The Land of Time | Session 14
5/16/2026 – The Whispering Stones of Windhollow
Captain Salt and Finnley pressed onward toward the howling village. With each step the foggy mist of the coast thinned and retreated, as though the land itself were exhaling them into unknown territory. They crested a low rise and spotted a small river glinting ahead, spanned by a humble wooden bridge that led straight into the clustered roofs of Windhollow. Nothing grand, just weathered planks and sturdy posts, yet it felt like a threshold between two worlds.
They drew closer. Villagers moved about their day; hauling water, mending nets, tending small gardens but the ordinary motions carried an edge. Captain Salt leaned in close to Finnley, her voice low. “Did you notice?”
He shook his head. “What do you mean?”
“The horns,” she answered, eyes narrowed. “They stopped the moment we got closer.”
Finnley blinked, realizing the constant low moan that had haunted their march for days had indeed fallen silent. “Yeah… I didn’t even realize. Why do you think we can’t hear them anymore?”
Captain Salt scanned the tree line as they walked. “I don’t know. Perhaps we are inside the sound now. Maybe it’s a protective spell to keep predators at bay.” Her hand rested near the hilt of her knife, a quiet reminder that protection could cut both ways.
The people came into clearer view. Their faces held a watchful paranoia, shoulders tight, glances flicking toward the forest or the sky as if something invisible studied them in return. Finnley and Captain Salt reached the bridge. The main road crossed it boldly, yet a smaller, half-hidden path branched underneath, slipping away into a dense forest of ancient pine trees whose needles whispered in the still air.
Do they?
On a 1-3: They go over the bridge into the village.
On a 4-5: The two check out under the bridge and follow the path into the forest.
On a 6: They skirt around the village looking for another way in.
They rolled a 2. Over the bridge they go.
Captain Salt and Finnley walked across an old wooden bridge spanning what could only be described as a waterway only a mother could love. The river moved sluggishly beneath them, its surface dark and thick, more swamp than stream. The water smelled of rot and forgotten things. Next to the land it lay stagnant, tiny bubbles rising and popping in slow, deliberate bursts that released sharp, sulfurous puffs into the already heavy air.
The horns that had echoed for days, ringing in the ears of every living creature, suddenly stopped the moment they stepped onto the bridge. The silence fell so completely it felt like the village itself had drawn a soundproof veil around its borders. No wind, no birds, no distant moans. Only the creak of old planks and the soft pop of those foul bubbles.
A lone man stood midway across the bridge. Older, weathered, staring downriver with distant eyes. He turned as they approached, his movement slow and deliberate. “Strangers!” His raspy voice barely croaked out at first, little more than a dry whisper carried on the stagnant air. Then louder, stronger, as if summoning the last reserves of his strength: “Strangers! Welcome!”
The man’s gaze flicked immediately to Captain Salt’s hand resting on the hilt of her dagger. A tired smile creased his lined face. “Now now, no need for that, young miss. We are a peaceful village. No trouble here.”
His words drifted across the bridge like leaves on still water, failing utterly to disarm her. Captain Salt kept her hand firmly on the hilt, eyes steady and unblinking. Finnley felt the weight of the moment settle heavier in his chest, the oak staff warm in his grip, a silent reminder that peace in the Land of Time often wore a careful mask.
The old man’s words hung in the thick, sulfurous air like a half-remembered promise, fragile and unconvincing against the weight of their long road. Finnley shifted his oak staff from one hand to the other, feeling the smooth grain bite into his palm as he studied the stranger’s weathered face. Deep lines carved by years of wind and worry framed eyes that seemed too sharp for a simple villager. Behind the man, the village waited; roofs of thatch and stone huddled together, faint lantern light flickering in windows that watched them in return. Captain Salt’s grip never left her dagger. “Peaceful villages don’t usually greet travelers with warnings hidden in their silence,” she said, voice low and edged like the blade at her side. “What are you really protecting here, old one?”
The old man’s smile faltered for just a heartbeat, something ancient and guarded flickering behind his eyes. He glanced once toward the village, then back at them, lowering his voice until it blended with the slow pop of bubbles rising from the stagnant river below.
“What we hide in Windhollow is not for outsiders,” he rasped, “yet the stones have already whispered your names. Come. Words like these are not safe in the open air.”
He turned and led them across the remainder of the bridge, his steps surprisingly sure for one so weathered. Finnley and Captain Salt followed, the planks groaning beneath them like living warnings. As they stepped onto solid ground, the unnatural silence deepened. No birds. No wind. Only the faint, rhythmic pulse that seemed to rise from the very earth itself.
The old man; Vernon, he finally named himself; guided them down a narrow lane between houses built half into the living rock. At the end of the path stood a weathered stone circle half-sunk into the ground, its surface etched with swirling patterns that matched the horns they had followed for days. Vernon placed a calloused hand on the largest stone and pressed. A low grind echoed as the slab shifted, revealing a set of carved steps spiraling down into darkness.
What are they hiding in Windhollow?
On a 1: There is a cultist portal leading to an underground cave system connecting The Land Of Time in certain points.
On a 2: There is a cave under the town that houses a terrible monster… Purple Worms.
On a 3: The town is in secret worship of Rhya, the Goddess of Fertility.
On a 4: The village itself isn’t the problem it’s the cultist in the cave system under the Strata.
The roll is a 1.
A cold breath of air rose from below, carrying the scent of wet stone, old blood, and something sharper; like ozone after lightning. Vernon’s voice dropped even lower. “Beneath us lies a portal of the veiled ones. A cultist gate. It opens to caves that thread through the bones of the Land of Time itself, touching distant shores, distant times. The horns you followed? They are its voice, calling or warning. We keep it sealed when we can. But the Broker’s servants grow bolder. They come through at night, seeking blood and bargains.”
Captain Salt’s hand tightened on her dagger. Finnley felt his pulse quicken, the oak staff warm in his grip as memories of Farthwell’s flames rose unbidden. If these caves truly connected across the land, then his mother, his sister, even Lila on her distant reef; any of them might be only a shadowed path away. Or lost forever in the twisting dark.
Vernon looked at them both, eyes heavy with the weight of generations. “Now you stand at the threshold. Will you descend and see what the stones have kept hidden… or turn back before the portal remembers your scent?”
Just as Finnley and Captain Salt moved to follow Vernon down the first worn steps into darkness, a rough voice cracked through the unnatural silence like a whip.
“VERNON! You misuse of Rhya’s flesh! Just bringing any wayward souls to our innermost secrets?”
The three of them turned as one. There, blocking the narrow lane behind them, stood a broad-shouldered man in scarred leather armor, his face etched with hard lines and suspicion. Flanking him were the rest of his unit.
How many in the unit? Roll 1d4 The roll is a 2.
Two grim guards stood beside their commander, weapons drawn but not yet raised, blades catching the faint lantern light in cold glints. The air grew heavier, thick with the scent of oiled steel and barely contained threat. Vernon’s shoulders stiffened, yet he did not flinch. Captain Salt’s hand stayed locked on her dagger, her stance shifting into something low and ready. Finnley gripped his oak staff tighter, heart pounding against the sudden rush of memories; flames, loss, the sharp bite of being unwelcome in a place that should have offered shelter.
The commander’s eyes narrowed, flicking between the strangers and the open portal. “The stones do not welcome outsiders lightly, old man. Explain yourself before we decide whether these two belong in the light… or the dark.”
On a 1-2: The old man fails terribly at convincing the commander of why he is showing the new comers the entrance.
On a 3-4: The commander listens but requires the new comers to come with him.
On a 5-6: The old man Vernon explains his ‘vision’ of the new strangers and how Lady Rhya told him of their arrival.
The roll is a 5.
Vernon straightened slowly, the weight of years seeming to settle heavier on his shoulders as he met the commander’s hard gaze without flinching. The air around the stone circle grew thick, charged with the faint hum of something ancient stirring beneath the earth. Lantern light flickered across the drawn blades, casting long, uneasy shadows that danced like wary spirits.
“Commander Graves,” Vernon said, his raspy voice gaining unexpected depth and resonance, as though the stones themselves lent him strength. “I did not bring these souls here on a whim. Last night, as the horns fell silent and the veil thinned, Lady Rhya came to me in a vision of living green and flowing blood. She showed me their faces; Finnley Reed of the burned north and Captain Salt of the shattered sea; standing at this very threshold. She spoke their names on the wind and bid me open the way. These two are not intruders. They are threads in her great weaving, drawn here by sorrow and the Broker’s shadow. To turn them away would be to defy the Goddess herself.”
The commander’s stern expression shifted, suspicion giving way to reluctant awe. His guards exchanged uneasy glances, their weapons lowering a fraction. For a long moment the only sound was the distant pop of bubbles from the stagnant river and the low pulse rising from the open portal. Vernon’s words hung in the air like sacred smoke, carrying the unmistakable weight of true belief.
Captain Salt’s grip on her dagger eased slightly, though her eyes stayed sharp. Finnley felt a strange warmth bloom in his chest, the oak staff tingling faintly in his hand as if the land itself had just acknowledged him. Yet beneath the reverence, the deeper danger lingered. Visions from a goddess could open doors… or lead them straight into greater peril.
To be continued in Session 15…