📜 Session Overview

The hour after all that had happened did not begin with battle, but with the kind of silence that hangs over people who know battle is coming. In Wyrmhollow, tucked within the uneasy shelter of the Manticore, the Realmstriders gathered themselves in pieces. Some searched for answers, some for strength, and some for anything at all that might give them an edge against the cult festering beneath the Oni's shadow. They had come too far, suffered too much, and seen too many horrors to mistake this calm for peace. It was preparation, plain and simple, and every soul among them felt the weight of what was coming next.

Before the rest of the group had fully settled on their next steps, Agelaius Phoeniceus and Tyel'Koron Morhana took wing and made for the Buckbee farm, chasing the memory of those strange, overripe grapes that had once played their part in poison and survival alike. They found little welcome there. A weary farm woman, child in arm and suspicion in her eyes, denied any knowledge of the grapes they sought, leaving the pair to stand at her door with more questions than answers. So they did what desperate people with dangerous talents often do: they went looking for their own solution.

Out in the farmland, where the soil still remembered growth even if the people upon it had grown wary, Tyel'Koron called on old druidic power and urged life to answer him. And life answered with a vengeance. What began as an effort to coax healthy flora into being became a wild and punishing miracle. A great grove surged up where ruin and neglect had lingered, vines and stalks and swollen produce erupting with reckless force. Overripe grapes came in abundance, but not alone. Pumpkins burst like siege stones. Squash and corn exploded outward in a storm of unruly harvest, battering both Tyel'Koron and Agelaius as they fought through the chaos to gather what they had come for. It was almost comical from a distance, if not for the bruises, the danger, and the grim purpose beneath it all. Even nature itself seemed unwilling to offer aid without exacting some cost.

Back in Wyrmhollow, the others sought their own paths toward readiness. Sinora drifted near the ghostly well, her thoughts turned inward as she spoke with her dragon, searching not only for counsel but perhaps for some sense of direction amid the wounds the group carried. Broj threw himself into practice with his axe, the repetition of motion perhaps easier to trust than the uncertainty of words. Warwick Willows, ever trying to turn strange gifts into something useful, began working with one of the channeling crystals given by Vyr, attempting to imbue it with power that might serve the group when steel and spell finally met the cult head-on.

When Agelaius and Tyel'Koron returned, the work did not stop. If anything, it only grew stranger. Agelaius joined forces with Xerocomath, and with the gathered ingredients and their own fearsome ingenuity, they took to brewing. Through the long night, while others rested, Agelaius all but lived over the work, cooking and refining a concoction made from molded grapes, fungus, and the venom gathered through prior effort. What came from his labor was not merely poison, but something wretched enough to announce its cruelty to the world. The fumes alone were deathly; a squirrel passing too near paid for its curiosity with its life. That was proof enough. Agelaius carefully bottled the brew, and in doing so gave the party yet another grim weapon for the war ahead.

Morning brought no less danger, only a different shape of it. Sorina and Broj slipped behind the buildings to test the limits of his Realmstrider gift, hoping to forge from his body a tougher, denser defense—something that could let him hold the line when the moment demanded it. But power is never content to stop where you intended. What began as hardening skin turned alarming in short order. Stone crept farther than it should have, thickening over Broj's flesh and crawling toward his mouth until the exercise became a near panic. For a moment, it looked less like training and more like transformation, as though the strength he sought might entomb him in his own body. With Sorina's aid, he managed to reverse the process enough to shrink back from the brink, but the lesson was sharp. Their powers were growing, yes, but not cleanly, and not without the risk of consuming them whole.

Elsewhere, the others continued sharpening themselves in quieter ways. Tyel'Koron worked with Dalnylthir, training to ride and cast in tandem, pushing himself toward a kind of mastery he would soon have need of. Warwick persisted with the crystal. Sinora watched and thought and listened. Xerocomath lingered in that uneasy place between ally and mystery, between the man he had been and the desperation steadily hollowing him out.

And then, when the time came, it was Sinora who gathered the party together. At her urging, they sought out Old Man Bryn, hoping the old man might offer something of worth against the terror they were preparing to face. Beneath a lone tree behind the Manticore, the group listened as the old truths were laid bare. The Oni, they learned, was not merely wearing the mask. In some terrible sense, the mask was the truth of it. Divine in nature, bound to power older and worse than flesh, the mask itself seemed to be the heart of the enemy they hunted. That revelation settled over the party like cold ash. It changed the shape of the problem. It changed the stakes.

From there, the conversation turned—as it so often did—from knowledge to action, and from action to disagreement. Plans were weighed. Priorities were tested. The strain that had been building within the group, quietly and relentlessly, finally began to show its teeth. Broj, unwilling to be trapped in the thick of it, departed for Amonkhet to seek counsel from his father, leaving the others to wrestle with truths less comfortable than any monster.

It was Xerocomath who drove the knife into the heart of things. Whether from fear, bitterness, exhaustion, or the agony of his own private desperation, he spoke with a sharpness the others could no longer pretend not to hear. He made it plain that the group itself had become an obstacle to him, that all their caution, their talks, their habit of moving together and measuring every risk, stood between him and the power he believed he needed to save his son. The words came out poisoned—laced with malice, frustration, and disdain. It was not merely a complaint. It was an accusation, a rejection of the very bond that had carried them this far.

The others answered in kind. Tension, long banked, flared into open argument. Wounds that had gone unspoken found voices. Loyalty and need crashed against one another. There are moments in a story when the enemy is no longer the only thing threatening to tear a fellowship apart, and this was one of them. Every fear, every difference in purpose, every private burden seemed to step into the open all at once.

Then came the breaking point.

Tyel'Koron, pushed beyond restraint, snapped. He lashed out and struck Xerocomath, a sudden, physical blow that shattered whatever fragile control remained in the moment. And Xerocomath answered not with retreat, but with something far more unsettling. A duplicate of Tyel'Koron formed—more solid, more physically real than any illusion the party had yet seen from him. It was not a trick in the harmless sense, not a flourish of bardic spectacle, but a disturbing manifestation of power and fury, as though Xerocomath had finally let the group see just how dangerous he could be when he stopped pretending to be less than he was.

And there, beneath that tree in Wyrmhollow, with the truth of the Oni hanging over them and the coming fight still waiting in the dark, the Realmstriders found themselves on the edge of something almost as deadly as the cult they hunted. Not an ambush. Not a ritual. Not some monstrous thing crawling up from the depths. No, this danger came from within. The fellowship that had survived dragons, curses, blood magic, and nightmare roads now stood at its own boiling point, staring into the possibility that the next thing to break might not be the enemy at all, but them.

⚔️ Key Events

• The Morning of Preparation: The party gathered at the Manticore in Wyrmhollow and took stock of what they had and what they needed. Every member sought some form of readiness—whether in training, crafting, or quiet reflection. The calm had teeth; everyone felt what was coming.
• The Buckbee Farm — No Grapes Here: Agelaius and Tyel'Koron flew to the Buckbee farm to source the overripe grapes needed for their brewing. A farm woman with a child in her arms denied all knowledge of the grapes and turned them away at the door.
• Tyel'Koron Calls the Grove: Rather than leave empty-handed, Tyel'Koron went to the farmland itself and called on druidic power to grow what they needed. The spell answered with overwhelming force—a great grove erupted from the earth, overripe grapes flooding in alongside exploding pumpkins, squash, and corn that battered both Realmstriders as they harvested. They got their grapes. They paid for them in bruises.
• Sinora at the Ghostly Well: While the others trained, Sinora walked near the ghostly well and spoke with her dragon, looking inward for direction amid everything the group was carrying.
• Warwick Imbues a Crystal: Warwick spent his time working to imbue one of the channeling crystals Vyr had provided, attempting to give the party a new edge for the fight ahead.
• Agelaius Brews Through the Night: Returning with the grapes, Agelaius joined Xerocomath at the brewing work and cooked through the night. The resulting concoction—assembled from molded grapes, fungus, and venom gathered by Ruroku—proved its potency when a squirrel passing over the fumes dropped dead. Agelaius bottled the brew with care. The party now has a weapon that kills by smell alone.
• Broj Nearly Turns to Stone: Sorina and Broj slipped away to train privately, working on a new Realmstrider ability meant to harden his skin into a living defense. The ability exceeded its intended limits. Stone crept beyond the surface, crawling over Broj's flesh toward his mouth as if his body planned to entomb him in itself. Sorina intervened. He shrunk back from the brink. The power is real—and it is not fully controlled.
• Tyel'Koron Trains with Dalnylthir: Tyel'Koron pressed his bond with Dalnylthir in the training grounds, working toward the ability to cast while riding—a combination that will matter when the battle finally comes.
• Sinora Calls the Council — Old Man Bryn: At Sinora's urging, the party gathered beneath a lone tree behind the Manticore and sought out Old Man Bryn for guidance. What he shared cut to the heart of the problem: the Oni was not simply wearing the mask. The mask was the truth of her—a divine artifact, bound to power older and more terrible than any flesh. Killing the woman behind it may not be enough. The mask itself is the enemy.
• Broj Departs for Amonkhet: Rather than stay in the heated discussion that followed, Broj realmstrided to Amonkhet to seek counsel from his father before the worst of the argument erupted.
• Xerocomath Breaks the Fellowship: What had been brewing for weeks finally came out. Xerocomath declared the group itself an obstacle—that their caution, their talks, their collective decision-making stood between him and what he needed to save his son. The words were pointed, contemptuous, and devastating. They landed on every member of the party and left marks.
• Tyel'Koron Strikes — Xerocomath Answers: The argument broke into something physical. Tyel'Koron struck Xerocomath. Xerocomath responded with a duplicate of Tyel'Koron—solid, unsettlingly real, a display of Realmstrider power none of them had seen from him at this scale. The party watched the two reach the edge of something that could not be walked back from.

⚔️ Combat Encounters

👥 NPCs Encountered

🔍 Important Discoveries

💰 Loot & Rewards

• Agelaius's Lethal Brew (Multiple Bottles): A concoction of molded overripe grapes, fungus, and Ruroku's venom—potent enough to kill by fume alone. Carefully bottled and ready for use against the cult. The party's most dangerous alchemical weapon to date.
• Overripe Grapes (Harvested): Gathered from the erupting grove at the Buckbee farmland. Paid for in bruises. Available for future brewing.
• Imbued Crystal (In Progress): Warwick spent the session working to channel power into one of Vyr's crystals. The work continues.
• The Truth of the Mask (Knowledge): Provided by Old Man Bryn. The Oni's mask is divine in nature and is the actual seat of the enemy's power. Understanding the nature of the threat is the first step to countering it.

✨ Character Moments

🖼️ Session Images

📝 DM Notes

This was a preparation session that used every quieter moment to tighten the screws before the eventual release. The grove eruption was designed to give the ingredient-gathering sequence actual weight—they paid a cost, comedic as it was, which made the brew feel earned rather than found. The stone-skin training incident was intended to demonstrate that the party's Realmstrider abilities are entering dangerous new territory; the abilities are growing faster than their control, and that gap will matter in combat.

Old Man Bryn's revelation about the mask was the session's true pivot. The party came in thinking they needed to kill a woman in a mask. They're leaving knowing that the mask itself is the threat—and that "divine" changes everything about the approach. The argument that followed was allowed to run long because it needed to. Xerocomath's desperation around his son has been building for sessions. The fellowship needed to feel that fracture out loud before the next major combat. Tyel'Koron striking Xerocomath was the moment the session had been building toward from page one. Next session begins with the party mid-conflict, with one member gone to Amonkhet, and a divine mask to plan around.

🎭 Looking Ahead