Session 1 – "Whispers in the Fog"
100% Complete Transcript
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[Narrator]
The road narrowed as Rowan descended the last hill. Mist clung low to the sodden earth, curling around his boots and wreathing the fields in spectral tendrils. Ahead, a weather-beaten sign declared *Welcome to Gascar*, its paint faded, its wood warped by endless rain. Beyond, the village huddled against the grey horizon: thatched roofs sagging beneath the weight of damp, gardens flooded into shallow pools, and the distant outline of the Azura Wood looming like a living shadow.
He shifted his heavy cloak closer around his shoulders, its smell of pine and smoke mingling with the chill air. Each step felt measured, deliberate, as though his own tread must not disturb whatever Fate had woven into this place. Somewhere behind the veil of fog, farmers moved like ghosts through their sodden fields. Somewhere within the forest, branches walked when no wind stirred.
The Institute’s briefing echoed in his thoughts. Sylvie Perrault, head of the local House of Fate, awaited him. She had written of three disappearances in the past week — Anais Bordeaux, an old witch once respected as a diviner; Elodie Laval, daughter of a weary shopkeeper; and Pierre Vercher, a hunter of questionable repute. All vanished into the same mist that now pressed against Rowan’s skin.
A mastiff’s bark rumbled faintly from the village square, soon swallowed by the rain. Rowan tightened his grip on his staff — not as a weapon, but as a companion — and stepped forward into Gascar, bearing the oath of a Guardian: to protect without harming, to shield without striking.
The village seemed to watch him, as though holding its breath. Somewhere within these narrow lanes, he would find Sylvie… and perhaps, if Fate wove threads unseen, the companions who would walk this path beside him: an Archivist to record, a Fixer to mend.
And so began his Chronicle, at the edge of the mist-drenched world.
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[Rowan]
"I am in dire need of rest and food, as the journey was long. But these people are clearly worried, so I do what I can to answer questions from villagers as I enter the village. But it’s important that I find Sylvie."
[Narrator]
The villagers were already waiting when Rowan crossed into the muddied square. Their faces, drawn long with worry, turned to him the way trees turn to the sun: searching, hungry for reassurance. Some muttered questions before he had even stepped close — *“Have you seen Anais?”* *“Will the fog swallow us next?”* *“What of the thing in the wood?”* Their voices carried not anger but desperation.
Rowan, though aching for rest, answered as best he could. His voice was steady, each word chosen like a stone set in a foundation. He spoke of why he had come, of the Institute’s charge, of Fate’s weaving and the hope that still threaded through their fear. His calmness slowed their questions; even when he had no answers, his bearing alone steadied them.
Then, from beyond the crowd, a voice rang clearer, warmer:
[Sylvie]
"Rowan?"
[Narrator]
Sylvie Perrault stood at the doorway of a modest home-turned-chapel, its lintel marked with the loom of Fate in coloured thread. She was plump, draped in robes of indigo, her smile bright but shadowed by sleeplessness. Behind her, the small House of Fate glowed faintly with firelight, the promise of warmth, food, and a chair.
The crowd quieted as Rowan’s eyes met hers. Relief rippled through them. This was their guide, their anchor, the woman who had written to Moltiers with trembling hand when her people vanished into the fog. Now she beckoned him forward with open arms, both to welcome him and to unburden herself of truths too heavy to carry alone.
Inside lay rest — and answers.
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[Rowan]
"Sylvie? It’s good to see you! I swear this road didn’t used to be so damn long! Or maybe I’m just getting smaller."
"Got another mug for a tired traveler?"
[Narrator]
The warmth of the place hit Rowan at once, the crackle of firewood and the scent of herbs steeped in water mingling with the perfume of the potted plants. It was a modest hall, no grand shrine, but every thread and trinket seemed placed with care. A small carved statue of Fate’s loom watched from the mantel, a silent witness to the fog’s intrusion upon Gascar’s peace.
[Sylvie]
"Smaller? You? Don’t make me laugh too much, Rowan, or I’ll spill the tea. Sit, sit. I’ve been saving this pot — Fate told me I’d have company before the day was out."
[Narrator]
She shuffled across the hearth and fetched another mug, a chipped but clean thing painted with faded blue swirls. With a flourish she poured steaming liquid, filling the room with the fragrance of chamomile and mint.
[Sylvie]
"Drink. The roads are long, the fog is heavy, and the world seems larger than any of us. But here, for a moment, you’ll find rest."
[Narrator]
She settled opposite him, drawing her own cup close. The light caught her robes — threadbare at the edges, yet still carrying the shimmer of Fate’s sigil. For a heartbeat she seemed only a friend eager to share warmth on a dreary day. Then her eyes grew solemn.
[Sylvie]
"Rowan, I wish I could say I called you here just for tea. But three souls have vanished into that wood, and the villagers wake each morning more afraid than the last. Roots move as if alive. Trees wander. Some whisper that Fate has abandoned us. You’ll help me, won’t you? You’ve always been steadfast."
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[Rowan]
"I drink the tea. I want to tactfully ask about the victims. Who were they, and what were they doing when they vanished?"
[Sylvie]
"The first to vanish was Pierre Vercher. A hunter, not of Gascar. He swaggered into town early last week, boasting of his exploits and asking after the Monster. Rented a room at the Yawning Mastiff, drank deep, and by morning he was gone. I never trusted him — too many questions, too much eagerness for danger.
Then came Anais Bordeaux. You may have heard her name — an old woman, once travelled, learned diviner, though these days the villagers call her witch. She lived on the outskirts, alone. Eccentric, yes, but never cruel. And always, always curious.
Elodie Laval disappeared alongside Anais. Only eighteen, daughter of Guillaume, the shopkeeper. Bright girl, head full of dreams. Her younger sister, Louise, is deaf — Elodie was her translator, her voice in the world. The loss has hollowed them both. I fear Anais led the girl into folly. Or perhaps Elodie led Anais. Either way, they walked into the fog and never came back."
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[Rowan]
"The fog really is oppressive here. Morale must be suffering. Tensions must be running high. Is the fog normal here?"
[Sylvie]
"No, Rowan. Not like this. We’ve always had mists rolling in from the marshes, aye, but they lift with the morning sun. This fog — it lingers. Day and night. It clings to the skin, seeps into your lungs. Even the mastiff in the square won’t leave its post, though the poor beast shivers at shadows.
It began the same week Pierre arrived. Some whisper it’s the Monster’s doing, some that it’s Anais meddling with Fate again. Others mutter the old tales — that the Azura Wood has grown restless, that its roots move beneath the earth and its branches stretch where they please.
Morale, you say? You’ve the right of it. The fishermen won’t cast their nets, the children won’t leave their mothers’ skirts. Folk argue in the square, snapping at one another like dogs on a short chain. I hear prayers grow sharper, more desperate, as if the loom itself is fraying. Tensions will break us before the fog does, if nothing is done."
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[Rowan]
"Flattery will get you everywhere, Sylvie. Your chapel is a delight, at least." (He sips his tea.)
"So, who is Pierre?"
[Sylvie]
"Pierre Vercher. A hunter, or so he claimed. He came from the south road, boasting of his travels. Always with a story ready: how he tracked a stag for three days through the Blackwood, how he once stared down a creature with eyes like burning coals. But you know the type, Rowan. Too many tales, not enough truth.
The villagers never warmed to him. Too loud, too eager to speak of Monsters as trophies instead of kin. He asked after the fog, after the so-called Root and Branch Monster, as if it were quarry to be caught and skinned. I told him plainly: our oath is to witness, to protect, not to harm. He only laughed, said he knew his way around beasts better than books.
He disappeared the morning after that. Left behind a half-paid room at the inn, his bow leaning by the hearth, boots still drying by the fire. No sign of a struggle. Just… gone. Some say the wood swallowed him, others that he wandered drunk into the marshes. But I… I fear his questions stirred something better left untouched."
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[Rowan]
"Okay, I suppose I should get down to it. What can you tell me of the monster? It may be the cause, or it may not."
[Sylvie]
"They call it the Root and Branch Monster. Though no one agrees on what that means. Some say it’s a great serpent woven from vines, its scales bark and moss, slithering unseen beneath the soil. Others swear they’ve glimpsed a giant stag, its antlers a forest unto themselves, roots dangling as if it carries the earth wherever it treads. And still others — others say the trees themselves move when no wind blows. That they shift in the fog, changing paths, closing roads, leading folk astray.
What I know is this: the fog began with the sightings. First just shadows, shapes in the mist that made the heart stumble. Then came the sounds — the creak of branches where none grew, the rush of roots pulling free of earth. And then, the vanishings.
The villagers whisper that the Monster is Fate’s punishment, that our prayers have gone unanswered. I do not believe that. But I cannot deny that something stirs in the Azura Wood. Something old. Whether it is truly a Monster, I cannot say.
Three gone, Rowan. And the wood feels closer each day. As though it leans in to listen."
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[Rowan]
(Rowans listens carefully for any unusual noises.)
[Narrator]
The chapel itself breathed softly: timbers creaking under damp, the faint rustle of Sylvie’s robes as she shifted her weight. But beneath these small, human sounds, there was something else.
A hush where there should have been night-song. No chirrup of crickets, no sleepy coo of roosting birds. The world outside held its breath. And threaded through that breathless quiet was another sound, faint and unsettling: the groan of wood, deep and resonant, like the bending of a trunk in wind. Yet there was no wind. It came again, distant but deliberate, the slow protest of roots disturbed beneath sodden earth.
Even here, with walls between him and the fog, Rowan felt the Wilds leaning close. Listening back.
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[Rowan]
(Rowans notes this carefully in his journal.)
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[Rowan]
"Tell me, is there anything that you believe may have provoked the monster? Has the village expanded recently, or has anyone been treating the wilds without its due respect? Monsters rarely attacked unprovoked."
[Sylvie]
"You speak with wisdom, Rowan. Monsters don’t lash out without cause — and if they do, it is often because someone gave them reason.
Gascar hasn’t grown in decades. If anything, we’ve dwindled. Too many families moved inland after the Flux storms ruined the river trade. The land is poor, the fields flood. We’ve taken only what we must to survive.
But… I’ve heard whispers. Pierre asked far too many questions about the wood — not about its beauty or its mystery, but about routes, clearings, what lay hidden. He bragged that he would catch the Monster and drag it back in chains. The young men at the inn laughed, but others worried he spoke truth. I fear his arrogance may have drawn the Monster’s attention.
And then there is Anais. She loved the Wilds in her own way, but she was reckless. Spent nights in the forest, collecting herbs, muttering about signs in the roots. Some say she sought to call the Monster forth, to speak with it, perhaps even control it. Whether that is truth or village fear… I cannot say. But I do not doubt she was bold enough to try.
If the Monster has been provoked, it was not by Gascar as a whole. It was by individuals who treated the Wilds as playthings, not kin. And Fate, Rowan, does not take kindly to arrogance."
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[Rowan]
"Thank you, Sylvie. Is there somewhere I can rest for the night?"
[Sylvie]
"Of course. You’ve come far, and Fate herself knows you’ll need your strength before the wood tests you."
"There’s a chamber through there — meant for visiting Chroniclers, though you’re the first in many seasons. It’s simple: a cot, a wash basin, a stool. But the roof holds steady, and the walls keep out the worst of the fog."
"I’ll have bread, cheese, and a little broth sent in from Guillaume’s shop. Not much, but it will sit warm in the belly."
"Rest, Rowan. At dawn, we’ll walk together through the square. I’ll introduce you to those who will not sleep until their kin are found. Perhaps then… Fate will send us help."
[Narrator]
As if in answer, a shape flickered against the mist outside the window — a lantern bobbing, footsteps approaching the chapel. Whoever it was, they carried themselves with a briskness that spoke of purpose, not fear.
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[Rowan]
"Thank you. I may head to the inn before I hit the sack, though. I find the evening is the best time to find people with loose tongues."
[Sylvie]
(She chuckled softly, though her eyes betrayed both fondness and unease.)
"A Guardian who knows the value of tavern gossip — Fate, but I’ve missed your wit. You’ll find the Yawning Mastiff at the square’s far side. Listen well, Rowan. The innkeeper, Baptiste, is a man of quiet loyalty but he has ears sharper than he lets on. He hears much, and says little unless he trusts you. Gain his trust, and the whole village will follow."
[Narrator]
She moved to the doorway, opening it to the fog. The mist rolled in thick coils across the cobbles, lanternlight gleaming dull against the wet air. From somewhere across the square came the distant rumble of voices, the bark of the mastiff, and the faint spill of music — fiddle strings straining against the gloom.
Sylvie touched Rowan’s arm before he stepped out.
[Sylvie]
"Be cautious. Some drink to forget, others to loosen their tongues. And there are those who drink only to sharpen suspicion."
[Narrator]
The fog licked at Rowan’s boots as he crossed into the square, the inn’s glow a beacon through the mist. As he drew near, the Yawning Mastiff revealed itself: a low, timbered hall with smoke curling from its chimney and laughter spilling from its open door. Inside, firelight danced across crowded tables, and the air carried the scent of ale, woodsmoke, and roasted onions.
A place where fear and hope alike fermented — and where Rowan’s next companions, though he did not yet know it, waited with stories of their own.
--- END OF SESSION 1 ---
Session 1 transcript
September 1, 2025