Session 104

Harrassed by Halflings

Chapter 1: The Unseen Enemy

The trees began to thin, though the undergrowth remained a tangled snarl of vines and clutching roots. The dirt path widened just enough for two to walk side by side, a deceptive comfort in the heart of the Forest.

Without warning, halfling arrows whistled through the air.

Zahraan reacted instantly, conjuring a globe of magical darkness that cloaked the trail in an impenetrable void. Safi's body shifted with a surge of primal energy, transforming into a kirre, the massive, six-legged predator of Athas. With a growl, he unleashed a psychic crush on the hidden minds around them—an invisible pulse of mental force.

An arrow struck his flank, but he barely flinched.

Then Anvar stepped from the shadows. A second arrow buried itself in his side—and in an instant, he dropped. Not from poison, but from an unnatural blankness. His eyes fluttered shut as his mind was forcibly shut down, silenced by psionic interference.

Shiv rushed forward, dragging Anvar’s limp form back into the sheltering darkness. Another arrow zipped past, missing him by inches.

Fazanna didn’t hesitate. She knelt by Anvar, pulled the wand of haste from his belt, and cast it on Shiv, who surged with speed and fury. Bursting into the jungle, Shiv spotted a halfling and crushed him beneath his mace in a single blow.

But retaliation came instantly.

Other halflings hurled tiny, skittering insects—not poisonous, but psionically charged. They crawled over Shiv, and within seconds his body went rigid. His limbs seized, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed, paralyzed—not by venom, but by a silent psionic scream that tore through his mind.

Zahraan dashed into the forest, fists flying. Safi bounded after him, crashing through the brush. Reaching Shiv, Safi could feel the same psychic pressure gnawing at his thoughts. He summoned a mental barrier—Intellect Fortress—shielding his mind from the swarm’s insidious influence.

The ambushers, sensing their tactics had been seen through, vanished into the jungle, melting back into the foliage like ghosts.

As calm returned, the group gathered. Shiv and Anvar were revived with care, their minds slowly clearing. Safi, gritting his teeth, pulled the crawling insects from his fur one by one—each still tingling with unnatural psionic force.

The jungle had spoken. And it did not want them here.

Chapter 2: Pit Trap

Farther down the narrowing path, with the jungle pressing in close and the canopy dimming the light to a murky green, Shiv and Zahraan led the way. Without warning, the ground beneath them gave way—a pit trap, expertly hidden beneath leaves and vines.

They crashed into the bottom, a bed of sharpened spikes waiting. Shiv took the worst of it—his body slamming into a jagged spike tipped with a crude, paralytic toxin. He cried out once, then went limp.

Zahraan gritted his teeth, ignoring the burning pain in his side. He hauled Shiv out of the pit with raw strength, casting Darkness in a wide shroud to obscure their position. The jungle closed in around them again, thick with the scent of loam and blood.

Safi, without hesitation, transformed once more into a kirre, the six-legged predator of Athas. Muscles rippling beneath striped fur, he growled and summoned Intellect Fortress, fortifying his mind—and the minds of those near—with psionic resistance.

Then came the crackle of arcane force. A spell, faint but insidious, wrapped itself over the party like a silk net. Fazanna’s eyes flared as she sensed it and raised her wand, attempting to dispel the enchantment. But the magic held fast—a curse meant to numb the mind and dull the will.

Arrows came whistling from the trees again—silent, sudden, and deadly. Some struck flesh. The magic surged.

One by one, the group began to fall.

Fazanna snarled and tried again. Her wand sparked with arcane energy, and the enchantment shattered—too late.

Another spell was already being woven from the shadows. More arrows followed, relentless and precise.

And then… silence.

One by one, they collapsed, minds clouded, bodies heavy and unresponsive. The jungle stood quiet again, vines coiling and leaves whispering overhead, as if the Forest itself had turned its face away. The path was still, save for the fallen adventurers and the unseen eyes watching from the trees.

Chapter 2: Basha's Kraal

There was nothing—only blackness. No sight, no sound, save for the rhythm of wind brushing through unseen trees and the distant murmur of water. Breathing became the only constant, the steady rush of blood like drums echoing in the skull. A dim light filtered in through the fog of unconsciousness… then awareness slipped away once more.

When consciousness returned, it did so like a blade through still water—slow, jarring, and cold. Zahraan—no, all of them—stood stripped bare, arms stretched wide and bound tightly against slabs of ancient granite. The cold stone bit into their spines and limbs. Each of the monoliths stood arranged in a solemn semi-circle, forming the heart of a village hidden deep in the Forest Ridge.

Surrounding them were the hunters—tiny, sinewy halflings, their wiry forms daubed head to toe in thick green warpaint. They stood watchful and silent, clutching ceremonial spears, eyes gleaming beneath woven vine helms. Behind them, a greater multitude assembled—dozens, perhaps hundreds of wild-eyed halflings, forming a vast ring of life and color around the stones.

Then, a single hunter broke the silence with a piercing howl. Others followed, striking their spears against the ground in a deepening, rhythmic thunder. The first howler dropped to the dirt, thrashing and weeping, tearing at his painted flesh and hurling soil into the air. From the madness rose a chant—long, lyrical, and euphoric. The crowd echoed it in waves, a hypnotic chorus reverberating through the jungle clearing.

Even in their helpless state, the captives felt something stir in their blood. The savage cadence of the song, its haunting melody, and primal rhythm—it drew them in. It seduced them. This was no chaotic chant. It was a story-song, a eulogy and a celebration, woven into one.

The halflings had captured the outsiders. Now they offered them—strangers and warriors alike—as gifts to the Forest. The song recounted the hunt, praised the cunning of the jungle, and honored those who had died along the way. The Forest, it sang, had guided the halflings’ steps, betrayed their prey, and demanded blood in return. Even in death, it whispered, one might be reborn through the roots and leaves.

The chant swelled. Feet stomped. Spears struck. The jungle itself seemed to breathe in rhythm with the villagers.

Then the crowd parted. Down stepped two figures from a vine-wrapped pyramid. One wore a jagged crown of living leaves that sprouted wildly from his bushy brow—Chief Basha. Beside him came a hunched figure robed in hundreds of tiny bones that clattered with every step. He bore an obsidian blade wide as a forearm and a bowl shaped from cracked, black stone.

Basha stepped forward and raised his voice, the language broken but filled with reverence and finality. He spoke, and his words dripped with ritual:

“You are a gift brought to us by the Forest. You are alone. You wander without purpose. You war amongst yourselves. But we will take you in.
We will free your blood from the heavy bonds of flesh… and take you into us.”

The crowd roared in approval.

The stones held firm. The knife glinted in the dim jungle light.

And the Forest watched in silence.

Chapter 3: Shiv Answers

Bound and bloodied against the cold granite, Shiv lifted his head. Though pain weighed heavy on his limbs, his voice rose with quiet strength. He spoke directly to Chief Basha, his words steady, sincere. He spoke of their journey, of the trials they had faced, and of the purpose that had brought them here—to find Mahlanda.

At the name, a ripple passed through the crowd, a subtle change in the rhythm of breath and whisper.

Basha’s leaf-crowned head tilted slightly. He studied Shiv with ancient, unreadable eyes—eyes that had seen spirits walk and trees speak.

"You call the burning woman by her true name," Basha said at last, his voice like dry bark cracking in the firelight. "But perhaps you are deceivers, children of ash and stone. I must take counsel… with the moons. Perhaps the Forest will find meaning in the blue stone you have brought."

Then, raising his arms high, Basha turned to the gathered crowd. His voice boomed, full of fire and ritual:

"Our hunters have brought the Forest a gift greater than a feast. They have brought the Forest... a riddle!"

A gasp followed by elated murmurs spread through the villagers. The howlers howled again. The painted hunters straightened with pride, their green-painted faces breaking into fierce, toothy grins. Children clapped. The drummers beat a triumphant rhythm.

"The Forest shall answer this riddle," Basha declared, "when the sun wakes!"

The proclamation sent a wave of joyous noise through the assembly. With the mystery of the strangers now sanctified by ritual, the crowd began to disperse, buzzing with excitement and curiosity, as if a festival were about to begin.

But the prisoners remained—still hanging, still bound, still offered.

The monoliths stood silent in the twilight, the last light of the jungle sun slipping away. Only the surviving hunters remained, ever-watchful, spears in hand, eyes gleaming in the half-dark.

And beneath the rising moons, the Forest listened.

Chapter 4: The Test

As dawn broke over the mist-choked canopy, a group of halflings emerged from the trees—silent, spectral figures with painted faces and glinting spears. Between them stumbled a bound man, his arms lashed to a pole across his shoulders, his bare feet dragging furrows through the wet earth.

With ritualistic precision, the halflings brought him before the stone-bound prisoners. One grabbed the man’s matted hair and yanked his head up. His face, swollen and purpled with bruises, was barely recognizable—until his bloodshot eyes flickered with faint recognition.

It was Kass Pahr.

Blood and spit hung from his jaw in a trembling strand, his breath shallow, his gaze distant and unfocused.

From among the crowd, Basha stepped forward—wreathed in fronds, backlit by the rising sun, his voice low and grim.

"I believe the Forest is in danger," he said, pacing slowly before the bound companions. "I do not know if you are strong enough to defend it."

He turned toward Kass Pahr.

"This man... was stronger than the Forest. He deceived it. Yet it opened its secrets to him. He used its wisdom to kill the birds in the branches of the Tree."

Basha’s voice rose as the halflings murmured among themselves.

"You are barbarians who war among yourselves. You do not know the unity of our people. You may not have the strength to work together, to overcome the true threats that rise in the Forest Ridge."

The chieftain came to a halt before Shiv, the morning light catching in his bone-decorated robe.

"Show us you will put the Forest above your own vanity and desires. Release the blood of this man. Kill him now."

Basha extended his hand. In it, he held a dagger—old, worn, with a dark wooden hilt and a blade dulled by time. Shiv reached out and took it.

The moment his fingers touched the weapon, the world around him vanished.

A vision—fierce, relentless—tore through his mind.

An old man sat by firelight, sharpening the dagger with slow, careful strokes. A boy laughed nearby, tossing it into the dirt. Then a young man—Kass—and a woman walked together beneath green boughs, their hands brushing. Her laughter rang like birdsong.

Then screams.

The vision twisted into blood and chaos. Halflings with painted faces. Arrows in flight. One struck the woman’s throat. Kass screamed, cradling her as her blood stained the roots.

Then—Kass tending wounded halflings. Then—halflings tearing him apart. Then—Kass stalking the jungle like a wounded predator. A halfling’s throat slit. Then another. And another. Blood sprayed like rain behind a flashing blade.

The images came faster and faster, a hurricane of vengeance and grief. Shiv gasped.

Then silence.

He opened his eyes. The dagger trembled in his hand.

Kass looked up at him, barely conscious, barely alive.

With a single, practiced motion, Shiv stepped forward—and sliced open Kass Pahr’s throat.

The man's body went still. Blood spilled to the forest floor.

For a long moment, no one moved. Then Basha smiled.

"You belong to the Forest now," he said.

One by one, the others were released. The halflings bowed their heads in reverence. The jungle held its breath—and the Forest accepted its new children.

Chapter 5: Journey to Pakk's Lair

Basha, his expression calm yet resolute, offered the party a gift of survival.

“You have spilled blood for the Forest,” he said solemnly. “Now the Forest will guide you.”

He pledged a company of ten lithe, sharp-eyed scouts—hunters chosen from the fiercest of the Basha Kraal—to escort them to the Valley of the Think-Maker. Their weapons were handmade, their faces still painted from the rite, and their eyes gleamed with silent loyalty. With a wave of his hand, Basha also had the party’s gear returned—cleaned, organized, and laid out before them like offerings at an altar.

Their journey into the jungle began at dawn. The scouts moved with uncanny grace, weaving through the undergrowth like spirits of the wild. As the hours passed, the foliage grew denser and more radiant. Vines dangled from high canopies, and thick patches of brilliantly colored flora lined the trail—flowers with flaming orange petals and iridescent green-veined leaves swaying as though whispering secrets.

Then, without warning, the ground ahead erupted with a dusty puff—a great cloud of fine particles blooming like smoke.

The scouts signaled sharply, covering their mouths with cloths as the party hurried through the thick haze.

Karnos, ever curious and ever drawn to nature’s mysteries, hesitated. He studied the flowers, enchanted by their beauty and convinced he might harvest them for future use.

But as he stepped into the mist and reached down, he was seized by a fit of violent coughing. The dust filled his nose, his mouth, his lungs, choking off his breath and blurring his vision. Gasping, swearing, and defeated, he stumbled forward, finally rejoining the others, eyes streaming and chest heaving.

The jungle swallowed the dust behind them, leaving the flowers untouched—silent and deadly sentinels on the path to the Valley.

Chapter 6: The Valley of The Thinkmaker

A scout suddenly broke away from the group, darting swiftly ahead like a startled deer. Moments later, he returned, grinning wildly, chattering excitedly, and pointing urgently down the trail. As the party pressed forward, the dense treeline abruptly gave way, unveiling a vast valley shrouded in thick, swirling mist. From beneath a tangled blanket of creeping vines, a shattered maze of low marble ruins clawed its way skyward, ancient and silent. A relay of birdcalls echoed hauntingly across the canyon, weaving through the fog like whispered secrets.

As the group descended the trail, five halflings came careening toward them, unarmed but moving with an urgent energy. They halted some twenty yards away, their voices rising in curious chatter. The guides answered in kind, and within moments, the halflings were bounding away again, voices fading but clear: “Welcome, passersby. Are you lost?”

The halfling guides replied solemnly, “We bring servants of the Forest who seek the Think-Maker.”

“He has been waiting for you,” one of the halflings called back before turning and disappearing swiftly into the shadowed depths of Pakk’s grove.

Chapter 7: Meeting Pakk

The halflings led the group along an ancient walkway, its cracked marble stones slick with moss and choked by lush, wild weeds. Vines twisted from towering marble pillars, suspending thick, heavy sheets of moss like spectral curtains. The party crossed delicate rope and log bridges arching over small, murmuring streams, remnants of where once proud marble pathways had spanned the waters. After a winding, circuitous journey through the ruined labyrinth, they came upon an archway woven thick with brambleweed, its tangled thorns guarding the threshold.

Beyond the arch, in a quiet clearing embraced by ancient trees, a massive cat lay curled on its side—a creature striped in mottled brown and gray, its yellow eyes flickering open with indifferent scrutiny. Its barbed tail flicked slowly as it rested like a throne, and nestled amid the powerful legs of the beast, a halfling with a wild riot of gray hair lounged in serene calm. Clad only in a simple breechcloth, he cradled a staff crowned with a water-blue gem that seemed to shimmer softly in the dim light.

The halflings who had escorted the party settled themselves respectfully, while their leader stood expectantly by the side, his gaze fixed on the reclining figure. The party had found Pakk the Think-Maker—a telepathic psionicist of the Order, whose mind hummed with unseen power.

Pakk smiled gently and rose, his movements fluid and deliberate. He invited the party to open their minds and reach out to one another with silent thoughts—but firmly forbade any attempt to contact him directly. When Karnos resisted, Pakk responded with quiet kindness, “Do not think so hard while you are here.”

Welcoming the party warmly, Pakk’s voice carried a soothing cadence. “Welcome, pilgrims. I trust you are eating well?” He listened patiently as they explained their quest for Mahlanda, genuine surprise flickering in his eyes. “She is here,” he said softly. “I do not know why she spoke not of pilgrims. She has been consumed by her work. I am surprised she has not reached out to you. She dwells in the Sanctuary, and your minds lack the discipline to pierce its veil. In her state, time no longer touches her.”

Pakk’s gaze darkened as he explained the cause of their coming: the growing psionic-null field that had crept across the valley. “I told her it springs from the cradle of the Dragon’s Crown Mountains. My staff shields me from its reach.” He hesitated, then continued, “She asked that I grant her passage to the Sanctuary so she might prepare to challenge the power. She has remained secluded there ever since. I cannot lead you where your minds are unready. But I will contact her—and let her know you have arrived. Sit with me.”

Pakk settled cross-legged at the clearing’s heart and beckoned the party to join him. His eyes rolled back, his head dropping forward before snapping upright with sudden force. His voice shifted, deepening and twisting until it was no longer his—it was Mahlanda’s.

“Open your minds; I will contact you.”

The party heard her words ring clear, tinged with urgency and distant power. “Finally, you have come! I will need you for my transformation. I will send for you at the Temple of Ral tonight, at high moon.”

Pakk’s voice returned, strained and fading. “Her message grew faint. I sense her gathering strength, conserving energy. The Temple of Ral lies at the valley’s edge. I can show you the way. Yet I do not understand what she meant by ‘transformation.’”

With that, Pakk excused himself, requesting the party remain within the grove until his return. Only then would he guide them to the Temple of Ral. Accompanied by the great kirre, he slipped silently away, retreating into the shadowed depths of the forest.

Chapter 8: Exploring Pakk's Lair

They decided to explore the lair, their eyes taking in the peculiar and eerie features of the place.

The Grove: An island at the heart of the lair, surrounded on all sides by shimmering water and encircled by a ten-foot-high wall of tangled brambleweed. Towering, stately trees with low-hanging branches formed a natural barrier, hemming in the quiet clearing like silent sentinels.

The Well: Nestled within a nook bordered on three sides by thick brambleweed walls, the well lay near the eastern edge, pressed close against the towering fifteen-foot wall of the cells. Four marble pillars, weathered and moss-covered, stood guard around the well, joined by a low, crumbling stone wall. The water drawn here did not come from the depths but flowed from a hidden stream, clear and cold.

The Temple of Guthay: A vast marble plaza, lined by two solemn rows of pillars that reached skyward, though their surfaces were cracked and cloaked in lichen and moss. The stone floor was etched with a network of deep, ancient lines—astronomical markings whose meaning was long forgotten beneath the creeping decay.

The Guest Room: One of the rare chambers boasting a door, this room served as a sanctuary for visitors to Pakk’s lair. But the heavy stone door was wedged tightly shut, denying entry and hinting at secrets held within.

The Kitchen: The front room bore six gleaming obsidian daggers and six bone knives thrust into a weathered wooden plank, silent testament to some ritual or deadly purpose. Twelve wooden bowls lay scattered, alongside three carved sticks used to process seedy grasses. Beyond, the back room stretched open to the sky, with a large fire pit smoldering quietly. Animal carcasses hung on spits propped against the walls, their scent thick in the air. Amid the glowing embers, several blackened humanoid skulls lay scattered—a grim and unsettling reminder of darker deeds.

The Slaughterhouse: The floor sloped steeply here, stained a deep, dark brown with dried blood that told stories of past violence. Narrow channels carved into the stone funneled blood toward the western wall, where a narrow slit opened to pour the flow directly into the rushing stream outside. Against the wall rested an oddly shaped obsidian knife, its curved blade gleaming with a sinister edge.

The Round Table: Secluded and open to the sky, this marble plaza was nearly encircled by dense trees. A single broken column leaned at the corner, half-swallowed by vines. In the center lay a massive granite table, split cleanly in two as if shattered by a mighty blow. Intricate astronomical symbols adorned its surface, and close inspection revealed fresh traces of dried blood staining the cracked marble floor—a recent fracture, fresh with dark significance.

The Menageries: Once proud chambers, now collapsed and roofless, with wooden beams long rotted to dust. A tangle of leafy vines had burst through the ancient marble floors, now mostly dirt and decay. These ruined rooms served as home to various psionic beasts—creatures of mysterious power that Pakk studied with intense curiosity.

The Kirre Lair: A small, shadowed forested nook within the lair, this was the domain of Pakk’s kirre—a strange and majestic beast that prowled quietly among the trees, its presence both protective and enigmatic.

Every step deeper into the lair echoed with the weight of forgotten power and whispered secrets, setting the party’s nerves alight with uneasy anticipation.

Chapter 9: Temple of Ral

The night sky above the valley gleamed brightly against the ink-black canopy of the forest, the moon casting silvery light over the land. Pakk’s halfling followers sat in quiet meditation, their forms bathed in moonlight, faces serene yet tense. From the shadows emerged Pakk’s figure—an inscrutable silhouette.

“It is almost time,” he murmured. “We will go now, to the temple.” His students fell silently into line behind the party, their footsteps muffled by the soft earth.

They left the ruin and followed a narrow dirt path winding upward along the valley’s contour. Near the rim, the party came upon a vast marble platform, ancient and weathered. Broken pillars leaned askew like storm-battered trees, their fractured forms wrapped in moss. The ground was etched with faded, moss-filled markings—whispers of rituals long forgotten.

The entourage waited in heavy silence, the minutes stretching endlessly, taut with anticipation. Then, without warning, a faintly shimmering portal pulsed with a growing energy, its edges flickering like a living flame. Pakk’s gaze fixed on the apparition.

“She wants us,” he whispered. “You students wait here. She cannot hold the door open for long.”

With that, Pakk vanished through the glowing gateway. The group—everyone but Anvar—followed swiftly after. Anvar was gently guided back by the followers to Pakk’s lair. There, Pakk revealed to him the gravity of the situation: Mahlanda needed aid in a mysterious metamorphosis.

“The Avangion was disappointed in you,” Pakk confessed softly, eyes heavy with regret.

Seeing Anvar’s resolve, Pakk offered a solution. “I can teleport you to join Mahlanda and the others. Will you come?”

Anvar nodded, the weight of destiny settling upon him, and accepted the offer without hesitation.

Chapter 10: The Bramble Ball

As they stepped through the door, the ground vanished into darkness, and for a terrifying moment, they felt suspended in midair—then plummeted downward with a sickening rush. Their bodies tore through a tangled storm of thorns, sharp and merciless, as if flesh was being cruelly stripped from their bones. Consciousness slipped away like a fading candle.

When their heads finally cleared, they fought to catch their breath, the dull ache of countless wounds blossoming across their bodies. As their eyes adjusted to the dim gloom, they realized they lay at the bottom of a massive crater, its walls choked with thick, twisting brambleweed. Dozens of cruel thorns jutted from their flesh, remnants of the brutal fall. Around them, the rest of the party stirred, scattered like broken dolls.

Time blurred in the shadows; none could say how long they had lain there. Fazanna was the first to awaken, casting a fierce flame bolt that danced atop the bramble wall before she took wing and soared through the narrow hole. As others roused, Karnos and Fazanna set to work, burning a desperate path through the bramble’s suffocating grip. Their fury fueled the flames as they forced their way free, their minds set on returning to Pakk’s Grove to uncover what fate had befallen them.

Chapter 11: The Vision

They made their way back to the ruins, pausing at the broken table. Stepping into the secluded marble plaza, almost entirely encircled by towering trees, the group took in the scene. A single shattered column leaned crookedly in one corner. In the center, a round table of solid granite lay split cleanly in two. Intricate markings covered its surface, whispering of forgotten secrets.

Karnos drew forth the Storyteller’s Stone and attempted a reading. Suddenly, a violent shock surged through him, and he collapsed, unconscious. As he fell, the rest of the party was gripped by a shared vision.

Their sight blurred as though a fierce sandstorm had swept across their minds. The granite table reappeared, but now it was whole, gleaming in the dim light. Before them stood Mahlanda, her radiant skin glowing with an ethereal light. She addressed a shadowy congregation gathered at the edges of the plaza—silent figures cloaked in darkness. Though her voice was lost to them, her presence spoke volumes.

Pakk stood stoically at her side, his gaze sharp and unyielding. The avangion moved slowly around the table, her concentration absolute. She spread her hands wide, as if pleading with those unseen watchers, then pressed one hand to her heart while extending the other in supplication.

Then, abruptly, she convulsed. Her hands clawed at her head as her knees buckled beneath her. Twisting toward the ground, she was caught firmly by Pakk, who cradled her under the arms. Her gossamer wings fluttered wildly in a sudden breeze, fragile and broken.

With cold resolve, Pakk raised his fist and drove a long dart through her neck. Mahlanda’s eyes widened in bewilderment as she looked up at him, the light in her wings dimming to darkness. She collapsed, a broken figure, shattered wings trailing like fading embers across the marble floor.

Chapter 12: The Burden of Honor

The group sought out Pakk, finding him waiting in the grove alongside his kirre. As they approached, tension thickened the air. Pakk listened patiently to their questions and accusations, his expression calm yet resolute. Then, with deliberate grace, he raised his hands, calling for silence.

He was a true believer in psionic purity, a man devoted to reason as the very root of all psionic power. With quiet conviction, he addressed the party.

“There is a society,” he began, “dedicated to the purity of the Unseen Way and the preservation of this world’s natural order. As stewards of this planet, we recognize that the corruption of the mind’s power has thrown life out of balance. We have found a means to silence the noise and confusion. One day, when the knowledge of the Unseen Way is long forgotten, we will restore the capacity of thought. We will nurture it with care, allowing it to develop unspoiled by corruption.”

His gaze sharpened, unwavering. “Though none of us will live to see that day, the world still needs those strong enough to see beyond this darkness—to the dawn of the planet’s reawakening.”

He spoke then of Mahlanda, his voice heavy with a cold certainty. “She came here to learn about the silence—the silence that emanates from the Psionatrix. I would not lie to her; she would have heard the sound of deceit. I told her we were putting an end to the abuse of the mind. But she strayed from the roots of psionic discipline, reaching for its weakest branches. She lost touch with reason and let her heart rule her. She believed she could sway our hearts, but only convinced us she was all we despise.”

Pakk’s eyes hardened. “Mahlanda is dead. Nothing you do will change that. Learn from her fate; be wiser. Use your reason. We are putting this twisted world to sleep so it can awaken whole once more. For two hundred years, the ground will breathe—free of impure thoughts.”

His tone softened, almost mournful. “My death will change nothing. It will neither strengthen you nor weaken the Order. Let go of your anger; it clouds the mind. Mahlanda would disapprove of vengeance raised in her name. I understand her now, as I understand myself. None of them grasp that wisdom wears many faces. In the end, I had her to myself. All that remains of her, you see before you now.”

After a tense exchange of questions and reasoned debate—nearly convincing Zahraan—the group’s simmering rage surged once more. The desire for revenge against Pakk, for Mahlanda’s death, overtook their doubts, setting the stage for a confrontation that none could escape.

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