Session 20230504 Davala
General Summary
Bertrum's Journal
Dear Journal,
Once again, our noble journey through the realms of Ardeleth has taken a turn filled with challenge and urgency. Blood on the Snow, our esteemed leader, received numerous reports concerning the plight of the towns in this beleaguered land. It was in his wisdom that he deemed the town of Davala to be of utmost priority, for it suffered not only from a grave illness but also from the cruel grip of famine.
In his unwavering resolve, Blood on the Snow decreed a quarantine upon the afflicted town and beseeched our small group, consisting of Lyris, Nightshade, the learned doctor from Kajeth, and myself, to venture forth and aid in the resolution of this dire predicament. Mindful of the perils we might encounter, I diligently prepared plague masks for our party, shielding us from the pestilential miasma that lay in wait.
With hearts resolute and hope as our steadfast guide, we embarked upon the magic boat, guided by the skilled hand of Itoco, carrying with us provisions of sustenance, medicinal aid, and even the elixir of spirits, embodied in the form of vodka. This potent nectar, in its divine essence, held the promise of uplifting the weary spirits of the town's afflicted denizens.
Our arrival at the outskirts of Davala saw us disembarking from the vessel, bidding farewell to Itoco so that he might escape the clutches of the quarantine. Lyris valiantly guarded our invaluable cargo while we set forth, determined to seek out the town's leader.
We found ourselves in the presence of the physicker, the healer tending to the ailing souls afflicted by this potent malady. She revealed that the insidious disease ravaging the town bore the name "Marsh Lung," a formidable foe of environmental origins, not known to claim lives. However, the town had already mourned the loss of ten souls to its cruel embrace.
As fortune would have it, we acquired a house from the physicker, a sanctuary wherein we could establish our base of operations and safeguard the invaluable supplies we carried. With determination and unity of purpose, we dispersed throughout the afflicted town, delving into the depths of investigation to unearth the root cause of this insidious affliction.
Lyris and Nightshade, with their inquisitive minds and silver tongues, sought out those who had fallen prey to the disease, hoping to discern any common threads that might unravel the mystery. Meanwhile, my path led me to the miller, a figure of prosperity indulging in the pleasures of life, quaffing spirits of the finest vintage. His embittered demeanor suggested that he believed himself to be unjustly accused by the townsfolk, despite his assertion of providing free flour for countless years. Though he begrudgingly yielded control of the town's rationing, he displayed reluctance when confronted with the prospect of my inspection of the mill and granary. Yet, my assurances of a mere elimination of potential causative agents eased his apprehension.
I diligently combed through the mill and granary, my eyes attentive to the minutest detail, yet no traces of the insidious malady revealed themselves within my visual scope. Alas, my fervent pursuit of answers did not cease there.
Spring's First Kill, our avian deity and ever-reluctant emissary, was beseeched to commune with the gods of this land, in search of the elusive origins of Marsh Lung. Reluctant he was, for the task seemed tedious and mundane, but I assured him of a reward to quench his avian desires.
Upon his return, Spring's First Kill regaled us with tidings from the divine realm, wherein most gods proved insipid and unremarkable. Yet, amidst the mediocrity, he glimpsed the presence of a malevolent deity, the harbinger of Marsh Lung itself. This disease god, shrouded in elusiveness, remained the key to unraveling the enigma that plagued Davala.
Drawing upon my esoteric knowledge, I meticulously devised a ritual of beckoning, a conduit through which we might summon this malefic deity. As a united force, we ventured beyond the confines of the town, undertaking the sacred rites in unison, our voices intertwined with arcane incantations. Through the veil of the ritual's ethereal energies, a grizzled old man, as foretold by Spring's First Kill, materialized before our very eyes.
In solemn discourse, we probed the depths of this deity's motives, discovering that he was indeed the mastermind behind the affliction befalling Davala. His allegiance, however, had been purchased by an unknown benefactor, compelling him to unleash the torment of Marsh Lung upon the innocent town. Negotiations ensued, for we sought not only to safeguard the town but also to unveil the identity of the one who had orchestrated this malevolence.
Yet, the precarious balance of diplomacy teetered on the edge when Lyris, in a misguided attempt to please the deity, boasted of his fame and proposed songs of adulation. Alas, the elusive god, accustomed to veiled anonymity, recoiled at this affront and lashed out, directing his wrath toward Lyris. With fortuitous timing, I intervened, pacifying the deity and salvaging our hard-fought accord.
To fulfill the sacred ritual, we required five gallons of high-quality alcohol, a providence granted by our foresight in procuring such libations. However, lacking a vessel of suitable stature, we beseeched the miller, hoping he might possess or procure a bronze cup for our solemn undertaking. Intriguingly, Nightshade, in her peculiar way, inquired of the miller for a weapon capable of harming the intangible. And, by some mysterious twist of fate, the miller produced such a blade, placing it in Nightshade's hands.
Though unable to find a bronze cup, the miller presented us with an exquisite brass vessel, a befitting container for our sacred offering. I, Bertrum, ventured forth to the blacksmith, employing my expertise to coat the cup in a sheen of molten bronze, thus rendering it suitable for the ritual's purpose.
As the auspicious hour arrived, we commenced the ceremonial rites, invoking the presence of the disease god. Manifest he did, and in witnessing the efficacy of our offering, he agreed to depart from Ardeleth's realm for a span of four and a half years, relinquishing his malevolence upon Davala and divulging the identity of his mysterious contractor. Yet, despite our fervent entreaties, the deity refused to unveil the name, steadfastly bound by an agreement forged in the realm of shadows.
As we pieced together the fragments of this intricate puzzle, our collective gaze fell upon the miller, casting suspicion upon his very being. Before confronting him with our accusations, we deemed it prudent to seek the counsel of the town's Physicker, for her reaction to the revelation would serve as a barometer of truth. In a stroke of curious timing, we found her indulging in a sumptuous three-course repast, a display of opulence in the midst of lean times. Such extravagance struck a dissonant chord within our minds, arousing suspicions of her potential involvement in this wicked scheme.
Without divulging the miller's name, we relayed the dire circumstances to the Physicker, observing her reactions with a discerning eye. A pang of disappointment flickered across her countenance, belying her hidden agenda—clearly, she had been reaping ill-gotten gains from the very affliction that beset the town. However, we could discern no collusion between her and the miller, though her disappointment at the resolution of the disease problem betrayed her avaricious nature.
Armed with this knowledge, we proceeded to confront the miller, employing the same tactical ploy we had deployed with the Physicker. Persistence yielded its fruit, as the miller, burdened by the weight of guilt, confessed to his unholy alliance with the disease god. His resignation, tinged with an air of inevitability, marked the culmination of his treachery.
Yet, a quandary lay before us like an unfathomable abyss—what fate should befall this wretched perpetrator of suffering? A clash of opinions ensued among our band of compatriots, each offering their unique perspective. I, Bertrum, advocated for the town's judgment, for they had borne the brunt of his transgressions. Nightshade, ever skeptical of a fair trial in such circumstances, proposed the involvement of a neutral third party. And to our bewilderment, Lyris espoused a notion most bizarre—a desire for the miller to join our ranks, embarking on grand adventures. Such whimsical musings seemed incongruous to Nightshade and myself, leading us to dismiss them as flights of fancy.
Ultimately, a consensus emerged among us, rooted in reason and pragmatism. It was decided that the miller would be escorted back to Gavirat, where he would face the judgement of Blood on the Snow, the arbiter of justice in these lands. In his hands, the miller's fate would be decided, the scales of retribution weighed with impartiality.
Thus, dear journal, we find ourselves at a precipice, poised between the unraveling of mysteries and the imposition of justice. The tendrils of intrigue and deceit, once tightly wound around the people of Davala, now slowly unravel, revealing the truth that lay obscured. We shall navigate these treacherous currents, our resolve unwavering, in pursuit of the light that shall cast its radiance upon this shadowed realm.
Yours faithfully,
Bertrum Blumenthall