Session 11 - Echoes of the Cursed and the Bound

The Hollows in Mourning

Torvin, Aran, Hyrne, and Galivan returned to The Hollows, their minds still haunted by the battle with the Minotaur and the loss of their comrade, BomTom. The village stood in muted silence beneath the overcast sky, its wooden buildings seeming to sag under the weight of its past. The scars left by Zygofer's malice and his twisted followers still marred the land, yet The Hollows had shown signs of recovery. Under Yarwim’s care, The Three Skulls Inn had once again become a modest but proud hub of community life.

Now, however, the inn stood ravaged. Shattered chairs and broken tankards lay strewn about, the bar gouged and hacked by brutal blows. Yarwim himself emerged from the gloom, his gaunt face and hollow eyes speaking of despair. Clad in a tattered nightgown and slippers, the once-jovial innkeeper invited them in with a rasping voice, his spirit seemingly crushed.

Inside, Yarwim recounted his humiliation. “They came like a storm,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “The Dwarves. Enforcers of brewing secrets. I thought there was time…”

He described how the armed intruders had stormed the inn, cast him into the cellar, and terrorized his patrons. The damage they wrought extended beyond shattered furniture and ruined spirits. They forced Yarwim to swear never to use the brewing knowledge he had brought from the Dwarven kingdoms. Without it, his dream of reviving The Three Skulls—and The Hollows itself—was crumbling.

The adventurers offered him words of solace and their promise of protection, but the shadows clinging to Yarwim’s heart were not so easily dispelled. “I thought I could give The Hollows a future,” he murmured. “Now… I don’t know.”

The Burial of BomTom

The bard’s body lay draped in a simple shroud, his lifeless hands clutching his beloved lute. BomTom, with his boisterous songs and warm spirit, had been a source of light on the party’s darkest roads. Now, they bore him to his final rest.

Yarwim insisted on joining them, despite his frailty. “He loved this village,” he said, his voice breaking. “I owe him that much.”

As the adventurers made their way through the village at dusk, the townsfolk peered from their windows, their faces solemn. The graveyard lay just beyond the village, a simple plot surrounded by weathered stones. The priest awaited them by the freshly dug grave, his features lined with grief.

The burial was brief but heavy with meaning. The priest spoke prayers for BomTom’s soul, while the group lowered their friend into the earth, laying his lute in his arms, its strings ready to sing once more for the spirits. Yarwim wept openly, his tears carving trails through the grime on his face. “He deserved better,” he said, his voice trembling. “We all do.”

A Meeting with Sturkas

As the adventurers left the graveyard, the cold night air carried the scent of freshly turned earth. Sturkas, the enigmatic watchman of The Hollows, emerged from the shadows. His staff struck the cobblestones rhythmically as he approached, his gaze falling heavily on Yarwim before scrutinising the party.

“Once there were four,” he said, his voice like the grinding of brittle leaves. “Now there are three. Yet another joins you.”

Aran stepped forward, his tone sharp. “You speak of numbers, but where were you when the Dwarves attacked? You claim to keep the peace, yet you stood idle.”

Sturkas’s face remained impassive. “The Rust has no quarrel with the laws of the Dwarves. Their grievances are their own. To intervene would have brought ruin upon The Hollows.”

The adventurers bristled at his detachment. His parting words, though directed at Aran, hung heavy over the group: “The Hollows tolerates outsiders… but do not mistake tolerance for welcome.”

With a final tap of his staff, Sturkas disappeared into the twilight. His indifference left the party unsettled, but Yarwim, visibly shaken, needed their support. They guided him back to the inn, vowing not to let such violence threaten him again.

Retail Therapy

The companions approached the blacksmith’s forge, the air thick with the tang of burning coal and the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal. The smith, a broad-shouldered man with soot-streaked features and a no-nonsense demeanor, looked up as they arrived.

"Well, what have you got for me?" he grunted, wiping his hands on a rag.

Hyrne stepped forward, holding his battered studded leather cap. "This needs fixing. Took a few knocks in the tunnels."

The smith examined the cap briefly. "Two silver. It'll take me a day to get it back in shape."

Next, Torvin placed his chainmail on the counter, the rings still bent and torn from a previous battle. The blacksmith whistled low. "This one’s seen better days. That’ll take a week—six silver if you want it done right."

Galivan added his long spear to the pile. "Just a small notch here. Shouldn’t take much, right?"

"Aye, one silver and a day,” the blacksmith agreed, marking the spear with a piece of chalk.

Satisfied with the terms, the group pooled their coins and handed over the payment. The blacksmith nodded, already organizing the tools and materials he’d need for the work.

"You’ll have your gear as good as new. Come back then," he said, turning back to his forge as the companions departed.

Later, they made their way to the gamekeeper’s modest hut on the edge of the village. Vike, a wiry man with sun-worn skin and an unkempt beard, was stretching a deer hide on a wooden rack. Rabbits dangled from hooks by the door, their pelts patchy but the meat still usable.

"Got anything for sale?" Torvin asked, stepping forward.

Vike barely looked up, his voice gruff. "Couple of rabbits. Two copper apiece."

"That’s it?" Hyrne muttered under his breath, though the group knew game had been scarce of late.

Galivan handed over the coins without argument. "We’ll take them."

Vike nodded curtly, his attention already back on the deer hide. As they collected the rabbits, Hyrne tried to engage him further. "Hunting must be tough this season."

"Always is," Vike said, offering no more.

The companions exchanged glances, realizing any further conversation would be met with the same terse replies. They departed, taking the rabbits to add to their dwindling supplies, grateful for even this modest addition.

The Opening of the Tomb

With Yarwim resting under their watchful protection, the group turned their attention to an old tale shared by Nirvea, the village herbalist. It spoke of Count Nepola, a nobleman betrayed by Zygofer, and the crypt where his spirit and those of his family were bound in undeath. The adventurers suspected that the tomb might hold not only treasure but answers to The Hollows’ restless dead.

The adventurers’ preparation led them to the moonlit hilltop, where they aligned the toppled obelisk. Its restoration revealed a shimmering beam of light, marking the old graveyard. As the party descended, they found the tomb’s entrance illuminated by the moon’s glow.

Torvin’s strength, aided by Aran’s spear, forced the ancient door open. The sound of grinding stone echoed across the night as stale air escaped the crypt. The party stepped cautiously into the darkness, torches flickering.

The Encounter in the Crypt

The descent was suffocating, the carved visages of tormented faces leering from the walls. As the adventurers entered the main chamber, the green brazier flame painted the room in eerie light. The central sarcophagus stood grand and foreboding, flanked by two smaller ones.

In the corner, a spectral woman knelt, her presence both haunting and sorrowful. Her sobs echoed faintly, words emerging in a twisted language: “Avenge him… my child… betrayed…” It became clear this was Countess Ursula, the mother whose grief had outlasted her mortal life.

As she spoke, the chamber shifted. Dust rained from the largest sarcophagus as its lid began to tremble. The flame in the brazier pulsed in time with her growing anguish, casting shadows that writhed like living things.

Galivan, sensing the brazier’s connection to the Countess’s torment, acted decisively. He let his blood fall into the flame. The brazier erupted in light, its intensity blinding. The Countess’s form stretched into a wail of despair before vanishing in an instant.

Silence fell like a shroud. The sarcophagus stopped trembling, the flame extinguished. The chamber grew unnervingly cold, and the adventurers stood in the oppressive stillness, their breaths visible in the icy air.

Uncovering the Secrets of the Crypt

Relighting their torches, the party began to investigate. Where Ursula’s form had knelt, they found a sapphire-studded comb of exquisite craftsmanship, a poignant token of her former life.

They turned their attention to the central sarcophagus. With effort, Torvin shifted the lid, revealing a skeletal figure draped in decayed finery. A golden crown rested upon the Count’s brow, and a fragile scroll lay clutched in his bony hand. The scroll bore ancient text, aligning with the fragments shared by Nirvea.

The smaller sarcophagi told darker tales. One held a child’s remains, cradling a golden rattle. Though grim, practicality outweighed sentiment, and the rattle was taken. The third sarcophagus, containing the Countess herself, offered no treasures beyond sorrowful remnants of her burial attire.

Sealing the Tomb

Determined to leave no trace of their intrusion, the adventurers heaved the great door back into place. The effort taxed them, Torvin nearly crushed beneath its weight before the party’s combined strength secured the seal.

Ascending the hill, they toppled the obelisk once more, disrupting the moonlit alignment and shrouding the tomb in secrecy.

A Haunting Success

Weary and burdened, the adventurers returned to the inn. The spectre of Countess Ursula and the legacy of Count Nepola weighed heavily upon their minds. They had gleaned fragments of truth, yet the tomb's echoes would linger—a chilling reminder of what remained hidden in the shadows of history.