The Shadowy Abyss (storyline)/Found items

Shadowy Abyss Found Items

06.06.2025

Empress Key's Sleeve

an antique Vornavian silk cloth
Smooth with a soft finish, the Vornavian silk cloth has hints of its original deep blue hue at its edges though largely it has faded to a watered azure hue.  Faint seashell patterns decorate the edge, the silver and white embroidery creating scallop shells that overlap.  Rolled silk cords aid the bundle in staying closed as needed, their ends capped in silver dolphin periapts.

Letter to Tagetes from Aralinne

a blue-tinted white vellum parchment
Slightly warped in shape and displaying clear signs of damage from humidity, the fine parchment is tinted with a subtle blue hue that is almost white and yet distinctly not.  Crisp folds create precise lines in the top and bottom third of the piece, while the corners display fray signs where moisture has separated the layers.
In the Common language, it reads: the seventeenth day of Olaesta in the year 4839 Tagetes, Hopefully, we will return at the same time and all of this preparation will be for naught. The temple will have no attendants as I have figured out the missing piece to get us to Pearl.  It lies in an old Kannalan Temple to Charl.  I believe I've tracked down its former location.  I've hidden the plans in the old office at the end of the catacombs and sealed the entry. So few people know of its existence that it should be safe to travel there.  I do not think I will be gone more than a handful of days. However, as I do not trust the Mercantile Guild, with their recent decisions to create gardens and shrines to the dark pantheon, I have sealed the doorway up and hidden it.  Since you know where it is, you should have no issue finding it. There are seven keys for entry.  I've left the Empress key here, but you can easily obtain the other six by seeking the blessings of the Lover, the Mistress, the Sister, the Mother, the Daughter, and the High Priestess.  I'm sure you'll remember who these are from our past talks.  I dare not say more for fear this is found by others. Please know that some wish to see the curse spread.  Others are working hard to stop it.  Young Bristena had the idea to buy back all the jewelry from the women whose husband, lovers, and brothers searched the North Beach to obtain them.  I gave her enough coin to buy them all back. Once she has every last piece, she'll have a sailor take her out to the spot we believe the "Pearl" to be waiting in and drop them back into the water.  That should give us time to get the pieces together to free her. I used the last of the coffers to pay a crew to start the lighthouse. If I don't return...  Please let my husband and son know the depths of which I love them. By my hand, Aralinne Wynedowne

Empress Key

a carved golden amber acorn
Roughly oval in shape, a carved golden amber acorn is broad and flat, providing an excellent view of its transparent interior portion.  Trapped within the golden yellow fossilized pine tree sap are several small flying insects and a dried flower.

The Tile

an aged grey stone tile
Your song touches the tile, and the memory begins with stillness, then the faint scrape of wood across stone. Gentle hands press close, fitting the tile snugly into place. A murmur of approval hums nearby, muffled by fabric and breath. Cool grout slides into the seams, and the air shifts. Salt lingers in the room, carried on a current scented with blossoms. Lilac and sea daisy rise together, soft and clean. A hush settles across the surface, and the tile recognizes it as belonging. Beneath the faintest sigh of sandals against stone, a woman's voice murmurs, "There. That's better." The sounds and sensations fade along with the last syllables of your song. As your song continues to caress the tile, it stirs with echoes of passing time. Soft footsteps come and go, punctuated by the rhythmic sweep of bristles and the clatter of buckets. Voices rise and fall nearby, sometimes low with grief, sometimes bright with ritual. One speaks of a sister's safe return, another offers blessings over a sailor's name. A different voice complains about a cracked basin and the need for fresh oil. Each moment blends into the next, seasons marked only by the changing cadence of heels, the weight of silence, and the gentle creak of wood in damp air. Slowly, the sensation and sounds fade, one by one, until they fall as silent as your song. Your melody draws forth a hush, and the tile remembers the scent first. Bitter and resinous, the thick smoke of funerary incense curls low to the ground. Voices follow in soft procession, cloaked in sorrow. Some weep openly, others murmur prayers with trembling breath. The weight of grief presses against the stone, heavy as tide against jetty. A name is spoken again and again, reverent and broken, until it becomes a lullaby of mourning. Between each word, silence holds vigil. The tile feels a deep stillness in the air, as if even the sea has paused to listen. A final name tumbles across your ears as your song slips into silence, "Elenne." Your song stirs the memory of disturbance. The tile feels the grit of its seams loosened, the edge of a tool scraping carefully through old grout. Pressure lifts it from the floor, just briefly, and something small is slid beneath. When the tile returns to its place, the surface meets the subfloor with an unfamiliar firmness. A hand lingers upon it, smooth and warm, resting for a long moment before giving a gentle pat. Whispered words ride the still air, close enough to touch, "Keep this safe until Tagetes finds you." An absence of warmth is the last sensation the tile imparts before your song stills. Your voice brushes the tile, and the past answers with hushed urgency. There is the soft shuffle of feet, the creak of worn boots on stone, and a sharp intake of breath. Mournful whispers crowd the silence. A voice, cracked with worry and soft with distance, murmurs, "I don't know where you are, Aralinne. I can't get into the catacombs to check on you as the Brisker's Cove bowl was broken in the latest Krolvin raids... Please come home to us. Please. Your plan for Bristena worked; she told me of it when I returned. The girls are free, but where are you? I'm going to hide my piece until it can unite with yours. Please be safe, be careful." A soft sigh blends with the ending resonance of your song. Your voice draws forth only silence at first. Time passes, measured in distant echoes. Footsteps sound too far to name, and faint shifts in the air come and go with no purpose. Old wood creaks softly where it meets damp stone. Dust settles in the seams, and salt from the sea clings to the surface. Years drift by without notice. Then, without warning, fingers press along your edges. There is a pause, a breath held just beyond hearing, and the tile feels the careful pry of something firm beneath it. A clamor of voices overlaps with each other until they blend into the fading sound of your song.