Session — 06/06/989–06/07/989
The Blades Are Named
Strangeways woke slowly.
The party gathered with full bellies and lingering bruises, circling the question they had avoided since earning their charter: what were they called? Names were suggested, argued over, mocked, and discarded. Misfits of Strangeways. The Quill and the Club. Tax Invaders. Strange-Blades. The problem was not creativity—it was permanence. No adventuring parties currently operated out of Strangeways. Whatever they chose would stick.
They decided to table the matter and reconvene after lunch.
At The Holly Bush, they ate, rested, and let the tension ease.
Vignette: Corwin
Corwin Thorne woke sweating.
His body rejected sleep, his stomach churned, and when he tried to rise, the world tilted. He failed to shake the sickness clinging to him. His mother insisted he stay in bed—and then handed him a scroll sealed in blue wax.
The mark was unmistakable.
Hey bigshot. Come see me today.
—R
Corwin crossed the river later that day, stopping first at The Daily Remedies. The apothecary smelled of sage, fungus, and sharp spices, shelves stacked four deep with jars and instruments. Behind the counter stood Kelvin Potts, Mol’s father—mid-forties, leather apron, scarred gloves, eyes darkened by long nights of careful work.
The diagnosis was grim but survivable: Putrid Plague, contracted from the giant rats. No cure. Only time. Bedrest. A nightly balm to the chest to ease recovery.
Corwin thanked him and continued on—unarmed, cautious, and very much unwell.
At The Seven Stars, a windowless, filthy tavern run by the perpetually sour dwarf Bother Mineriver, Corwin found Reef in the back room, seated at a rickety table mid-card game.
Reef had a proposition.
The Strangeways Mausoleum had been abandoned for decades. No one knew why. Rumors said it was untouched, dangerous, and full of forgotten wealth. Corwin’s adventuring license would grant legal entry “for the protection of the town.”
Reef wanted only a piece of whatever they found.
Vignette: Gideon
That morning, Gideon Kael patrolled the market—an unsatisfying duty after the violence of the previous day. In the back room of the guard post, he shared space with Josef, short and bald, and Solomon, larger, pudgier, sporting a goatee.
They spoke in hushed tones of an elf hunter operating in the wilds. Ten gold pieces offered for information. The rumor came from a traveler moving between Skade and Kentish.
They offered to split the reward with Gideon.
He did not commit.
Vignette: Leda
Leda Gebhart wore a simple dress that day.
Her mother was displeased.
Ophelia Gebhart made it clear that adventuring was no future for her daughter. Leda was to marry well, to abandon crawling through ruins with ruffians, to behave like the mayor’s child.
Leda agreed.
She always did.
The Market Burns
By midday, the decision was made.
The party chose their name.
They were the Blades of Strangeways.
The moment barely had time to settle before screams tore through the market.
Skeletons.
They came from the northern road, hacking down townsfolk as they advanced. Panic spread faster than the undead.
Gideon ran. Mol drank a cheetah potion. Corwin plunged into the fray. Leda sprinted toward the chaos. Zel Cunningham—missing moments earlier—grabbed her bow and followed.
The fight was desperate and sprawling. Skeletons cut down civilians while the Blades chased, split, regrouped. Corwin destroyed one with a perfect strike. Mol’s alchemy shattered another. Zel’s arrows dropped one mid-stride. Gideon smashed through with shield and steel, even as Corwin fell under a heavy blow.
When the last skeleton collapsed, the market fell silent.
People wept. Others cheered.
Mud clung to the undead boots—wet, river-soaked. Mol found a crude “V” carved into one skull.
Gideon attempted to organize a pursuit, but Garrick Thorne, the constable, intervened. The guard would handle the investigation. The adventurers should “adventure.”
Zel led the party to a hidden room she had kept secret—notes, spellwork, careful practice concealed from the town. Leda healed Corwin with song. Plans were shared. Some sources were not.
They slept.
The Mausoleum
On 06/07/989, the Blades headed north.
The Strangeways Mausoleum lay in ruin, half-swallowed by time. Old stories warned children away. Inside, shuffling echoed through the crypt.
Corwin scouted ahead. Kobolds lurked among the tombs.
The first fight was brief—steel, frost, and alchemy putting the creatures down quickly. Carved family trees lined the walls, tracing Strangeways’ oldest bloodlines. On the oldest branches, elven names appeared.
Leda descended into a lower crypt. Tracks led northwest.
Combat erupted again—kobolds clashing with a wandering zombie. Corwin’s arrow dropped the undead. Gideon crushed the rest.
Beyond lay something older.
The Elven Ruins Below
Blue tiles marked the transition. Frescoes lined the walls—elves in their prime, powerful and heroic. Humans, dwarves, gnomes depicted not as rulers, but as companions. Allies.
Another fresco showed all races fighting animal-headed creatures, magic blazing.
History here was… different.
A pitfall trap lay hidden in the floor. Corwin disabled it. Beyond the door, water could be heard.
A symbol marked the floor.
A font stood ahead.
A carved figure waited.
And something ancient watched.
Next Session Reminders
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The Mausoleum goes deeper
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Elven history contradicts modern belief
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The undead had purpose
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Someone marked them with a “V”