Glimmerwick

Quicklinks

Opening the Chest

Glimmerwick's Game

Gifts Bestowed

Retro Actions and the Alter awaits

Player Replies

Opening the Chest

Mutt focuses on the weave, letting his magic sweep over the chest and the coins. Immediately, a bright pulse of Conjuration magic rolls off the chest — strong, steady, and coming from inside. The energy feels… contained, like something is being held here rather than simply stored. Layered over that is a thinner, but precise, web of Abjuration magic concentrated on the five coin-shaped slots across the front. Whatever this seal is, it isn’t designed to be picked or forced — it’s keyed to accept only a very specific trigger.

The five rusty coins in your pouch stir faintly in your awareness under the spell’s gaze. They give off a faint Abjuration hum of their own, with an odd trace of Transmutation magic bound into their metal. Dormant now, but they seem tuned to resonate with the chest’s seal when brought close.

Orin looks at the magic results, "Oooohoo", he says.

Azalie keeps her blade at the ready, "Open the Chest Mutt" she quips.

Mutt’s gaze lingers between the old rusty coins and the slots on the chest. Gesturing for the party to get a safe distance from the chest and into the hallway, he resummons his mage hand. With a nervous glance back at the party, he commands the mage hand to place the coins into the slots.

The final coin slides into place with a soft click.

For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then the slits glow faintly, the lines of the chest’s seams tracing with silver light before bursting in a quiet shimmer of magic. The heavy lid creaks open, and a swirl of golden motes pours out, spinning in a slow spiral toward the ceiling.

The motes gather, tighten, and pop—leaving a tiny winged figure hovering in midair. Her wings refract torchlight into shifting rainbows, and her patchwork skirt drifts as though in a breeze only she can feel. She blinks rapidly, as if the act of existing again takes some effort.

“Ohhh—oh yes, air, space, actual air!” she gasps, doing a delighted spin before stopping short. “Wait… this isn’t the greenwood… where’s the hall? Where’s the music? Where’s…” She frowns, tilting her head at all of you in turn. “Who in all the shifting courts are you?”

Without giving time for an answer, she rambles on. “The last thing I remember—oh yes—it was Varaxidor the Solemn, that dreary little mage, all robes and pomp and no sense of humor. He was muttering about ‘containment for the greater good’—ugh, as if I’m dangerous! And then there was a flash, and now…” She waves her arms at the dungeon walls. “…what in the twisted roots of the Feywild is this place? It smells like mildew, burnt rock, and someone’s bad stew.”

Her hair shifts from Reddish to rose gold as her expression brightens. “Oh! Oh oh oh—hold on—did you let me out?”

She flits closer, eyes gleaming. “You did! My rescuers! My heroes! My… oh my, you are a ragged little bunch, aren’t you?”

Her grin turns conspiratorial. “Well then. In the Fey courts, a debt is a debt. You freed me from Varaxidor’s wretched little prison, and for that, I will give you anything your hearts desire. Anything at all. A weapon. A treasure. A trinket to make your rivals gnash their teeth. Just tell me what you want, and I will make it so.”

She twirls once more in the air, the faint scent of crushed violets trailing behind her. “So—who’s first?”

Current Time: 12:25 PM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Exploration

Corruption Level: Rising slowly.

Glimmerwick's Game

Golden motes swirl upward from the chest, coalescing into a tiny figure whose wings scatter fractured rainbows across the stone walls. Her hair—wild red curls—frames a freckled face, and her patchwork skirt drifts as though caught in a summer breeze. She blinks against the torchlight, taking in each of you in turn.

Azalie lifts her arms, beaming. “You sure are adorable. Way better than that Medusa.”

Glimmerwick tilts her head. “Medu-what? No, darling, I’ve never met one of those.” Her gaze drifts to the mound of ash. “Though she doesn’t look like the sort who’d have enjoyed my company. Most serious sorts don’t.” She smiles as if that’s a compliment.

She turns a slow circle in the air. “As for this—” she gestures to the chest “—I can’t say how it came to be here. Last I remember, Varaxidor the Solemn—all pomp and no sense of humor—was muttering something about ‘containment for the greater good’ before snapping the lid shut. Eight centuries later…” She sweeps her hands toward the cold dungeon walls. “…I wake up in this dreary place.”

Azalie twirls, giggling, and leans toward Uptharr with a stage whisper. “Be on guard.” She spins back toward the fairy with a winky smile. “Yes, we did release you. We’d need to discuss what we need, though.”

Dorf glances at Hruna. “We should wish to be back in your great hall.”

Hruna smirks. “And leave Mutt tae explain tae the Beholder where we’ve gone? Yer braver than Ah thought, laddie.”

Fizz is nearly giddy, swaying to the scent of crushed violets. "Well it's wonderful to meet you, and I'm so glad you are out of that awful box! I can't even imagine being stuck in something so tiny and cramped, you see my house in the swamp has as many natural windows as I can get! Of course the Mosquitos get in sometimes, but I've got a little smoke stick rubbed in mushroom powder that gets rid of them faster than a snake catchin a cricket!" Fizz takes a quick breath and then continues. "Are you hungry?! I know I would be hungry after being stuck in a box. (Fizz offers her a fresh natural snack from his pack). Who is this stinky wizardy person that put you in there anyway! I'll give him a piece of my mind if I ever get a chance. Putting lovely Fey creatures in a locky box! Rude..." Fizz remembers, "Wait.. did you say weapons or treasure? I don't usually go for all that stuff, but we're in a bit of a pickle here you might say. We've got this big Beholder fellow that sent us down here to die! What a Nasty Gasty he is! I don't know what you have for that sort of situation, but maybe you can come with us and help!"

Glimmerwick accepts the snack, sniffing it delicately. “Mmm. Fungal. Earthy. Just like home,” she says with a satisfied hum. Then her expression turns sly. “Ah, the wizard? Varaxidor the Solemn—oh, he was the sort who polished his staff more than he used it. Always in long grey robes, muttering about ‘order’ and ‘control’ as though the words were spells themselves. He had this ridiculous hat, too—shaped like a candle snuffer, which, now that I think about it, was rather fitting.”

She twirls in midair, red curls bouncing. “He claimed I was dangerous—me!—because I ‘disrupted the balance.’ As if a little dancing wine and talking teapots could unravel reality. Some people can’t take a joke.”

She grins. “But travel with you? Oh no. I’ve only just gotten out, and besides—” she sweeps into a midair pirouette—“I much prefer giving things to doing things.”

Mutt watches in silence for a time, studying her. The tales he’s heard whisper that the fey always have strings attached, even when smiling. With what he can read of her manner, the offer she’s making is real—but never without a hook.

When Azalie’s theatrics wind down, he steps forward.

“No need to rush. You’ve been trapped in there a while. Take a moment to stretch your wings. You never did tell us your name—or why Varaxidor thought you were dangerous.”

She stops mid-hover and fixes him with an amused look. “Names have power, my careful friend. You may call me… Glimmerwick.” Her smile widens, as if she’s enjoying the choice of it. “And dangerous? Hah. I embarrassed Varaxidor during a treaty feast by improving his ceremonial wine so it sang sonnets when poured. He thought me a menace. I call it art.”

Orin, arms folded, says evenly, “It’s possible he considered your magic… unpredictable.”

She winks. “Unpredictable is simply another word for fun.”

Uptharr clears his throat. “We don’t require your assistance, but we are happy to see you free. Free of charge, so to speak.”

Her eyes glint with amusement. “A generous sentiment. But generosity should be rewarded. And I do owe you. So—each of you may name a thing your heart desires. I will give it. Anything—weapon, bauble, trinket, something shiny to flash at your enemies.”

She flits higher, motes swirling from her wings. “All you have to do… is ask.... but if you don't want anything, then I suppose I could just go on my way. So what is it gonna be? Huh?”

How do you reply?

Current Time: 12:30 PM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Exploration

Corruption Level: Rising slowly.

Gifts Bestowed

"Awwww.. We'll miss you! I hope you get can get out ok on your own!" Fizz says with genuine concern.

"Like I said, I'm not a huge fan of big thumpy weapons, but a trinket or bauble sounds fun!" He pauses for a moment in thought, stroking his beard. "Something I've always wanted to do, but I've never been able to succeed at! I can add leaves, moss, mushrooms and mud all over my body, but unfortunately this lovely blue color shines right through. Totally ruins it when I'm trying to sneak up on frogs in the swamp! I know that many of the Fey creatures can blend so perfectly into their environment that sometimes they even disappear altogether. So cool! Maybe, If you had some kind of bauble or magic ring that could help me camouflage or disappear, it sure would be helpful!! Especially since we keep seeming to run into all kinds of bad creatures that like to shoot me with fire, or laser eyes." Fizz bounces on his toes, as he waits for Glimmers answer.

Glimmerwick’s eyes widen with delight. “Ohhh… you want to blend in, little swamp-man? Hide so well the world forgets you’re there? I love that. But leaves and mud?” She waves a tiny hand dismissively. “Please. If you want to disappear, you have to do it with style.”

She spins midair, motes scattering like fireflies, and cups them between her palms. When she opens them, a delicate silver chain unfurls, hung with a teardrop pendant of clear crystal that seems to hold a sliver of dawn mist inside.

“This will hide you better than any mossy cloak or muddy smear. Slip it on, and with just a thought — poof! — you vanish from sight. But…” Her grin widens. “…I thought, why stop there? If you want to blend in like the Fey, you should look like the Fey.”

The moment the chain touches Fizz’s neck, a ripple passes over him. His skin takes on a soft green undertone, his hair becomes a shifting weave of leaf and gold, his eyes shimmer like dew in the morning light. His clothes appear woven from petals, moss, and spider-silk. Delicate, translucent wings shimmer faintly behind him — not for flight, but enough to catch the light when he moves.

“There,” Glimmerwick says, clearly pleased with herself. “A proper woodland sprite. Perfect for vanishing into the trees… or confusing your enemies. The necklace will keep you this way as long as you wear it, and grant you true invisibility when you wish it. Use it wisely… or at least, amusingly.”

She drifts back, watching him with a smirk. “Now then… who’s next?”

Mutt's initial surprise at the fairy's emergence turns to dread and despair as she mentions being imprisoned for 800 years. He can't imagine being confined for 8 hours, let alone 8 lifetimes.

He regards the fairy with empathy and smiles sympathetically.

"800 years. No light, no air. I can't even imagine what that must have been like for you. No one deserves to be imprisoned like that. Especially not for the 'crime' of producing music." Mutt chuckles.

"At least after 800 years, you have some consolation that Varaxidor is likely dead by now." Mutt smiles warmly at Glimmerwick. He can't imagine asking for payment for freeing someone from captivity like that, but this was a fey! He had never had the opportunity to meet one before and the stories he'd heard of the fey people and the Feywild... "I've heard stories of the fabled music of the fey. Instruments that produce a sound so pure, so enchanting, they can enrapture minds, provide protection, heal wounds or even affect nature itself." Mutt gestures meekly at the lute strapped to his back and the pan flute on his belt. "I would never claim to be an equal to the fey in terms of music, but I have always dreamed of being able to play one of their instruments."

Glimmerwick’s eyes glitter as Mutt speaks of fabled fey music.

“Ohhh, you do know how to speak to a lady,” she says, voice dripping with mischief. “Music that touches the soul deserves an instrument worthy of it... a little weaving of laughter, moonlight, and my own… peculiar brand of magic. It’s been far too long since I gave anyone a reason to grin and wince at the same time.”

She twirls in the air, humming a strange, lilting tune, and with a flick of her fingers, a shimmer of moonlight and pollen condenses into a lute shape before him.

“This,” she says, handing it over, “is Whimsyweft. It listens. It… understands. Play it in the quiet of the world, and it will soothe hearts. Play it when the air is sharp and teeth are bared…” Her eyes glint with a wicked sparkle. “…and it will choose how to answer.”

She drifts back, hands clasped behind her head. “It knows the mood better than I ever could. But be warned—once it starts playing its chosen tune, you might just have to see it through to the end.”

Mutt reaches out and grips the neck of the lute reverently. Feeling the smooth wood in his hands, he plucks a string and begins to spin a tune.

“In meadows green and moonlight bright, Where shadows dance and stars ignite, The faeries flit with wings so slight, And fill the air with pure delight.

They play their games amongst the trees, With mischief woven in the breeze, Tickle a sleeping badger's sneeze, And wake the birds with joyful ease.

Oh, listen close, can you not hear? Their laughter light, so sweet and clear, A melody that banishes fear, When fun-loving faeries draw near!

They'll steal your socks and hide your shoes, Then leave you riddles, light and loose, But harm they mean not, no abuse, Just sprinkle magic, fresh as dew.

So if you wander through the wood, And feel a joy you've understood, Perhaps a faerie's touched your mood, And left a trace of something good!"

To hear Mutt's Song click here: https://suno.com/song/c52eac80-314a-4014-8ba9-8c3e16082d0b

As the final note of Mutt’s faerie ballad drifts away, the lute in his hands gives a low, satisfied hum.

A warm, teasing voice comes from the Lute. “Mmm… not bad for a first date. You’ve got heart, bardling. I think I’ll keep you.”

Around the party, tiny motes of light drift lazily into the air, each settling gently on a shoulder or brow before fading away—leaving a subtle glow of vitality in their wake (each ally gains 2 temporary hit points).

The lute chuckles softly. “There now. That’s a taste. Play me like that again, and I’ll see what other little gifts I can coax from my strings.”

From her perch in midair, Glimmerwick’s laughter ripples like silver bells. “Ohhh, it likes you. Careful though—fey music must always be perfect. If it’s not, the magic pouts. You’ll need to keep it tuned, Mutt. Perfectly. Always.”

She leans in conspiratorially. “One hour. Every time you wring a drop of magic out of it. Feed it music, honey, and a little moonlight, and it will feed you wonders.”

Unlock Trigger: Fey Mood Music has awakened. Playing Whimsyweft during a peaceful, non-hostile moment.

• Power Discovered:  Soothing Sounds - Grants each ally 1d4 Temp HP. (Not stackable)

Dorf watches as Fizz turns into a fairy his jaw dropping with sheer amazement. He sees Mutt’s new toy and starts thinking.

“I wouldn’t mind a trinket of some sort that would make me even more dangerous when I let my rage out without having to use weapons.”

“Ohhh, I like you,” she says, drifting closer until she’s just above his head. “All fists and fury—no clumsy bits of sharpened iron to weigh you down. I can work with that.”

She flips in midair, trailing motes of gold and green light, and with a snap of her fingers, a pair of delicate, open-topped fey boots float into being. The leather is supple moss-green, laced with threads of silver that seem to shift and ripple like moonlit water.

“These,” she says, setting them gently on the floor before him, “are for bare hands and bare feet only. Draw a blade, and they’ll sulk like a satyr denied his wine. But leave your hands free, let the rage take you… and you’ll be faster than thought, brighter than fire, and every strike will blaze with fey light. Even your footsteps will whisper mischief.”

She leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Just remember—speed is a gift, but it also means everyone will be watching you. Sparkle responsibly.”

Azalie stood in quiet amazement. She had never encountered such a character before, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if this was truly happening… or if one of the gargoyles had crushed her skull and this was all some fevered dream.

Fizz began to glow, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away. She didn’t blink once. The necklace grazed Fizz’s skin—then poof—Fizz was gone, and in his place stood a fairy with golden hair.

“That’s incredible,” she murmured to herself. But her scars told stories, and those stories warned her not to trust anyone offering her anything too easily.

Then Mutt began to speak. His words floated from his mouth like silk, smooth and practiced. Azalie’s head tilted slightly, her eyes locked in a dead stare. “Charming, huh?” she muttered under her breath, barely parting her lips.

The banter continued, but her mind wandered. What was it she truly desired? She enjoyed the thrill of battle, the bliss of a warm bath, and the mouth-watering draw of a dwarven stew. But deep down, those pleasures felt small compared to what her heart longed for.

She tried to ignore the playful teasing around her. After all, she knew what it was to be trapped—and it saddened her to think of anyone enduring such a fate. Her fingers traced the scars on her wrists, reminders of bindings pulled too tight. The gleam of her reflection in the mirror shield caught her eye, and the memory of the wounds on her face flickered in her mind—a tale too painful to fully recall.

If only she had never wandered too far from her mother.

A sudden wave of sorrow swept through her. She realized what she wanted most: to know if her family still lived, and if they had ever searched for her. Could this golden-haired fey help her? Or would she twist her hopes into a cruel joke?

Dorf was speaking now, and Hruna would surely be next. Dwarves rarely turned down the promise of a fine weapon. Then, it would be her turn.

She had already bared so much of herself to the Howlbears. Why was it so hard to speak this truth aloud? She hadn’t sought her family in years, afraid her heart couldn’t bear another false hope.

The fairy seemed the most likely to toy with her feelings. Still, she steadied her breathing—short, uneven gasps—and forced her body to still its trembling. The thought of seeing her family again was almost too much to bear.

“What wonderful tools you’ve created,” she began, her voice low but steady. “I have little use for weapons or trinkets. But I would be… deeply appreciative if you could help me find my family.”

The words barely passed her lips, but they felt heavy with meaning.

“I just want to know if they made it. If they ever looked for me.”

She couldn’t go on. The hope was too fragile, too precious in this moment. Azalie drew in a deep breath, standing tall despite the slight quiver of her bottom lip

Glimmerwick’s teasing grin softens, her golden hair shimmering faintly in the dim light. She drifts closer, her voice lowering into something almost—almost—gentle.

“Such a request,” she murmurs, tracing a small circle in the air, “is far heavier than steel or gold. The past is stubborn… and so very fond of hiding.”

A swirl of silver pollen spins from her fingertips, coalescing into a small charm of deep blue petals bound on a chain. The petals shift and sway as if caught in a breeze only they can feel.

“This is the Moonpetal Divining Charm. When the world is quiet, and your heart is ready, it will show you… pieces. Memories, moments, answers—though never all at once. It will not lie, but it will not hand you the whole truth, either. After all…”

Her lips curl into that familiar, knowing smile.

“…half the delight of a mystery is in chasing it.”

She drops the charm into Azalie’s palm, the petals glowing faintly against her skin.

“And when danger presses close, you may pluck a petal to sharpen your eyes or your wits. Just know—when the petals fall, others will notice.”

With a wink, she flutters back, her laughter carrying just a trace of something bittersweet.

Hruna shifts her weight, rubbing at a scar along her forearm, eyes flicking to the fairy with cautious respect.

"A’ve nae need fer blade nor armor. When ye lot get me oot o’ here, A’ll be headin’ home—what’s left o’ it, anyway. A’m a miner, nae some wanderin’ sellsword. But…" she pauses, clearin’ her throat, "the mines take their toll, an’ the winters up north dinnae forgive much. If ye could spare somethin’ tae keep me warm, keep me breathin’, an’ maybe… help me find the right seams beneath the stone, A’d be grateful."

Glimmerwick’s Reply

Glimmerwick’s eyes soften—not pitying, but thoughtful—as she circles Hruna once.

“Mmm. A homebody with dirt under her nails and the mountains in her bones,” she muses. “Very well. No sword, no shine, but something to serve you in the deep dark and bitter cold.”

With a gentle clap, threads of pale light weave together, taking shape in her hands—soft leather gloves lined with silvered fur, each fingertip stitched with tiny runes that glint faintly like moonlight on snow.

“These are the Frostvein Forager’s Gloves. They’ll warm your hands no matter how cruel the wind, let you see the truth of the stone beneath your fingers, and… perhaps give you a nudge toward the right path when the tunnels turn treacherous. And,” she grins slyly, “if they sometimes whisper where not to dig—do listen. My warnings are never entirely jokes.”

Uptharr folds his hands behind his back, his expression calm but resolute.

“I have no want for personal gain. If you wish to gift me something, then let it be something that helps me protect or heal others—tools to strengthen those who fight beside me, not for my own comfort.”

Glimmerwick tilts her head, lips curling in a slow, amused smile.

“Oh, you’re one of those. All noble and serious—how utterly exhausting.” She flits in a slow circle around him, chin propped in her hand, studying him like an overly earnest painting. “Fine, fine. You want to help others? I suppose I could make you something useful…”

She waves her hand in a half-hearted flourish, and a small crystal pendant appears, hanging on a cord of twisted golden thread. Inside the crystal, a spark of multicolored light bounces lazily around, occasionally bursting into tiny starbursts.

“This is the Benevolence Bauble. Touch it to someone, and it will share a little burst of mending light—if it feels like it. It works best when you’re trying to be heroic and selfless, but it does have… moods.” Her grin widens. “Sometimes it might heal them. Sometimes it might make them smell like fresh bread. I leave those details to the Bauble’s sense of humor.”

Glimmerwick twirls lazily above you, wings scattering drifting motes of pollen and light. Her voice has that sing-song mischief you’ve come to expect, but there’s something softer beneath it too—satisfaction, perhaps.

“Well, debts are debts, and mine is paid. You’ve given me freedom after centuries of dust and silence, and in return, I’ve given you… toys. Lovely toys. Dangerous toys. Hah! Fey bargains always even out in the end, don’t they?”

She stretches in the air like a cat, then blows you a kiss that disperses into a burst of glittering petals.

“I’ve lingered long enough in this dreary hole. The Feywild calls, and I’m not one to keep an audience waiting. Don’t expect a goodbye letter—just remember my name, and the laughter will find you again.”

With that, she spirals upward in a whirl of golden light. The air hums with strange music for a heartbeat, and then—she is gone.

The party makes their way back to the Main chamber where the abandoned camp was, and decides on a long rest. The 8 hours pass uneventfully.

The Long Rest

The camp room is eerily quiet. the cavern lit only by the pale shimmer of campfire and the pulsing of violet runes on the wall, reminding you of the anti-magic pressure down in this wretched place. Each of you takes time to settle:

• Mutt carefully begins the delicate work of re-tuning Whimsyweft, the lute humming and sighing like a living thing, occasionally commenting under its breath.

• Azalie sits apart, the silver Moonpetal Divining Charm warm in her hand as she traces its etchings, thoughts wandering to family long lost.

• Dorf flexes and admires the gleam of his new fey-forged greaves, the glow promising both speed and reckless danger when his rage next rises.

• Fizz tugs experimentally at the Vanishing Charm around his neck, still adjusting to his sprite-like visage whenever the magic disguises him.

• Uptharr inspects the Benevolence Bauble, testing its light and muttering a prayer under his breath—even as the trinket hums with a tune not entirely holy.

• Hruna finally rests in relative safety, head bowed, exhaustion claiming her as she leans against her bedroll.

The hours pass. The aches of battle fade, and the weariness of endless stone corridors eases.

The Decision

When the group regathers, the discussion is brief but firm. The right-hand tunnel—the one they avoided before—will be their path forward. Supplies are gathered, weapons checked, and wounds bound.

The Right Tunnel

The heavy stone door creaks open with a groan, and once more that cold breath of air spills into the chamber. Haunting voices echo faintly, layered over each other in whispers of anguish:

“Why… why are we here…”“…couldn’t escape…”“…not again… no, please…”

Upthar places a stone in the door, just as you have done before, to keep the door propped open, so you are not locked out from coming back this way, should you need to.

The narrow hall stretches forward into shadow, empty yet not empty, the weight of unseen presence pressing on your shoulders. The sorrowful murmurs grow stronger as you proceed, winding through the dark corridor until it bends sharply to the left.

Around that corner, the hallway widens into a chamber. Its walls are etched with faint, ancient sigils, and at its far end looms a massive iron door—sealed, cold, and watchful. The whispers swirl here most strongly, rising to a pleading chorus, as if countless voices hover just beyond the veil.

And as you step inside, the air thickens with expectancy…

At the far, the massive iron door, its surface etched with writhing sigils that pulse faintly, as though alive.

The whispers you heard before now rise into a dreadful chorus, many voices at once: “Why… why are we here…?” “…couldn’t escape…” “…not again…”

Then, before the door, the air ripples. Shadows gather, condense, and take the form of a pale, fractured spirit. Its shape is humanoid but blurred, as though a dozen faces struggle to speak through a single mouth.

When it speaks, the voices layer over one another, deep and hollow:

“You who walk the Pit… you seek the shadowed path below. But none may pass without the toll. Offer what was lost to this place—memory, corruption, and stone. Yet these alone are not enough. The lifeblood of the deep, the fire of the forge, the spore’s whisper, and the unseen light must join them. Fail… and join the chorus of the forgotten.”

The spirit’s form wavers, a faint echo of anguish rolling through the chamber. The sigils on the iron door flare once, as though hungry.

There is an alter before the spirit, it beckons you to place your offering on the alter.

What do you do?

(In addition to interacting with this scene, you may post any retro actions, comments or interactions with Glimmerwick, and you may post retro actions during the long rest)

Current Time: 8:30 PM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Exploration

Corruption Level: Rising slowly.

Retro Actions and the Alter Awaits

Retro-Recap

Mutt stoops to collect the Medusae’s remains, the fine ash settling into a stoppered jar with a faint shimmer of lingering petrification magic. It’s now secured safely among his things. Later, when his eyes wander the row of statues, he feels only the cold bite of futility—these figures are frozen too deeply in the stone’s curse. His study yields no promising candidate; none seem poised to aid the Howlbears even if returned. For now, the petrified remain silent witnesses to their fate.

Azalie, pendant warm in her palm, steadies herself beside him. Her quiet words linger, a reminder that some rescues are crueller than prisons.

Mutt studies the row of stone figures more closely, but with only a quick, distracted glance (Investigation 7), most appear beyond saving. Many are fractured—arms missing, torsos split, features worn smooth by centuries. Dust and moss cling to their surfaces, a reminder of just how long they’ve stood here. Still, three stand out as intact enough to tempt him:

• A dwarven warrior in full plate, visor down, frozen mid-swing with a warhammer. The stone looks thick and solid, but time has chipped the hammer’s head. His posture is fierce, though his face cannot be seen.

• An elven woman in robes, one hand raised as if casting. Her features are sharp, and though her staff has crumbled away, her form is otherwise unbroken. A faint etching of runes circles her neckline.

• A human sellsword, clad in leathers with twin short blades at his belt. His stance is wide, one leg braced as though charging forward. The detail is uncanny—scars on his cheek, braids in his hair—yet his eyes are locked wide with terror.

All three bear the weight of years, their clothing and weapons belonging to ages long past. None of them feel safe to revive—but they are whole enough that the potion might work.

Long rest Retro recap:

Mutt & Whimsyweft

As Mutt strums and tunes the lute, it hums back at him — sometimes perfectly in key, other times stubbornly off. At one point, it whispers in a lilting, feminine voice only he can hear:

“Mmm, you’ve got a soft touch. I like that.”

Or, when he hits a sour note: “Oof. Play that again and I’ll start crying glitter.”

The lute seems eager for attention, purring like a cat when stroked, and occasionally shifting its tune mid-song as if teasing him. If Mutt speaks to it, the lute responds in cryptic half-whispers, never quite giving a straight answer but always sounding amused. This helps establish its whimsical, fey-born personality.

Azalie & the Moonpetal Charm

During her watch or in a quiet moment, Azalie turns the charm over in her palm. The petals shift faintly, like a flower responding to unseen sunlight. When she focuses on it, a soft warmth spreads through her chest, easing her breathing and quieting the restless thoughts she usually hides.

If she lingers longer, she might hear a faint whisper of her mother’s voice, or see the vaguest impression of an elven home bathed in moonlight. Nothing concrete — just enough to blur the line between memory and vision. It reassures her, but also leaves her longing to try the charm in true meditation when they’re safe.

Other Characters

• Dorf: He flexes his feet in the Feyfire Greaves, chuckling at the faint sparkle trail even when he’s just walking around the campfire. The shoes feel restless, as if itching for a fight. He notices that when he removes the Greaves, he suffers a few moments of Lethargy, as the Haste spell dissapates.

• Uptharr: The Benevolence Bauble sits in his palm like a stubborn marble. It doesn’t glow or respond — until he lays it beside his prayer book, where it emits the faintest, steady pulse, as if “listening.”

At the Alter room

Dorf meanwhile cannot resist testing his glittering shoes. With a sudden blur, he’s gone—his form streaking through the Pit with trails of faerie fire sparking behind him. The spirit’s hollow gaze follows as he slips beyond the altar chamber and into the fungal hall. A ripple of cold passes through the air, and the sorrowful whispers shift in tone.

“Break the circle… disturb the stillness… the price grows heavier…”

Dorf returns in moments, spores swirling in his jar, his grin broad despite the eerie chill that lingers after his absence. As he rejoins the group, the whispers resume their steady chorus, though a faint heaviness remains in the room—as if the spirit’s patience thins with each wandering step.

Now the altar waits, its iron face lit with the ghost’s spectral glow. The spirit drifts forward, its voice filling the chamber:

“Memory. Fungus. Stone. Blade. But not all you have scavenged will serve. Choose with care, for false offerings deepen the curse you carry. Will you lay your treasures upon the altar?”

The room falls into silence, broken only by the echo of their own breath.

Action Required

Each of you make a CON check (DC 14 needed) as your bodies begin to feel the corruption of this place weaken you.

Current Time: 8:45 PM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Exploration

Corruption Level: Rising slowly.

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