Past event story log

A stormy night

The wind howled like a banshee, tearing at the flimsy canvas of our rented beach bungalow. rain, thick as soup, lashed against the windows, each drop a tiny hammer blow. Inside, huddled under a threadbare blanket, you listened to the symphony of chaos outside. The rumble of thunder was a visceral tremor that shook the very foundations of our temporary home, and lightning painted stark, fleeting images of the churning sea against the inky blackness. you never experienced a storm like it. Not on the gentle, sun-drenched shores you usually frequented in Senleon. This was primal, untamed fury. The rhythmic roar of the waves, usually a lulling lullaby, had become a monstrous growl, punctuated by the sickening crack of something – a branch, a beach umbrella, maybe something more substantial. Sleep was a distant, impossible dream.

Hours later, the tempest began to recede. The thunder softened to a distant grumble, the wind’s shriek subsided to a weary sigh, and the rain dwindled to a persistent drizzle. Slowly, tentatively, you unpeeled yourself from the blanket, your limbs stiff and cold. Pulling on your boots and a rain-slicked jacket, you opened the door. The air was thick with the salty tang of the sea, but now it carried a new, acrid scent – ozone and something vaguely like damp earth.

The beach, when you reached it, was something else entirely. It was a battlefield. The gentle slope where we’d built sandcastles yesterday was now a scarred, gouged wasteland. Debris was strewn everywhere – tangled seaweed, splintered driftwood, shattered fragments of what looked like a small fishing boat. The neat rows of colorful beach chairs were overturned, some ripped to shreds, others half-buried in the sand. Our own little picnic umbrella lay like a broken, sad bird, its vibrant stripes muted by the debris. The sea itself, though calmer, was still a turbulent, grey expanse, its waves capped with angry white foam. It had receded, leaving behind a wide, glistening swathe of sand littered with the detritus of its rage. Further down, where the dunes usually stood proud, there were gaping holes, their sandy walls collapsed inwards as if the earth itself had sighed and surrendered. You walked slowly, your boots sinking slightly with each step. There was a profound stillness in the aftermath, a mournful beauty in the devastation. The familiar was gone, replaced by a raw, exposed landscape. 

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While cleaning the beach you hear something. Is there someone who needs help? You try to figure out from where the sound is comming from. Under some planks from a boat you spot a paw. Carefully you lift the wood. A Vampgon is stranded with his boat.

"Finaly free!!" *stretching his legs* "Thank you so much for the help. 
You: "Do you remember anything what might have happened?"

"i was out there for fishing. This B*** of a Siren got me. My boat crashed on the rocks and the storm washed me away. Normaly i am a good swimmer" *flaps with his tail fins* "But this storm was brutal! This siren needs a goos slapp" *whipes with his tail*

You: "Maybe we can find it and confront it? Lureing someone to harm is wrong. You could have died out there..."

"Yeah... i wagely remember the spot i saw it." * points on a map he rolled out* "We need to do something!"

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The sea air grew heavy, thick with salt and something else – a faint, sickly sweet perfume that promised ruin. You gripped the tiller of your small, sturdy boat, the wood slick beneath your palm. Beside you, the fishy Vampgon, gave a nervous flick of his tail. "Are you certain of this, friend?" 

"The Kliffside is not for mortals. She is not for mortals." You nodded. "We have to be. She’s taken too many. And you said she’s got your boat too. didn’t you?" This wasn’t just a rescue mission for the latest lost sailor; it was kind of personal. The waves grew choppier as you steered closer to the foreboding landmass. The Kliffside loomed, a jagged scar against the aqua and yellow sky, its base eaten away by centuries of relentless surf.

 No sane sailor would ever approach this place, for it was here, in the spray and the shadow, that the Siren made her lair. A sudden, impossibly beautiful note drifted over the water, chilling you to the bone. It was pure, seductive agony, a promise of everything you desired, mixed with the sure knowledge of your doom. Your hands trembled on the tiller, but you pressed on, focusing on your fishy friend." Bether put something in your ears" he wispers.

Then you saw her. Not on the precipice, but nestled in a dark, sea-carved grotto at the Kliffside’s base. Her hair, the color of the waterfall,cascaded over shoulders and tied to a long pony tail. Her eyes, luminous and ancient, fixed on your approaching vessel. She smiled, a flash of pearly jagged teeth, and her song swelled, trying to tear the very will from your bones. You felt your eyelids grow heavy, your muscles slacken, the urge to simply slip into the dark water overwhelming. But then the vampgon, with an unexpected surge of strength, sprang onto your chest, his cold scales shocking you back to a semblance of reality.

The Siren’s smile widened, knowing. You had arrived. And now, the true test began.

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 “Remember the plan” the boatsman rumbles, his voice a low counterpoint to the waves slapping against the hull. “You throw the net. I secure the lines. And for the love of the sea, don’t look her in the eye until she’s fast.” You nod, your heart a drum against your ribs. The plan. It was audacious, reckless. Not to kill her, not to cage her, but to understand. To break the grip she held on this stretch of water, a grip born, you suspected, more of loneliness than malice. You’d fashioned the net yourselves, not of common rope, but of a tightly woven, enchanted kelp, said to dampen magical energies. And for your ears, beeswax stoppers mixed with crushed moonstone, to muffle her siren song without completely deafening you.

As you draw closer, a sound begins to weave through the air, faint at first, then growing in intensity. It’s insidious, not overtly loud, but it slithers into the gaps of your mind, promising forgotten joys, whispering of perfect love, of everything you've ever yearned for. Even through the moonstone-laced wax, it’s a struggle to maintain your focus. You grip the rough edges of the net, knuckles white.

She turns her head, and though you can’t make out details, you feel the pull of her gaze, the sheer, devastating beauty that has lured so many to their doom. “Now!” the boeatman shout, surprisingly clear, slices through the enchanting haze. With a gasp, you spring into action. Heaving the heavy net, you send it arcing through the air. It unfurls, a dark web against the pale sky, descending swiftly. For a split second, her song falters, a single note of surprise, almost of pain. Then the net settles over her, not crushing, but enveloping. She thrashes, a frantic, powerful struggle. Her song erupts, amplified by her distress, no longer sweet and alluring, but a raw, piercing cry that threatens to shatter your very bones. You clutch your head, fighting the urge to drop to your knees. But the vampgon is already there, skillfully maneuvering the boat closer, hooks flying, securing the enchanted lines to the net, drawing it taut. The struggle is brief, but brutal in its intensity. Her cries diminish into whimpers as the kelp net truly begins its work, binding her magic, not her body. When the last line is secured, and her thrashing subsides to trembling, a profound silence falls, broken only by the lapping waves and your own ragged breathing.

You drop to your knees on the deck, pulling out your earplugs, your head ringing.The boatsman is already at her side, though keeping a wary distance. The siren lies entangled, her long hair fanned around her, tears tracing paths through the grime on her cheeks. Up close, her beauty is still breathtaking, but now it’s overlaid with a vulnerability that pierces you. Her eyes, the colour of deep ocean, meet yours. They hold fear, yes, but also a profound, aching loneliness that twists your gut. “We mean you no harm,” you whisper. “We just… we needed you to stop.” She stares at you, trembling, her chest rising and falling quickly. She tries to speak, but only a choked, gurgling sound escapes her lips. The vampgon approaches cautiously, a flask of fresh water in his hand. “She can’t speak. Not with that voice. Not here.” He uncorks the flask and gently tips a little water towards her mouth. She hesitates, then sips. Slowly, carefully, you and the boatsman work to free her, not from the net’s hold entirely, but enough so she can move without being bound tightly. The kelp net remains, a loose shroud, still dampening her power, allowing her to breathe, to simply be.

You bring her a blanket, wrapping it around her shivering form. As the sun fully crests the horizon, painting the sea in hues of gold and rose, you sit with her, sharing the warmth of the blanket, the silence heavy between you. You offer her fish, gently cooked over a small flame, and for the first time, you see a flicker of something other than fear in her eyes – curiosity, perhaps even a nascent trust. It takes days. Days of gentle conversation, of offering food and kindness, of showing her that not all beings who approach her rock seek to exploit or destroy. Gradually, painstakingly, the truth of her situation unfolds. Her song, so powerful, was also a curse. She couldn't control its siren call, it simply was, an outpouring of her loneliness, drawing others to their doom against her will. She didn't want to kill them, she just wanted to be heard.

You and the boatman spend weeks on the fringes of the Siren’s Rock, building a new understanding. You teach her to modulate her voice, to sing not to lure, but to guide, to communicate. You help her find ways to channel her overwhelming power, to use it to calm turbulent waters for struggling ships, to call schools of fish to the struggling fishing boats, her melodies now a beacon of hope rather than despair. The happy ending isn't about caging her, or even making her human. It's about giving her agency, a choice. It’s about understanding that sometimes, the monstrous is just misunderstood, and the dangerous is simply in need of guidance. Now, when ships sail past the Siren’s Rock, they no longer fear. Instead, they hear a new song, a beautiful, haunting melody that guides them safely home, a testament to the compassion you and Elara brought to the sea. The siren, no longer a terror, becomes the guardian of the waves, her voice finally free, and her loneliness, at long last, truly gone.

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Fools day

The morning sun, filtered through a slightly crooked Venetian blind, painted stripes across Coryn's face. He groaned, already dreading the paperwork avalanche that awaited him at the office. April 1st. He’d forgotten. He reached for his phone, intending to snooze the alarm, when a high-pitched squeak ripped through the silence. Coryn bolted upright, heart hammering against his ribs. Perched on his nightstand, staring with beady, malevolent eyes, was a bright yellow rubber chicken. "What the…?" He reached for it cautiously. As his fingers brushed its plastic feathers, it unleashed another ear-splitting squawk. He flung it across the room. It landed with a soft thud on a pile of laundry. A muffled giggle came from the hallway. "Lucky!" Coryn roared, already knowing the culprit. Lucky, Coryn's roommate and self-proclaimed "Master of Merriment," sauntered into the room, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. He was holding a video camera, pointed directly at Coryn. "Happy April Fool's Day, sunshine!" Lucky chirped, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Did you enjoy the morning serenade?" Coryn glared. "You know I hate mornings. And chickens." "But you gotta admit, it was pretty epic," Lucky insisted, zooming in on Coryn's dishevelled appearance. "I'm calling this one 'The Rude Awakening.'" Coryn sighed.

Living with Lucky was like living inside a sitcom. He was constantly pulling pranks, often harmless, sometimes… less so. Coryn, on the other hand, was a creature of order and routine. The clash of their personalities was a daily source of amusement (for Lucky) and exasperation (for Coryn). "Okay, you got me," Coryn sayd."Now, can I please get ready for work in peace?" Lucky, however, was just getting started. Throughout the morning, the pranks escalated. Coryn found his toothbrush replaced with a licorice stick. His coffee mug was inexplicably filled with mayonnaise.  Each prank was accompanied by Lucky's gleeful laughter and the incessant recording of his video camera.

By the time Coryn reached his office, he was a frazzled mess. He slumped into his chair, burying his face in his paws. He just wanted a normal, productive day. Was that too much to ask? As he lifted his head, he noticed something odd about his computer. The screen was covered in… googly eyes. Rows and rows of them, staring back at him with unsettling intensity. He ripped them off, one by one, muttering under his breath about the joys of living with a professional prankster. He was halfway through the task when his phone rang. "Hey, Coryn! How's your day going?" It was Lucky, his voice dripping with faux innocence. Coryn gritted his teeth. "You wouldn't believe the day I'm having, Lucky. But I'm sure you already know." "What can I say? I'm a giver," Lucky chuckled. "But listen, I've got one last prank planned. The grand finale, you might say." Coryn's heart sank. "Please, Lucky, no. I beg you. I just want to work." "Sorry, buddy. It's already in motion," Lucky said ominously. "Just be prepared for… a surprise." He hung up before Coryn could respond.

Coryn spent the rest of the day on edge, waiting for the inevitable. He jumped at every unexpected sound, his anxiety growing with each passing hour. He checked his chair for whoopee cushions. He sniffed his lunch for anything suspicious. He even considered calling in sick and hiding under his bed. Finally, as the clock ticked towards 5 pm, he decided to take a preemptive strike. He grabbed his phone and called Lucky. "Alright, Lucky, I give up! What's the prank? Just tell me so I can brace myself!" There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. Then, Lucky burst out laughing. "You're serious? You actually spent all day worrying about it?" "Of course I did! You said it was the grand finale!" "Relax, Coryn. The grand finale was just… the fact that you spent all day thinking about it. There was no actual prank!" Coryn blinked, dumbfounded. He felt a strange mixture of relief and indignation. He had spent the entire day a nervous wreck, all for nothing. "You… you tricked me into tricking myself?" "Exactly!" Lucky crowed. "Mind games, Coryn! It's all about the mind games!" Coryn sighed, shaking his head. He couldn't help but crack a smile. He had to admit, it was a pretty clever prank. And besides, how mad could he really be? It was April Fool’s Day after all. "Okay, Lucky," Coryn said, a glint in his eye. "You win this round. But just you wait until next year. I'm planning something… special." He hung up the phone, a mischievous grin spreading across his own face. The game was on. And Coryn, for once, was ready to play. He just needed to find a really annoying rubber chicken.

"Hello traveler!What are you seeking at this remote and sandy place? I am Dex from the Skar tribe of Dustrek. My people and me are holding the old legends of this world, or at least from this region. We are telling them from generation to generation. But honestly, i am not sure how much truth is truely in them. For a while i am seeking companions to take a deaper look into the truth of this legends. Will you follow me to the Beginning Mountains?"

"Oh, fantastic to hear to have you as an companion on the way. Let me know when you are ready to start."

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"Do you see this old cave paintings? They are telling us the story my ancestors wrote.

Before the mountains rose, before even the tireless rivers began their journey to the sea, there was only the Great Stillness. In the heart of this void, a single spark flared, a flicker of pure starlight that yearned for form. This spark, they say, was the Breath of the World-Maker, a nascent life force seeking expression. As it swirled, it drew to itself the essence of the void, gathering the cold, silent energy into a core of shimmering, white frost. From this frozen star, a being began to take shape, not of bone and scale, but of the very essence of winter. Fur sprouted from its form, thick and white as glacial ice, providing warmth against the endless chill. It was long and slender, a sinuous body that flowed like a frozen river, lacking the limbs of the beasts that would later populate the world. This was the first Lindgon, known to the Skar as Frosskar, ‘the Frost Weaver’.

This also gave my tribe the name "Skar " from frosskar. And... to be honest, we call it Lindgon but we never saw one before. i imagine it being a snake like the Leviathan or the Basilisk.

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At the end of the long cave is a icey hall. In the middle is a giant skulpture.

"Oh, by the way, did i mentioned the rumors about a monster houseing here.... No? oops sorry. ANYWAY. Look at this statue! Looking pretty i think."

The statue begins to move and focuses on Dex.
"D-D-Did the statue moved? OH NO !"

You and Dex was able to defeat the rageing statue. While finding a plcace to get rest, you see a fireplace in a sice cave. A white furred head peaked around the corner.

"Who-Who are you?"                                             "I could asssk you the sssame."                   
  "i am Dex from the Skar tribe and this here is my partner in this exploration." Dex is pointing at you."I am a little bit confused.... why are you looking like the statue from before?"

"You are from the Sssskar tribe? Interesssting. Well, firssst of the ssstatue wasss a defence for this caverns.

sssofar no one defeated it sssofar. And sssecond, to propper introdusssing me, i am Frossssskar the 15th. I am a decendent from the Frossssskar the Frossst Weaver. Itsss a tradition of my family to name every white furred Lindgon Frosssskar. And with thisss i am the protector of thiss remote place. Sssoo i please requessst you, to not tell anyone from thisss. I preffer to comme myssself out and clearing the rumorsss once i explained it to the ressst of my family."


Dex and you stayed a while by Frosskar and shared storys. Back home you only told your friends that it was a boring simple ice cave with rust nonesense of rumors.