Adventure Title
FR-DC-JIBEA-01 The Blood-Cursed Chosen

Levels Gained

Location Played
Roll20

Notes
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Teilnehmer: (10) Arikatzi020 - Lyana Ghostlight - Aasimar - Grave Clerik lvl 10 - None (Doomguide) (10) C0ldW0lf - Corellius - Custom Lineage (Aasimar/Tiefling) - Vengeance Paladin 6/Fiend Warlock 4 - Harpers (10) Echo - Sylaris "The Grimoire" - Living Spellbook (Autognome) - Aberrant Sorcerer - Harper (10) Karrakasz - Barry - Wood Elf - Stars Druid 10 - Emerald Enclave (10) Raimundo_O - Schatten im Wind - Tabaxi - Fighter 2 - Kensei Monk 8 - none ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ "She was a saint of the sword. A flame in the dark. A voice for the dead. But now... she screams in the night, clad in corrupted steel, her prayers twisted by blood and bone." When a devout paladin of Kelemvor is torn from her rest by the unholy love of a mad necromancer, the veil between life and death shatters. Twisted into a monstrous undead, Lysandra haunts the world she once saved, a cursed echo of divine grace. Called by visions, haunted pleas, and the tolling of death’s unheeded bell, your party must brave a haunted forest, confront a mind shattered by obsession, and face the blade of a fallen saint. Will you end her torment—or dare to redeem the blood-cursed chosen?" ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Info: Zarthus, der Magier hat Lysandra wieder erweckt, aber nicht auf die beste weise. Lysandra Graveheart, Paladinen von Kelemvor und Chosen. The Vows Beyond Breath, Orcus Herietic Text der Lebende mit Tote verheiratet die an das leben ihrer Lebenden Liebenden gefesselt werden. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Letter: I pray this letter finds you swiftly and safely, though I fear time itself is now our greatest enemy. My name is Alren Vass, scholar of antiquities and devotee of Kelemvor’s divine order. I write to you with great urgency concerning a matter most grave—one that threatens the delicate balance between life and death itself. There are whispers—too many to ignore—of a fallen heroine, Lysandra, once Chosen of Kelemvor, risen from her honored tomb not in glory, but in torment. It is said she walks again, but not by divine will. Her soul cries out in anguish, chained by vile sorcery and held in thrall to a madman named Zarthus—a former arcanist now consumed by obsession and rot. But I am no hero. I cannot cross into the Shadowfell, nor confront what haunts that cursed forest. I am merely a seeker of truth, and now I turn to those who have the strength to act where I cannot. If you have even a sliver of reverence for the dead or the courage to challenge fate itself, I beg you—come to the village of Elmspire, two days’ ride east of the Ironglade. There, I shall meet you and reveal all that I have learned. But do not delay... for each night that passes, the rift widens, and the cries of the damned grow louder. In humble desperation, Alren Vass Seeker of Lore, Servant of Balance Elmspire, Edge of the Ironglade ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Rausgerisse Tagebuchseite: Date: The 14th Day of Mourning, Year of the Black Sky I beheld her again today. She rode into the fray like a blade of divine fire, cutting through the rot and filth of undeath with the elegance of inevitability. Lysandra. Her name tastes like silver and incense upon my tongue. Each syllable is a prayer. Each movement she makes is sacred geometry. Her armor glowed—not from enchantment, no, but from within. I saw it. I swear I saw her soul bleed light through the seams of her very skin. How is such radiance contained in flesh? She did not see me. She never does. I watched from the edge of the ravine, behind the veil of shadow and sorcery. A coward, perhaps, but even the stars must keep their distance from the sun. She healed a child after the battle. I wept. I do not deserve her. But I will have her. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Date: Unknown. I’ve stopped counting. Her smile haunts me. Not like a ghost—no, not like the lifeless things I raise. It lives in my mind. It sings through my thoughts like a golden aria, even as I sleep. She is everywhere, now. I stole a scrap of her cloak today. Don’t ask how. I will not tell you. But I have it, and I have burned it into incense. I breathe her. She is in my lungs. In my blood. I thought at first this was admiration. I believed I was merely captivated by her divinity. But no... no, this is not reverence. This is need. They whisper—those crusted robed fools in their death cults—about how I’ve changed. I see them staring, judging. What do they know of love? Of beauty that devours you from within? Kelemvor doesn’t deserve her. That pale corpse-god never loved her, not like I do. He chained her to the laws of death, used her as a weapon. I would never chain her. I would worship her. Even in death, she will shine. Especially in death. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Date: Unknown. Scrawled in dried blood. Hidden inside the false spine of a holy text. If you find this… then I have failed. I couldn't resist the power of the book. It consumed me, used me. I'm sorry. But as long as I'm sane, I want to write these words down. As long as I am myself. She rages in the dark now. She tears through walls, screaming prayers in Kelemvor’s name with a voice like thunder and rot. She is still beautiful, but twisted. The ritual... it was perfect. It should have worked. It did work. Why did it make her a monster? Maybe it was me. I see her in every wall, every mirror. I do not sleep. I do not eat. She stalks my dreams like a lion in a cage of fire. She speaks only in one word: "WHY." There is another ritual. He swore never to write it down, but the memory burns like fire beneath my skull. It can free her. Not bring her back to life—but release her. Let her soul return to the quiet halls of her god. It needs: The Tears of the Dead, gathered beneath a gallows. Moonshadow lilies from the banks of the River Styx. A soul, freely given—someone who loves her truly. Enough to die for her. You must find the altar beneath the black tree in the forest where the veil is thin. There, the words must be spoken under an „eclipse“. It will hurt. It will cost more than you are willing to pay. But it will be the first kind thing she has known since I laid my hands upon her tomb. Tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I loved her. Tell her to forget me. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Date: The Night of the Rite. The stars are wrong. The moon bleeds. I did it. She lies before me. I dug through consecrated stone with bloodied hands. Her tomb wept holy water until I choked on it. Her armor still glowed. Her lips—blue, still smiling. As if she knew. As if she had waited. I washed her with rosewater and bone ash. I dressed her in the black silks I wove from the shadows of the Veil. I placed obsidian upon her eyes and whispered the true name of death, the one even Kelemvor fears. And then... she moved. Her eyes opened—not hers, not yet. Black as the void between stars. But she looked at me. She saw me. She screamed. No sound has ever been so perfect. But something is wrong. Her touch burns. Her voice echoes with hunger, not harmony. She does not remember the love I poured into her bones. Not yet. But she will. She must. This is not failure. This is simply... transformation. It will take time. She is mine. Mine. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Date: One week before the Reclamation She is still alive. Fragile. Vulnerable. Flesh. How cruel. I watched her from the ridge as she knelt to pray. Her voice—it could have shattered glass, it was so pure. And yet she prays to a god who says nothing, offers nothing but finality. He will not save her. He does not deserve her devotion. I do. She is wasted on this world. This battlefield. This life. I can give her more. I can give her forever. But to do so, I must make a choice. I must be the dagger. I must end her. It will be beautiful. A moment of perfection, frozen in death. She will become mine in that instant, a bride reborn in the silence after her last breath. I’ve been preparing the ritual for months. It sings to me. The language of gods and monsters alike. They will curse me. They will hunt me. But when she rises again, she will stand by my side, and we will unmake the false divide between death and love. Forever. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Rite of the Severed Oath A spoken liturgy to free Lysandra from her blood-curse. Preparation Arrange the Tears of the Dead in a silver bowl at the head of the sarcophagus. Lay moon-shadow lilies across Lysandra’s breastplate, their petals touching steel. The voluntary soul-bearer kneels at her feet, hand over heart, knowing their spark will be surrendered for hers. Extinguish all lights but one candle; when its flame gutters low, begin the chant. The Litany (Leader reads the bold lines; companions echo the italic words.) Leader: “By tears unnumbered, we wash away the night.” We wash away the night. Leader: “By lilies that bloom where life and Lethe meet, we call the dawn.” We call the dawn. Leader: “By a heart offered freely at the precipice of ending, we weigh the scales anew.” We weigh the scales anew. (Place a drop of Tears on each lily. The soul-bearer speaks next.) Soul-bearer: “Judge of the Silent Gate, let my spark stand in the breach. Ride it as a bridge, not a chain. Claim only what I yield—no more, no less— that Lysandra’s oath be cleansed.” (All clasp hands in a circle around the crypt.) Leader: “Radiance once sworn, now stained in blood, Return! Return! Chains that bind in crimson spite, Shatter! Shatter! Let oath and soul divide; Let death and life abide.” (At “Shatter!” the lilies turn a ghost-pale gray; if they blacken, the rite is failing.) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ I had heard tales of Lysandra—the Chosen who walked where grave-soil still smoked—but stories do her no justice. This morning our band breached the catacombs of Duorn Keep. Fog clung to the stones like ghosts with nowhere left to haunt, and even my arcane light felt thin. Yet there she was, helm tucked beneath one arm, laughing as she hoisted a wounded militia boy to his feet. That smile… it was sunrise in a burial chamber. I spoke a single cantrip, weaving the air into drifting motes so the lad thought the dawn itself had slipped underground. She turned—silver eyes meeting mine—and thanked me for the “small miracle.” No knightly pomp, just warmth and unshakable courage. She asked my name. “Zhartus,” I managed, throat suddenly dry. “Then walk beside me, Zhartus,” she said, “for the dark is thinner when we share the flame.” I will be the wizard of her company, the quill to her blade. Not for glory, but to stay within the orbit of that never-fading smile that can enlighten even the deepest dungeon. If the gods grant me nothing more in this life, let them grant me proximity. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Loot: 700gp 1x Perfume of Bewitching 1x Spellwrought Tattoo of Lifetransverance 1x Spellwrought Tattoo of Summon Undeath Trinket: Music box of Haunted Lullabies 2x Trinket: Obsidian signet ring styled with Kelemvor’s scales fractured down the centre). worth 150gp (ausgekauft) “Forever, even in death” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Doll of Lysandra (Talking Doll) Wondrous item, common (requires attunement) The puppet is a diminutive, porcelain-skinned replica of Lysandra—perfectly sculpted cheekbones, the same cascade of raven hair, but its beauty is forever frozen beneath a fine web of hairline cracks. Hollow glass eyes—one a shade too bright, the other ever so slightly askew—gleam with trapped candle-light, giving the unsettling impression that something inside is trying to peer out. A tattered black wedding gown—stitched from funeral veils and midnight satin—clings to its frail wooden frame. Every hem is frayed as though moth-eaten by time, yet intricate silver embroidery still glitters like frost along the corset seams. Where a living bride would wear lace gloves, the puppet’s jointed fingers are bare maple, stained the color of old blood around the nails. Most disturbing is the golden wedding band looped loosely around its right wrist—far too large to fit any finger, it slides and clinks with every jerky marionette twitch, an ironic mockery of vows never sworn. With each subtle movement, the dress sighs as if woven with whispers, and faint necromantic sigils pulse beneath the silk like bruises on pale skin. When the necromancer’s strings tug, the puppet’s cracked lips part in a silent laugh, and for an instant the bride of darkness seems poised to step out of her doll’s body and claim a life of her own. Normal press (devoted yet unsettling) “Wound me tighter, beloved master.” Failsafe press (after the necromancer’s death – obsessive, ominous) “Your heart has stopped; mine hunts. Death...won’t keep...us apart.” Only the Necromancer can attune to this Item. Once he dies the failsafe activates and the message stays forever the same. The Ring can be kept as a Trinket. Its inner is engraved with the following text: "LYSANDRA—MINE IN LIFE, MINE IN DEATH, MINE BEYOND THE LAST DAWN." ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Gravemaiden's Aegis (Dragonguard with Guardian Property) Medium armor (breastplate), rare You have a +1 bonus to AC while wearing this armor. It grants its wearer advantage on saving throws against the breath weapons of Dragons. Spectral Sentinel. The Chosen’s restless shade drifts at your shoulder, whispering a chill warning the instant danger stirs. While you are not Incapacitated, you gain a +2 bonus to Initiative. https://files.d20.io/images/447073950/mdOtUFhCN0kWvQFBTrXWfQ/max.png?1751356011 "This hauntingly elegant set of armor was once a sacred vestment of a revered warrior-priestess of Kelemvor. Forged in sanctified steel, it was designed not only to protect her body, but to reflect her solemn role as a dignified guide to the afterlife—a figure of peace, finality, and mercy. It bore the sigils of judgment and balance, its dark tones an homage to death's inevitability, not its cruelty. But death was not her end. After her fall in battle, her corpse was stolen by a deranged necromancer, a man who had once loved her in secret. His forbidden ritual tore her soul from the grasp of Kelemvor, but the god’s divine protection had not faded. The resurrection failed—and the body twisted. The armor, once a vessel of divine purpose, absorbed the backlash of celestial and necrotic forces and was forever changed. What remains is a grim echo of its former self. The armor's dark beauty endures, but now it radiates cold, hateful energy. Subtle runes of warding are cracked, weeping black ichor in fine lines across the plating. Its intricate lace-like trim and high gothic form remain pristine—as if mocking the purity it once stood for. A bitter aura lingers around it, whispering of interrupted rest and vengeance denied." ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Story Award – “Scion of the Balanced Heart” Awarded to any character who consumes the Heart of Devotion and carries its radiance within their own. You have swallowed the luminous Heart of Devotion, a relic once offered to Kelemvor as proof that love can temper judgment. The artifact dissolved into your flesh, leaving a faint, palm-sized scar above your sternum that pulses with a soft, golden glow. Though its power has spent itself, its legacy endures in you. Narrative Boons - Mark of Mercy. Priests, acolytes, and funerary caretakers who serve Kelemvor, the Judge of the Dead, feel an instinctive reverence when they notice the scar. They greet you with solemn respect, offer guidance without payment, and may waive minor temple fees such as burial rites or divination services. - Echo of the Heartbeat. In moments of utter stillness—graveyards at midnight, crypt corridors deep underground—you sometimes hear a single resonant thump that no one else perceives. It points you unerringly toward desecrated ground or unliving abominations in need of judgment, guiding your party like a moral compass. - Whisper of the Departed. Spirits bound to unfinished vows—in particular children, widows, or oath-sworn knights—recognize a sliver of hope in you. They will attempt to communicate first with you before resorting to haunting or violence, granting your group chances for parley where others would earn only terror. Narrative Complications - Beacon of Balance. Necromancers, wraiths, and other entities that defy the natural passage of souls feel a subtle sting in your presence. Some recoil; others become obsessed with extinguishing the scar’s light and may track or single you out in a crowd. - Weight of Judgment. When you knowingly commit an act that would disturb the balance between life and death—raising an unwilling corpse, defiling a grave, or striking down a helpless foe—the scar chars black for a night and throbs with cold pain. Those who notice may question your worthiness—or your own conscience might. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “Story Award: Whispers of Peace” Awarded for: Successfully freeing Lysandra’s soul and returning her to Kelemvor's embrace. Effect: Word of the party’s deed spreads quietly among those who listen to the stillness between life and death. In sacred places, old priests and deathless spirits nod in passing silence. Ghosts part the way without hostility. The party has earned the silent respect of those who tend the threshold. Narrative Benefit: In future adventures, agents of Kelemvor—mortals and immortals alike—may offer unexpected trust, guidance, or information. The players are not just adventurers—they are soulkeepers. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “Story Award: Marked by the Veil” Awarded for: Having a servant of Kelemvor in the party when Lysandra’s soul is freed, receiving a subtle yet unmistakable blessing from the Judge of the Dead. Effect: The eyes of the Kelemvorite now shimmer faintly with a silver flame—not bright, but ever-present, like the last flicker of a funeral candle. It does not burn, nor does it harm—it watches. Priests, spirits, and acolytes of the death god recognize it immediately as a sacred sign. None dare question its origin. Narrative Benefit: The character is forever seen as one who has walked the border of life and death and returned with purpose. They may be sought out by Kelemvor’s clergy for divine judgment, last rites, or visions. Among the faithful, they are a living omen—a bearer of quiet mercy and inevitable truth. -----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------