The Land of Time | Session 15
5/23/2026 – The Marked Ones
Lila rose from the slaughter like a ghost born of carnage. She stood amid the broken bodies of the cultists, her clothes heavy and soaked with what had once been life. The sea serpent had slipped back beneath the black waves, leaving only ripples and silence in its wake. In her clenched fist the obsidian dagger throbbed with a hungry, living heat, its red veins pulsing in time with her own racing heart. It whispered promises of more, always more, begging her to keep feeding it.
She lifted her gaze to the cliffs above Razor Reef. There, silhouetted against the bruised sky, stood the sharp outline of a haunted farmhouse, crooked and ancient, clinging to the edge of the world like a final curse.
“The cultists must be there…” she whispered to the wind.
With the last reserves of her strength she began the brutal climb. The path was treacherous, slick with sea spray and blood, the rocks sharp enough to bite through boots and flesh. Each step sent fresh pain lancing up her legs, yet the dagger’s warmth urged her onward, a cruel companion that both steadied and damned her.
On a 1-2: There are cultists keeping guard of the house.
On a 3-4: The farmhouse looks empty.
On a 5-6: The farmhouse is lit up from the inside, smoke coming from the chimney.
The roll is a 5.
Torchlight danced behind warped glass windows. Thick smoke curled from the stone chimney, black against the dying light. Someone, or something, was inside.
Lila crouched low behind a cluster of jagged rocks, the damp wind tugging at her blood-matted hair. She watched the house for a long moment, eyes narrowed. “People must be inside…” she murmured, voice rough as broken coral. A slow, dangerous smile crept across her lips as she glanced down at the glowing obsidian blade. “Perhaps they would like to meet my new friend.”
She rose and began her careful approach along the damp path. The dagger’s pulse quickened in her grip, matching the growing hunger in her chest.
On a 1-2: She notices a piece of paper half buried in the dirt.
On a 3-4: There is a small trinket that catches her eye.
On a 5-6: A small bottle.
The roll is a 1.
Something pale caught her eye in the mud. She bent down, fingers closing around a small scrap of paper half-buried in the damp earth. To her surprise it was completely undamaged by the sea or rain, its surface smooth and strange, like a special kind of parchment that refused to yield to the elements.
Lila straightened slowly, the damp wind whipping strands of blood-matted hair across her face as she unfolded the strange parchment between trembling fingers. The ink upon it shimmered with an unnatural sheen, as though freshly written despite the salt and storm that should have ruined it long ago. Words in a sharp, angular script stared back at her: “The Broker waits beyond the threshold. Bring the marked ones. The serpent’s hunger is but the beginning.” A cold thrill ran through her, mirrored by the dagger’s eager pulse in her other hand. For a fleeting moment the old Lila recoiled, a whisper of horror at what she had become. Then the blade flared hotter, flooding her veins with dark promise, and the hesitation burned away like mist under a blood moon. She smiled again, sharper this time, and tucked the parchment into her belt. The farmhouse loomed closer now, its torchlit windows calling like open wounds.
Does Lila…
On a 1-2: She head straight to the front door and kicks it in.
On a 3-4: She decides to look for a backdoor.
She rolls a 3 and starts to look for a back door.
Lila moved like a shadow given form, circling the haunted farmhouse with predatory silence. The dagger’s insistent throb guided her steps as she searched for any alternate way into the cursed structure, unwilling to walk straight through the watchful glow of the front windows. She slipped around the side, boots sinking into the slick mud and sharp shale of Razor Reef’s cliffs, until she reached the rear of the house.
There, half-buried against the foundation, she found two heavy wooden cellar doors, reinforced with rusted iron bands and slick with sea mist. They loomed like the sealed mouth of some forgotten tomb. Lila crept forward, every sense sharpened by the blade’s dark hunger. She lowered herself to the damp ground, pressed her ear against the cold, weathered wood, and listened.
Lila held her breath, ear pressed against the cold, weathered wood of the cellar doors. The obsidian dagger pulsed hotter in her grip, as though eager for whatever lay beyond. For a long moment the world narrowed to that single point of contact between her and the unknown.
What did she hear?
On a 1-2: She hears low chanting coming from the cellar; ancient, rhythmic words that slither through the wood like living shadows, invoking names that twist the air itself.
On a 3-4: She hears a scream; raw, desperate, and suddenly cut short, the sound of a soul realizing too late the true cost of its bargains.
On a 5-6: She hears nothing at all; only a heavy, unnatural silence that presses back against her ear like the breath of something vast and patient, waiting in the dark.
The roll is a 1.
Low chanting rose from the depths, slow and rhythmic, like the heartbeat of the reef itself. The words were ancient and guttural, slipping through the wood in a language that clawed at the edges of her mind. They spoke of the Broker, of offerings, of the serpent’s eternal hunger and the red-veined gifts that would open the way. Each syllable sent a shiver through her body that matched the dagger’s eager throb. The sound was not just heard, it was felt, pulling at something deep inside her that was no longer entirely her own.
Lila’s lips curled into a sharp, dangerous smile as the blade whispered its approval. The cultists were down there, busy with their rites. Perfect.
Lila’s fingers, still stained with the blood of the fallen, reached slowly toward the heavy iron latch that bound the cellar doors. The obsidian dagger throbbed in her other hand like a second heartbeat, urging her onward with dark impatience. The low chanting from below rose and fell in hypnotic waves, masking her presence for now.
Were they open or locked?
On a 1-3: It’s locked…
On a 4-6: The latch is surprisingly open.
The roll is a 5.
The latch was open.
With painstaking care she lifted the heavy bar. The rusted metal gave the faintest squeak, a tiny betrayal that cut through the chanting like a whisper of warning, yet not loud enough to disturb the ritual unfolding in the depths. The door shifted slightly under her touch, revealing a narrow gap of utter blackness that breathed cold, damp air upward, thick with incense, blood, and something far older. The dagger flared warmer in approval, its red veins glowing brighter as if tasting the promise of what lay ahead.
With the obsidian dagger humming in her grip, Lila eased the heavy cellar door open just enough to create a narrow crack. A sliver of sickly light spilled upward from below, cutting through the darkness like a wound. She leaned in, breath held, and peered into the interior of the cellar.
Inside she sees…
On a 1: A hellish ritual.
On a 2: A group of hooded figures chanting in a circle.
On a 3: A hooded man holding up a knife about to stab a human sacrifice.
On a 4: 1d6 Candles lit in a circle with 1d4 hooded figures chanting.
The roll is a 3.
There, in the center of the damp stone chamber, a single hooded man stood raised above a crude altar of black rock. His arms were lifted high, a long curved knife glinting in his grasp, its blade already stained with old offerings. Below him lay a bound human sacrifice; a young woman, gagged and wide-eyed with terror, her body trembling against the cold stone as she stared up at the descending blade.
The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and burning incense. Flickering torchlight cast grotesque shadows that danced across the walls like living demons. The low chanting from earlier had fallen silent, leaving only the man’s deep, resonant voice intoning words of power to the Broker. The obsidian dagger in Lila’s hand flared with sudden, violent heat, its red veins blazing as if recognizing kin in the ritual blade below. A wave of dark hunger surged through her, whispering that she could finish what this fool had started… and do it better.
Lila watched, transfixed, as the hooded man’s knife hovered at its zenith, the blade trembling with dark purpose. The bound woman’s muffled cries barely reached her through the crack in the door, yet they struck something deep inside her own chest. For one agonizing heartbeat the old Lila surged forward, screaming silently for her to stop this, to intervene, to remember who she had been before the dagger claimed her. But the obsidian blade burned hotter in her palm, flooding her veins with liquid fire and twisted ecstasy. Its whispers coiled through her mind like smoke: Finish it. Take what is owed. Become more. Her breathing quickened. A dangerous smile returned to her lips as she tightened her grip on the door, the red glow of the dagger casting faint, bloody light across her blood-stained face.
Does Lila…
On a 1-2: She attacks the cultist; surrendering fully to the dagger’s raging hunger and launching herself through the cellar doors in a blur of blood and obsidian fury.
On a 3-4: She throws the door open wide and screams at the hooded man; a raw, primal challenge that echoes through the chamber like the voice of the reef itself, shattering the ritual’s fragile sanctity.
On a 5-6: She watches and waits for the right time to strike; patient as a predator, letting the ritual reach its bloody crescendo while the dagger whispers strategies of perfect, terrible timing.
The roll is a 2.
Lila’s fingers curled around the obsidian dagger’s hilt like a lover’s final embrace. In that frozen heartbeat, all hesitation burned away. With a surge of unnatural speed granted by the blade’s dark blessing, she exploded through the cellar door in a blur of blood-stained fury. The hooded cultist never saw death coming. She drove the obsidian blade deep into the center of his back with merciless precision. The dagger slipped through flesh and bone as if they were water, drinking greedily. The man’s life force was ripped from his body in a single, horrifying instant. His back arched in silent agony before he crumpled forward onto the altar, empty and lifeless.
The obsidian dagger hummed with unholy delight, its red veins blazing like molten fire as it feasted on another soul. The blade vibrated violently in her grip, sending waves of dark ecstasy racing through her veins. Power flooded her, intoxicating and terrible. On the cold sacrificial slab, the bound girl stared up at her savior-turned-monster with wide, horrified eyes, her muffled screams trapped behind the gag as she realized the nightmare had not ended, but only changed its face.
Who is the girl?
On a 1-2: The girl is Finnley’s Sister; a living echo of everything he has lost, bound and terrified on the cold stone, her fate now resting in Lila’s blood-stained hands.
On a 3-4: The girl is Finnley’s Mother; the very heart of his broken family, stolen by raiders and delivered here as an offering to the Broker.
On a 5-6: The girl is a random captive; an innocent soul caught in the Broker’s cruel web, with no direct tie to Finnley’s tragedy.
The roll is a 2.
Lila’s gaze fell upon the bound woman on the altar, and the world seemed to tilt beneath her feet. It was no stranger. No random soul offered to the dark.
It was Finnley’s sister.
The young woman who had once run through the fields of Farthwell with laughter in her voice, who had looked up to her brother with bright, trusting eyes, now lay helpless on the cold sacrificial slab. Her face; so painfully familiar, even streaked with dirt and tears turned toward Lila with a mixture of shock, desperate hope, and dawning horror as she recognized the blood-soaked figure standing over the dead cultist. A muffled cry escaped the gag, raw and trembling, carrying the weight of everything Finnley had been fighting to reach.
The obsidian dagger pulsed triumphantly in Lila’s grip, its red veins flaring brighter as if savoring the cruel poetry of this moment. Power surged through her, dark and seductive, whispering that she could free the girl… or claim her life too, feeding the blade one more precious soul. Lila stood frozen between the remnants of her old self and the monster the dagger was shaping her into.
To be continued in Session 16…