The Poisoned Heart of Seelia

The corruption is purged, though the cost was nearly paid in our own blood.

We tracked the pollution to a natural cave, where the water was so foul it burned the skin. Inside, we found ourselves in a shrine to Seelia, locked behind a door requiring three distinct types of purified water. The path to obtaining them was a trial of both mind and steel. We encountered a Naiad who, despite the desecration of her home, showed us a flickering of grace. She spoke of a “Lord of Filth” and a leader named Kevin—a name that suggests a base, intentional malice behind this blight.

The “riddle” of the statues required me to draw upon my studies of the old ways. Standing upon a pedestal to trigger the ancient mechanisms, I sang the prayer carved into the stone. Hearing the music swell and the water flow from the central statue felt like a rare moment of harmony in a world increasingly defined by discord. We also bypassed a lethal patch of “Lich Lichen” by sheer fortune; had we been standing upon it when Thoradin called upon his light, I doubt I would be writing this now. Funny how sometimes fate is our own shield against catastrophe and ruin.

The final confrontation was a descent into farce and filth. The “Marquis of Muck”—otherwise known as “Kevin,” a vile name for a vile title—a grotesque fusion of man and amphibian, attempted to play the part of a stately king. He lured us into a trap, dropping us into his noxious pool.

I was struck down by his sorcery, and for a moment, the world went dark. I owe my life to Thoradin’s swiftness and Lyd’s remarkable stone, which seemed to swallow the King’s magic whole. Lex’xi delivered the final, decapitating blow, ending the Marquis’s delusions of grandeur.

We have restored the flow of pure water. The temple is silent again, and we have returned to the Pitt as victors. Yet, I find myself uneasy. We recovered a jagged crimson crystal from the creature’s corpse. I have begun to study it during our downtime, but it feels… heavy.

Note regarding the shard

My nights have been restless. I dreamt of Golden Bay—not the burning city, but my family. I heard their voices, whispering that their betrayal was a “necessity,” a logical move for survival. I rejected the notion even in my sleep, but I woke with my heart hammering and the crimson shard clutched in my hand. I do not remember taking it from my bag. It is a foul thing, and I must be wary. My resolve held this time, but the margin was razor-thin.