Session 55: Hollow Victories A continuation of Mission 1Z. Cohort Members in attendance: Salazar di Fioretti (Adam B.) Roberto Bossuri (Depraved Lunatic) Cordie (Serephen) Lolgon (Sloth) Thorg (Darvius) Shlar (Michael H) Prologue It has been three long weeks since I first came to the Village called Levoča . The days have been getting shorter, the nights colder. I had begun to fear that I would be spending the Winter here. But I see now that such a little thing should have been the least of my worries... Brother Arkadi , a kindly old priest had been allowing me to stay in the Chapel on the eastern border of the Village. Ancient though he may be, he has seemingly infinite patience. Holy Mother knows I have tested it enough over these past few weeks, stumbling through my language lessons with all the elegance of a bull. But in truth, one would not need to speak Midgardian to know that something was amiss in the Village; there was a tension in the frigid, autumn air so thick you could cut it with a knife. The Villagers whispered of strange occurrences: beasts turning against master, livestock going missing, and rumours of the Hollowman crept through Levoča. When word reached me that the Cohort would be returning, I was only too happy to leave the Village behind for a while. Day 1. From the very start, we had troubles. Something about Lolgun, one of the Cohort Roberto had brought with him on this voyage, seemed to bother the Forest greatly. On foot, he could barely keep pace as he tripped clumsily over errant roots that the rest of us stepped over with ease. When he took to the sky with his griffon Gara to find some reprieve, he was buffeted by great winds and raked by the canopy. It was as if the forest itself was resisting his presence. We made slow progress, travelling only a few miles before we made camp for the night. As we gathered around the fire to keep warm, I began to learn more about Roberto’s companions. Roberto produced Mynnir, a small dragon-like creature filled with childlike excitement. Unlike Lolgun, she seemed quite at home in the Forest. Cordie invoked her familiar, a strange creature called Floof. As the group laughed and ate, I began to feel uneasy. Weeks ago, when I first arrived in Levoča, one of the Villagers had accused our group of being “fae-cursed”. Though I still do not know exactly what he meant by that, I worried that this strange group of individuals and their exotic companions would upset the delicate relations I had begun to build here. I voiced these concerns with Roberto, and we both agreed that should the need arise, the group could camp beyond the borders of the village. But there would be plenty of time to think about that; Levoča was still several days march away. That night, as the waxing moon began to set, our camp was attacked. The copse of oaks and maples that encircled the campsite began to shudder and move. We stood ready to defend ourselves, but the Trees paid us no mind. They moved with alarming swiftness, focused intently Lolgun and Gara. Like a streak of white lightning, the twosome flew high into the sky to escape their pounding branches. But the Forest would not give up its quarry so easily easily. Reaching their long arms down to the ground, the trees unearthed huge boulders and began hurling them at the Sidhewair and his winged steed. As the stones came crashing back to earth, Cordie spoke out to the Forest in Sylvan, beseeching it to cease its attack. The Cellwair’s words must have stirred something in the forest, for just as soon as the attack had started, it was over. Day 2. As we broke our fast, we argued over what to do about Lolgun. It was clear that the Forest would not suffer his presence, but we could reach no accord on what should be done about it. Thorg suggested a sacrifice in the Forest’s name. After what happened the previous night with the trees, Cordie suggested a more diplomatic approach. Lolgun, desperate for respite from the Forest’s constant oppression, tried both. He pleaded with the Forest, and left a personal offering. With some kind Sylvan words from Cordie on his behalf, we were off. Roberto lead us East through the Forest toward the burrow of the Erina , the hedgehog-like creatures we had conversed with weeks ago. I still believe that they saved our lives that day, and I looked forward to repaying their kindness. Roberto used divine magic to parley with them, but you didn’t need to speak their tongue to see the fear and hatred that they cast toward Lolgun. The Erina said that Lolgun was a “bad person” and that the Forest doesn’t like bad people. They maintained we needed to “do good for Forest”. They told us to go east and “Kill Singing Tree and Empty Man”. Surely this “Empty Man” was the same Hollowman that I had heard whispers of back in Levoča? With that, the Erina would say no more. It was as if uttering the words alone struck fear into their hearts, and they retreated into their burrow. I left a small gift of rations nearby as we took our leave. After a few hours march, Roberto spotted something in a tree near the path. For a short time, he stood over it, eyes wide and jaw loose, as if the thing had cast some sort of spell on him. But Roberto was made of sterner stuff, and shook it off. He explained that he had found the shed skin of a Scitalis , a large snake known for its dazzling, mesmerizing skin that was once native to Cerilia. Their scales and skin possessed potent magical properties, and as such they had been hunted to extinction long ago. But there was at least one of these beasts still roaming the deep forests around us. Convinced of the skin’s value, Shlar attempted to store it carefully in his pack. As soon as he picked it up, there was a brilliant flash. Shlar stumbled back, wounded by the discharge of natural magic, and the skin itself seemed to lose much of its glamour. As the sun began to set, we made camp for our second night in the Forest. Day 3. The night passed without alarm, though I was troubled by strange dreams. In the morning, Cordie once again pleaded with the Forest to allow Lolgun safe passage, and by the Mother’s Grace, it seemed to acquiesce. Mid-way through the day, we noticed a pack of more than two dozen wolves stalking our trail. Cordie spoke with the beasts, and they divulged the location of the Singing Tree: from Levoča travel one mile east and three miles north . Convinced that we were marching to the Singing Tree, and our own deaths, the Wolves left us in peace. Late that night, Thorg espied a strange creature far in the distance. Back-lit by the full moon, it appeared to be a tall, slender humanoid with four arms. It descended into woods to our North, but he saw nothing more of it. Day 4. A few hours into our morning march, we heard the sound of hammer on stone ringing out through the eerie quiet of the Forest. As we drew near, we saw a handful of pale-skinned Dwerren clearing rubble from the collapsed entrance to a tunnel. Working alongside them were a number of large vole-like creatures, with tendrils on their snouts. I spoke to the Dwerren in Karamhul, and though they could understand, it was clear that the dialects were vastly different. Instead, I tried the tongue I had been learning in Levoča, and the words began to flow freely. One of the Dwerren identified himself as Brouvroug Earthchin . We eagerly pledged our assistance clearing the rubble, and Brouvroug was quick to accept. That was, until he smelled Lolgon. The Dwerren was very suspicious of our Sidhewair companion, echoing what the Erina and the Forest itself had telling us all this time: he was not welcome here. The others got to work digging, while I struck up an old Brecht work song to keep time. Brouvroug and I shared a skin of ale; it was fresh, honey-gold, and sweet as wine, quenching our thirst with only a few drops. Some truths are universal, and even in this strange place, the Dwerren can be counted on to brew the finest drinks! While the others worked, Brouvrog and I spoke of many things: This island, the Forest, his whole world as Brouvrog spoke it, was called the Margreve . He explained that it is much more than just a name for this place, that the Margreve lived and breathed, thought and acted. His people had come here generations ago from the East, and struggled long to tame the Margreve. Many settlers died before they learned that the Forest was eternal and unbreakable. Instead, they grew to respect the land. The Margreve itself hates invaders, and will respond to them with force. Perhaps it viewed Lolgun in this light, though why he should be accosted and not the rest of us is still a mystery. The simple act of felling a tree can have consequences if not done properly. First, he instructed, you must pray to the Margreve. Speak out to it and ask for a willing tree to allow itself to be felled. Persevere in this, he said, for you may need to ask of many trees before you find one ready. When you take axe to wood, be kind, sure, and slow. Use all which you fell; waste nothing. When the job is done, burn the leaves and give thanks to the Margreve for its gift. We had assumed that the Village of Levoča was the only settlement, but in this we were mistaken. Brouvroug insisted that there were many villages and towns within the borders of the Forest, with queer races inhabiting them. He spoke of Bearfolk - a fearsome and strong race of ursines who walk on two legs instead of four - and Trollkin - tall, brutish folk with long claws. He even spoke of Zobek , a grand city near the headwaters of the River Ardent far to the West. A city rising out of such an inhospitable forest would be a sight to behold, indeed! But Brouvroug cautioned us against going to Zobek before properly building a relationship with the Margreve; the going would be difficult and they would not take kindly to those like Lolgun. The mountains to our north were called the Hag Tooth Hills , and Brouvroug spoke of them in hushed tones. A powerful druid lives there: a Hag who draws her powers from a Patron in a far off land, using them to pervert and subjugate the Margreve. She can bend animals to her will, summon crackling lightning or searing flame. With one withering look, she can dessicate a body, drawing out all water and essence and leaving behind only an empty, shrivelled husk. Her skin is sanguine red, and she answers to a name spoken only in whispers: the Blood Mother Margase . By the time the sun was low, we had cleared enough rubble for one of the Dwerren to squeeze back into their home. It wasn’t long before they emerged with more delicious sweet ale. We drank and talked long into the night, and for the first time since I arrived in this strange land, I felt at ease. Day 5. The day was clear and cold. Despite this, Lolgon was afflicted with violent bouts of sneezing. The Trees poured pollen into the air in great clouds as he passed. The poor wretch was at his wits end after nearly a week of the Margreve’s incessant torment. Day 6. It was about mid-day when we finally arrived back in Levoča, greeted by the grisly, wakeful visages of the Woodwards . The villagers have built dozens of these ceremonial effigies to keep the spirits of the Woods at bay. I went ahead of the group to seek permission to enter the Village and stay the night. Since the Village itself lacks a formal mayor or burgomeister, Brother Arkadi seemed best suited to grant our group permission to enter the Village and stay the night. When I arrived at the Chapel, I found Brother Arkadi preparing his funerary robes for an evening service; Olay Yurt , one of the Village cowherds, had died. During my weeks spent in Levoča, I had oft spoken with Olay. He was kind, quick with a joke and quicker still to laugh. The news of his death came as a great shock, but not as great as the manner of it. Olay’s prize bull, a gentle beast that had sired dozens of calves, had flown into an unprovoked rage. Olay was impaled on its great horn and died shortly thereafter. With the Priest’s blessing to enter Levoča, I reconvened with the others. We headed to the Yurt farmstead, near the centre of town. Olay’s son Drash stood outside, with an angry eye turned to the ornery bull that was pacing the yard. Once again, we turned to Cordie’s curious talents. The Cellwair spoke to the Bull at length, as she had done with the Wolves. The Bull insisted it had no memory of attacking Olay. It complained of an incessant buzzing noise coming from the woods north-east of town. The sound persisted at all hours, driving it mad. All the while they spoke, the Bull was pacing the yard, stamping furiously and craning its neck, looking to the sky. What it saw or heard was hidden to me, but the Bull’s tale rang true. When dusk settled over Levoča, we returned to the Chapel for Olay’s funeral service. Most of the town was in attendance, and the mood was somber. Father Arkadi spoke at length, and as the body was being lowered into its grave, church bells shattered the silence. At first, I thought this part of the ritual, but I could see the panic on the faces of the Villagers in the flickering torchlight. These were warning bells; the town was under attack! From the shadows, the howling of wolves erupted all around. The Villagers quickly took up arms, but fear had gripped their hearts, weakening their efforts and their resolve. But not so the members of our motley crew. We quickly sprang into action, marshalling the Villagers and driving off the wolves. By the Mother’s grace, no one was wounded. Amidst the chaos, I locked eyes with a wizened old woman. Her eyes bore into me as she sang an eerie portent: Knock, knock, knock; The Hollow Man calls. Swing, swing, swing! His greedy sickle falls! Chop, chop, chop; He takes another head. Burn, burn, burn! The Hollow Man is dead! When the dust settled, the Villagers began to take stock. Everyone was accounted for. Everyone except Lela Kostya . Without hesitation, we rushed to the Kostya farmstead on the northern edge of the town. We found a woman’s body lying in the mud, with a thick pool of blood where her head should have been. Roberto inspected the body; she had been dead for less than ten minutes, her head cloven off by a large bladed axe or scythe. By the pale light of the moon, we could see a trail of blood leading out of the village, north-east into the woods. We set off at once. Whatever we were following made no attempt to hide its tracks, and it wasn’t long before we emerged from the woods into a clearing lit by an unnatural green light. Standing in the middle of a small, ichor filled pond was an ancient, withered tree festooned with dozens of severed heads. The heads stared back at us with hollow eyes and gaping jaws as a chorus of unearthly sound washed over us. They were singing a horrid, wordless, cacaphony in unison. Suddenly, something stirred at the foot of the tree. A slender effigy of wicker and bone rose, in its hand a cruel, grisly sickle with a jet-black blade. It moved without sound, placing its trophy on a low hanging branch with a sickening wet noise. And so the severed head of Lela Kostya joined in the demonic singing. The Hollowman is no man at all, and such an abomination could not be allowed to terrorize the Forest. We sprang into action, striking out at the Hollowman and the Singing tree with all we had, but only Cordie’s torch seemed to have any effect. The Hollowman struck back with its arms and sickle, and the Singing Tree radiated magic that clouded the mind. Shlar fell victim to its spell, dashing about erratically with a crazed look in his eyes. Without flame to aid us, we quickly realized that we were ill-equipped to fight this thing. Roberto took up position as rear-guard as we retreated back to the Village, broken but otherwise unharmed.
