Session — Black Silk, White Ash, and the Sound of Breaking Glass
A funeral, a murder, and a ball where knives were hidden behind smiles.
The funeral of Gideon Kael was held beneath a gray sky that refused comfort.
Lady Serina Kael attended quietly, deliberately avoiding the center of attention despite every eye drifting her way. Her restraint was notable—almost practiced. Nearby stood Torvold Alric, armor polished to a ceremonial shine, ending neatly at the wrist. A soldier dressed not for war, but for memory.
Brother Hoskinspresided, voice steady, grounding the moment in ritual.
Zel Cunningham looked unlike herself. Her eyes were ice-blue, her hair disheveled. She leaned on her bow as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Gold thread shimmered faintly through her cloak—subtle, deliberate, and wrong somehow.
Words were spoken.
Zel and Mol Potts offered theirs. Mol, perhaps unintentionally—or perhaps not—let a drop of holy water fall into the casket. No one commented. Torvold stepped forward next. He knew Gideon. Had trained him. Had commanded him. The weight of that history lingered.
Corwin Thorne gave the final words.
They lingered longer than the prayers.
Afterward, Lady Kael drew Leda Gebhart aside. She insisted—firmly—that Leda attend the ball the following evening. Leda bristled. Invitations were discussed. Destroyed. Reconsidered. Zel stood nearby, infused with something unseen, distant in a way that worried Mol deeply.
Mol offered to listen. Or at least let something in his backpack do the listening.
It was decided they would reconvene later.
Leda handed the invitations to Corwin and went looking for Zel.
They found her in a park.
Zel sat on a bench, throwing pieces of croissant to birds and squirrels. When Leda arrived, a squirrel climbed into her hand without fear. Zel lifted her hands, coaxed flowers from nothing—and then let them die. Wilt. Collapse into nothing.
She wept. One tear dark as ink. One clear.
Magic, done openly.
A willowy woman appeared nearby—Madam Doren. At once, unseen implements clattered to the ground around her, as if startled by Zel’s power. She said nothing. Just watched.
Preparations followed.
Corwin was fitted in finery—midnight velvet, bone buttons, sapphire silk, polished boots, a hawk-shaped clasp. His new satchel, The Shadow Ledger, rested perfectly at his side: quiet, clever, dangerous.
Valinport, meanwhile, burned.
Fourteen people had been put to the torch by the elf-hunters. Strangeways was unraveling. Whispers of Skade and necromancy crept through every conversation.
Zel and Leda drank. Too much. They staggered to the tailor’s after Mol.
The night ended badly.
Morning — 990-01-12
Zel awoke to a visitor.
Tall. Black. Carrying a wicked scythe.
It held out a scale—balanced, perfect. Zel slapped it on instinct.
She woke again, heart racing, head pounding.
What in the ever-living hell did I drink?
Torvold wandered the market that day. Directionless. Waiting.
Zel learned what she feared most.
Lewelyn was missing.
She went with another The Bookworms member to his apartment. The door was unlocked. A drawer blocked it from closing. The smell hit first—rot, flies, spoiled meat.
Lewelyn lay dead on the floor.
His eyes were burned out.
A book lay open nearby. Half its pages torn free.
The guard took over the scene. Zel left with the book.
The party chose to attend the ball.
A four-horse carriage arrived—rare, deliberate, loud. Servants in matching livery ushered them through the doors alongside Valinport’s elite.
Inside, High Priest Tomor and Lady Kael argued in hushed fury.
Calen Veylin attended with his mother, Lady Merissa Veylin. Zel approached him—and was intercepted by High Seeker Oliver Veylin, whose scarred smile lingered far too long.
Corwin escaped to the balcony and found himself beside Lord Arlo Santos, a man of ships, trade, and secrets. Torvold joined them shortly after.
Mol fed his creepy hand cheese in the corner.
Politics swirled.
Admiral Argenta Gildermont spoke of dockworkers, unions, and impending strikes. Corwin engaged eagerly. Torvold revealed he was leaving the employ of Lord Santos and the South Seas Mercantile Co..
Zel curtsied properly to Lady Kael.
Leda barely did.
Mayor Ophelia Gebhart (Mayor) arrived late, dragging Bastian Gebhart (Herbalist), Emmy Gebhart, and Nicola Gebhart in her wake. Tension spiked immediately.
Lady Kael took Leda aside.
When they returned, Leda looked ready to run.
Lady Kael announced it plainly:
Leda Gebhart and Calen Veylin were now courting, with the intent to marry.
Music swelled.
The cellist was Charlie the Flute Player—Thieves’ Guild, unmistakably so.
Kettle corn appeared, caramelized and irresistible. Corwin, Torvold, and the Admiral were delighted.
Calen asked Zel to dance.
He danced terribly.
Leda seethed.
Lady Kael knew Zel was an elf.
The waiters were stealing everything that wasn’t nailed down.
Then Draco arrived.
He gave a speech about robbing the rich—hypocritically—and fled. Servants followed. Charlie vanished with them.
The heist was on.
They escaped through the wine cellar.
Into the dark.
Valinport exhaled.
Nothing was resolved.
Everything had changed.
Next Session Reminders
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Lewelyn is dead; the book matters
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Lady Kael knows Zel’s secret
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Leda is now publicly entangled with Calen Veylin
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The Thieves’ Guild has made its move
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Draco is loose again
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The Infernal Empire is watching
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And Valinport has begun to choose sides