all.

Relfections

Mael had a hard time falling asleep. In his century of life, it was the first time he had strayed so far from home and all the knowledge he thought he had accumulated over the years now felt either wrong or incomplete. He was frustrated. He was afraid. Both were foreign emotions that disrupted his mind.

Eventually, though, his troubled conscience gave way, and sleep carried him into the unknown lands of dreams.

But this time, it was different.

The dream felt more than real; it was real. He found himself standing in a dark corridor. He felt his own weight. He heard his own thoughts. Strangely, he was in control. Ahead, the corridor opened into a vast room.

Mael's Dream

Mael took a step forward.

Something stepped toward him from the opposite side.

The closer he drew to the chamber, the closer the figure came. But when he reached the arched entrance, he understood. There was no one else there. The movement he had seen was nothing but his own reflection, multiplied endlessly in the countless mirrors that lined every surface of the room.

Wherever he looked, he saw his own face; just a little different each time.

In one mirror, he was a child: happy and smiling, surrounded by the land of the elves, far from Thandor.

In others, he was already dead: once as a diseased boy, then as an old man, then fallen in the midst of an unknown battle.

He saw himself as a crazed alchemist, buried in a lavish, chaotic laboratory.

In another, he stood smiling before a fireplace, Corien - alive and well - beside him, their children laughing and playing nearby.

And finally, he saw what he always craved: himself, strong and healthy, dressed in aged robes, surrounded by books of magic, lifted by the aura of arcane mastery.

The last two reflections made his heart ache. Both were longings; each for a different reason.

The other mirrors began to blur, as if swallowing the versions he had silently rejected. One by one, they faded, until only a single reflection remained.

It looked him straight in the eye.

Then it spoke - a voice heavy, alien, and unmistakably real:

"You can still have this. All you need to do is reach."

Mael hesitated. His gaze drifted to Corien. Her smile warmed his heart.

But then he remembered.

She was dead. And that was final.

With that thought, a thousand mirrors shattered.

He felt the shards stab and slice him, tasted blood as he fell to his knees.

The reflection spoke again, reaching toward him with an outstretched hand:

"We can trade places. You can have what I have."

Mael stubbornly refused.

The shards dug deeper: into skin, into bone, into marrow.

The reflection darkened. The room dissolved into black, until only he remained, and the dark-faced version of himself, standing just a few feet away.

"Then stay less."

Pain consumed him.

And with a gasp, Mael jolted awake, drenched in sweat, his chest burning with fire at the height of his heart.

Battles

Zara was anxious. Eager.

Yet she had the self-restraint to know she needed sleep. Tomorrow would come soon, and she would need a clear head and full strength. She didn’t understand what was happening with the symbols. Magic was never something she concerned herself with. What she knew was steel and shield. What she wanted was in Oakwood and she wasn’t about to let something mysterious stand in her way.

Determined and in control, she closed her eyes.

Sleep had always been a comfort. Verana’s healing embrace couldn’t come soon enough. She wished for a happy dream to soothe her mind.

Her wish was granted; if only slightly twisted.

Zara's Dream

Her heart was pounding.

Hot sweat burned her eyes.

Blood and gore overwhelmed her senses.

Her grip was heavy, her arms aching from the weight of her spear.

She looked down. Her hands were steady, but drenched in blood. So was her weapon. She stood alone at the center of a vast plateau, surrounded by the largest battlefield she had ever seen. In the distance, an imposing summit pierced the clouds. Eagles circled it, flying high, vanishing into the sunlit sky.

Countless bodies surrounded her.

She had no memory of this battle, yet she knew: this was her doing. And there was a reason.

The summit held her ultimate quest: her tribe, her ancestors.

She had to reach it.

She wiped the sweat from her brow as her vision sharpened. She looked again at the bodies and her jaw dropped.

They were all Eaglors.

Dead avian eyes stared lifelessly. Broken wings littered the ground. All her handiwork.

She froze.

And then, deep inside her belly, war drums began to beat.

Was this the price?

Did she have to sacrifice them to be accepted?

Was this what it took?

"That’s what you want, isn’t it?"

The voice came from the base of the summit.

Strangely familiar. But she couldn’t place it.

Zara turned and saw a hooded figure with wide, open eagle wings.

"Who are you?" she called out.

"Names don’t matter. Come. I am the last one. Kill me, and you’ll find what you seek."

"That’s not what I want!"

But the drums grew louder, echoing in her ears. She felt it: primal fury, tearing her apart from within.

The figure laughed and stepped forward.

"Then you will fail."

Suddenly, light flared around them as the figure raised a spear - massive and gleaming - and hurled it at her.

In that flash, Zara saw its face.

Her mother.

No - herself.

Before she could move, the enormous spear struck her. She felt the point pierce her stomach; then split her in half.

A gasp caught in her throat, stuck between death and denial.

And Zara woke trembling, tears welling in her eyes.

Fame

Ondrea didn’t know how long she had been sitting in her makeshift tent, hugging her knees in silence. Fear gripped her like a vice. Every memory from her time in Crimson Hollow clawed its way back into her mind.She was afraid to close her eyes. The images were all too real.

Undead flesh.

Skeletal hands reaching for her.

Her father; dead.

The cursed fog of her village still clung to her soul. Her thoughts spiraled, her judgment clouded by dread. She grabbed her amulet, fingers trembling as they found the worn symbol that had protected her all her life. She couldn’t explain why it mattered so much - especially not to strangers - but to her, it was everything.

She felt vulnerable. More alone than ever.

Eventually, her body betrayed her fear. Exhaustion took over. Her head sank to the ground.

Sleep, at last, came like salvation.

Ondrea's Dream

In her dream, Ondrea was smiling.

There was no death.

Only light, joy, laughter.

Everything life was supposed to be.

She looked around, and a smile - brighter than any she had worn before - spread across her face.

She stood in a marble square, and ahead of her, a grand, lavish stage awaited.

It was hers.

A long corridor stretched toward it, paved with a golden rug that shimmered under the light. On either side, a countless number of spectators sang her songs. Their voices were the most beautiful sound she had ever heard.

All eyes were on her.

Everyone admired her.

Everyone loved her.

Everyone accepted her.

Ondrea felt light. Happy; proud of what she had accomplished.

From a wretched place of death, she had survived. She had succeeded.

This was her dream.

Not just for herself but for everyone who needed inspiration.

She was a muse. And she walked like one.

Faces smiled at her from the crowd; strangers, yet familiar in their joy. She sang. Her velvet voice reached into the hidden corners of every soul that listened. The stage was still far, but she cherished every step. Every heartbeat.

And then she saw them.

In the crowd, their faces stood out.

Clear. Real.

Her mother.

Her brother.

Her little sister.

And her hero - her beloved father - his face glowing with pride.

It had been years. She wanted to reach them. Touch them. Hug them. Be with them. One more time.

“You need to leave the past behind.”

The voice came from within. Ondrea froze, confused.

No…

She couldn’t leave them again.

She turned back toward them.

But now, they were different.

Still smiling, but their flesh was rotting.

Her mother’s skull was torn open.

Her brother’s neck was broken and bleeding.

Her sister gasped for air.

And Gareth - her father - raised a dead hand toward her.

“No… not again…”

Ondrea stood paralyzed.

Then the decision came.

She ran.

Not toward the stage; no, that was gone now. She just needed to escape.

Again.

“Then you are weak.”

The voice came again, darker now.

It was her own.

The crowd turned, as their love became rage.

Their songs turned to screams.

She ran, but her feet carried her nowhere.

Limbs and hands reached for her: clawing, grasping, tearing.

They didn’t want her performance anymore.

They wanted to consume her; erase her.

Pain exploded through her body as her limbs were ripped apart.

They were cutting her alive.

Fighting for a piece of her.

The pain was unbearable.

And so was the scream that tore her awake.

Report Date

10 May 2025

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Mael's Rune

Zara's Rune

Ondrea's Rune

Darvin's Rune

Hunger

Darvin was the last to fall asleep.

He hadn’t said much during the Mael and Ondrea's fight, but his mind was racing; as it always did.

He had learned to stay silent, no matter how much he craved the opposite, no matter how often he wanted to scream.

He knew well enough: you can’t trust anyone but yourself. That’s a lesson you learn when you spend your life chained, living beneath someone else’s will.

The symbols - and the arcane power they seemed to hold - were a mystery. But in every mystery, there is potential. He didn’t know what kind, not yet, but he was certain of one thing: his odds were better if he stayed with these three strangers.

Survival was all that mattered.

He closed his eyes with that exact thought weighing on him. But at least the path was chosen.

His mind relaxed. Sleep came to ease his troubles once more.

Darvin's Dream

Being a slave is something that cannot be explained. It’s not just the loss of freedom that breaks you. That’s the last step. Before that, there are smaller, more vicious ones; the kind that eat you from the inside.

There is the endless work.

There is the oppressive silence, mixed with the screams and tears that only live inside your mind.

And then there are the mundane things. The ones that seem trivial, until they’re the ones that finally shatter you.

The constant thirst.

The dirt that becomes your second skin.

The open wounds that never fully heal.

The cold that pierces your bones.

The endless hunger.

When Darvin opened his eyes, he was amazed.

A fireplace crackled across from him, filling the room with warmth he thought he’d forgotten. He wore clean, new clothes. He felt strong. Whole.

Before him stretched a table piled high with every kind of food and drink imaginable.

Silver plates and goblets gleamed. Utensils beckoned.

He didn’t need any more convincing.

Darvin ate - slowly at first. He wanted to enjoy every bite, savor it, commit it to memory. Something to hold onto for the hard days to come. But the more he ate, the more he hungered.

The plates never emptied. The goblets never dried.

He ate and he ate and he ate, until food ceased to have flavor.

First it turned dull. Then every bite became ash in his mouth.

But the hunger remained.

His stomach was still empty.

Every moment of starvation in the mines, every day of backbreaking labor, every sleepless night spent in chains; they all returned, multiplied.

More plates arrived, but now, Darvin recoiled.

He saw his sister’s head laid before him; her dead eyes staring back.

Then her mouth opened and a voice spoke:

“You know you need it. Who knows when you'll eat again?”

He screamed; not just for what he saw, but for what he thought.

He was tempted.

He didn’t know if he could endure the hunger any longer.

More dishes came, each bloodied with the faces of those he had lost.

Then a door creaked open.

A grotesque, crawling figure emerged, bloated and glistening, an ooze of flesh that wore his own face. It slithered beside him, and spoke:

“You will be strong. Do it.”

Darvin stepped back, shaking his head.

The creature laughed and with inhuman flexibility, it stretched forward, towering over him.

“If you are not the one who eats... you will be the one who gets eaten”

Its mouth opened and kept opening.

A black hole of teeth and saliva swallowed him whole.

Darvin felt it chew. He felt the pain. He felt the horror.

And then suddenly, he woke up choking on nothing; his mouth full of the taste of ash, his hunger louder than his heartbeat.

Common Troubles

Ondrea's Protective Symbol

Morning did not bring a new beginning.

Instead, it felt like the continuation of the burdens that had dragged them through the previous, tedious night. The group wasn’t just confused - they were in pain. But trouble, when shared, can become common ground. And the fact that none of them understood what was happening forced them to speak.

The revelations were staggering.

Not only had each of them experienced a strange, vivid dream, but they had also gained something else. A symbol had been etched into their chests; small but distinct, engraved at the height of the heart as if burned from the inside out. They were the same runes that had briefly appeared on their foreheads the day before, a different one for each of them, when control slipped from their grasp. But now, they were permanent.

Detection spells revealed a grim truth: something - some kind of magic none of them recognized - had not just touched them. It had joined with them.

Then Mael spoke, unable to hold back a creeping thought.

“Ondrea… I’m sorry for how I spoke yesterday. I didn’t mean to offend you. But listen, look at that symbol you draw every night. The one you say protects you. Don’t you think it looks a little too much like these things that just appeared on us?”

Ondrea looked away. Her fingers instinctively reached her amulet. She couldn’t argue with him. The resemblance was undeniable. But still, she clung to it.

“It’s the only thing that helps me sleep,” she said quietly. “Convince me I’ll be safe without it, and I’ll stop. Can you do that?”

“We can’t,” Zara replied flatly. “No one can promise you safety. But we have to show some trust. All of us.”

“But I... I can’t just...”

“You must,” Mael insisted. “You repeat this ritual out of habit or tradition, but you don’t know what it actually does.”

“Let’s all calm down,” Darvin said, stepping in. “You can’t ask her to abandon a belief overnight. Let her think it over.”

He looked around at each of them before adding,

“We don’t know what this is. We don’t know what any of this is. But we do know one thing: we need to get to Oakwood. Let’s focus on that. For now.”

Ondrea’s Tale

According to Ondrea, the symbol she draws each night outside wherever she sleeps is more than tradition: it’s protection. In her village, a small hamlet nestled deep within a region plagued by the undead, children learn to draw it as soon as they can walk. The symbol is sacred. It is said to keep the horrors at bay.

Ondrea knows its origins. It came from the fallen city of Merdia, once the proud capital of the old human empire, now reduced to what is known as The Ruins of Ashenfall. After the city’s fall, a handful of survivors escaped and founded Crimson Hollow, a harsh settlement born from catastrophe.

They brought the symbol with them. It had once adorned the banners of Merdia, a coat of arms now transformed into a ward against the darkness. For five centuries, the people of Crimson Hollow have etched it on doorposts, stone gates, and the earth itself. They do not question it. They know what happens when they forget.

For them it is not a mere tradition. It's an act of survival

A fragile line between life and death, traced in ash, water and salt.