The Wandering Isles: Session 46
The night began not with rest, but with a visitor from the shadows.
Drel Morrix appeared in Slate’s room—uninvited, unhurried, and far too familiar. Speaking as though from a shared history Slate couldn’t fully recall, Drel questioned his loyalties, his purpose, and his place within the group. The exchange was veiled, tense, and steeped in implication.
In response, Slate turned to the artefact he always carries: his book. A memory was drawn forth—a prison of cold stone and colder debts, where Drel, true to form, ended a man’s life over owed coin. Slate prompted him deeper, instructing Drel to focus on a memory he’d never shared. What emerged was a vision from long ago: Dr. Emilia Harrow discussing a final test, a final piece needed before her project could begin. She summoned Simul Decker of OmegaVerse, and Drel stood by, amused and ready to fetch him.
Then, unsettlingly, Drel brought Slate to what he described as a fond memory—his attempt to kill Eos. Slate rejected the intrusion, severing the link and forcing Drel from the vision. Awake and shaken, Slate rushed to Hatsu’s room, recounting every moment. They checked on Eos immediately.
Hatsu, alert to the danger, visited his mother Kokoro and confirmed there had been an intruder. Boreal arrived not long after, questioned for his failure to detect the breach. But Kokoro, calm as ever, noted that no one had broken into Shōkōtei in many years—until now. Hatsu, solemn and resolute, declared Boreal the final line of defence for the Toshitsugu Clan. Then, alone, he offered a prayer. For Slate. For what might come next.
Eos, quietly but with weight, shared her own story—her past with Drel. The memory of his attempt on her life was no distant scar; it was present and raw. They rang a bell, and then prayed for the moments of the past. A tradition for this festival, but done at a moment of required resolve for the party.
Soon after, the group emerged into a city alive with colour and ceremony. The festival had begun.
The first bell of dawn rang out at 6:00 AM, and the streets of Saigo no Toshi swelled with people. Among them moved Ironclad, a violent titan whose mere presence caused Kensai to lower their eyes. Floats passed by, each one heavier in meaning than the last: the Battle of the Emissaries was met with reverence; the Battle of Blossoms brought tears to the eyes of the old guard. The Crisis Response Unit marched in perfect, terrifying unison. The Fujiwara float came and went, Miyuki visibly shaken. But it was the Toshitsugu float that held the crowd in collective breath—an empty throne at its centre, speaking volumes. Hashirama Toshitsugu still missing.
Then came OmegaVerse’s contribution: a brilliant display of technological wonder that dazzled and unnerved. Finally, the Ancestor Procession began. Names were read. Lanterns lit. Petals fell like snow. The city remembered.
By the second bell at 8:00 AM, the crowd shifted to calm. The Citywide Tea Ceremony began—a brief reprieve amid rising uncertainty. The group gathered for tea, exchanging thoughts in quiet tones. Slate examined the ring gifted to him by Hatsu’s grandmother, sensing the journey it would soon take him on.
But the moment was broken.
Two loud and disrespectful men from Palperroth burst into the serene tea house, flinging entitlement and insults like daggers. They treated the staff with contempt—until Dash followed one into an alley and delivered justice the only way he knew how. With fierce words and colder steel, Dash executed him with righteous fire in a moment that gave us more insight into Dash than any that came before. Meanwhile, Amaedrianna handled the second with her usual efficiency—swift, sharp, and silent.
Their attempts to cover up the chaos were cut short by the third bell at 10:00 AM. Children’s laughter filled the streets as the Dragon Parade began, their joy clashing against the undercurrent of unease now pulsing through the group. The chaos had not yet ended, however. It barely begun. The group realised that Eldrin vanished.
It happened quietly, efficiently—someone from the crowd seized him in a blink, leaving behind only what he carried. His metallic arm covering. Remington tried to track him, but the trail was already cold, so hope was thin. Dash held Eldrin’s gauntlet, his pauldron—nothing more. No scream. No struggle. Just absence.
The city celebrated. The children danced.
And somewhere in the crowd, something else had begun. With a sword to his back, Eldrin is called “unholy” and lead away from the party. Who took him? Why? There are more questions than answers as the session comes to a close.
