The Wandering Isles: Session 45
Tensions flared from the very first moment of the session, as Amaedrianna stepped forward to challenge Ironclad's presence, invoking her father's name in a bold demand for restraint. But the towering, metal-clad figure met her words with icy indifference, claiming ignorance of the man she spoke of. Despite the tension, the group chose to follow him—though it was clear that their presence was unwelcome.
Meanwhile, Eos found herself drifting into fragmented memories—visions from a time long past. A quiet lakeside. A ruined town called Mishn. The overwhelming stench of rot. And a stranger’s voice—eerily cheerful—etched into her past and, now, her present.
Back in Saigo no Toshi, the party ascended the steps of the Sakuragakai, the city’s governing hall, standing tall at the heart of tradition. As they waited outside, Hatsu scanned the streets, nervously hoping Ayame would arrive with their weapons. Between hushed conversations and veiled comments about Lysa’s condition, something felt askew. When Remington was revealed to be wearing a magical disguise—posing as Hashirama—the urgency escalated.
Ayame arrived with the weapons in time, despite Dash and Amaedrianna’s pleas for her and Lysa to leave the danger behind. They refused.
Inside, the room was full. Familiar and unfamiliar figures stood in quiet dominance. Among them were The Archon—the Archon—seated with the council; Miyuki, Ayame’s mother; a spectral man in rotted clothing who Amaedrianna identified as Drel Morrix, a terrifying figure from her past; and Thrakgar, a blue-skinned, battle-worn man recognised by Hatsu. Drel’s attention fell to Eos, and the torment he’d inflicted on her long ago surfaced once more.
What followed was a brutal unveiling of The Archon’s plan—each threat measured, each ultimatum sharp. Remington’s disguise was shattered, quite literally, under Ironclad’s fist, revealing his true form and leaving him broken. The council’s protests were short-lived, as Ironclad made an example of one of them with ruthless ease. The Archon’s intent was clear: he didn’t want to destroy Saigo no Toshi—he wanted to hollow it out and sit within its bones. He offered his terms, and gave the group one minute to decide.
Time stretched thin. Slate closed the door. Dash felt déjà vu take root, his watch ticking like a heartbeat. Eos, once again face to face with the man who had almost ended her life, asked him the one question that still haunted her: Why? The answer was chillingly simple. Because he had to.
The real Hashirama finally arrived, escorted by Ironclad and Drel, who had taken far too long to return. The group chose to leave, though not without cost—Remington would remain behind. Amaedrianna begged her father to honour promises made. He brushed her off like dust on silk.
Once outside, conversations turned cryptic. Amaedrianna recalled a powerful structure tied to legends of the past. Hatsu offered cryptic hints of something not yet uncovered. Asuka rejoined them, confirming the brutal price of Drel's delay.
Later, in the quiet, Eos recounted her journey to Mishn and the haunting memory of a tree with a noose. Dash burned with rage, vowing he wouldn’t have the same restraint if he were ever face-to-face with Drel again. Hatsu asked about the tree, and Eos opened up about her memory. Her voice trembled, and something deeper stirred within her—a fear not just of Drel, but of herself.
As some sought rest, Amaedrianna slipped away to The Jade Tsuba, a hidden tavern where she made a wager with a shadowy trader known as The Willow. The prize? An item with a mysterious acronym—R.A.F.T. The terms were fair, the stakes uncertain. She took the deal.
Dash, unsettled, turned to combat for solace. Yet even sparring offered no relief. Visions consumed him—a dream of his parents, of broken crowns, of hidden love, and destiny wrapped in chains. He awoke in a storm of emotion, fists bruised from pummelling a tree that healed itself again and again.
As the night stretched on, sleep came uneasily. Amaedrianna and Ayame walked home. Lysa rested, recovering. Eos dreamed of crashing waves and clawed monsters. Hatsu took comfort in the quiet presence of his kin. Eldrin lay still, thoughts haunted by the path behind him. And Slate… Slate faced something else entirely.
The pages of his sentient book began to turn on their own, forming into a snarling maw that bit into him, dragging him from sleep into cold sweat. And in the corner of his room, almost as if he had never left, stood Drel Morrix. Calm. Cocky. Spinning his dagger between his fingers.
“We need to talk,” he said.
And the night swallowed the silence.
