Zarantyr 23-Olarune 8, 998 YK
The Dreamer Eater
In the subterranean recesses of Eberron’s clandestine labyrinth, a clandestine missive summoned the enigmatic Pankratz and Alorin, timely conspirators converging upon the subversive gathering in the basement. Veiled in shadows and intrigue, the group encountered an insidious entity, a Dream Eater, an ethereal adversary that transcended the realms of consciousness.
In the cryptic ballet of combat, Elros, an arbiter of the crossbow, delivered a 5-point overture, punctuating the discord with Alorin’s archery and Sal‘s visceral melee maneuvers. Ziago, a phantom dagger-wielder, added his ephemeral notes to the symphony of strife. Yet, the Dream Eater, an astral antagonist, exacted its toll, culminating in the near demise of Dalavash. The psychic resonance of the Dream Eater’s assault instilled terror in all but a select few – Pankratz, Ziago, and the mortally compromised Dalavash, teetering on the precipice of oblivion.
Amidst the pandemonium, attempts to stabilize Dalavash floundered, the absence of a healer’s kit resonating as a poignant reminder of vulnerability in the unpredictable theater of clandestine engagements. Ultimately, Pankratz, wielding a short sword as his quill, etched the final stanza of the Dream Eater’s spectral requiem.
The aftermath unveiled a chest of enigmatic allure, ensnared by latent peril. Pankratz, the discerning conspirator, detected the trap, prompting a collective retreat. Alorin, a virtuoso of evasion, orchestrated a stratagem to unveil the chest’s secrets from a safe distance, thwarting the trap’s symphony of deadly darts.
The Khyber Dragonshard
Within the chest’s clandestine confines lay a Khyber Dragonshard, a crystalline enigma resonating with latent power. Adjacent, a tome entitled “Lore of the Creator Dragons” emerged, a cryptic codex beckoning the party further into the labyrinthine mysteries of Eberron, where shadows and secrets waltz in perpetual synchronicity.
In the enigmatic aftermath of the subterranean skirmish, the disparate cohort sought refuge in the solace of a quaint inn, their wounds and weariness attended to by the tender mercies of respite. Zarantyr 24th unfolded, a date etched with potential revelations, as Dalavash clandestinely informed his contact, Ryran, of the cryptic occurrences in the basement. Wisely, she shuttered her establishment, spirit and wares spirited elsewhere.
Clues from Sage Matreous
Guided by an insatiable curiosity pulsating like a hidden heartbeat, the party revisited the university library. Sage Matreous, the keeper of tomes, welcomed their return with an eager countenance. Amidst the dusty volumes, he unraveled a peculiar tapestry of intrigue. Pictures emerged, frozen in time, capturing the elusive Freyot and Fistandia, absent from the mortal gaze for a span of nine months. Accompanying the imagery, a lightning rail ticket to Hatherill and a key, recognized by Pankratz as the telltale emblem of rail station lockers.
The sage, a puppeteer of information, orchestrated a rehiring of the motley crew, compensation resting at the modest bounty of one gold piece per day, plus the necessary leeway for travel expenses.
The Lightning Rail Locker
Post-librarian parley, the group, guided by an unfolding narrative, sauntered toward the lightning rail station. Pankratz, ever vigilant, discerned no ominous forewarnings, unlocking the locker with the enigmatic key. A seemingly innocent tome, “Mazfroth’s Mighty Digressions,” concealed its true nature, shape-shifting into a malevolent globe monster that lunged at Dalavash, threatening to extinguish the fragile ember of his life.
The party, thrown into disarray, rallied against this eldritch assailant. Elros, a weaver of arcane incantations, cast magic missiles in a dazzling display. Ziago, a spectral guardian clad in Mage Armor, fortified himself. Sal, a soul carrying burdens untold, administered a healing potion to Dalavash, snatching him from the jaws of oblivion. Pankratz, a silent specter of lethal finesse, unleashed a sneak attack with his bow. Dalavash, wounded, summoned the tolling of the dead, dissipating the maleficent globe into the ephemeral void, leaving behind a hauntingly vacant locker and the absence of the once-tangible tome.
In the wake of spectral combat, pragmatism prevailed. The party, custodians of the Khyber Dragonshard, clandestinely stowed their newfound enigma within the confines of the locker, a temporal sanctuary. Before embarking on the lead to Hatheril, the collective resolved to indulge in the fleeting luxury of downtime.
Two Weeks of Downtime
Amidst the interlude, Elros, a seeker of selfhood, delved into the clandestine whispers of his origin, yearning to untangle the enigmatic strands of his lineage and the elusive Dragonmark etched upon his flesh.
Sal, the balladeer of sorrows, unfurled his past in a melancholic serenade, a haunting melody echoing through the tapestry of their collective fate. The night unfolded, a canvas painted with the hues of secrets, as the party stood at the crossroads of revelation and the ceaseless dance of shadows.
(Verse 1)
In the shadows of Dava Gate, where secrets dwell,
I met Dharyarth, an artificer, tales to tell.
A dark elf healer with methods arcane,
Promising salvation from the grips of pain.(Pre-Chorus)
He saw the hell that the mist brought my way,
A medical marvel, or so he’d say.
Offering a cure, a dubious decree,
I wonder if my corpse is currency.(Chorus)
Sal’s interlude, a dance with dark machines,
Needles pierce, like shattered dreams.
Injections of hope, a painful balm,
I keep praying for a dawn, a soothing calm.(Verse 2)
His fascination with my suffering plight,
A medical miracle, in the waning night.
Quinn, back home, a healer’s gentle touch,
Dharyarth’s artifice, it hurts so much.(Pre-Chorus)
Injections, elixirs, his methods stark,
A twisted alchemy in the shadowed dark.
Pills to stave the freak, the creeping dread,
A prayer for the day, my torment is shed.(Chorus)
Sal’s interlude, a dance with dark machines,
Needles pierce, like shattered dreams.
Injections of hope, a painful balm,
I keep praying for a dawn, a soothing calm.(Bridge)
I clutch the bottle, a beacon in despair,
Yearning for release from this daily affair.
The coins he’d pay for my lifeless frame,
A macabre promise, a sinister game.(Verse 3)
I dream of a day when the needles cease,
When the pain subsides, and I find release.
A distant hope, a flicker in the gloom,
I keep praying for the impending boon.(Pre-Chorus)
His artifice, a twisted remedy,
A dance with darkness, a symphony.
But in the echoes of shadows and pain,
I yearn for the light, for freedom’s reign.(Chorus)
Sal’s interlude, a dance with dark machines,
Needles pierce, like shattered dreams.
Injections of hope, a painful balm,
I keep praying for a dawn, a soothing calm.(Outro)
As I leave Dava Gate, a silhouette in the night,
I carry the echoes of the interlude’s bite.
A prayer on my lips, a whispered plea,
For a day when Sal’s interlude is finally free.
Within the tapestry of downtime, the party found solace in individual pursuits, each thread woven with tales of triumph and tribulation.
Alorin, the elusive archer, found himself entangled in the gritty embrace of the pit fights. With nimble prowess, he engaged in a brutal ballet, pitting his skills against the formidable troll, Balrog — the local champion. In a spectacle of dexterity and marksmanship, Alorin emerged victorious, leaving Balrog’s record tarnished at 24 wins and 1 defeat.
Ziago, a master of shadow and craft, immersed himself in the arcane art of scrollcrafting. Five scrolls of Mage Armor materialized under his deft hands, each imbued with a spectral shield of protection. Amidst the weaving of magical glyphs, his ‘work’ manifested in the mundane realm as he ascended precarious heights, washing windows with silent efficiency.
Dalavash, a bard with a taste for the illicit, ventured into the realm of crime alongside Boromar. The endeavor, however, proved less than successful, compelling him to seek financial reprieve from Elros. A loan, a transaction with implications yet unknown, forged in the shadows of both necessity and consequence.
Pankratz, the shadowy figure adept at the dance of subterfuge, embarked on a treasure hunt of his own. In the labyrinthine recesses of hidden lore, he uncovered a potion of greater healing—a tangible boon amidst the nebulous uncertainties that surrounded the party.
As the echoes of individual endeavors resonated through the tapestry of their collective downtime, the party stood at the crossroads of convergence, their fates intertwined by the common thread of enigma and destiny. The fleeting moments of respite unfurled, a prelude to the next crescendo of their journey through the enigmatic landscapes of Eberron.