The morning light in Hexenwald was as weak and gray as a watered-down ale, filtering through the grime of The Laughing Man’s windows. While the village prepared for the coming festivities of Fall Turn, a heavier atmosphere had settled over the common room—one that smelled less like festival bread and more like damp earth and old blood.
A Fractured Council
As the party gathered in the common room to break their fast, the air was thick with a three-way debate. The village elders—or those who pass for them in these desperate times—were locked in a tense standoff.
- Hall Brevant: The dwarven wise woman, sturdy as the stone she likely hails from.
- Freder Oakenbush: The owner of the inn, trying to maintain a semblance of order.
- Anselm Ravencloud: A suspicious trader who seems to have his fingers in far too many pies.
They were huddled with a young man who looked like he’d seen a ghost—and in the Raven Lands, he very well might have. He had found remains along the trade route near the forest. The woodsmen were clear: this wasn’t the work of wolves or bears. The wounds were jagged, deliberate, and chillingly familiar.
“An animal did not do this,” the messenger whispered, his voice cracking. “The bite marks… they look like they came from a person.”
The verdict among the locals was unanimous and grim: The Restless Dead.
The Party’s Dilemma
Zara, ever the pragmatist was ready to wash her hands of the place.
“They’re going to do something,” Zara muttered, eyeing the suspicious villagers, “and then they’re going to blame us. I’m for leaving the village.”
Lucia, however, felt the pull of the mystery—and perhaps a bit of civic duty.
“I’m up for looking at the commotion,” she countered. “I think we should help. I want to check with the group… I don’t want to volunteer us necessarily, but I can’t do this alone.”
Meanwhile, Sturmberg made his grand entrance, looking like he’d been dragged through a hedge backward—which, considering he slept in the stables, wasn’t far from the truth.
A Cold Awakening
Sturmer stumbled in, nursing a hangover that could fell an ogre, bits of straw still clinging to his beard. He slid in next to Lucia, squinting at the sunlight.
Sturmberg: “Hey, what did I miss?”
Lucia: “You were here when I went to bed last night. How late did you stay up drinking?”
Sturmberg: (Picking moss off his tunic) “Three or four in the morning, probably. I didn’t wind up in somebody else’s house or bed, so I think we’re good.”
The innkeeper, Freder, wasn’t quite as impressed by Sturmberg’s “hygiene.” He signaled a stable hand with a smirk that was only half-friendly.
“Go get some fresh pails from the pond,” Freder commanded. “That man needs a bath. And don’t warm it up. Make sure it’s cold.”
The Offer and the Opposition
Stepping forward, Lucia addressed Halle Brevant, the dwarven wise woman, with a subtle nod—a silent acknowledgement of shared secrets and old faiths.
“We hear you are having this trouble,” Lucia stated. “If you need someone to investigate, my group and I would be happy to go out and see what we can find.”
Halle’s response was immediate and knowing. She looked to the other elders, her voice steady. “This group is well-traveled. I see the marks of druids, a hunter, and a soldier. They are better equipped than our woodsmen to confront this… and perhaps even speak with the Sisters of the Forest to reach an accord.”
Freder Oakenbush, the innkeeper, offered us what little he could: free lodging in the stables, though the upcoming festival meant food would still cost us coin.
However, Anselm was not pleased. He glowered, pacing the common room and arguing that the attacks were merely “random” and that the coming winter would freeze the Restless Dead back into the earth.
“There is not a problem to be fixed,” Anselm spat, pointing toward the window. “The Wicker Man is almost finished. Once the festival happens, we can get ready for winter. Why distract ourselves from the celebration?”
The Shadow of the Wicker Man
Zara wasn’t buying the trader’s “sensible” act.
Zara: “You seem awfully calm for the fact people are getting killed near your village.”
Anselm: (Shooting a dark look) “I feel the pain of their passing keenly, but some things you cannot change. Fighting random undead accomplishes nothing. Winter will take care of it.”
Despite Anselm’s visible frustration, Halle and Freder stood their ground. They have promised to send a messenger ahead to the Sisters of the Forest to pave the way.
The Wicker Man stands tall outside, a hollow shell waiting for the flames. But as the party prepared to head into the Hexenvald woods, they couldn’t help but wonder if they were walking into a hunt—or if being led to a sacrifice.
The Monument of the Alderlander
As the adventurers crossed the plains south of the river, the wind began to whip through the low shrubs and defiant wildflowers. It was there, standing lonely against the sweeping grass, that they found it: a Cairn.
A massive pile of heavy rocks, stacked with deliberate effort. It was ancient—hundreds of years old, by the look of the weathered stone. Lucia, ever the student of the past, recognized the style.
Lucia: “An Alderlander of some renown is buried here. This has been here for centuries.”
The memory of their last encounter with an ancient grave—and the Death Knight that came with it—loomed large in our minds. In the Forbidden Lands, “undisturbed” usually means “waiting.”
To Disturb or To Honor?
Zara scouted the perimeter, looking for any sign that this grave was the source of the Restless Dead plaguing Hexenwald. She found no loose dirt, no claw marks—only small tokens left by travelers. A local legend, perhaps, or a superstitious prayer for safe passage.
The temptation of ancient loot is always a siren song for adventurers, but the weight of their mission—and the fear of bad luck—held their hands.
Lucia: “I told everyone it’s old. There might be something valuable, but based on recent history… there might be trouble with disturbing a grave.”
Zara: “I’m not messing with it. It seems like bad luck. I don’t think this is what we’re looking for.”
The deeper they ventured into the Hexenwald, the more the land seems to trade its logic for something far more ancient and erratic. After leaving the silent cairn, they pushed south, navigating the dense fur trees and tangled bracken until we reached the edge of a stagnant, insect-ridden pond. In its center, perched on stilts above the green scum, stood a lonely hut.
A Duck’s Mission
Getting to the hut presented a challenge—the water looked shallow but treacherous, and no boats were docked on the shore. It was then that Rudever decided to show off. With a flicker of Druidic magic, he shed his human form and took to the sky as a wild duck.
The rest of the party watched, half-impressed and half-bewildered, as the duck-Druid splashed down near the hut, paddled inconspicuously around the stilts to ensure the coast was clear, and then—reverting to his true form—managed to commandeer a small pole-boat docked at the ladder.
“I love the idea of the duck landing in the boat and then trying to row it,” Lucia laughed as Rudver eventually poled the craft back to us.
The Automated Kitchen
Stepping onto the small deck of the hut, the group moved with practiced silence. Sturmberg led the way, surprisingly light on his feet despite the lingering effects of the previous night’s ale. Peeking through the animal-hide window coverings, they saw a scene straight out of a fever dream.
The hut was packed with a dozen cauldrons of varying sizes, all bubbling with liquids that smelled of bitter herbs and iron. But there was no cook. Instead, animated wooden ladles drifted through the steam, stirring the pots with rhythmic, ghostly precision.
The Grimoire of Zora
Inside, the air was thick with arcane heat. Lucia and Rudever, the resident experts on the strange, began to poke around with sticks, careful not to touch the bubbling mixtures directly. The potions were clearly transformative—infused with animal parts and raw magic.
Amidst the clutter of vials and herbs, we found a well-worn, leather-bound book. It wasn’t a diary, but a masterwork of alchemy—a grimoire filled with complex instructions for shifting shapes and merging the essence of man and beast.
Lucia: (Reading the name) “Wait a minute… Zara, is this you?” Zara: (Deadpan) “Do I look like I know magic?” Lucia: “Absolutely not.”
A Fragile Peace
Amidst the jars of eye-of-newt and bundles of dried hemlock sat a small, unassuming mirror. While the rest of the group hesitated, sensing the arcane weight of the object, Zara stepped forward.
In the Raven Lands, a mirror is rarely just a tool for vanity; it is a window—and sometimes a doorway.
A Rude Awakening
As Zara peered into the silvered glass, the reflection didn’t show the cluttered interior of the stilt-hut. Instead, the surface clouded over like a morning mist before resolving into a clear, sharp image of a woman.
She appeared to be in her early thirties, possessing a high forehead and a striking, pale halo of blonde hair that seemed to glow against the darkness of her surroundings. She didn’t look like a victim or a ghost; she looked like a strategist. Her eyes locked onto Zara’s with a piercing intensity, instantly weighing the value of the soul staring back at her.
The woman’s lips moved, silent but unmistakable: “You’re not Zora.”
With a sharp, dismissive motion, the woman reached out as if to grab the very air, and the mirror went black.
The Final Decision
As they stood in the center of the cramped hut, surrounded by the bubbling work of an absent alchemist, the temptation to seize the mirror was high. If this was a window into the inner workings of the Hexenwald, they couldn’t simply leave it behind.
Rudver: “Should we take this with us so that we can constantly ask this person in the mirror questions throughout our whole adventure?”
The thought of having a magical connection to the enemy was as terrifying as it was useful. Hexenwald was no longer just a village with a restless dead problem. It is a crossroads of ancient magic and hidden players, and the party was right in the middle of it.
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