Things that go Squelch in the Night

With the foul Kraken sinking into the depth, we returned to the gutten Black Lightning to salvage what we could. None of the sailors had survived the Kraken's rampage. The Captain carried a remarkable shrinking treasure chest with some of Harthn's most potent potions in it, and the navigational artifact I later determined to be a planar gate compass. Perhaps if I'd studied the compass more thoroughly before we rowed into the blackness, I could have prepared us for what came next. Then again, perhaps not.

Once through the blackness in our modest skiff, there was an almost imperceptible change in atmosphere. Looking back, we could see no blackness and no ship: it appears we traversed a one-way portal or barrier of some kind. With Durthen manning the oars, we quickly approached the sole island in sight -- the so-called Isle of Secrets.

It was clear to me that we were no longer on the material plane of Larisnar, but I didn't suspect the magnitude of the metaphysical journey.

The island seemed pleasant enough, a wide beach leading up to a temperate forest. We beached the skiff thoroughly (unsure of the magnitude of the tides here), and set out to find civilization. A thriving village named Sandpoint rested on an island in a river delta. The sparse population seemed happy and friendly, though unused to visitors. The first person we met in the street inquired curiously as to where we were from, and told us that the mayor was most likely to know about the Nothrog we sought. He also directed us to a tavern where we could rent lodgings.

Kern, the mayor, was again friendly and helpful, if rather uninformed. The town was apparently isolated by the prevalence of dangerous beasts and sea monsters in the surrounding waters and forests; townspeople who ventured too far generally didn't return. Kern did remember the Nothrog Jartik (he called him a 'half-ogre'), but apparently Jartik only stayed long enough to extort supplies before heading off across land. No sages nor colleges graced the village, and their longest-term records were lost when the lighthouse where they were kept was destroyed in a storm. Kern's passed-down understanding was that the island was about 100 miles by 80 miles, but no villager had explored in and returned in living memory.

We went to the tavern to rest for the night, but as we stepped into the common room, something unexpected happened. The sun was setting, and as the last light faded, the handful of villagers and the barkeeper changed horrifically into squirming masses of tentacles, terrible to behold. Durthen's Axe glowed brightly as these monsters moved to attack.

Not wanting to cut our way through a village of monsters (especially ones who were so friendly to us recently, I suggested that some of the villages stay back and see how things went before engaging us in combat; fortunately some of them listened to my forced advice. The remaining three who fought showed pseudonatural resiliance, but didn't last long against our combined onslaught. Before the others could join the fight, we retreated upstairs and I did something I hope Malakar never finds out about: I cast rope trick for us to retreat into and sleep in. First, though, we hid the bodies.

In the morning, as might be suspected, the villagers were back to normal. The tavernkeeper was curious whether we'd seen the "missing" villagers; apparently people have disappeared before, though never leaving bloodstains such as this before. We protested our ignorance, and he seemed satisfied.

Clearly something bad happens here at night. More investigation revealed some of the most inconvenient and disturbing features of this plane:

• no divine magic at night (hence no healing)
• no teleportation effects (perhaps indicative of limited access to the astral plane)
  
• no access to the plane of shadow

Erson's scouting efforts were thwarted, too, day after day: he became unprecedently disoriented and barely managed to find his way back to town. Some major effect must distort the landscape, preventing navigation. Finally, we tried heading out together with ample supplies, only to find ourselves hopelessly lost and getting nowhere even after a week.

Borrow finally hit on the solution: we'd been travelling during the day and rope tricking by night to avoid the assumed profusion of nightly monsters (who knows what the squirrels might turn into!). As it turns out, the confusion effect functions only during the day (I begin to see why these are called the Islands of Light and Shadow), so we were able to get our bearings merely by staying out past sunset. Somehow we'd travelled into the forest, past a river which we'd never crossed: heavy magic indeed.

Proceeding eastwards, looking for Jartik, we came across a half-ruined tower keep in the forest. A brief battle with Athachs ensued as we entered its clearing, but the best part was yet to come: by some deft scouting and creative use of passwall, we obtained a potent Shield Guardian companion without any fighting at all.

I am intrigued, too, by the 700-year-old journal we found, written by a person named Stannis. Some of the pages show the aura of transmutation, a telltale sign of secret arcane writing, and tomorrow I will prepare the spells to read them. Though it may have nothing to do with Jartik, I feel this journal may be of great importance.