Sphen, MacAlasdair, Dugar, Gobit

The party’s journey began with a heated debate: should they investigate the strange, glowing smoke rising on the horizon—or meet the imprisoned sprite rumored to be held within the guild’s trophy room? Curiosity won out.

In the dim light of the trophy hall, arcane glimmers danced across shelves of relics and beasts long since slain. Behind enchanted glass hovered Atter Hill—a tiny sprite with flickering wings and haunted eyes. MacAlasdair stepped forward, speaking in the lilting tones of Sylvan. The sprite’s voice trembled as he spoke of his glade, once a place of wonder, now consumed by shadow. His kin were dying.

MacAlasdair, moved by the plea, revealed his druidic focus and made a solemn vow not to harm the sprite’s homeland. MacAlasdair open the gate. Atter Hill, radiant and free, gifted McAllister a glimmering, mustard seed-sized sending stone—then vanished into the air, trailing sparks like fireflies.

Chaos followed. Sphen, ever the pragmatist, tackled MacAlasdair for releasing guild property. Tensions flared—until Thrain examined the sprite’s gift and saw its worth. The moment held, teetering between loyalty and rebellion, then passed with grim acceptance.

The group still torn on their path, Dugar suggested a coin flip. Heads they would travel to the glade, tales they would seek out the prismatic light.  Fate shined upon them, and tales was the answer.

A teleportation circle, etched with glowing runes and thrumming with power, awaited them. As the spell activated, reality twisted. Grasslands unfolded beneath them in an instant. For MacAlasdair, the sudden shift brought nausea. Others stumbled, disoriented. Blades of grass rose nearly to their shoulders, forcing the shorter among them to rely on taller comrades for sight.

Amid the swaying fields, they gathered herbs—blackthorn, foxglove—unknowing of what they’d soon face.

Their steps led to a forgotten burial ground where six  stones lay cracked and weathered. Magic pulsed faintly in the air. With ritual and care, MacAlasdair restored a fallen triangular slab. As it clicked into place, the stones surged with energy. Light burst forth and the pieces of the stones repaired themselves. Six voices echoed—serene and immense—servants of the Great Light. Each party member felt divine power ripple through them, blessing them with newfound skill.

To Dugar, one voice spoke with special warmth, praising his reverence and urging him toward the Great Light’s embrace.

Night fell like a curtain. They built their camp in a defensive crescent of stone, the fire sunk low to avoid detection. But sleep did not come peacefully. Dugar and Sphen dreamed of a radiant, bound figure—a celestial woman, imprisoned and calling for aid. Her voice echoed across dimensions.

Shadows attacked before dawn. Figures of living darkness burst from the gloom. Spells flew. Steel clashed. They fought hard and fast, managing to destroy most—but one escaped, vanishing with a shriek into the black. In its place, it left behind dust—fine, black, and humming with unnatural energy.

Their path carried them to a surreal crystal valley, where amethyst trees shimmered in refracted light. The air was thick with sweet, cloying mist. Whispers curled between the trunks—the same voice from their dreams, pleading for rescue. But when Gobit and Sphen, overcome by curiosity, broke shards from the crystalline trees, the whispers ceased.

Something moved in the mist.

And the party, now silent, realized they were no longer alone.