Charlotte Christianson, High Councilor and Aristocrat of Trinsic, has fallen ill.

Urgent summons were sent out across the empire, to the Halls of the Vassals and to the Towers of the East, beckoning all able mercenaries and alchemists to the Great Hall of Castle Britannia. There the physician of Vesper, a woman regarded as both our foremost scientific mind and a demoniac of the first order, elucidated on the condition of the woman.

She had fallen into a coma, brought on by experimentation and self-medication. And though the physician did not elaborate further, the great throng in the hall testified to the concern of the Council: Had she been poisoned? Had the Black Thorn reemerged? If so, the search for a cure might soon devolve into a hunt for a murderer.

Leading us to Christianson’s quarters, and to the Councilors stuttering servant, we discovered what appeared to be a yellowed jar of Opiates. Though illegal in most cities, the byzantine strictures of our crumbling state often meant loopholes for the wealthiest amongst us. The handmaiden to the Councilor, in the face of sharpened swords and the promise of inquisition, broke and revealed the location of Christianson’s supplier.

Ellery, a strange and reclusive serf who eked out an existence in the western farmlands, met us with stunned silence and a refusal to offer more than a sliver of information: his snake oils and drugs were legitimate, clean, and if he wished to know more about what happened, or what enemies the woman might hold, we should take it up with the enigmatic King of Thieves.

Returning to Britain, we found the thief in his usual haunt. A master of information, the illustrious rogue offered little in information, refusing to pass judgment on the Councilor. (Wise, considering overlooking his misdeeds comes with a price.) He mentioned, rather than direct our attention in Britain, we should visit Trinsic. Perhaps her past is catching up with her.

As we turned to depart, he offered one final note. Things are stirring. The threats to Britannia are growing. We should be on our guard.

Traveling the roads of magick, we came upon a man of the cloth marching in the opposite direction. Stopping him, we inquired about Christianson, and discovered a little about her past. Her affair with a Michael of Trinsic, and the scheme of an Aurora, whom the priest had failed to stop.

Others offered other tidbits. Yosh, Guardsman of Britain, mentioned witnessing the Councilor thrust into a hallucination, screaming about “…caverns, and a portal.”

All further, legal avenues of information gathering exhausted, we returned to the physician and reported what we had discovered.

The physician seemed amused, as she tilted her head towards the Heavens. “Yes, dearie. I’ll tell them.” Turning to face the throng, the crone explained to us that she would require an alchemical fusion of science and magic to pluck her soul from whatever self-imposed hell she had wrought upon herself. And to do that, we would need help…