The days in Orymme begin to blur together, an unsettling monotony creeping into your routines. Each morning brings the same quiet streets and the same muted interactions with villagers who seem to pass like shadows, offering little more than nods or fleeting glances. One afternoon, the cleric stretches by the hearth, their voice breaking the silence. Their question, a simple “how long have we been here”, hangs in the air, unanswered, but it stirs a realization: it’s been at least a week, maybe more, since you arrived in the village. But beyond hazy recollections of your arrival, the days feel indistinct, their details slipping through your mind like the remnants of a fading dream. None of you can recall a single word of news from the world beyond Orymme. The sorcerer, perched by the window, gestures toward the frosted glass, suggesting that the guild’s noticeboard might have news. After all, if anybody had passed through, it would have been posted there. The suggestion is met with quiet agreement, and together you make your way to the guildhall. The guild’s noticeboard is a cluttered mess, plastered with overlapping scraps of parchment and faded ink scrawls. A faint draft stirs the papers, making some of them flutter like restless wings. The paladin runs a finger along the edge of one corner, reading aloud:
- "Wanted: Volunteers for Bridge Repair"
“Northwest span’s been damaged,” the note explains. The handwriting is hurried but precise, and a small reward is promised for assistance. The ink has smudged around the date, rendering it unreadable. - "Missing: Silver Pendant"
A baker’s plea, penned in elegant script, offers a week’s worth of bread for the return of a lost heirloom. The parchment is stained at one corner, as if splashed with flour or milk. - "Lost Kitten"
This notice is shorter, almost frantic, asking for help finding a gray tabby last seen near the mill. A scribbled drawing of the kitten occupies the bottom corner of the paper. - "Check the Mirrors"
These words stand alone, written in jagged, uneven letters that seem almost scratched into the parchment. Unlike the other notices, it has no explanation—no name, reward, or context. Just the stark phrase. - "Investigate the Strange Occurrences"
The missive is penned in the elegant, precise hand of the Mayor himself. It bears the official seal of the village and outlines a call for adventurers to investigate a series of strange occurrences plaguing Orymme. The parchment, yellowed and brittle at the edges, tells its own story of neglect, its corners curling as if longing to be remembered. The ink has faded slightly, though the words remain legible, hinting that it has lingered on the board for far too long without a single taker.
The barbarian squints at the note, then snorts, eyes flicking to the corner of the hall where a tall mirror stands, its surface marred by a jagged crack splitting it down the middle. They gesture toward it with a half-smile, as if solving the puzzle in an instant. The cleric's lips curl into a grin, eyes glinting as they glance at the cracked mirror. Your party glances back at the note, their gaze light but dismissive. The sorcerer lingers by the notice, their brow knitting in quiet thought as they trace the edges of the paper, a frown tugging at the corners of their mouth. Their fingers hover just above the ink, tracing the edges of the paper as their eyes drift over the other notices—each one filled with familiar details and clear intent. A quiet curiosity stirs, a question that almost forms but remains unspoken. Just as it begins to take shape, the guildmaster’s booming voice shatters the stillness, dragging their attention away. “There you are!” He barks from the hall’s doorway. You all turn as the guildmaster strides into the room, their boots heavy on the stone floor. “Got a job for you lot. Cave on the edge of town—livestock’s gone missing, and we need someone to deal with whatever’s taken up residence.” He thrusts a rolled-up map towards your party. “Urgent, but good pay as well. Best if you finish by tomorrow night.” The noticeboard is quickly forgotten as the urgency of the request takes hold.
Urgent Quest
The following afternoon, your party stands at the mouth of the cave on the outskirts of the village. The air here is colder, carrying a strange dampness that sticks to your skin. It smells faintly of earth and decay, a mix you’ve encountered in old ruins or deep forest groves. But here, it feels heavier, oppressive even. Inside, the cave is eerily quiet save for the sound of dripping water. The walls glisten with moss, their surfaces slick and treacherous underfoot. Your lanterns throw shifting shadows across the uneven stone, and as you move deeper, the soundscape begins to change. The party’s echoes grow strange, reverberating back in ways that don’t seem natural. It’s faint at first—a low, resonant hum, like wind moving through hollow bone. Then it begins to pulse, a dissonant drone that crawls under your skin. The barbarian grits their teeth, shaking their head as though trying to dislodge the noise. Your party looks at one another, but no one speaks, the silence between you charged with unease. The hum burrows deeper into your ears, a sound so strange, it feels almost wrong. You push forward, but even as you fight to focus on the task at hand, the noise follows, crawling through the cavern walls, under your skin, lingering in the back of your mind. The beasts are easy enough to dispatch when you find them—a small pack of cave-dwelling predators, feral and desperate but no match for your steel and spells. Yet the strange hum persists long after the last of the creatures has fallen. You find yourself looking over your shoulder as you retrace your steps, the sound burrowing into your ears like an unwelcome guest.
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As you step out into the waning daylight, the oppressive droning fades, giving way to the familiar rustle of leaves and the distant calls of birds. The change is so sudden, so complete, it feels as though the cave itself has exhaled, releasing you from its clutches. Your party instinctively pauses, drawing in deep breaths of the cool forest air, the absence of the sound a relief almost palpable. Yet the tension doesn’t fully dissipate. The memory of the hum lingers, curling like smoke in the corners of your mind, impossible to shake. The forest, though tranquil, feels like a hollow reprieve—a quiet moment between storms. Speculations arise as you regroup, piecing together theories to explain the sound: shifting stone, underground air currents, perhaps the creatures themselves. But every explanation falters under scrutiny, the logic brittle and unsatisfying. They feel like echoes of the hum itself—present, but wrong, fragments of something incomprehensible. Even the cleric, usually so steadfast in his reasoning, seems uneasy, his gaze darting back to the cave entrance as though expecting the hum to return. The weight of unanswered questions follows you like a shadow as you begin the trek back to town.
When you return to the guildhall to report, Eddin listens with a strained expression. His fingers tap an irregular rhythm on the edge of his desk, and his brow furrows as he hears about the strange sound. “Cave on the edge of town…” he mutters, almost to himself. “Can’t say I remember anyone requesting to clear those caves before…” The cleric points out the map he had provided earlier, where the caves had been marked clearly. Eddin looks at it for a long moment, his lips pressed into a thin line, before giving a curt nod. “Good work,” he says, though his voice lacks the usual gruff certainty. “I’ll handle the rest. You lot get some rest.” As you leave, there’s a weight in the air that wasn’t there before. Eddin’s unease mirrors your own, though he quickly busies himself with the papers on his desk as if trying to bury whatever thought lingers in his mind.
Nightmare
That night, the sorcerer is jolted from their sleep by a sudden, unsettling sensation. Something catches the edge of their vision—a pale, fleeting face, pressed against the glass of their window. The face is ghostly, its features vague and indistinct, yet undeniably present. For a moment, time seems to freeze. The sorcerer’s heart skips a beat, their breath catching in their throat. They sit up quickly, eyes wide, scanning the room with mounting dread. The face is gone, leaving only the soft moonlight spilling through the window and the reflection of the room’s dark, empty interior. A sharp breath escapes their lips as they strain to comprehend what they’ve seen, their pulse racing. In the silence of the room, the lingering sensation of something cold pressed against their chest. The face—pale, unblinking, its presence unsettling—floats to the forefront of their mind. They think of the old woman from the barn, her trembling voice speaking of the “whisper beast,” the invisible creature that only the wind could reveal. Her words had seemed strange then, the ramblings of a mind perhaps worn with age. But now, the sorcerer wonders if the woman’s fears were not entirely unfounded. Shaking their head, they lay back down, attempting to push the unsettling vision from their mind. But it clings to them, like cobwebs on the edges of their thoughts. The night drags on in an endless churn of unease. Time distorts, moments bleeding together as the whispers grow louder in their mind. The face, the oppressive stillness, the faint sense of something watching—it all swirls in a feverish haze that feels both surreal and maddeningly vivid. By the time sleep finally claims them, it is fitful and fractured, offering no reprieve. When morning comes, the sun’s light is soft and warm, filling the room with a gentle glow that feels almost reassuring. The sorcerer sits up, rubbing their eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep. The events of the previous night feel like a half-remembered dream, distant and unclear. The pale face that had seemed so vivid in the dark hours of the night is now just a fleeting memory, slipping away like mist in the sunlight. The unsettling weight of the night’s terror seems to lift, replaced by the normal rhythm of the day. The sorcerer shakes their head, brushing off the incident as nothing more than exhaustion or an overactive imagination.