The Wandering Isles: Session 34
The journey across the ice began with the gang reclaiming their sled cart—affectionately dubbed the "Slart"—before setting off in search of Hartwell. As the icy winds howled around them, they passed the time with a game of "Would You Rather," trading playful yet revealing answers while Eos quietly immersed herself in her book.
With every mile they covered, fragments of the past and present wove together. Amaedrianna opened up about where she had gone during her days away, her words measured yet purposeful. Secrets still clung to her like a well-worn cloak, but she let just enough slip for the group to see the weight of what she carried.
Slate, meanwhile, found himself gripped by another vision—a flicker of a possible past. He saw himself standing in a grand temple, where figures knelt in reverence, pink-leaved trees swaying just beyond the walls. But the scene shifted, replaced by a dark, rain-soaked street. There, he carried a heavy sack, bringing an offering to a figure known only as "Bloodstone." The revelation struck him cold, and when he blinked back to the present, his grip tightened on the dark book nestled in his pack. It was guiding him, nudging him toward something unknown.
As the Slart crunched over the snow, a dense woodland loomed ahead, shrouded in an eerie quiet. Then—a distant, echoing howl. The sound sent a shiver through them as they spotted large tracks pressed deep into the frost. Their unease barely had time to settle before a figure emerged from the tree line.
He introduced himself as Rowan, a man with the presence of a well-rehearsed storyteller, his words smooth as silk, his demeanor dripping with an effortless charm. He was enigmatic—too practiced in his movements, too perfect in his smile. A shadow of suspicion clung to the group as he beckoned them forward, promising safe passage to the town ahead.
As they crested the hill, the town revealed itself—a settlement built of towering wooden halls reinforced with stone and iron, its beams adorned with intricate carvings of twisting vines and symbols of old. Gold inlay shimmered against the rich, dark wood, catching the pale winter light. The air smelled of timber, fresh earth, and something wilder, something ancient.
The townsfolk barely glanced at the newcomers, continuing their work without hesitation. It was as if they had seen many travelers before, and the presence of outsiders was nothing worth remarking on. A stillness settled in the streets, not of fear, but of quiet understanding.
Rowan led them toward the heart of the settlement, toward the largest hall that towered above the rest. It was a thing of raw beauty—massive wooden doors, reinforced with bands of iron, carvings depicting hunts and moonlit gatherings, gold tracing the edges like veins of light. As Rowan stepped inside, his body shifted in an unnatural way, his limbs lengthening, his muscles twisting beneath his skin. Fur rippled across his arms as his features sharpened into something more—something primal, something predatory.
The group held their ground as they peered into the great hall beyond. Dozens of others stood inside, their figures bearing the same transformation, their eyes gleaming like embers in the dim firelight. At the far end, seated upon a grand wooden throne inlaid with gold, was the largest among them.
This was Wulver.
The one they had traveled so far to find.
