Monster Hunt — Session #2
The session closed with Vash newly bound to Brine Mother’s atonement and the party’s hunt for Mulch transformed into something darker: fear wasn’t just an emotion in the Feywild, it was a trail marker and a weapon. With Mulch’s claw in hand and the hatches behind them, Gren Hammerstone, Dicer, Khord, and Vash descended into Mimics’ Lair—close to their quarry at last, and closer than ever to whatever rot had learned to speak in familiar voices.
Humperdink quietly turning Dicer’s “fatherly” responsibility into a moral time bomb: Olivia’s Amulet would only work after a full essence was taken. The warning landed like a hook—practical advice that also stained every future choice with consequence.
Vash eating the psilocybe—“Okay. I’ll eat it.”—to keep the locate spell from pointing at the party. The plan worked in the most chaotic way possible: the magic found nothing, and the group paid for the shortcut with ten minutes of Feywild-flavored confusion and a lot of side-eye.
The return to Arimachi through Port Ale Travel Cocktails, landing outside town near the old battlefield instead of in the streets. It gave them control of the approach—but the stares and whispers made it clear the town was a powder keg they couldn’t afford to spark.
The river crossing turning into a supernatural judgment when Vash stepped in with Olivia and the current reversed. Brine Mother’s demand—one of them must wear the belt—felt like a boss fight where surrender was the only way to keep moving.
The investigation at the pond-side tree: Gren Hammerstone spotting signs of a perch and drag marks, and Khord finding the ripped claw that proved Mulch hadn’t simply run. The hunt snapped from pursuit to rescue, and the ground itself started hiding answers.
The first hatch breaking open under Dicer’s spoon—and the psychic backlash politely saying, “Hi. I’m Steve.” Horror and absurdity collided in a heartbeat, and the fear effects made Brine Mother’s words—“Follow the fear.”—feel like a curse with directions.
After days of keeping their heads down, Gren Hammerstone, Dicer, Vash, and Khord regrouped at the Luke Tavern and squeezed every scrap of lore they could from Peepers: the moon-shaped raven feather pointed toward the Shadowfell, and the Whitewater Worship wasn’t some secret cabal so much as a brutal, public faith with belts that “atone” by withering the wearer. Before they moved, Humperdink cornered Dicer with a grim warning about Olivia and Olivia’s Amulet: it wouldn’t do what it was made to do until it was charged with a full essence—after a victim was destroyed. With debts and fallout waiting in Arimachi, Lutisha sold them sealed Port Ale Travel Cocktails, and the party drank fast—vanishing from safety and reappearing outside town near the old battlefield, where whispers and stares promised Arimachi hadn’t forgotten.
They kept their visit short and sharp. In the Three Eyed Fish, Scratch greeted them with a venomous, “Fuck are you guys doing back here?”—but under the anger, he gave them what they needed: Mulch had bolted on a “dream quest,” chasing new mushrooms toward Stay Wild and the Feywild. When magic couldn’t simply point at a humanoid quarry, Vash solved the problem in the most reckless way possible—“Okay. I’ll eat it. I’ll eat it.”—swallowing the party’s psilocybe so Dicer could cast a locate without it circling back to them. The spell came up empty, so they ran on grit instead: Gren Hammerstone found raccoon-like tracks and tail-swish marks, Dicer crawled “at raccoon level” through gateway trees to spot crumbs of Noradrino Mushroom, and the world itself turned strange—whispering leaves, blinking squirrels, and glowing fungus guiding them deeper.
At a swift river under a darkening canopy, the Feywild finally pushed back. Khord squeezed a direction out of magic by keying Locate to the Noradrino Mushroom—a mile ahead, across and upriver—so Dicer grumbled, “You grow up a hippopotamus, and everybody thinks you’re gonna be the fucking swimmer,” and fought the current with a rope to anchor the crossing. Then Vash stepped into the water holding Olivia, and the river stopped—reversed—collapsed into a whirlpool as Brine Mother rose like an elk-shaped omen. She accused them of stealing “the salt” and breaking balance, then forced a conjured belt onto the “red-cloaked adventurer,” binding Vash to an atonement with a visible cost that made him hiss, “Goddamn it. I hate this belt.” Her only guidance for the hunt was a cold refrain—“Follow the fear.”—and it proved literal: beyond the river, a familiar rot clung to the Feywild’s edge, and at a pond-side tree Gren Hammerstone and Khord found drag marks and a ripped claw—Mulch had been taken. Two concealed hatches waited in the dirt; Dicer smashed one open with his spoon and a psychic echo introduced itself—“Hi. I’m Steve.”—before erupting into dying screams, and the second hatch hit them with raw terror so hard it stole dignity along with breath. Choosing the hatch that matched the drag evidence, they climbed down into cramped tunnels… and the session ended on the chill certainty of the reveal: they had found Mimics’ Lair.
This chronicle was generated by Kazkar from a live D&D session.
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