The Wandering Isles: Session 58

The group arrived in the grove just as the evening shadows began to stretch across the earth. One by one, they stepped into a memory that didn’t quite belong to them—but was painfully real to one among them.

Weslyn stood whole again—untouched by tattoos, unburdened by time. The others, however, appeared ghost-like, semi-transparent echoes wandering a moment that had already passed. In front of him, the house he’d once called home came to life. The scent of herbs and simmering broth drifted through the air, wrapping him in a familiarity he hadn’t felt in years. His mother moved with practiced grace, cooking in the kitchen. His siblings were nearby. His father, too. And all around, the kind of clutter that only comes from a life lived in full.

Amaedrianna reminded him this place was a trap. But Weslyn, for once, just wanted to stay. Just for a while.

She urged him to look for what didn’t belong, something to break the illusion. He said it plainly: he didn’t belong. This was the night he left. Still, he begged the others—one dinner. That was all.

Things began to fray at the edges. Gwyn, his sister, snuck past him with something hidden. Eldrin tried to follow, but couldn’t. Weslyn found her cradling a baby fox, claiming it was a gift from the woods. They argued, but the moment passed.

His mother climbed the stairs, sensing something was off in her son. Weslyn deflected—something about hitting his head—and she reached for herbs to heal what she could. The group, elsewhere in the moment, spoke softly of the road ahead. Of strange magic. Of what might come next.

They left on a cart together, the family whole again. But at the gathering, the fox escaped. Gwyn chased it. Weslyn followed. And when he caught her, their father joined them.

Or so it seemed.

The man’s words betrayed him—"your family," not "our family." Then he hurled the fox into the lake.

That was all Weslyn needed to know. This wasn’t his father.

Amaedrianna, watching from another plane of the moment, caught a flicker behind the illusion: red eyes. The creature lifted Weslyn and walked toward a portal of collapsing blue light. Weslyn asked again—just let his family be safe.

The real Aldric came crashing through the trees, tackling the imposter. He cast a spell, one of root and thorn, of soul and circle. Blue sigils began to bloom across Weslyn’s skin as the creature rose again as he cast the spell

“By thorn and stone and woven vine,

let no hunger cross this line.

Mark me not, O creeping shade,

my breath is bound, my soul is stayed.

Where vire coils and roots are sworn,

I stand within the circle thorn.

The wild may watch, but shall not take.

This flesh is sealed. This path, awake.”

It threw Aldric through the portal.

And Weslyn went willingly.

The fox leapt into his arms as the vision broke, and the group found themselves in a forest of impossible color. Time twisted. Days passed. Or years. Maybe centuries. They searched. They wandered. Until, at last, a door.

Memories flooded Weslyn’s mind. Dreams. Lives. Versions of himself. Then the final one—face-down in the snow. A creature made of bark and horn stood above him, gave the faintest nod… and buried him again.

When he awoke, it was in the woods. And standing there was a woman with a hauntingly familiar smile. Emilia Harrow. She had been waiting for him. For a long, long time.

Together, they crossed back into a tower—Stella Maleficum’s domain—just in time to see a Seal ritual fail. A subject died screaming. Stella, furious, hurled the Seal across the room. Shael’s voice offered comfort.

And then, for the first time in this journey… Vathros spoke.

“I don’t think they knew I was already here.”

Elsewhere, Hatsu entered a cave. His voice echoed a prayer: calling for a bee, a sign from the Mother of Light. Meditation was the only way forward. But visions tried to break him. His father. His home. Ayame. Every failed step repeated the cycle. Until, at last, a bee appeared.

The bee—wise and steady—spoke to each of them.

To Hatsu: that his family waits, if he walks the right path.

To Amaedrianna: her future requires resolution of her past.

To Eldrin: to follow Hatsu, and mind the ghosts that hunt him.

To Eos: her mind is her greatest power—it must lead, not follow.

To Slate: potential is subjective. But the path ahead holds it all.

To Weslyn: nothing is set in stone. Deception always finds new lengths.

They woke on the grass. Under stars.

Back in the tower, Stella continued her research—her Seal theory shifting toward memory, toward emotion. Until she saw him. A man at the end of the hall. Still. Unassuming. Reciting her thoughts aloud before she could speak them.

He wasn’t reading her mind. He was in it.

Magic did nothing to stop him.

Then, Vathros finished her sentence:
“Power must remember itself.”

Far away, on a rooftop in Vurduar, Amaedrianna ran with a new face at her side. Bantu—someone from her past. Someone she never expected to see again.