Celestial Pioneers

Scribe Notes

Summary

GM: Martin
Season: Summer 826 WK
Night: Sunday 28th Dec
Location: Annes Place
Level: Medium

Party

1. Hrothgar Bronzebeard - Dwarven Binder - Alex
2. Remel - Chef
3. Kaitva - Anne
4. Argus Ramhammer - Sam
5. Lady Arcadia - Kita
6. Elderan - Ian

Employer

The Sky Gnomes of Serraine. This is a brief follow up to the events of Celestial Mechanics

Mission

To investigate a means to travel to the (potentially) rediscovered and formerly lost world between the orbits of Thunor and Wotan. Assuming it's even there...

Original job offer.

Pay

TBD. Gnomes will offer some cash or 2x amount of their odd services.

Scribe Notes

Out journey begins

Hrothgar gathered us after the guild meeting, his beard still dusted with chalk from whatever diagrams he had been sketching. He had received a request from Branwys Skyratchet of the Serraine Council, a name he spoke with the familiarity of someone who has done dangerous work for powerful people before. They wished us to investigate a celestial object—no small matter, and certainly not the sort of task one accepts lightly.

We set out the following morning, Hrothgar leading us to the Dorahn estates near Castle Chilton. The manor house itself was shut tight, its stonework weathered and tired, as though it had been standing long after it had ceased to be loved. A lone butler watched us from the porch, his expression somewhere between irritation and weary resignation. He did not greet us. In truth, I do not believe he wished us there at all.

Behind the house stood a gazebo, delicate in structure but heavy with purpose. Hrothgar instructed us carefully—do not reach beyond its boundary. Naturally, Argus tested this immediately, extending an iron rod so that it protruded beyond the gazebo’s edge. I remember opening my mouth to protest, but Hrothgar was already raising a small alchemical device in his hand.

He pressed the activation.

Unexpected journey

The sensation was like being caught in a sudden riptide: my body lurched, the world folded in upon itself, and for a heartbeat I felt weightless, as though I had been poured from one vessel into another.

When my vision cleared, we were no longer behind a forgotten manor.

We stood upon a stone platform in the midst of a vast garden of roses—row upon row of crimson and white blooms, their scent thick in the air. It was beautiful in a way that felt deliberate, designed rather than grown. The rod Argus held had been sheered clear off where it extended before the boundary of the gazebo.

A gnome named Anton, whom Hrothgar clearly knew well, greeted us without surprise. He guided us through the garden to a second platform, speaking briskly, as though this sort of displacement were a mundane inconvenience. Once we were all in position, he produced a compact mechanical device of his own.

Again, the world bent.

And once more, I felt the waters of reality carry us somewhere new.

The second transition was worse than the first.

My body lurched again as the device carried us onward, but this time there was a sound—an ugly, wet stretching noise, followed by something like a brittle snap. I felt the magic ripple through me like a sudden change in current, but Arcadia… Arcadia faltered. Just for a breath. Enough for me to notice.

We found ourselves on yet another platform, this one enclosed within what could only be described as a mechanical laboratory. Brass arms, whirring lenses, ticking gears, and looping coils of crystal-lined tubing surrounded us. The air smelled of oil, ozone, and something faintly alchemical.

Before we had time to speak, a group of gnomes hurried toward us with clipboards, lenses, and spools of thin parchment that chattered endlessly from their devices.

They began asking questions—odd, precise things. “How many hands do you have?” “How many fingers?” “Have you always had that number?”

At first I thought it some form of routine safety check. I answered calmly, though I found the questions unsettling in their simplicity. Others did the same.

Arcadia, however, drew their attention like a lodestone.

Several gnomes circled her, peering through instruments, whispering rapidly in their clipped, technical cadence. One of them consulted a device that spat out a ribbon of ticking parchment—numbers, sigils, and readouts scrolling faster than I could follow. The moment his eyes fell upon it, his face drained of color. Without a word, he rushed to a senior gnome overseeing the inspection.

They spoke in hushed but urgent tones, both of them casting repeated glances toward Arcadia.

I watched her closely. She stood composed, as she always does, though I could see the faint tension in her shoulders. Whatever they were seeing, they were making great effort not to let us see it too.

At last, the overseer turned back to us with a practiced smile.

“There has been a… minor incident,” he said. “Nothing for you to concern yourselves with. Merely a technical irregularity. We will, of course, make the necessary adjustments.”

Even as he spoke, another gnome reached up and flipped a sign mounted on the wall: DAYS SINCE LAST ACCIDENT: 0

We were ushered off the platform with polite efficiency. As we moved away, I glanced back.

Yellow-and-black hazard tape was already being strung around the platform. Gnomes swarmed the surrounding mechanisms, whispering urgently, tapping instruments, adjusting dials, and pointing at Arcadia with guarded expressions.

They had seen something.

Something they did not intend to tell us.

And though I am no mechanician, nor a binder of forces like Hrothgar or Argus, I know the feel of troubled waters when I sense them. But as the gnomes assured us constantly that everything was alright I decided not to worry.

INTERLUDE

Arcadia stood alone upon the gazebo platform.

The others were gone.

One moment they had been beside her and in the next, the world had folded around them and carried them away. She had not followed.

For a long while she remained where she was, expecting the familiar lurch of transit to claim her as well. The manor behind her was still. The winter air lay heavy and unmoving. No gnomes emerged. No mechanisms hummed. No return.

Only silence.

Confusion gave way to unease. She studied her hands, her armor, the familiar weight of her body. Everything felt… correct. And yet something was wrong. She could not name it, only feel it like a faint pressure behind the eyes, as though reality itself had hesitated when it passed her by.

After a time, she accepted what the stillness was telling her.

They were not coming back.

Arcadia removed a strip of parchment from her satchel and wrote a brief note, her script steady despite the strange hollow forming in her chest.

The others vanished from the platform. I remain. I do not know why. I am returning to the guild to report this anomaly. She secured the note where it would be found, then stepped down from the gazebo and began the long walk back—alone, carrying questions she did not yet know how to ask, and an absence she could not explain.

Serraine

Jasmine, our gnomish guide, informed us that she would escort us to the library so that we might consult with the head librarian regarding our unusual circumstances. There was a brisk efficiency to her manner, as though even the strange had long since become routine in her world. The library itself was a marvel—an immense eight-storied structure of stone, glass, and delicate mechanical filigree. It rose above the surrounding buildings like a monument to ordered knowledge. At the entrance, Argus and Arcadia were required to leave their various companions behind, though, to my quiet amusement, Happy was granted entry without hesitation. I could not help but feel grateful for that small mercy.

We were led inside and upward through the towering interior. Along the way we passed other librarians, many of whom wore small dragons upon their shoulders. These creatures—Jasmine called them Scribblings—served as living aides, fluttering from shelf to shelf and whispering to their keepers. One of them noticed Happy at once, and the two fell into what I can only describe as an enthusiastic conversation of chirps, trills, and flicks of wings. Whatever they discussed, both seemed greatly pleased by it.

At the upper levels, the ceiling gave way to glass, and through it we beheld a breath taking view of the city spread out below us. From that height, streets and towers became lines and shapes, like a map drawn by the hand of the world itself.

Jasmine guided us to a discreet door and then, somewhat to my surprise, up yet another flight of stairs beyond it. We emerged onto a vast open floor dominated by an enormous orrery—a complex, rotating model of the heavens. Spheres of metal and crystal turned in precise harmony, tracing the paths of distant worlds.

There we were greeted by Malakai, assistant to the head librarian.

And, as Jasmine explained with admirable calm, a lich.

He welcomed us with unabashed enthusiasm, clearly delighted to have an audience. With sweeping gestures, he demonstrated the motion of the orrery, eventually drawing our attention to a particular world—an unfamiliar green planet that glimmered softly among the others. “This,” he told us, “is the object of interest.”

They wished us to explore it. Yet, despite all their knowledge and mechanisms, they lacked any means to transport us there themselves. Still, Malakai was far from discouraged. They had, he explained, an ally capable of providing the passage we required. That ally, we were informed, was already waiting for us.

In the Hanging Gardens.

Lo Yang

Jasmine led us to what she called the sky-tram—a great glass bubble fitted with seats and suspended from a single cable high above the streets. The moment we stepped inside, I felt an uncomfortable lightness in my stomach. With a jolt and a sway, the tram carried us out over the city, gliding from tower to tower, lurching sharply at each turn.

I will confess here: I did not enjoy it.

The world seemed far too distant beneath my feet, and every swing set my balance to rights again. Hrothgar, Kaitva, and Argus, however, appeared to relish the experience, leaning into each shift of motion as though it were some manner of game. By the time we reached our stop—Hanging Gardens—several among us were decidedly unsteady. It was a short walk from the library, though I was grateful to have solid ground beneath me once more.

The gardens themselves were unlike anything I had ever seen.

Vines floated in the air as though gravity had forgotten them. Blossoms drifted gently between suspended walkways. There were no trees rooted in soil, save for one: a single cherry tree growing from the earth, its pale petals falling in slow, deliberate spirals. Beneath it sat an elderly man, a tea set laid neatly before him.

As we passed the gardeners tending the impossible greenery, I heard them muttering among themselves. More than one insisted that the cherry tree had not been there yesterday. That alone set my thoughts quietly churning.

Kaitva leaned close and whispered, with unusual intensity, that the man was an ancient dragon—an avatar wearing mortal form. The old man rose with unhurried grace and introduced himself as Yo Lang. His voice was calm, his eyes kind, and the air around him felt… steady, as though the world itself had chosen to pause and listen.

He invited us to tea.

From a single teapot, he poured each of us a different brew—distinct in color, scent, and warmth. I was utterly captivated. I have worked water magic all my life, shaping currents and coaxing flow, yet what he performed was something beyond technique. It was art. As we drank, Yo Lang spoke of Malakai and the task set before us. The conventional elven ways, he explained, did not reach our destination. There was, however, another route.

“The Fey paths,” he said softly, his gaze resting on me in particular.

From within his robes, he produced a set of crystal eggs, placing them carefully into our hands. Should we encounter broken elven ways, he instructed us to plant the eggs there. From them would grow small crystal spiders—delicate things that would begin the slow work of repairing the damaged roads between realms.

He also gifted us a set of rings, each attuned to the others. They would help keep us together upon the path, anchor us to the road, and quietly measure the strength of our life force. I felt their magic immediately—subtle, watchful, protective.

When Yo Lang examined the mechanical device Hrothgar wore upon his wrist, he smiled faintly and made several precise adjustments before returning it. “This will serve you better now,” he said simply.

He could not send us directly to the world we sought. But once more, his eyes found mine.

“The Fey ways will answer you,” he said. “If you are willing to walk them.”

We were to be transported to Aquilia, a place where the Fey paths ran strong and true—where the veil between worlds was thin, and where our true journey would begin.

Another strange journey

We were taken back to the Skunk Works, into a control chamber dense with whirring machinery and humming crystal arrays. At its centre stood a vast ring, taller than any of us—smooth, ancient in design, yet fitted with modern mechanisms that bit into its surface like careful surgical tools.

Around the chamber were rows of desks crowded with levers, dials, and ticking instruments. Gnomes hurried between them with barely contained excitement, calling out readings, adjusting calibrations, and flipping switches in rapid succession. Each action triggered soft chimes and blinking lights, most of them glowing a reassuring green.

I could feel power gathering—like water building behind a dam.

Elderan frowned slightly, observing their procedures with a scholar’s eye. “Curious,” he murmured, “that they engage the safety protocols last.”

I might have shared his concern, had there been time to speak.

With a rising thrum, the interior of the ring shimmered. What had been empty air thickened, darkened, and then resolved into a rippling, liquid surface, like a vertical pool of deep water held in place by invisible hands. The air grew cool and charged, prickling against my skin.

Before questions could be asked—or caution fully formed—we were urged forward.

“Go, go!” one of the gnomes called, gesturing urgently.

Trusting in the craft, the currents of magic, and one another, we stepped through.

For an instant, the world became pressure and motion, as though I were being poured through a narrow channel between realities. Then the sensation released.

We emerged from the gate onto a small rise of land in the open wilderness. The air was still, the light ordinary, the world seemingly untouched by the impossible journey we had just taken.

I knelt and began the ritual.

Water has always answered me—not as a servant, but as a companion—so tracing the fey runes was unsettling. Mist gathered at my hands, thickening, folding in upon itself, until it formed a pale, fogging drifting archway. The boundary to the Fey realms stood before us, quiet and waiting.

I rose, steadying myself.

“This way,” I said, and stepped through.

Descent to the Fey realms

On the other side, we found ourselves upon a road I knew intimately.

It was the path near my farm—same bends, same hedgerows, same distant line of hills. For a moment, I wondered if the ritual had failed. But as we walked, the world began to… shift. Subtle at first: the colour of the grass too rich, the air too bright, the shadows falling at unfamiliar angles. Then more overtly—trees whose bark shimmered faintly, stones that seemed to rearrange themselves when not directly observed, the horizon stretching and compressing like breath.

The road remained beneath our feet, yet it was no longer truly mine.

Time lost its meaning. We did not tire. Hunger never came. It felt as though we were walking through a memory of a place rather than the place itself—familiar, yet unmoored.

Eventually, we came upon a small figure seated in the middle of the road.

A pixie.

She sat beneath a delicate wooden arch that spanned the path, a rose vine winding across its top, blossoms opening and closing as though in silent conversation with the air. She regarded us with bright, knowing eyes and informed us, in a voice light as chimes, that passage required a trifle from each of us.

No threats. No raised voice. Simply a rule of the road.

One by one, we offered what we carried: a ring, a biscuit, small tokens of our ordinary world. Each was accepted with solemn care, as though these modest things held meanings we could not yet perceive.

Some time later, the countryside softened into light woodland. The road narrowed, trees leaning close as though listening to our passage. Dappled sunlight filtered through pale leaves, and the air carried the cool scent of moss and distant water.

Fox Hunt

Without warning, a fox burst from the undergrowth ahead of us, its sides heaving, eyes wide with fear. It skidded to a halt before our boots and, in a voice thin but urgent, begged us to hide it.

Kaitva did not hesitate. She unshouldered her pack and opened it wide. The fox sprang inside at once, circling once before settling as though it had always belonged there. She closed the flap gently, and without a word we resumed our walk.

We had taken only a few steps when the forest trembled.

From behind us came the thunder of pursuit—massive hounds, each towering over even the dwarves, their breath steaming as they bounded through the trees. Behind them rode two figures of unmistakable presence.

One was a woman of striking beauty astride a unicorn, her bearing cold and commanding. The other was a knight clad in what appeared to be armour of polished glass, mounted upon a ferocious black horse whose hooves struck the earth like hammer blows. They reined in before us.

Though all of us stood plainly in their path, their eyes passed over most of the party as though we were no more than baggage. They addressed only Elderan and Lady Arcadia—the elves—speaking sharply, demanding to know where the “foul creature” they hunted had gone. I felt the current of the moment shift, like water before a storm.

With as much calm as I could summon, I spoke. I assured them that we had seen no such “foul creature’ pass along this road. The knight stated as me with a withering intensity, and after a moment’s consideration, then turned his glassy helm toward the lady upon the unicorn he gave a short nod.

“He does not lie,” he said.

The riders wheeled their mounts and drove their hounds onward, the forest parting before them as though compelled by their will. In moments, the thunder of pursuit faded into the distance.

Only then did I allow myself to breathe.

The road remained before us, quiet once more—but I knew, as all who walk the Fey ways must know, that we had just passed between forces older and more dangerous than we could yet fully comprehend.

And in Kaitva’s pack, something small and grateful was still very much alive. The head of an goblin poked its head out and Kaitva sent it on its way.

Court

We walked on.

How long, I cannot say. The Fey paths do not measure time in any way a sensible mind can follow. It may have been minutes. It may have been hours. We did not tire, nor did hunger trouble us. The forest simply… continued, shifting in color and shape as though the world itself were thinking aloud.

At last, the trees thinned and the path opened into a clearing.

There, arranged with curious formality, stood a court.

At its centre was a high desk fashioned from pale wood and living vines, behind which sat a single fairy, small in stature yet commanding in presence. Before it were benches upon which a variety of other fair folk had gathered—wings folded, eyes bright, expressions solemn in a way only the Fey can manage.

Every gaze turned toward us as we approached.

A stern-looking fairy rose and announced, with absolute certainty, that we were just in time for our trial.

None of us had the faintest idea what she meant.

The charges were then read.

Against me, it was alleged that I had attempted to leave early—from where, I could not say—and that I had further compounded this offense by attempting to bribe the court with biscuits. I will admit to carrying biscuits. I will not admit to bribery.

Hrothgar was accused of forgetting a promise that he had very nearly made.

Argus was charged with plucking a flower before it had chosen its name.

Elderan was said to have frightened a beetle in the midst of a thought—a most grievous crime, apparently.

And Kaitva… Kaitva was accused of enjoying the proceedings rather more than was appropriate.

We stood in utter bewilderment, attempting to comprehend laws that bore no resemblance to reason as mortals understand it. When asked to respond, our explanations only seemed to deepen the court’s interest.

In the end, all of us were found guilty.

Mercifully, the punishments were light. Each offense was to be answered with a formal apology—to the court, to the offended concepts, and, in one case, to the beetle in question. We complied, offering our regrets as sincerely as one can when apologizing for crimes one does not remember committing.

With that, the trial was concluded. The fairies returned to their seats, the tension evaporated as though it had never existed, and we were permitted to depart without further consequence.

As we left the clearing, I reflected that Fey justice is not cruel in the way of tyrants, nor fair in the way of laws.

It is something else entirely.

Capricious. Precise. And bound to a logic that flows in currents only they can see.

I resolved, from that moment onward, to keep my biscuits close—and my expectations of reason even closer.

Forest Warden

We walked on again.

How many hours passed, I cannot say. The road continued to unspool beneath our feet without fatigue or hunger to mark its passing. Eventually, the character of the land shifted. The light dimmed, the trees grew closer and darker, and the Fey road led us into a shadowed wood where the air felt heavy with quiet expectation.

Along the path stood a series of tall lamp posts, unlit and cold.

A lone figure moved among them—a human, or something that wore the shape of one. He introduced himself as the forest warden, explaining that he was attempting to light the lamps. Kaitva, ever practical, stepped forward to assist him.

The warden produced a small book, its pages thin and strangely dark, and began to study us one by one.

Then his gaze fixed upon Arcadia.

He asked her, calmly, as though posing a riddle rather than a tragedy: if she were to arrive at an accident involving her spouse—who would likely die—and their lover, which of them would she save?

Arcadia answered without hesitation: she would save the lover.

The warden nodded once and wrote something in his book.

Next, he turned to Argus. If Argus were in a coastal cave, he asked, and a guide were trapped while the tide rose—what would he do? Argus replied as only Argus could: he would summon golems to free the guide.

At this, the warden’s expression tightened. His fingers paused mid-stroke, and I sensed a flicker of agitation pass through him, though he said nothing.

Then his eyes came to me.

“If there were a sinking ship,” he asked, “filled with people—children among them—and too few rowboats for escape, what would you do?” For a water mage, the answer was simple. I told him I would repair what damage I could to the vessel, and if that failed, I would grant water-breathing and water-walking to every soul aboard, ensuring that none would be lost to the sea. The warden stared at me.

Then, with a sharp motion, he snapped his book shut.

“That is not correct,” he muttered. “You are not doing it properly. None of you are doing it properly.”

He turned away from us, pacing back into the darkness between the trees, his voice fading into irritated whispers as he vanished among the unlit lamps.

We stood in silence for a long moment after he was gone.

Whatever trial he had been conducting, we had clearly failed it.

And yet the road remained open before us.

I could not help but feel that, in the Fey realms, being right is often far less important than being correct.

Unexpected Help

We pressed deeper into the dark forest, still unsettled by our encounter with the Warden and by the unnatural silence that followed it. Even the birds had vanished. The road remained beneath our feet, but the world around it felt thin, as though reality itself were holding its breath.

The path led us across a narrow bridge. On the riverbank below sat a solitary figure, human in appearance, quietly fishing.

Kaitva studied him for only a moment before murmuring that he was human—yet possessed the power to reshape reality itself.

We did not linger.

The road carried us onward until we entered a broad field where a massive, broken statue lay toppled beside the path. Time and weather had worn it, but the face was unmistakable.

It was Elderan.

He stared at it in disbelief and swore he had never set foot in this place before. I believed him. Yet the stone likeness lay there all the same, as though this road knew a future not yet written.

We continued in uneasy silence.

As twilight began to fall, the road curved once more toward a bridge.

And there, on the riverbank below, sat the same fisherman.

This time, we stopped.

He looked up with a calm, unguarded expression and introduced himself simply as Cal. He claimed to be an adventurer and explained that he was fishing because he was hungry. There was no guile in his voice—only a quiet honesty that felt almost out of place after all we had encountered.

We offered to share our food. Argus produced one of his ingenious miniaturised roasts—a whole boar reduced to the size of a travel ration. Cal smiled faintly.

With a casual wave of his hand, the world shifted.

Where moments before there had been only grass and fading light, a clear path unfolded, leading to a small picnic clearing that had not existed until he decided it should. For a heartbeat, none of us moved.

Then, still somewhat stunned, we followed.

We unpacked our provisions and ate together. Though we had not felt hunger along the Fey road, the moment food touched our lips, we realized how famished we truly were. The meal tasted richer than any I can remember, as though sustenance itself had meaning here. As we ate, we told Cal of our journey—of the Fey paths, the trials, the broken roads, and the world that lay beyond our reach. He listened without interruption, eyes thoughtful, as though weighing each word against truths we could not yet see.

At last, he spoke.

“Where you are going,” he said quietly, “is out of phase with the world you know.”

He explained that he could help us reach it—but that the journey would be dangerous in ways not measured by distance or time.

When we rose to depart, Argus pressed another miniaturised boar into Cal’s hands, insisting he keep it for later. Cal accepted it with a small nod, as though accepting something far more significant than food.

We stepped back onto the road, the fading light stretching long shadows before us.

Deadly paths

Cal led us back across the bridge and along the winding path until we came upon something that had no right to exist there at all. A door.

It stood alone in the middle of the road, upright and intact, with nothing on either side of it—no wall, no frame, no structure of any kind. Just a door, waiting.

Cal opened it.

Beyond lay a corridor, softly lit, its floor covered in a mossy carpet and its walls painted with murals of forests I did not recognize—trees too tall, leaves too sharp, shadows too deliberate. We stepped inside, and the door closed behind us without a sound. We passed many other doors along that corridor. Some were simple, others ornate, some sealed tight as stone. At last, Cal stopped before a heavy, solid door fitted with a wheel like the hatch of a ship. He turned it with measured care, the mechanism groaning as though resisting our passage.

When the door opened, night rushed in.

We stood beneath a star-filled sky—yet Arcadia, who knows the heavens as others know roads, quietly told us she recognized none of the constellations. An ominous red light bathed the land, casting long, distorted shadows across a vast sandy plain. In the distance rose a stepped pyramid, impossibly large—at least a thousand feet wide at its base. Even from where we stood, it radiated something profoundly wrong, like a wound in the shape of a monument.

Cal produced an antique stopwatch, its casing worn smooth with age. He studied it briefly, then looked up.

“We have two hours,” he said. “We must be gone before then.”

No threats followed. None were needed. A deep, instinctive dread settled over us all.

We set out toward the pyramid.

As we drew closer, its true horror revealed itself. The structure was encircled by multiple rings of sharpened stakes, upon which bodies were impaled. They were dead—clearly so—but the nearer we came, the more they began to move. Fingers twitched. Heads lifted. Empty eyes followed our approach.

To reach the pyramid, we would have to pass through them.

And when we did, I knew they would not remain dead.

Argus, bless his relentless ingenuity, spared us the worst of it. From his pack he produced a large carpet and activated its enchantment, lifting most of us into the air. Arcadia and Elderan unfurled their wings and took to the sky with practiced ease.

As we passed over the stakes, I felt the air grow thick with malice. Below us, the bodies strained upward, their movements sharpening, as though proximity alone was feeding whatever cursed animation bound them.

Arcadia touched down upon the pyramid first.

The moment her feet met the stone, I saw the magic tear away from her—drained utterly in an instant. She staggered only slightly. Even without her power, she is a master of flight and balance, and she stood unharmed.

We followed, landing beside the pyramid, and began the ascent.

The steps were massive, carved for beings far larger than ourselves, and every stride burned in my legs. The red light pressed down upon us like weight. At the first great tier, Cal guided us around the perimeter until we reached the broken stump of what had once been a tower. Set into the stone there was another door.

I have never been so grateful for the sight of one.

Without hesitation, we passed through it, leaving behind the pyramid, the impaled dead, and whatever dreadful clock was counting down our remaining time in that place

Ghosts

We descended once more—down a narrow metal staircase, past door after door, until at last Cal led us through a solid oak door worn smooth by untold years.

On the other side, we emerged into a shallow valley shrouded in a dim, colorless light. Pale figures drifted through it: ghostly mourners moving in silence along a winding path. They did not acknowledge us, yet their presence carried a weight that pressed upon the soul. We followed at a respectful distance, careful not to disturb them.

When the valley forked, the spirits took one path and vanished from sight. We continued along the other until we reached the base of a tall, narrow tower guarded by spectral sentinels.

They halted us.

We were required to prove that we were not spirits ourselves. So we breathed into the cold air, let them hear our heartbeats, feel the warmth of living bodies. Only then were we permitted to pass. We climbed the tower and emerged onto the land above the valley, where a crystalline roadway stretched onward into the dim distance.

We followed that path for what felt like hours.

Lost Elves

At last, the ruins of an elven city came into view.

The sight was both beautiful and terrible. Buildings lay cracked and collapsing, their once-elegant lines worn down by ages of abandonment. And yet, defying all reason, portions of the city remained suspended in midair—arches, towers, and fragments of halls floating without support, as though reality itself had forgotten to let them fall.

From among the ruins, a figure watched us.

When we called out, he stepped into view: an elf of emaciated bearing, his skin a deep, unnatural violet, his features aged yet sharp with ancient discipline. He addressed only Arcadia and Elderan, speaking in a tongue heavy with history and bitterness. What followed was halting, confused conversation, but in time we understood.

He and those with him were soldiers of an elven civil war that had ended tens of thousands of years ago. They had fled the destruction of Hiroo and hidden themselves here, only to find that the elven ways had collapsed behind them. To them, only weeks—or perhaps months—had passed.

In truth, they had been trapped here for lifetimes.

We were brought to others: warriors and survivors alike, all wounded in spirit if not in body. They spoke proudly of their history and confusion at what we world we described. They had once sought the extermination of all who were not elven, and even now, broken and lost, that belief had not wholly faded.

Then panic erupted.

One of the elves ran toward us in terror, shouting for help—only to stop short, confusion overtaking his face. In an instant, whatever had driven him was gone. His memories had been torn away.

We followed the direction he had come from.

Through the crumbling streets we found a body—an elf, freshly slain. And beyond it, some sixty feet away, we beheld a horror: a massive, slug-like creature with enormous teeth and hooked claws, its bulk rippling with alien muscle.

The creature inhaled.

The very air rushed toward it, dragging dust and sand in a violent current. It commanded the wind itself.

I summoned fog, thick and rolling, cloaking us from its sight. Within that shroud, we struck with spell, though much of our magic slid from it like water from stone. Kaitva cried out that there was another presence to the south—only to forget the figure from the north, her memory torn away. With horror we realised the circumstances the elves were under, they would forget the creatures the moment they turned away from them.

The battle was chaos.

Arcadia, drawing upon a powerful artifact, engulfed one of the creatures in roaring flame, burning it down to nothing. Argus unleashed his golems upon the second, their relentless assault finally tearing it apart—though not before it blasted us with a storm of sand and force.

When silence returned, it felt… wrong.

The elves had watched from the ruins, hollow-eyed. These creatures had hunted them for ages, feeding upon their minds, leaving them fractured and fading. They were not merely prisoners here—they were prey.

We did what little we could.

From his pack, Argus took the crystal seed Yo Lang had given us and planted it into the damaged crystal road. At once, a tiny crystal spider emerged and began its slow, patient work of repair. It would take time—perhaps more time than these elves had left.

There was nothing else we could offer. If we remained, we too would begin to lose ourselves.

With heavy hearts, we turned away and continued along the path. At its end stood an archway, quiet and waiting.

We stepped through.

And behind us, in that broken city of floating stone and fading memory, a people from a forgotten age were left to their long, sorrowful vigil—still at war with a world that no longer knew they existed.

Arrival

We emerged onto a desolate plain beneath a cold, star-filled sky. The air was thin, empty, as though the world itself had been hollowed out. I had the unsettling sense that we stood not merely far from home, but in some outer margin of existence—what I can only describe as the outer darkness.

Not far from where we arrived stood a solitary monolith, carved with strange seals that hummed faintly beneath my senses. In the distance, perhaps a mile away, lights glimmered from a small settlement. With no other guidance before us, we turned toward it. We were met at the village’s edge by two guards clad in dark, scale-like armor. Their faces were hidden behind porcelain masks, smooth and expressionless. They addressed only Arcadia and Elderan, demanding to know why they had come when no inspection had been scheduled—and why they had brought slaves with them.

The word struck me like a blow.

Elderan, without missing a breath, claimed that this was a secret inspection, and that the rest of us were his assistants. After a tense pause, the guards accepted his explanation and allowed us entry.

The village was built of low adobe structures. One building, larger than the rest, was draped entirely in what appeared to be white cloth. Strangest of all, every elf we passed was wrapped in heavy garments that concealed their forms, and each wore a porcelain mask. Even in this barren place, they seemed determined to hide themselves from the world—and perhaps from one another.

We were brought before their leader, Magister Krell.

She spoke of “resisting the void” and “preserving purity,” welcoming us to observe their sacred litanies. As she spoke, Kaitva quietly pointed out something that made my blood run cold: from beneath the hem of Krell’s robe protruded a single clawed foot, warped and inhuman, bearing the unmistakable aura of a void spider.

We attended their ceremony.

Children were brought forward and examined for “purity.” Those who were deemed acceptable were gifted with porcelain masks. One young girl failed the test. Where her leg should have been, there was only the chitinous limb of a spider. Without ceremony, she was taken away to the building shrouded in white.

I felt something twist painfully in my chest.

As the ritual continued, I saw more of what they sought so desperately to hide: bulges beneath robes, unnatural joints, glimmers of chitin beneath skin. Every one of them bore some mark of corruption—spider traits they concealed in the name of “purity.”

We requested access to their records under the pretence of official review. We were escorted to an administrative building lined with shelves of meticulously maintained documents. It was there that the Void Sun began to rise.

At once, the village emptied as its people fled indoors. Through narrow windows, I glimpsed its light—sickly, wrong. I felt its presence even through stone, not merely burning but corrupting, gnawing at the flesh and spirit alike.

For hours we studied the records. By the time Hrothgar’s bracelet pulsed—signalling that the gnomes had finally located us—we had pieced together the terrible truth of this world: • The people here had been cursed over ten thousand years ago. • All suffered corruption from the Void Sun. • Their ancient enemies, the Calimar, had once dwelled upon a moon that was shattered and became a comet, returning to this world only every few decades. • To survive the void’s corruption, the elves had fused themselves with other beings: one faction with Void Spiders, the other with the Calimar. Each believed itself the “true” and pure elven lineage. • These two factions had warred endlessly, each claiming moral and racial superiority over the other. • Dwarves still lived beneath the surface, emerging only in thick, layered armour to protect themselves from the corruption. • This village lay at the very edge of habitation—a fragile settlement on a world slowly devouring its own people.

But my thoughts returned again and again to the child.

Once the Void Sun had set, we made our way to the white-draped building. As we drew near, dread coiled in my stomach: the “cloth” was not cloth at all.

It was webbing.

Inside, a vast cocoon of silk dominated the chamber. From its centre protruded an enormous void-spider limb. Certain now of the girl’s fate, I demanded to know what had become of her. A guard directed us to a smaller shape bound in web along the wall.

I rushed forward, cutting at the silk with shaking hands—until spears were levelled at my chest.

For a moment, I thought we were too late.

Then Elderan, calm where I was not, stated simply that we would be taking the child with us.

The webbed figure was taken.

She was alive.

We offered no explanations. We gave no further courtesy. We left that village behind, carrying the child with us into the darkness. Several miles from the settlement, Hrothgar activated his beacon. Roughly half an hour later, the sky split with motion as a flying vessel descended—its silhouette unmistakable: a spider-shaped ship.

Escape

A beautiful, winged elf pilot, Valmirami, called for us to board. She told us that Yo Lang’s brother waited in orbit. The ship climbed higher than I had ever known the sky could go, until the world below became nothing but shadow and stars. We landed upon something vast and living: a colossal dragon named Damuzi, upon whose back an entire city had been built. The days that followed passed in a blur. We were guided through that magnificent city, tended by healers of extraordinary power. They examined us carefully—and more importantly, they began the long work of repairing the corruption within the child’s body. When at last we were declared safe to travel, we were returned by portal to the Serraine, where the child would recover, and from there back to the familiar gazebo in Seagate.

I am grateful to be home.

Yet I cannot forget that world.

A people who speak endlessly of purity while their bodies twist and break. Children judged by how well they can hide their suffering. A sun that does not merely burn, but unmakes.

And one small life we carried away from it.

If nothing else came of that terrible journey, that alone was worth the price.

Report to Serraine

Field Report The World of the Void Sun
Submitted by Remel of Seagate, Mage of Water
Commissioned by Serraine Council

Location & Access

We reached the target world via the Fey paths, guided by an entity known as Cal. Direct planar access is unstable; the destination exists  partially “out of phase” with conventional routes. Return was achieved through gnomish extraction following beacon activation which now provides Serraine access to the world.

Primary Astronomical Phenomenon: The Void Sun

The dominant stellar body emits a destructive and corruptive influence that alters living matter. Exposure results in progressive mutation and loss of bodily integrity. Surface habitation during the Void Sun’s rise is impossible without shelter or protective measures.

Population & Condition

The inhabitants are predominantly elves, cursed approximately 10,000 years ago. All show varying degrees of physical corruption. Cultural practices centre on concealment of these mutations through heavy clothing and porcelain masks. Despite this, many exhibit visible traits associated with Void Spider morphology.

The society is xenophobic and racially supremacist. Non-elves are viewed as inferior; visiting parties were initially classified as “slaves.” Their ideology fixates on “purity,” though their own bodies are heavily compromised.

Children are evaluated for “purity.” Those deemed acceptable are ritually masked; those judged excessively corrupted are removed. We confirmed that such children are not immediately killed, but are instead fed to the void spiders.

Historical Context

Records confirm a catastrophic conflict against the Calimar that has evolved into elven civil conflict. Two principal survival factions emerged:
•	Void Spider Faction: Elves bonded with void-born arachnid entities to endure corruption.
•	Calimar Faction: Elves bonded with Calimar beings (formerly moon-dwellers) to endure the corruption. 

Their moon was shattered and now returns as a comet on a long cycle, the Calimar, enemy of both factions, still reside there.  

These factions continue a war of identity and legitimacy, each claiming to represent the “true” elves.

Dwarves are also present on the world, surviving underground. When surfacing, they wear thick, layered armour to resist environmental corruption.

Assessment

The world is in advanced existential decline. Its inhabitants survive through ideological denial and biological compromise. The Void Sun represents an ongoing, corruptive force rather than a single catastrophic event. Social structures is horrific, conflict and a twisted ideology that causes untold suffering.  

Final Note

Though the mission was reconnaissance in nature, we extracted one child for treatment. Their survival suggests that Void corruption is not absolute if addressed beyond the world’s influence.
 
Respectfully submitted,
Remel of Seagate
Mage of Water, Expedition Lead

General Buff Notes

Buffs listed in the table don't need to be detailed, other buffs not on the table must be mentioned at the time they are cast.
Y means always on, N/- means never on, 'Sit.' means when the party has time for buffs before a fight.
Weapon Spells which weapon/s it is going on normally should be noted also

Long duration buffs

Magic	Rk	Effects	Dur	?	?	?	?	?	?	?
Name (??)	##	????	# Day	?	?	?	?	?	?	?
Name (??)	##	????	# Hours	?	?	?	?	?	?	?
Name (??)	##	????	? Hours	?	?	?	?	?	?	?

Short duration buffs

Magic	Rk	Effects	Dur	?	?	?	?	?	?	?
Name ???	??	????	? Mins	?	?	?	?	?	?	?
Name ???	??	????	? Mins	?	?	?	?	?	?	?
Name ???	??	????	? Mins	?	?	?	?	?	?	?

Calendar

‘’Insert correct month here’’