CATCH UP
Campaign catch-up (auto-generated on import).
- Updated: 2026-04-20T06:34:21.598916+00:00
- Sessions included: 3
Story So Far (by in-game day)
Rova 11th, 4719 AR
Session beat 1: Timely Ruinion Vanmyr’s search alongside Dorrne to locate his father hit a dead end in the weeks that followed their departure from Citadel Altaerein — the trail of Dorrne’s father grew cold somewhere in southern Isger, and the two agreed to part ways until new leads surfaced. Restless and unwilling to sit idle, Vanmyr made his way north to head home to Canorate, before picking up a job protecting caravans ultimately leading him west. He heard rumors of the Regulators in Kintargo, so he dropped the protection work and made his way there. Word had continue to spread of a group of Pathfinders making considerable trouble for a shadowy organization called the Scarlet Triad. He arrived in the city near the tail end of the conflict — too late to fight, but through some divine inspiration was able to locate them after the Tanessen Tower incident, just in time for the dinner at Lady Docur’s, where he walked through the door with little more than road dust and a familiar grin, as if he’d never left.
Rova 11th - 13th, 4719 AR
Session beat 1: The grand oval salon on the top floor of Lady Docur’s School for Girls glows with warm lantern-light and the scent of roasted quail, spiced wine, and fresh-baked honey-cakes. Polished wood panels and intricate rugs stretch beneath the high ceiling; a grand piano stands ready in one corner while a massive circular dining table dominates the center, already laden with silver platters and crystal goblets. Lady Mialari Docur’s portrait tokens sit at the head, flanked by Captain Gulbran Cornaro and his beaming daughter Adélina. Voz Lirayne lounges with a glass of deep crimson wine, while Arlethi Soumaila hovers near the piano, fingers brushing the keys. The Regulators are already seated exactly where their tokens rest on your battlemap — the perfect vantage to watch the city lights begin to twinkle beyond the tall windows. It is now Wealday, the 11th of Rova, 4719 AR, at 6pm — almost two full days after the daring strike on Tanessen Tower. The delay allowed the party precious time to rest, fully upgrade gear, restock potions and elixirs, and let the initial chaos in Kintargo settle under City Guard watch. More importantly, it gave Lady Mialari’s Lacunafex agents a head start: swift riders on fast horses could cover the 50 miles south along the Yolubilis River road to Whiterock in roughly a day and a half, arriving ahead to observe, eavesdrop, and gather discreet intelligence on Baron Canton Jhaltero and any unusual activity around the long-dormant Summershade Granite Quarry. Lady Mialari rises, garnet gown shimmering, and lifts her goblet. “To the Regulators — the ones who refused to let Kintargo’s newest shadows swallow its light. Tonight we celebrate survival… and the beginning of the real work.” Captain Gulbran Cornaro claps a meaty hand on the table, his voice like gravel under boots. “Damn right. From the Raid on Cypress Point where the Scarlet Triad first showed their hand in Ravounel, raiding that sleepy coastal town for slaves right under our noses… to the Skirmish at Sunset Imports where we uncovered their front company and ties to House Vashnarstill… to the brutal Attacks on the Bellflower Network at the Long Roads Coffeehouse, snatching Laria and Jerrina and others to break the abolitionists… and now the Strike on the Scarlet Triad at Tanessen Tower two nights ago. We’ve hit them hard, again and again, and we’re still standing.” Adélina Cornaro leans forward, eyes fierce. *“And they would have succeeded if not for all of us arriving when we did. Father, Mialari, Voz — we turned the tide together. But the Triad is like a hydra. Cut one head…” * Voz Lirayne swirls her wine, voice cool and precise. “Two more grow back. We already knew they wanted Alseta’s Ring from Breachill. Now we know why. Barushak was coordinating everything from that tower — logistics, experiments, breaking the Bellflower Network’s Kintargo chapter. But the letters Kane found change the map — and give us breathing room to plan.” At that moment the doors open and Laria Longroad steps in, still bearing faint bruises from her ordeal at the Long Roads Coffeehouse, yet smiling. She is followed moments later by the cheerful halfling Nolly Peltry, arms laden with a fresh basket of pastries “for the road tomorrow.” Laria takes a seat as Arlethi begins to play — a graceful, classical Kintargan waltz on the grand piano, notes floating like moonlight on water, filling the salon with elegant calm while the conversation continues. Laria speaks softly, but every ear listens. “While I was captive I overheard Barushak himself. He was furious, pacing. He kept saying ‘the quarry must expand’ and ‘Laslunn will not tolerate delays.’ Then he named it — Summershade Granite Quarry, near Whiterock. Heuberk and Vavienne laughed like it was already theirs. And those letters confirm it.” She nods respectfully toward the Regulators. “Communications straight to Laslunn — a gnoll war-leader expanding operations fast. Giants involved, from the sound of it. The quarry’s been dormant ten years, but something’s woken it up.” Lady Mialari’s smile turns sharp, the spymaster beneath the hostess showing through. *“My little birdies — the Lacunafex — rode south the morning after the tower fell. They’ve had time to reach Whiterock by now, blend in among the farmers and ranchers, and poke around House Jhaltero’s holdings. Canton Jhaltero is an old aristocrat whose family once owned that quarry. On paper he’s clean — casual, disinterested, content with his Silver Council seat and an easy life. But my agents already report strange shipments moving through the town at night, late visitors to the manor, and sudden coin flowing where none should be. By the time you arrive in a day or two, we’ll have solid leads waiting via dead drop or courier bird. If the Baron is in bed with Laslunn… well, the Regulators have a way of making beds very uncomfortable.” * She raises her glass again. “To unfinished business — and to the quarry that will not stay hidden.” The piano music swells as the group finishes the feast. Platters are cleared, and Mialari gestures toward the wide terrace doors. “Come. The night is young, and Kintargo deserves to be admired from above.” The party steps outside onto the stone terrace that wraps the curved edge of the penthouse. A cool autumn breeze carries the scent of the Yolubilis River. Below stretches a breathtaking panorama, with the lanterns of northern Kintargo’s noble districts glittering like jewels: The terrace of Lady Docur’s School for Girls perches high in the Villegre district, one of Kintargo’s quieter, more elevated quarters of stately manors, academies, and tree-lined streets. From this vantage—stone balustrade cool under fingertips, a gentle night breeze carrying the faint salt of Nisroch Bay—the city unfolds like a living tapestry under the vast, clear autumn sky of late Rova. To the north stretch the noble Greens district: clusters of elegant townhouses and spires where lanterns and enchanted glow-globes wink in warm amber and soft silver, outlining rooftops, arched windows, and private gardens. The lights form irregular rivers of gold, dimmer here than in the bustling heart of the city, as if the aristocracy prefers subtlety even in celebration. A few taller towers rise like sentinels, their upper windows dark or faintly lit, silhouetted against the deeper indigo of the night. Directly below and eastward, the Harbor District along the Yolubilis River that gleams as a broad, dark ribbon bisecting Kintargo—its surface a mirror for the city’s glow and the scattered stars above. Moonlight and the faint luminescence of water-lanterns from barges traces silvery paths across the current. Bridges arc gracefully over it, their railings dotted with tiny flames from braziers or magical wards. To the east, Yoluilis Harbor sparkles with a denser constellation: dockside lanterns, ship lanterns bobbing at anchor, and the warm orange of taverns and warehouses along the waterfront. The bay beyond fades into inky blackness, Nisroch Bay swallowing the horizon where distant Varisian coasts might lie hidden. Southward, across the river the stone walled battlements areb arely visible save for occasional watch-fires. Beyond this, the massive temple to Asmodeus looms—ornate gothic temple architecture dwarfs the surrounding southern city, the only competing structure is Castle Kintargo that sits atop the rocky outcrop overlooking the Nisroch Bay at the mouth of the Yolubilis River. Framing it all, the distant mountains rise in jagged black silhouettes against the starfield: sharp peaks of the Menador Mountains or their foothills, snow-capped even in milder seasons, catching faint starlight on their ridges. The celestial constalations, The Pack, and The Mother, take center stage in the cosmic arches overhead in a luminous band, thousands of pinpricks sharp and unpolluted by too much city glare—Desna’s domain, perhaps, watching over the liberated Silver City. On the other end of the terrace: Nolly Peltry hops onto a bench, tankard already in hand. “First thing tomorrow I’m back at the coffeehouse with hammers and paint. Those Triad thugs smashed half the windows and burned the back room. But the Bellflower Network’s Kintargo chapter isn’t dead — it’s just waking up again. Laria and I already have three safe houses lined up and two new conductors ready to move people north. Work is never done… but neither are we.” Laria raises her own cup, eyes reflecting the city lights. “Tonight we toast the fallen and the rescued. In a day or two the Regulators march on Whiterock. And when you find Laslunn and whatever horror she’s building in that quarry… give her a message from the Long Roads Coffeehouse.” She grins. “Tell her the coffee’s on us — and it’s poisoned.” Lady Mialari laughs, the sound rich and warm. “Rest well, my friends. Gear is upgraded, potions restocked, and the road south awaits at first light tomorrow. But for these next few hours… simply be heroes who’ve struck blow after blow against the Scarlet Triad.” Arlethi’s piano continues to drift out onto the terrace — soft, triumphant, promising that the next movement of this symphony is already being written. The night air is crisp, the city beautiful, and the next leg — the 50-mile journey south along the Yolubilis to Whiterock, the Summershade Granite Quarry, and the gnoll war-leader Laslunn — already calling from the horizon. The fifty-mile two-day journey south along from Kintargo along the Silver Road remains mostly uneventful — a welcome breather after the chaos of Tanessen Tower. The sent of turning leaves and distant woodsmoke, the Yolubilis River glitters to the west following the well-trodden path. Farmers tend the fields, their wagons trundle past with late harvests, and the occasional patrol of Ravounel militia nods in recognition (seems word of the party’s exploits in Kintargo has begun to spread), and the occasional merchant caravan shares campfire tales of “strange lights” in the mountains around Whiterock. No ambushes strike, no Scarlet Triad scouts shadow the party, you wonder if Barushak’s abrupt escape seems to have left his underlings scrambling or scattered. But on the second afternoon, as the road curves through a sparse copse of ancient oaks about 10 miles north of town, something catches the eye. The wind picks up, rustling leaves like whispers, a faint metallic glint half-buried in the leaf litter in the brush just beyond the path draws attention — perhaps Jegan’s sharp scout senses or Kane’s occult intuition pings first. Picking it up reveals Barushak Il’Varashma’s ornate mask, cracked though still radiating faint arcane residue. The mask is heavy bronze overlaid with gold filigree, etched in swirling Abyssal runes that pulse dimly when held. A demonic bull-horn motif crowns the forehead, red garnets set as eyes, though one missing, and the interior bears scorch marks. On closer inspection, Kane noticed a surge of psychic attack, which he was able to easily overcome, doing no mental damage. Why Barushak discarded thee mark is a mystery though. By late afternoon on the second day of travel, Fireday Rova 13th, Whiterock comes into view; a modest market town of about 1,500 souls nestled on the riverbank. Timber-framed buildings cluster around a central square with a general store, farrier, a freshly renovated shrine to Desna with butterflies painted on its doors, a small civic hall, and two taverns spilling laughter and ale, one of which is named “The Polished Stone”, and plenty of locals — ranchers in wide hats, farmers with callused hands — fill the roads, all seem friendly. Whiterock is a city located on the bank of the Yolubilis River, 50 miles south of Kintargo. It has long been maintained by the wealthy House Jhaltero, and originated as a stop where rocks mined from Jhaltero quarries were smoothed and catalogued for shipment to Kintargo, but has since grown into a market town for local farmers and ranchers who do not wish to take the long trip to the capital. Some locals make mention that Canton Jhaltero is casual and disinterested, viewing himself due an easy life after securing his family’s place on the Silver Council. The Regulators settle into The Polished Stone Inn & Tavern—a sturdy, two-story timber building on Whiterock’s central square, its sign a gleaming granite slab etched with a foaming mug. The common room is warm and dimly lit by hanging lanterns, smelling of woodsmoke, roasted mutton, and spilled ale. Ranchers and farmers cluster at scarred tables, trading quiet gossip about late harvests and “odd lights up toward the old quarry.” The innkeep, a stout human woman named Mara, serves hearty portions and keeps rooms clean. The party claims a corner table upstairs for privacy, away from prying ears though it doesnt take long for one of several town troublemakers, a drunkard named Tom, who chats up the party given their fancy armor and clothing. Later that afternoon, as the tavern seems to pickup with the day laborers filing in, more patrons stagger from drink, the wind flows through the tavern as Vanmyr notices shadows move quickly through the crowd, dancing and not able to make them out, visually following one around the bar and into the kitchen. It was at this point, Kane felt a rolled note slip into his palm. The Dead-Drop Note! The Regulators quickly get a room and all shuffle in. When no one else was around, they open it—just a small, sealed parchment envelope slipped under the threshold, bearing no mark but a faint wax seal of a stylized bird in flight (Lacunafex symbol, recognizable to anyone who’s worked with Mialari Docur). The note is written in neat, hurried script on thin paper—clearly penned quickly and discreetly: Dread-Drop Note. The Jhaltero residence looms on a gentle rise: an opulent, sprawling manor styled like an oversized hunting lodge — dark timber beams, stone foundations, wide verandas, and tall chimneys puffing lazy smoke. Trophy antlers hang above the main doors; a low stone wall encircles manicured grounds. As the Regulators approach, they spot Baron Canton Jhaltero himself on a ladder, tools in hand, repairing roofing shingles on the second story. He’s a broad-shouldered, middle-aged human that is bald, weathered face with a jagged scar across one cheek, green eyes sharp despite his casual posture, dressed in practical but finely tailored work clothes — a dark-red cloak pinned with a gold clasp bearing his house crest. He descends the ladder as they near, wiping hands on a rag, expression neutral but not unwelcoming. “Ah, travelers from Kintargo, I presume? Word travels fast on the Silver Road these days — especially about folk who stir up hornets’ nests in the Silver City. Come in, come in, right up the steps. Mind the sawdust; the place is always half under repair. Take a seat around the hearth. Tea? Or something stronger? My steward’s got a decent local rye if you’re inclined.” Canton leads you into a warm great hall, roaring fireplace, mounted beast heads on the walls, confortable chairs adorning the room. Servants, discreet and well trained, bring refreshments. Canton settles into a well worn burgandy leather armchair, legs extended and crossed as he sips whiskey from his glass. Canton looks at you and inquires: “So, tell me, what brings you to Whiterock?” PCs inquire about the Summershade Granite Quarry? Canton speaks plainly, tone casual and detached, like a man discussing crop yields rather than moral horrors: “The quarry? Closed it down myself about ten years back. Family business — granite for Kintargo’s fancy buildings — but the veins ran thin. Not worth the labor anymore. Left a skeleton crew of guards to watch the site, rotate every few months so no one goes stir-crazy. Haven’t heard from them in… oh, longer than they should be silent. That worries me more than I’d like to admit.” PCs Press Canton? “Truth? The diggers hit something odd — old chambers, ancient stonework. Looked like a shrine, maybe to one of those giant gods. Minderhal, smith of tyrants or some such. Place felt wrong. Guards reported shadows moving where none should, tools going missing, whispers in the dark. I called it haunted to save face — childish, perhaps, but effective. Shut it down, posted the watch, and washed my hands of it. If slavers have moved in… well, that’s on them. Not my fight.” He leans forward, voice lowering: “But if you’re here about that gnoll — Laslunn, was it? — and her crew using my old pit as a slave pen… I won’t pretend I’m thrilled. My guards or staff might be dead, or worse. I can draw you a map of the quarry — main path winds up the mountain shadow, side trails for stealth if you’re the quiet sort. Anything else you need? Supplies? A night’s rest under my roof? Horses? You know it’s at least a three or four day march by foot up the mountain to the quarry, traveling on horseback will save you time and energy, which I can provide to the Revousa Ditches. I will provide one of my hands to travel with you to that point, he will bring the horses back safely.” The Unsealed Letter? Baron Canton Jhaltero aludes to the Unsealed Letter sitting on his side table next to his chair and half-smoked cigar. The letter is from Lady Mialari Docur, prior to their arrival through her Lacunafex agents, bearing Lady Docur’s crest. Vanmyr obviously staring at the letter, then at the Baron locking eyes, the Baron motions to Vanmyr. “Go ahead, read it.” Vanmyr reaches over and picks up the Unsealed Letter, reading it aloud to the group. “Are you working with the Scarlet Triad / Laslunn?” Canton laughs dryly: “Working with? No. Tolerated? Perhaps. A monthly envelope arrives, I don’t ask questions, they don’t bother my town. Business, pure and simple. Accuse me in open court if you like — I’ve lawyers sharper than your blades.” “Can you help us directly — come with us, provide men?” He shakes his head: “I’m no hero, friends. My fighting days ended with this scar. But I can offer hospitality, fresh horses, or a quiet word to the local militia if you need backup on the way back. Just… don’t burn my quarry to the ground unless you have to. Granite’s expensive.” PCs push hard on guilt/morality? Canton shrugs, unapologetic but not cruel: “The world’s not black and white. Slavery was law once; now it’s not. I adapt. If you kill the gnoll and her giants, the payments stop, the threat ends — everyone wins. If you fail… well, envelopes keep coming. Either way, my conscience is clear enough for sleep.” “Provide us with a map of the Quarry?” Canton nods in the affirmative as he retrieves it from a desk nearby: “Consider it done, I actually have a rough sketch of the quarry and tunnels from when it was operational.”
Rova 14th - 17th, 4719 AR
Session beat 1: Fireday, Rova 14th — Whiterock to First Camp The Regulators set out from Whiterock at first light on horseback, the Baron’s horses carrying them south along the Yolubilis River road before the trail began to climb in earnest. The river ran wide and grey to their right, the foothills rising steadily ahead, the last familiar farmsteads and fence lines thinning behind them until there was nothing but open country, pine, and granite. It was an easy day’s ride — unhurried, uneventful, the kind of travel that lets a party breathe. They made camp as the light faded, well off the trail in a hollow sheltered by old growth, the river still audible in the distance. No fires larger than necessary. Watches shared without incident. The mountain was ahead of them now, and everyone felt it. Starday, Rova 15th — Revousa Ditches By midday on the second day the trail forked where the Yolubilis bent away to the south — the Revousa Ditches, an old network of drainage channels cut into the hillside during the quarry’s working years, now half-collapsed and overgrown with dry brush and sparse pine. The Baron’s horses were sent home here, given a nudge and a quiet word, trusted to find their own way back to Whiterock. On foot now, the terrain changed immediately — loose rock, switchbacks, the trail narrowing to a single-file cut along the hillside. The Katharevousa River carved a noisy path somewhere below and to the east, its sound carrying up through the gorge. At the split in the trail where the quarry path climbed away from the river road, someone had made camp not long before. A fire ring, still ash-black and slightly warm at its heart. Scattered bones from a small meal. Boot prints in the soft earth heading up the quarry trail. Recent — a day, maybe less. No way to know who, or whether they continued on or turned back. The Regulators made camp several hours further up the quarry trail, well past the split, in a natural hollow where the slope offered cover on three sides. As the fire was laid and watches arranged, Jegan caught the silhouettes first — shapes on a ridgeline to the northeast, too lean and upright for deer, too still for anything casual. A small group of Kholos, watching. Not advancing, not retreating. Just watching, until the darkness swallowed them entirely. The night passed without incident. Nothing came down from the ridge. By morning the ridgeline was empty, the only evidence the faint scrape of claw marks in the shale above the hollow. Whatever they were waiting for, it wasn’t tonight. Sunday, Rova 16th — The Rain-Soaked Foragers The rain arrived overnight and hadn’t let up by morning — steady, cold, turning the trail to sucking mud and reducing visibility to grey smears of pine and granite. A miserable day to travel, and an even worse one to be ambushed on. Cresting a low rise mid-morning, the Regulators came upon a wrecked supply wagon half-tipped against a boulder, its canvas torn, crates and sacks spilled across the path. Two enormous Hill Giants hunkered over the wreckage in the middle of a very loud argument. Vikk and Mokc — a pair of irredeemable troublemakers — were bickering over whose fault the broken axle was, shoving each other, cackling, and generally making a mess of the whole situation. A third figure stood apart: Drunn, a Stone Giant, leaner and sharper-eyed, watching his two charges with the weary expression of someone who has been babysitting idiots for a very long time. Rather than draw steel, the Regulators chose words — but with careful, deliberate positioning that kept every option open. Bru’shlee and Kane stepped up to face Drunn directly. Voz held back just behind Kane, present but not provocative. Cal moved to the wagon and began working on the broken axle — fixing the thing rather than fighting over it, a gesture that visibly registered with Drunn. Vanmyr held position near Cal, eyes on Vikk and Mokc. And Jegan vanished into the shadows entirely — unseen, a blade in the dark if it all fell apart. Throughout the parley, Vikk and Mokc continued poking at each other behind Drunn’s back — until the Stone Giant turned and silenced them with a single flat look. Even then, Mokc couldn’t resist one last shove before going still. Kane earned a Critical Success on Make an Impression, cutting through Drunn’s caution entirely. Clearly relieved to be talking to someone more interesting than his two bickering charges, the Stone Giant spoke plainly: the lich Jaggaki claims the old god’s forge within Summershade Quarry, while Drunn’s kind guard the slaves. The “Alphas may not be so welcoming” — goodwill at the gate does not mean safe passage inside. As proof of the parlay, Drunn handed over one of his own trinkets. No blood shed. The giants let them pass. XP Awarded: 180 Moonday, Rova 17th - Kholo Hunting Grounds The rain had cleared overnight, leaving the trail damp and the air sharp with pine resin and cold stone. Summershade Mountain filled the sky ahead now, its upper terraces just visible above the treeline in the grey morning light. The quarry was close. The silence said so — too still, too watchful, the kind that belongs to something that already knows you’re coming. The Kholos came out of the scrub without warning, fast and shrieking — a hunting pack of six with a Sergeant driving them and a Bonekeeper hanging back to work darker business. A well-laid ambush on ground they knew. But they didn’t know the Regulators. The fight was sharp and decisive, the Hunters cut down quickly, the Sergeant and Bonekeeper the last to fall. No words exchanged, no quarter offered. The pack was put down and the trail went quiet again. What lingered was the implication. Whether these were feral hunters working Laslunn’s shadow territory or outriders sent to watch the approach, their presence this far down the mountain made one thing clear — the quarry’s reach extended further than its walls. The Regulators made camp in the last sheltered hollow before the foothills opened onto the quarry grounds, Drunn’s trinket in their packs, Summershade Mountain dark and close against the sky above. XP Awarded: 72 Total XP Awarded: 252