Session 34 -- Let's not go overboard, here!

The party departed Dingle in their fragile curragh, the wooden boat groaning as it pushed into the choppy bay under a brooding storm sky. Vedica gripped the tiller, her eyes fixed on the swirling currents laced with jagged rocks, steering with unerring precision while Dwårfy peered ahead, calling out warnings of treacherous eddies, and Jack consulted his mental map to plot a path through the chaos. Their teamwork held the boat steady, slipping past the dangers with tense breaths and minor jolts.

But the outgoing tide rebelled, dragging them relentlessly toward more razor-sharp stones that jutted like fangs from the foam. Murchad seized the oars, his muscles straining against the pull, as Vedica called out a steady rhythm to pace his strokes, Ceangal shouted impassioned cheers to rally his spirit, and Tiv threw her weight behind a second oar. The sea roared in defiance; the boat slammed hard into the rocks, wood splintering with a sharp crack, and water began seeping in through the fresh wounds.

In the thickening fog, hidden hazards loomed like ghosts beneath the waves. Jack's keen mind cut through the murk, spotting submerged threats just in time to shout adjustments, guiding them onward without further catastrophe.

Out in the vast Atlantic, the full fury of the storm descended—the boat heaved on massive swells, wind howling like banshees, and icy spray stinging their faces. Tiv bailed frantically, her arms burning but unyielding, as Ceangal and Jack joined her, scooping bucket after bucket of invading water. A monstrous wave crashed over the side, sweeping Murchad into the churning depths; he flailed desperately, the bottle of expensive perfume he collected earlier slipping from his pack into the abyss. Without hesitation, Jack leaped into the frigid turmoil, battling the currents to grab his comrade and haul him back aboard, both gasping and drenched.

The gear shifted dangerously in the chaos, threatening to tumble overboard. Dwårfy took charge, his practical wisdom directing the frantic packing and lashing, with Vedica and Ceangal offering clever suggestions on how to wedge items securely. Another colossal swell struck like a hammer, flinging Jack into the roiling sea; Murchad dove after him, returning the earlier favor. His powerful grip pulled Jack back to safety amid the boat's violent pitching.

Blinded by relentless spray and darkness, they navigated by instinct alone. Jack pierced the disorientation, plotting a course through the invisible perils while Tiv's quick thinking with a safety rope proved vital—though it nearly spelled disaster when a wave yanked Vedica over the side, leaving her dangling precariously until Murchad's strong arms reeled her in.

Reefs guarded Skellig Michael's shores like a fortress of stone teeth, waves crashing in thunderous explosions. Vedica wove the boat through the maze, guided by Jack's navigational calls and Dwårfy's vigilant eyes spotting breaks in the foam, but a concealed outcrop rammed them broadside, the impact shuddering through their bones and tossing them like ragdolls.

Jack's commanding voice coordinated the frantic landing, drawing on Tiv's childhood memories of ferry maneuvers to time their approach to the slick ledge. A final bump jarred them, but Murchad's unyielding strength anchored the craft, aided by Ceangal's intricate knots and Jack's heaving pulls against the swells.

Finally ashore on the windswept crag, their rune longswords pulsed with faint glows, a warning of lurking undead. Tiv tended wounds with skilled hands and divine spells, mending Vedica's injuries first, then spreading restorative magic to bolster Dwårfy, Ceangal, and Murchad. Potions passed among them, restoring vitality, though Jack's swig of the potent healing absinthe from Tír na nÓg left him woozy and unsteady, his vision blurring with the risk of deceptive shadows.

The ascent loomed: 670 uneven, slime-slick stone steps carved into the sheer cliff, winds whipping whispers that chilled the soul. Slips plagued Vedica and Ceangal, their feet betraying them on the treacherous path, but ropes arrested their falls, sparing them the full plummet into the abyss below. Midway, exhaustion gripped Vedica like a vice, her limbs heavy and breaths labored.

Suddenly, the whispers coalesced into forms—three spectral monks materialized on the narrow stairs, their translucent robes fluttering in the gale, eyes burning with unearthly malice. They lunged at Jack, Tiv, and Vedica, ghostly hands clawing like icy talons, instilling a primal dread that threatened to freeze the heart. Tiv swung her mace with righteous fury, connecting solidly and shattering ethereal essence in a burst of pale light. Vedica's rune longsword sliced through the air, carving deep into the apparition's form, drawing a wail that echoed off the cliffs. Jack's massive two-handed sword whistled in wide arcs, initially cleaving only wind but soon finding its mark with bone-jarring force, the blade humming as it dispersed spectral mist.

Dwårfy swung his hammers, concussions that swept through the ghosts in the stormy gloom, forcing them to recoil with agonized shrieks. Ceangal's lightning sword sliced the air again and again, missing the mark each time.  His many misses drew laughter from the group -- jests about needing spectacles amid the peril. Murchad's crossbow twanged, bolts whistling through the air to pin the monks, his aim steady despite the swaying steps.

The specters pressed their assault, claws raking close enough to draw blood and chill the soul, but the party's resolve held. Tiv's mace pounded relentlessly, Vedica's blade danced in lethal patterns, Jack's sword cleaved with growing precision, Dwårfy's hammers thundered like judgments from above, Ceangal's blade finally found purchase, and Murchad's bolts pierced the final veil. The last monk dissolved in a fading scream, the stairs falling silent once more, save for the party's ragged breaths and the relentless wind.

Exhaustion claimed Ceangal at the summit, his steps faltering. The ruins sprawled before them: ancient beehive huts of stacked stone, a crumbling church, and a graveyard clinging to the peak, all battered by centuries of Atlantic gales. Legends whispered of St. Patrick entrusting the pommel of St. Michael's sword here, hidden in a secret chamber with divine puzzles, clues embedded in the monastic stones for those of pure heart and unyielding faith.

Vedica slipped on her ring of invisibility, vanishing from sight as she scaled walls with agile grace, arranging pebbles into cryptic messages like "Vedica was here" to mark her path to her teammates. Dwårfy ventured into the church, the air thick with holy radiance from the cracked altar, an inscription etched deep: "Within this sacred altar lies the pommel of light, relic of ages. Perform the ceremony of flame and turn the hidden stone to claim it." Stained glass depicted St. Michael triumphant over a writhing serpent, but an oppressive watchfulness prickled his skin, as if unseen eyes judged her every breath.

Murchad uncovered a carved rune stone along a path, its touch igniting a surge of resolve against the undead as it began slowly crumbling to dust. As the party lingered near an ancient well, scurrying shadows erupted: ghasts in tattered monks' robes, their decayed faces twisted in hunger, led by a spectral prior whose hollow gaze promised doom as they charged the party from the graveyard behind the small church. Murchad's warning cry shattered the quiet: "Something nasty!"

The undead horde surged, claws slashing and fetid breath fouling the air. Tiv hurled sling stones with unerring aim, each impact cracking bone and eliciting guttural howls. From atop a wall, invisible Vedica loosed an arrow that whistled like a vengeful spirit, but it failed to pierce a ghast. Jack unleashed a blast from his Horn of Blasting, putting the enemies’ attention on him.

Dwårfy charged with hammer raised, his blows landing like thunderclaps, shattering limbs and crumpling forms in sprays of ichor, though claws raked him in return, drawing blood and snarls of defiance. Ceangal's short bow sang, arrows finding marks despite earlier fumbles that sparked more laughter about his eyesight. Murchad's crossbow bolts flew true, one embedding in the prior's chest just as his summoning reached a fever pitch, cutting off the ritual and sending the leader crumpling in a swirl of dark mist without bringing more foes from beyond the veil.

The remaining ghast lunged at Dwårfy, its talons gouging deep, but he roared back, his hammer descending in a devastating arc that pulverized it utterly. The courtyard fell still, the undead vanquished, the party's hearts pounding from the brutal melee.

In the graveyard's shadow, they unearthed gold offerings scattered among the stones and a ancient cleric scroll, dividing the trove amid breathless jests and shared relief. Tombstones bore evocative names like Brother Connor, Keeper of Flame, weaving into the church's riddle. Vedica discovered a second well, its depths swallowing light like an endless void.  

Regrouping at the church, the unsolved inscription loomed amid lingering whispers and the swords' dim glow. Jack broke the tension with a wry quip: "Treasure or trouble?" The group exchanged weary smiles, the gale howling agreement—it was undoubtedly both, the monastery's ancient secrets poised to unfold further trials.

Tiv, the only one brave enough to linger in the church, as it had an air about it that gave everyone the creeps, knelt before the altar and performed a ceremony to elicit an answer from her patron, St. Michael. As was his wont, he spoke to her without speaking. She perceived that there was something under the soil in the graveyard connected to the altar -- something they would need. She perceived that a number of the buildings on the island held things that might be useful or would help them get what they came for more smoothly. She also perceived an entity in the church with her. It was something large and imposing, watching her and breathing down her neck. It was not evil, but St. Michael could not or would not protect them from it. They would have to face it eventually, but when she snapped her head around to the corner where she somehow “knew” it was, she saw and heard nothing.

Two of the monks’ tombstone inscriptions led the party to believe they held the keys to unlocking the artifact, but as soon as Jack began to dig in the dirt with his dagger, the entire graveyard erupted with a pulse of necrotic energy, injuring everyone. They decided they would need to find some other artifacts on the island before attempting further investigation. Dwårfy checked out one of the monk’s beehive cells. In it, he saw worn sandals, a small mirror, flint and tinder, and a candle. In the corner was an imposing gargoyle statue that looked like it was taken from a ruined church. As he turned to leave, shouting, “There’s a candle in here! Maybe we could use it for whatever the ‘flame ceremony’ is!” the gargoyle began to move and slammed him so hard, he flew out the door of the small space.

That caught everyone’s attention outside, and combat ensued. Murchad, entering the cell to stand toe-to-toe with the gargoyle could see it “charging” or “healing” from contact with the stone walls of the hut. Eventually, a stone from Tiv destroyed the gargoyle. Searching a bit farther, he saw a piece of parchment in one of the sandals. “Light the blessed candle to calm the stone guardian.”

“Oh, well,” he said with a chuckle, “Too late!”

Outside, the party healed a bit more and began to discuss a plan for exploring the island and retrieving what they came for.