Bounty Hunters - Session 34: Difference between revisions

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* They burst in, and unsurprisingly, [[Breyonna|Bryonna]] is right where the party left her.

Bryonna: Well, don't you folks know how to make an entrance! Come in, and shut the dang door, givin me a chill right down to my bones.

Bryonna: Y'all look like you could use some root tea, warm ya up. Come on in, get out of that storm!

Bryonna: He kept talking about "escape" which sounds to be like a man chasin' death, but perhaps he's right and the world obeys metaphors not laws.

Bryonna: Oh, that might also be one. That sure seems weird and resonant.

* The party spends some time gathering items that fit the description, and they come up with a likely list

** CARNIVAL TICKET, UNTORN

* They vote to attempt to realmwalk with the mirror, after a rest.

Bryonna: that's wild! I've never seen a blizzard like this. It defies all logic.

Whip: We think it might have something to do with the fighting witches

Whip: Here, spice this place up a bit

Whip slams a pair of carved, bone dice on the table

* They travel about half a day toward the edge of the realm. The icy rain chills everyone to the bone.

* Reaching the edge, they contemplate only for a moment before stepping off into the mist.

* The fog changes quickly -- too quickly -- shifting immediately into a humid, warm soup. As it clears, they are already sweating from the scorching heat of summer.

When you finally emerge from the fog, you stand in a land that is clearly not Tepest, but does not look like home, either.

a realm of harsh, unforgiving wastelands, stretches out before you. Here the earth is scarred and deformed; it heaves and undulates unnaturally as if frozen in time at the moment of some cataclysmic upheaval. Pockets of twisted mana-infused rock jut forth from the landscape like jagged teeth, their surfaces shimmering with faint eldritch energy that disturbs the air around them.

Whip: At least it's not cold as fuck anymore

GM: You stand upon the edge of the Mists. Ahead of you is a blasted wasteland.

* The party doesn't like the look of what's ahead of them, and rolls the dice a second time, choosing the jar of goo.

* This time, the air becomes tinted with the smell of ammonia.

Awakening with a start, you find yourselves lying within the fractured husk of a fluid-filled tube, the viscous substance slowly seeping out into the cold metallic floor. Around you stretch the twisted and chaotic confines of a strange, underground complex — an unfathomable hive of alien machinery and pulsating, bioluminescent conduits and tunnels of volcanic rock. The air is thick with an electric hum and the faint scent of ozone, overlaid with a more organic tang that sets your teeth on edge. The darkened corridors teem with grotesque life; shadowy figures scuttle in your periphery, their forms too aberrant for your minds to fully comprehend. But one thing is clear: this place is ruled by creatures never meant for mortal ken. Their eerie presence permeates every corner, their psychic residue imbuing each chamber with a palpable sense of dread. As you navigate this labyrinthine nightmare, you can't shake off the feeling that reality here is as transient as a dream — or perhaps even more disturbingly, that this might indeed be dream from which there's no waking up.

Joana: Doesn't seem better.

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