Session 91

S91 A Butterfly’s Kiss

The Battle with Ivoryn

Ivoryn proves to be a powerful foe, rapidly regenerating during the fight.
He nearly kills Seryna before the group unites their full strength to slay him.

Tensions in the Aftermath

Aydriann calls Muvara“useless,” upsetting Tess.
He apologizes, defusing the situation, Tess dances.
Orianna checks on a wounded Seryna, who seems strangely unaffected by her injuries.
Orianna expresses relief and affection, kissing Seryna on the cheek ….. a gesture Seryna deeply cherishes.

Camp at the Edge of Umbrathorne

The party reaches the Umbrathorne border and begins to set up camp.
Aydriann proposes being banished in hopes of reaching Venoxyin.
Mack volunteers to go with him, but several party members express concern over the plan.

The Banishment Incident

Before the group agrees, Dax abruptly casts Banishment, sending Aydriann and Mack away.
The decision enrages Peach, especially when Tess begins to flicker out of existence.
Peach threatens Dax with violence, and Dax drops the spell.
Aydriann and Mack return, reporting they were briefly transported to a mysterious place called Elhanora.

Long live the winter herald

The sword was a shard of winter, honed from nightmares and kissed by frost. Its edge gleamed wickedly beneath the flickering torchlight of Elford Stronghold, whispering promises older than stone, colder than ice. Kervoite ascended the worn stone steps, untouched by the cold air that clawed and howled around him. It twisted through his cloak and curled around the hilt, but he felt none of it. He moved as though borne by something ancient, something savage that had awakened deep within the frozen core of Noite.
Within the great hall, warmth and laughter surged like waves breaking upon a shore, washing through revelers oblivious to the storm gathering at their gates. Their voices rose in cheers, tankards spilling ale as male creatures slapped each other’s backs and female creatures smiled bright and false as painted dolls. They shouted his name with ignorant joy, blind sheep welcoming the wolf back into their fold. “He returns triumphant!” cried one fool, his voice thick with ale and delusion. “To Kervoite, champion of the Syn Trial!” came another cry, drowned in a chorus of drunken pride.
The great oak doors, darkened by centuries of smoke and shadow, yielded at the merest touch of his hand. Wood groaned and hinges wailed their rusty lament, yet none marked the ease with which the prodigal stepped among them, a revenant garbed in darkness. They saw only the familiar face, the lost son come home, blind to the storm in his pale eyes and the hunger of the sword at his side.
All must be purged, whispered a voice colder than death itself, a truth he clutched tightly as he moved forward. The doors swung closed behind him, sealing away any hope of escape. The hall grew quieter, laughter faltering as instinctive unease rippled outward, yet smiles lingered foolishly on faces grown slack with ale and ignorance. They watched him approach, uncertain why their hearts beat faster, why their breaths caught in their throats.
At the hall’s far end, the noble table sprawled in decadent splendor, draped in silver and shadowed by heavy banners embroidered with the crest of House Traxdina. Kervoite’s kin drank deeply, their cups brimming, their cheeks ruddy with wine and arrogance. Brothers and sisters, uncles and cousins…all feasted without a care, blind to the horrors their prodigal had endured, deaf to the whispers of the frozen world that had remade him.
Mikailen rose from his chair, golden goblet raised in drunken salute, a hollow king presiding over fools. “To my son!” he proclaimed, crimson wine sloshing over his wrist like blood from a fresh wound. “To glory and to…”
The blade moved swifter than wind, brighter than lightning, a stroke of perfect, merciless clarity. For a moment suspended in eternity, silence reigned. The goblet struck the stones first, gold ringing hollow upon ancient rock. Then the king’s head, mouth still agape in a toast that would never be finished, rolled slowly, in·ex·o·ra·bly down the hall, a gruesome herald of judgment.
Chaos erupted in screams and panic, a tempest of terror unleashed. They clawed at sealed doors, shattered goblets, and trampled loved ones underfoot. Yet no escape awaited them. Kervoite moved through the pandemonium, a specter of vengeance, the sword singing a grim lullaby as it reaped a harvest long overdue. His pale eyes gleamed with icy joy, relentless as winter itself.
When the doors finally opened again, it was not laughter or celebration that poured forth from Elford Stronghold, but a cloud of steam and smoke, thick with the stench of blood and betrayal. Kervoite stood amidst the slaughter, cloaked in crimson, breath misting softly in the chill air, the sword quiet and sated at last.
He stepped beyond the threshold, eyes fixed upon the sprawling lands that lay silent beneath a cloak of ice and darkness. Winter had chosen its herald. There would be no redemption, no respite from the cleansing storm he would bring. The world must be purged, purified by frost, until nothing remains but winter eternal.

Kalovarn Incident

The journey across the Sleeping Waters had taken less than half an hour…just long enough for the wind to slice through their coats and stir frost from the dark surface of the ice. Kervoite knew these waters well. He’d fished them since he was a boy, memorized the secret paths between the shifting veins of black ice and the subtle currents below where the Glasvryn fed.
The old rule was simple: Stay close enough to the coast to return if things went wrong, but far enough to reach the deeper runs where the Glasvryn would dance through the dark. Too far out, and you risked something worse than a wasted day. You risked the Karlovarn.
“Here we are,” Kervoite said, guiding the sled-boat to a halt. The skids groaned, but the ice held. Sigunia stepped down beside him, squinting into the wind.
Kervoite set to work in silence, the practiced rhythm of his hands preparing the gear. Within minutes, they had a hole bored through the ice, a glimmering lure threaded to a fine aetherwire line, and a heat-cone blazing from aethermantic coils that pulsed faint blue. The fire danced within its containment dome, just warm enough to fight back the cold, but not so hot it would soften the ice beneath their feet.
Sigunia stood with his arms crossed, eyes drifting east…toward distant Thermdenn, though it lay far beyond the horizon out of sight. “This fish is a legend where I’m from,” he said, voice almost lost to the wind. “Its blood runs hot. Our forge fires flash unexpectedly sometimes…pressure builds, valves rupture. The smaller workers, gnomes and dwarfs… they’re the first to die.” He closed his eyes. “The Glasvryn’s warmth could change everything.”
He fell quiet. Then Sigunia continued, “It was weird for me to be pick for this Houseweave, to be traded for fish. But I agreed to it because of the lives it will save.”
Kervoite watched him from the corner of his eye. He got a choice, Kervoite thought bitterly. He was asked. Vetrova never got that courtesy. Kervoite adjusted the lure, checking the tension, forcing his hands to stay busy.
When he looked up again, Sigunia was watching him. There was something soft in that gaze…..curious, maybe even concerned. Kervoite stared back, too long, into his dark alluring eyes. Kervoite’s throat tighten. He tried to recover.
Sigunia didn’t look away. “I’ve noticed how you look at me.”
Kervoite’s breath caught. If he noticed, Kervoite thought, then possibly others have too. This would ruin everything.
Sigunia turned to face him fully, voice gentle. “I’m flattered, truly. But I… I’m attracted to females, Kervoite. I wanted to say something. To make it less…”
The fist landed on Sigunia’s face before the words finished. A wet crunch, a hiss of pain.
Sigunia staggered back, clutching his nose as crimson splattered the ice. He didn’t fall…not fully…but twisted, one leg slipping behind as he caught himself on a gloved hand. The heat-cone cast flickering shadows over his bloodied face.
Kervoite stood where he’d struck him, chest heaving, eyes wide with something that looked far too much like guilt.
“Edmeera’s red veil,” Sigunia gasped, steadying himself. “Why? What has possessed you?”
A tremor answered.
Both men froze.
The sound came not from their mouths but from the ice itself…a groaning, thunderous crack that reverberated beneath their boots. A thin, jagged seam split the ice in a straight line, surging toward them like a rip through black fabric.
Kervoite’s voice tore from him in panic. “Karlovarn!”
The word was enough.
Both men turned, sprinting toward the sled-boat as the crack widened behind them…shards of broken ice flaring upward like jagged teeth. Beneath the fracture, something vast and ancient stirred in the waters.