Location: Butcher’s Alley ➤ Shrine of the Open Hand
Date: The Rainfall Stretch, Evening
Cast: Henk, Faellus, Pomeh, Elros, Kildrak (returned)
Guest stars: Zarek Vren (dead), Brakka Stonejaw (dead), Vern (alive-ish?), Lif (exasperated)

The alley stank of blood, rain, and regret.

High above the cobblestones, arrows flew. Pomeh and Faellus clashed with two rooftop assassins—guild agents sent to silence the package. In the end, Zarek Vren met a poet’s blade. His partner, Brakka Stonejaw, took one last spiteful shot into the cart before trying to flee, but was brought down by swift steel and relentless pursuit.

Below, Henk had been doing what Henk does best—charging forward, protecting the package, not asking questions. That is, until a meat hook slammed into his shoulder mid-stride. It was Butcher’s Alley, after all. He ripped himself free with brute force, staggering forward just as Elros caught up. Together, they slipped away before the guard’s distant cries grew nearer.

While the fight resolved above, Henk and Elros vanished down the alley, toward the meeting point.

The others weren’t far behind. Bloodied but not broken, Faellus and Pomeh regrouped and pressed on, the echo of the ambush still ringing in their bones.

Meanwhile, across the city, Kildrak returned to Trollskull Manor—his shoulders scarred from ritual, soul still echoing from his divine rite. The tavern was quiet but not empty. Lif, ever the disapproving ghostly barkeep, appeared with dripping sarcasm and a mess to complain about. Through spectral scribbles and blood-stained muttering, Kildrak got the gist: the crew was in trouble, and they’d left a mess. Again.

Map in hand and heart aflame, he set out with purpose—and a head full of sacred flame.

The party converged at the Shrine of the Open Hand, a serene courtyard touched by old magic and forgotten quiet. It should have been peaceful. Instead, it was waiting.

Reflections danced in the shrine’s pool. Faellus, Pomeh, and Henk found themselves drawn to the water, their faces rippling in silver—moving without them. Kildrak, ever watchful, shouted divine command to stop them. Only Faellus paused.

But it was too late.

From the mirrored surface rose not calm, but distortion—mirrorborn reflections of Henk, Pomeh, and Faellus. Their limbs were too long. Their faces were stretched and half-missing. Symbols of the Anti-Sheetar Cult scarred their skin. 

And there, in the holy courtyard, the second battle is about to begin…

🗝️ Threads for Next Session:

• 
  Vern was struck—how bad is the damage?

• What are the Mirrorborn, and who sent them?

• Is the Shrine of the Open Hand truly sacred anymore?

What else did Kildrak bring back from the Rite?

Entry Date: Rainfall’s Edge, Early Evening – Trollskull Manor
Chapter Title: The Meat Wagon Rolls 

But peace doesn’t last long for this band of trouble-magnets.
 
The door to Trollskull Manor groaned open, and in stumbled Yagra Stonefist, bleeding and half-limping, cradling her left arm like it owed her money. She dropped a rolled rug onto the floor with a thud—the unmistakable sound of dead weight—and muttered words no one wants to hear from an old friend:
 

Inside the rug? A man named Karn, looking for all the world like a corpse—but Yagra assured them he was simply temporarily dead, courtesy of a potent Zhentarian elixir. She needed him delivered—discreetly, swiftly, and without questions—to the Drunken Spider in the Dock Ward. Why? Let’s just say Xanathar agents were involved and leave it at that.

After some quick triage and a round of “what the hells are we doing?” glances, the crew sprang into action. Elros, always practical, cast Pass Without Trace. Pomeh packed his teleporting dagger. Faellus likely made a dramatic speech. And Henk? Henk did what Henk does—grunted, grabbed the cart, and started hauling the Meat Wagon into the rain.

Their journey south was quiet… at first.

The streets were slick. The alleyways narrow. Somewhere in the cart, Karn twitched. Then whispered, not aloud, but into Elros’s mind:
 

Yeah. Comforting.
 
A pair of lazy city watchmen barely looked up as the party passed. But an old blind seer—Old Mira—sniffed them out with uncanny precision.
 

But Butcher’s Alley isn’t known for its mercy.
 
As they turned the next corner—twang! An arrow zipped past Pomeh’s ear.
The second one didn’t miss.

Two Xanathar scouts—perched on a rooftop, bows drawn—had been waiting. Trained eyes, branded faces, and the glint of intent to kill.
The group exploded into action:
 

• Faellus soared into the air, wings (or flair) catching the stormlight as he struck at one from above.
• Elros returned fire with calm precision, arrows whispering death back toward the rooftops.
• Henk, undeterred, kept pushing the cart, body shielding Karn from further damage. Duty over danger.

And that’s where we paused:
 
Rain falling. Cart rolling. Steel flying.
The mission is halfway done, and the corpses—well—might just be about to multiply.

✒️ Summary for the Diary: 

• Kildrak absent (still mid-rite)
• Yagra injured, asks party to deliver a not-quite-dead Karn
• Group uses cart, stealth magic, and clever misdirection to begin journey
• Elros receives cryptic psychic message from Karn
• Old Mira the Seer nearly outs them to city guards
• Rooftop ambush in Butcher’s Alley begins with Pomeh taking an arrow
• Faellus in the air, Elros in the alley, Henk on the move