A chill wind stirred the dust of the rough, narrow road as the companions set out, determined to solve the mystery of why the usual shipments of flour had ceased. Despite the crisp spring air and the casual cadence of their trek, their purpose remained urgent. Far behind them, city walls and bustling streets gave way to the rugged countryside, where whispered rumors of missed deliveries had led them into these less-traveled lands.
They walked in a loose, meandering group—at times clustering together to share conversation, other times wandering off a few steps to inspect a curious wildflower or the shape of a distant tree. Bartholemeow, a quick-witted shapeshifter who currently wore the guise of a large tabby cat, cheerfully tested out lines to a new song, his hushed tune providing an undercurrent of energy to their march. Pebblesong, a youthful dwarf with a profound love of nature, found her gaze drifting over every new horizon, calling attention to shimmering birds or the subtle hues of the earth. Thalmiir, the older dwarf, kept pacing ahead, ever mindful that the day’s light would be short, while Bhakris Edge, an Earth Genasi of imposing stature, trailed close behind him, reflecting on the faint desperation in the baker’s voice when she spoke of her dwindling supplies. Waer’dara, the secretive Drow warlock, remained quietly observant, enthralled at times by small creatures—especially spiders—that might cross her path. And Hat, the goblin inventor, was as wide-eyed as ever, forever fidgeting with contraptions and stopping to admire a peculiar stick or rock he could add to his colorful toolkit.
Not long into their journey, the adventurers’ carefree chatter fell into uneasy silence. Pebblesong, scanning the brush, noticed movement near a rock outcropping, distant but distinct. Bartholemeow’s ears twitched, and his playful refrain abruptly shifted into a tense, minor note. A pair of figures, their features difficult to make out, seemed to crouch behind the rocks. Orcs, they realized, though the creatures barely lingered before fleeing. The companions peered after them, concern rippling through their ranks, but the orcs vanished with scarcely a trace. In the end, they chose not to give chase. No attack followed, and they resumed their mission, albeit with a more watchful air.
The winding road rose gently, leaving the denser woodland behind. The scents of growing spring crops were soon mingled with a tinge of iron in the soil. Eventually, a single proud windmill emerged on the horizon—its broad sails unmoving despite the steady breeze. They could see a modest outbuilding for storage and, a short distance away, a small house where smoke curled from the chimney. Though the scene might have once promised simple rural comfort, an air of unease now pervaded the place.
A large, limping man named Thaddeus appeared in the windmill’s doorway, wary and guarded at first, though his demeanour softened upon learning of their connection to a baker he held in high esteem. Soon, Bertrand—the mill’s spindly, sharp-featured owner—joined the conversation. Their words, initially curt, revealed the reason behind the halted deliveries: the usual sources of grain had dried up, and the best farmland nearby—a collection of farms known locally as Baroldson’s place—had stopped sending its wheat. The harvest had simply failed to appear. There was something about a bog, a place of uncertain menace, that weighed heavily on both Thaddeus and Bertrand. Its mere mention brought a worried frown to Thaddeus’s face, and he spoke of possible dangers on the road. Bertrand spoke of “the boy,” Lorian, who had found himself too frightened to press onward once he caught sight of strange shapes in the distance and smelled the stench of rot.
In time, they decided that Lorian—earnest, eager, still near enough to childhood to bristle with curiosity—would ferry what little flour they could spare back into the city. Though it was only a single sack, heavier than he might have carried under normal circumstances, he was determined to do right by both his family and the friendly baker who so desperately needed it. With a borrowed wheelbarrow, a bit of money for provisions, and the promise of a sweet muffin, Lorian set out for the city. Yet the father’s face, tightened with apprehension, spoke volumes. If anything befell the youth on the road, he would hold the group responsible.
Nevertheless, the companions pressed on, convinced they had to visit Baroldson’s place and learn firsthand what had brought the steady flow of wheat to a standstill. The hills grew cragged, and the patches of forest thinned into sparse clusters of scrub. Over one such ridge, they beheld a bog in the distance: flat, waterlogged, rimmed by soggy earth that stretched as far as they could see. Even from that vantage, an indefinable dread seemed to waft from it, hinting at murky secrets. Within sight of farmland nestled near the bog’s edges, they set their pace, ever mindful that daylight would soon wane.
Their casual banter had lulled for only a moment when an awful stench assaulted their senses—almost like spoiled meat, left to rot in the sun. The withered copse of trees ahead had been suspiciously still, and it soon disgorged a ghastly shape: a creature of decaying flesh and dull, sightless eyes that, to their horror, lurched forth in unsteady motion. A zombie.
At once, their practiced teamwork took hold. Thalmiir charged, unleashing a fierce blow with his axe, letting out a guttural roar of challenge. Though the undead fiend was struck to the ground, it clutched at the air, refusing to succumb. Bhakris, ever the stalwart protector, stepped forward without hesitation, sword glinting with righteous fury. Across from them, Bartholemeow’s bardic voice rose in a harsh, discordant cry, a strangely musical insult that echoed over the moaning dead, forcing one of the zombies to stumble back in maddened fright.
Waer’dara’s whispering incantation wrapped her whip in green-hued flames—when it struck, the dull sparks snapped across to another of the undead, searing them with smoky heat. Near her, Hat fired off a small ember of brilliant flame from some contraption in his coat, chortling triumphantly as it singed the drooling corpse. Pebblesong, for her part, called upon the power that connected her to the weave of living things. Though these husks were far removed from life’s natural cycle, she stood resolute in defense of her companions, conjuring starlight bright enough to mark one of the zombies in a ghostly glow.
Blades rose and fell, the acrid odor of charred undead thick in the air. Even as each rotting shape collapsed, it would twitch spasmodically, as if struggling to rise yet again. Thalmiir’s wrath escalated in tandem with each new undead that lurched from beneath the gnarled roots, and Bhakris’s unwavering vigilance guided his sword arm with lethal efficiency. Their eyes stung from the noxious fumes. Hearts pounded. Yet they fought on, sustained by the camaraderie that bound them.
Though the sun had not yet dipped beneath the horizon, the light grew gray and strained under the tension of the battle. In the distance, that nameless bog brooded, and the silent farmland of Baroldson’s place loomed beyond it, raising questions of its own. If these stray zombies were merely the beginning of a larger evil stirring near the marshy lands, then whatever lay at the heart of the problem promised greater peril still. For now, the companions stood their ground, unafraid to marshal every ounce of their will. Surrounded by battered husks, both on the ground and still shambling through the trees, they braced themselves for the final blows that would secure this road—if only for a night—and possibly unravel the secrets festering at the edges of those forsaken fields.
Session Notes