Session Seventeen: The Lord of Autumns End An untamed frontier. Dark cults. Fickle fey gods. Ravenous fiends. Nothing black powder and sorcery won't fix... . Timberlands Campaign Diary With one portal to the dark frontiers of the feywild destroyed before it was completed, the heroes allowed themselves several hours of rest before gathering their allies to shut down the already active one. They knew it was going to be a tough battle for the waning cult was dug in around the gate they’d opened weeks ago to allow a smaller fey host in. Even though the Lesionnaire contingent was small by army standards the disease it spread along with the warping of the land had decimated Hillsbrook Valley. It was high time to shut that portal down before anything else came through. Still, the heroes decided to leave six of their mercenaries behind to guard the crossroads’ ruin they’d just liberated. That left their allies at a dozen sellswords, a winter fey with two enthralled Plated Meliuscore

The pallid figure lurches and jerks as if drawn along by uneven strings. It wears whatever soiled and tattered clothes it fell in, usually night clothes. The sleepwalker mutters fragmented descriptions of the nightmares that plague its fettered mind. Its face is slack as if it is asleep, save for wide eyes burning with an unearthly light. Its cold flesh is dotted with wounds stitched closed by inky, writhing threads of coalesced nightmare struggling to break free. The threads have spread so deep into its corpus, that the undead skin is latticed with black veins. The bloodless flesh between flutters between solid and insubstantial sometimes leaving only a network of murky blood vessels in the shape of a humanoid behind for minutes at a time… and the glowing eyes of course. Always the eyes… One Foot in The Nightmare. The other half of the sleepwalker's soul provides a bridge to a world of nightmares. This keeps the wounds on their bodies bound and directs them to attack th

The pallid figure lurches and jerks as if drawn along by uneven strings. It wears whatever soiled and tattered clothes it fell in, usually night clothes. The sleepwalker mutters fragmented descriptions of the nightmares that plague its fettered mind. Its face is slack as if it is asleep, save for wide eyes burning with an unearthly light. Its cold flesh is dotted with wounds stitched closed by inky, writhing threads of coalesced nightmare struggling to break free. One Foot in The Nightmare. The other half of the sleepwalker's soul provides a bridge to a world of nightmares. This keeps the wounds on their bodies bound and directs them to attack the waking to claim more souls for Hypatatos the Dreamhunter . They can even smell when other creatures are afraid and are invigorated by it; compelled to fell the most terrified of their victims. Eyes of Oblivion. The sleepwalker's eyes now broadcast enervating energy directly from the Hypatatos. Those who stare too de

Session Sixteen: The First Portal An untamed frontier. Dark cults. Fickle fey gods. Ravenous fiends. Nothing black powder and sorcery won't fix... . Timberlands Campaign Diary Trailing along the backbone of the central hills within Hillsbrook Valley, the heroes discussed their next move. They agreed to still seek out the den of a pair of mated Plated Meliuscores and weakening the megafauna until their Ebon Court ally, Mistress Weaver, could bewitch them. Eshkar the nature cleric openly worried, though, about the injuries they might incoure fighting the mighty beasts. Mistress Weaver pulled the bearfolk and heroes aside to try and soothe their worries. The dark enchantress let them know that she could just sacrifice the party’s other ally, the golden court knight Lady Lasthope for Spring, to power her spells. That way the bulk of their forces would be hale for the coming conflict. The heroes, being heroes, rejected the idea. Mistress Weaver was nonplussed over their silly mor

The pallid figure lurches and jerks as if drawn along by uneven strings. It wears whatever soiled and tattered clothes it fell in, usually night clothes. The sleepwalker mutters fragmented descriptions of the nightmares that plague its fettered mind. Its face is slack as if it is asleep, save for wide eyes burning with an unearthly light. Its cold flesh is dotted with wounds stitched closed by inky, writhing threads of coalesced nightmare struggling to break free. One Foot in the Grave. Normal sleepwalkers are not undead, despite the appearance otherwise. They are easily mistaken, however, for some sort of zombie or wraith. Their tenuous connection to the realms of death effects the world around them. Hungry shadows devour the light and cast a pall even at the height of the day. Likewise, their eyes glow with spectral flame and strikes fear in the hearts of the timid. One Foot in The Nightmare. The other half of the sleepwalker's soul provides a bridge to a world of n

Usually felt and rarely seen, the formication swarm is made up of hundreds of spectral fingers bound together by a webbing of spiderweb and sinew. The unholy collection skitters along the surface akin to a colony of spiders toward its prey; its mass stretching and undulating to match its confines. Unfortunately, the formication swarm can also move through solid objects and walls, making them nigh-impossible to escape from. Sadists' Fingers. The formication swarm is created by mixing the severed digits from dozens of murderers and torturers mixed with the psychic agony of concentrated nightmares. Once manufactured, Hypatatos the Dreamhunter lets the swarm loose in cities and towns to terrorize to its heart's content. Considering the formication swarm contains no heart, it is never content. Instead, the undead hive taunts and torments its victims. It usually starts with townsfolk feeling a brush on the back of their neck, side of the forearm, or round of ankle only to se

Session Fifteen: Of Ebony and Gold An untamed frontier. Dark cults. Fickle fey gods. Ravenous fiends. Nothing black powder and sorcery won't fix... . Timberlands Campaign Diary The champion left the protective palisades of the mercenary compound early in the morning. The sellswords had been gracious hosts and showered the worn-down heroes with fresh baths, food, ale, and most of all a safe place to sleep. It was decided before they left that the mercenary commander, a bearfolk woman named Adelga, would lead her forces to the north-eastern crossroads leading into Hillsbrook Valley. They well knew that the waning cult built a portal to the feywild there and likely intended to empower it with an arcane tempest due the next afternoon. Likewise, the mercenary company was supposed to be receiving cannons over the last month, but they’d been stolen by the cult and set up in the small village at the crossroads. It was going to be a hard nut to crack. To that point, the heroes decided

Nobles of the Waning Court - The beauty of ripe fruit blended with the breach within autumn’s long shadows, every noble of the waning court is a vision to behold. Black, pupilless eyes dominate their fine-boned faces while sharp teeth lurk behind plush lips. The faeries’ ears are pointed like an elf’s, but slightly shorter. This is due to the antelope-like horns spiraling from their temples, the base of which are riddled with red-stained honeycombs. Waning court nobles wear their hair long, often braided with bones and sticks, and is a color of fall leaves. Their skin tone can best be described as bloodless. Commonly, these fey wear leathers cured of eldritch animals, cloaks made from a nightmare or displacer beast pelts, black iron plates, and amber adornments with petrified insects within. Most find their mien more savage than aristocratic. Stray direflies are their constant companions, always buzzing cryptic prophecies as they crawl about. Baron Perdrix of the Red Pear appears m

While endowed with lovely contours, the tourterelle's heart is as ugly as it comes. Her true nature shines through a pair of hate-filled eyes watching from behind a flat mask layered with white feathers. The fey holds nothing but contempt for those uglier than she, and nothing but envy for those more beautiful. A pale braid cascades down her shapely back and small wings rise from the rounds of her bare shoulders. These extremities shouldn't carry the tourterelle aloft, but the fair folk care little for natural law. The fey wears half-bust corset brocaded with blood-honey amber and a flowing golden skirt to match. In combat she moves like a dancer, hems flaring, and enchanted punching daggers perforating her victim. Tourterelle Medium Fey, lawful evil Armor Class 19 Hit Points 93 (11d8 + 44) Speed 30ft Flight 30ft Str 14 Dex 18 Con 18 Int 11 Wis 11 Cha 20

Wearing a cloak of chicken feathers and with the legs to match, the henpeck hag is a crooked, petty soul. Her sharp nose is too small for wizened features, her unkept hair rises in a knotted mess tangled with fingerbones. Some would say that the hag has an hourglass figure, but it is anything but becoming. In truth, her bust and hips are more bloated and swelled than anything else. The hide dress she wears is still covered with patches of hair, the seams held together by uneven stitching. Lastly, the fey's arms are longer than they should be, her gnarled hands falling just below knobby knees. Henpeck Hag Medium Fey, lawful evil Armor Class 16 (natural armor) Hit Points 127 (17d8 + 51) Speed 30ft Str 14 Dex 16 Con 16 Int 15 Wis 11 Cha 18 Saving Throws Dex +6, Cha +7 Skills Arcana +5, Intimidation +7 Damage Resistances lightning, thun

Session Fourteen: Night of Barbs and Blades An untamed frontier. Dark cults. Fickle fey gods. Ravenous fiends. Nothing black powder and sorcery won't fix... . Timberlands Campaign Diary As weary as the heroes were after solving the puzzle in the ruins of Enuk’Lun, there was still much to do before the morrow. The party trudged back through the late-evening thunderstorm. Lightning split the sky above their heads and the rain came down in sheets. However, the tabaxi ranger Wild kept them going in the right direction despite the violent pelting. Hours later they arrived back at the Nightveil tower. Ghottle, the lesser mage of the Nightveil, got to work straight away on her stone golem. Isebrand, the greater mage of the Nightveil offered the champions a warm bath and soft bed. As is often the case, no rest for the wicked meant no rest for the good. The heroes knew they had to gather up as many allies as they could before the forecasted arcane torrent tomorrow. They suspected tha

While this fey's bones continuously burn, it doesn't experience any pain. Its flesh is blackened with glowing cracks like those in a smoldering log. The toxic smoke drifts from its skin, hampering its foes. Glossy black eyes stare from behind a beaked nose and pale teeth gleam from a lipless mouth. Only the ember-formed silhouette of crest from the fey's back, but they are perfectly capable of carrying it aloft. While its self-immolating state is incapable of wearing clothes, the halberd it bears is enchanted to take draw in the unnatural heat and focus it within the weapon's white-hot edge. Coalwing Sentry Medium Fey, lawful evil Armor Class 14 Hit Points 102 (12d8 + 48) Speed 30ft Flight 30ft Str 16 Dex 18 Con 18 Int 8 Wis 16 Cha 16 Saving Throws Dex +7, Cha +6 Skills Insight +6, Perception +6 Damage Resistances

The Red Pear Tree. The encounter below is written as the eighth floor of a dungeon within a towering, direfly infested tree bearing vile, red fruit the size of boulders. This is written as a Waning Princes scenario. This is written as a hard to dangerous encounter for level 10-11 player characters. Encounter A central staircase spirals down to the floor below. The room’s wall is covered in thick blood-honey amber riddled with vibrant, pulsing veins. A circle of hand statuettes crafted from blood-amber surround the staircase at a distance of 10 feet. Lengths of adamantine chain coils from the base of each statuette’s pedestal to one of 10 corpses suspended in the hardened amber. On the north side of the room is an adamantine door. The door doesn’t appear to be locked or trapped. However, when the handle is tried it doesn’t open and the room’s puzzle activates. At the start of each turn, a wash of necromantic energy washes through the room dealing 2d8 necrotic damage for