Olythrae Introduction

The crumbling remains of the Eastward Estate loom ahead, its once-proud walls now overtaken by creeping vines and moss. The air grows unnaturally still as the party approaches, their footsteps muted by the dense overgrowth. A faint glow emanates from beneath the floorboards of what was once the servant's quarters, casting a dim, otherworldly light through the cracks. The soft radiance shifts slightly, as if alive, beckoning them closer.

As the party pushes open the warped wooden door, the faint light spills into the hallway, revealing the room within. Unlike the rest of the estate, this chamber feels strangely preserved yet utterly transformed. The walls are lined with old, rotting wood, but they are interwoven with glowing ivy and faintly pulsating moss. A scattering of luminous mushrooms clings to the ceiling beams, their pale light illuminating the space in hues of green and gold.

Sitting at the far end of the room, amidst a nest of roots and tangled vines, is Olythrae. Her form is both beautiful and unsettling. She is motionless, her unnaturally long, glowing hair cascading over her shoulders and pooling onto the floor like strands of mist. Her back is to the party, her eyes fixed on the wall as though in deep contemplation or trance. Her entire body appears fused with the glowing roots and floral patterns that crawl along her skin, gently pulsing in a rhythm that feels almost alive. The room itself seems to hold its breath in her presence.

For a moment, she remains still, an unnerving silence filling the air. Then, slowly and with an unnatural fluidity, she turns her head toward the party. Her wide, pale eyes seem to pierce through the dim light, unblinking and distant, as though she sees not just the adventurers but the threads of their very existence.

Her body follows, twisting gracefully as she rises to hover inches above the floor. Tiny orbs of light orbit her form, like miniature moons drawn to her gravity. Around her, the faint whispers that had filled the room grow louder, yet they remain indecipherable, a chorus of voices just out of reach. Her movements are fluid yet disconnected, like a creature only partially tethered to this world.

The Oracle’s voice resonates in the room, soft yet alien, layered with faint harmonies:

• "Threads unravel, threads entwine, yet the loom weaves on. Which of you holds the shears?"
• "This place remembers not what it was, but what it dreams of becoming. Do you remember?"
• "The floor hums with a song unsung. Do you hear it? Or is it only I?"

Her words, devoid of context or clarity, feel like fragments of a larger, incomprehensible thought. As she speaks, the soft glow beneath the floor intensifies momentarily, sending faint ripples of light through the chamber. The plants surrounding her sway gently, though no breeze can be felt. Her gaze shifts erratically, as though she sees past and through the adventurers, her presence utterly alien and disquieting.

The scene is mesmerizing and disorienting, an invitation and a warning intertwined, leaving the party with the unsettling sense that Olythrae’s existence is a confluence of the natural and the incomprehensible.