Session Fourteen - 11/16/25
1832 AS Namal 11
Another Day
We woke this morning not to the clangor of steel nor the scent of smoke, but to the quiet, almost unsettling aroma of carefully prepared vegan fare. There is something disarming about peace offered without pretense. It is far easier to ready oneself for battle than to accept gentleness without suspicion.
Mikani spent much of the morning in discourse with Jennifer. The elder druid worked needle and thread with practiced patience, mending cloth as one might mend history — not erasing the tear, but acknowledging it. Mikani questioned her on matters celestial: the Isles, Mount Celestia, the thunderous disruptions that now stalk the skies. Jennifer’s answer was… troubling in its calm. If these things are tied to the Cataclysm, then they are not new. They are simply resurfacing. The question she returned to us was not what we intend to fight — but how prepared we are to fight it at all.
We spoke again of the Wells.
Catur and Paramon lie close, though proximity offers no guarantee of simplicity. Balrog will demand descent — true descent — and the Monastery of the Open Hand rests in the Gale itself, where storm and conviction collide. Henedal, birthplace of magic, lies across the sea and across the limits of our current reach. Every answer Jennifer gives seems to open three more doors, all of them heavy.
Roon, in his own way, asked after mushrooms. Jennifer confirmed what I suspected: Fey mushrooms heal — but never without opinion. They remember where they grow, and they exact their toll in ways that are not always physical.
We inquired about Catur and the necessity of breathing beneath the sea. Zerzer claimed he would “send word” once he located a suitable plant. I have learned that when druids say send, it may mean days, dreams, or something less tangible.
Paramon, at least, offered immediacy. For fifty gold per soul, a portal could be arranged. An old man — older than he appeared, or perhaps simply tired in a way time alone cannot explain — traced sigils near a ring of standing stones. We stepped into the circle.
The sea greeted us all at once.
Salt. Kelp. Wind. Life.
Mikani communed immediately. She sensed kuo-toa, humans, and the scattered traces of others — a city built as much by tide as by hand. Beneath it all, a portal. Beneath the guild hall. And further still, a powerful elemental presence living offshore, coiled near the fishing huts like a patient thought.
While the others sought answers in temples, Mikani and I followed the sound of water to the guild hall. Dripping stone. Resonance. The unmistakable pressure of an arcane well. Mist gathered. A face formed.
“You have found me,” it said, before we had finished asking.
Its name was Ordor. It told us we could not stay. That danger was imminent. When asked whether the Wand had been used, its answer was immediate and damning: Yes. By Salazar. Lightning again. Always lightning.
The warning proved insufficiently timed.
From the water rose Biha-Bibir — a mass of seaweed and living current given intent — and with it, a summoned water elemental. Cold lashed out, striking Roon and Corvinas with numbing force. Mikani answered the sea with sky, calling lightning down with divine wrath. For a moment, storm fought tide.
I bent Biha’s mind against itself. Enemies abounded, indeed.
Corvinas charged like judgment given legs, his thunderous smite tearing through kelp and fury alike. Brigit struck true and vanished, as she does, leaving only consequence behind. Roon pressed the assault relentlessly, steel and will inseparable.
The sea fought back.
Whelm. Whirlpool. Control of weather itself wrested briefly from Mikani’s grasp. I was struck hard, cast down by churning water, reminded yet again that balance is not mercy.
Still, we held.
My blade found its mark. My song found Corvinas. Roon surged forward with the inexhaustible refusal to fall that defines him, cutting Biha-Bibir down in a final, decisive arc. The elemental followed soon after, split by Mikani’s trident in a blow both precise and final.
When the water stilled, Ordor was silent.
The Well remains. Disturbed. Used. Watching.
There is a pattern emerging now, undeniable even to those who prefer not to see it. The Wells are not merely sites of power. They are wounds — reopened by hands that do not bleed when the world does.
I am increasingly aware that knowledge, once carried, becomes weight. And weight, once noticed, invites scrutiny.
I continue to write.
I continue to guard.
I continue not to say everything.
For now, that must suffice.
