Hagnight in Revillon

Before the chaos of Hagnight, Kilijan and Saggiato made a quiet, unsettling trip to Silverfall. The village, once familiar, felt hollow. The curse of the false hydra had done its work; nobody remembered Kilijan. Faces that should have lit up with recognition instead slid past him with the vague politeness reserved for strangers. The life he had once had here had been neatly edited out of the world. Kilijan came with a simple intention: to return a hunter’s knife he had found. He hoped, perhaps, for a small moment of closure. Instead he learned the hunter had been dead for some time. In the old hunting cabin, dust and silence had taken over. While searching the place, Kilijan and Saggiato realized the knife wasn’t just a keepsake—it was a key. The dagger’s shape matched a subtle recess in the wall. When they set it in place, a hidden compartment clicked open. Inside, they found something strange: a sentient scarf, more than a simple piece of cloth, its presence tinged with quiet awareness and old purpose. They took the scarf and, with Silverfall’s forgotten memories at their backs, returned to Revillon.

Back in Revillon, the mood was heavy. Mycha was dead. The Uninvited were scattered in their grief and uncertainty. Present in the city were Weneon, Kilijan, Greg, and Saggiato. Manasa had taken some time away, heading to the lake south of Revillon for a fishing trip, putting distance between herself and the recent trauma. Those who remained in the city drifted between mourning and distraction, trying to decide what to do next. In the middle of this, news spread: Revillon would be celebrating Hagnight, a city-wide festival of wild parties, masks, and reckless indulgence. Different gatherings would be held across the city, each with its own reputation and flavor. One name stood out above the rest: Alderman Viko, a wealthy nobleman known for throwing the most extravagant and exotic parties of them all.

The group decided: if the world refused to slow down, they would at least walk into its madness on their own terms. They chose to attend Alderman Viko’s Hagnight celebration. The day passed in preparation. Outfits were chosen, appearances adjusted, personas considered. It was the kind of festival where you didn’t just show up—you presented yourself. Kilijan, however, wanted no part of it. Whether from exhaustion, unease, or a hunter’s instinct that something was wrong, he refused to join the festivities and instead went to rest, staying away from the noble spectacle that awaited the others. Weneon, Greg, and Saggiato made their way toward the promised chaos of Viko’s legendary party.

Windamere Manor The Hagnight celebration was held at an old abandoned manor just outside of Revillon. The building loomed like a half-forgotten memory: too grand to ignore, too worn to truly belong to the present. Inside, candlelight, music, and finely dressed guests filled the decaying halls. The Uninvited mingled, made small talk, and measured the crowd: nobles, sycophants, thrill-seekers, and those with too much money and too little conscience. As Weneon and Saggiato explored and chatted, pieces of conversation and familiar architectural details started to knit together a strange realization. The manor wasn’t just some random ruin rented for a party. It had a name, a lineage, a history. They turned to Greg. Bit by bit, the truth surfaced: this manor had once belonged to Greg’s family. It was his great-grandfather’s estate—now reduced to a rented backdrop for the wealthy to play at decadence. The party suddenly felt more personal. The setting wasn’t just atmospheric—it was ancestral.

As the evening dragged on, the veneer of glamor started to crack. The Uninvited grew tired of the smug elitism, of shallow conversations and self-satisfied nobles using tragedy and spectacle as entertainment. Eventually, Alderman Viko himself called for attention. He delivered a toast and invited all his guests to join him in the attic for a “special surprise.” His tone had that particular noble’s confidence that assumed everyone would be delighted, because how could they not be? The guests, curious and slightly drunk, followed him up. In the attic, a small arena had been set up: a rough circle of space, theatrical and ominous. In the center stood a cauldron. Then the real hosts of the evening’s final act were revealed: three night hags, stepping from the shadows to complete some dark summoning. The mood shifted from lavish to lethal. Before the guests’ eyes, something began to claw its way out of the cauldron. The Uninvited watched as Tasha herself—bloodied, naked, and clearly diminished—crawled out of the viscous depths, struggling to gather her power, attempting to conjure clothing around her shivering form. At that moment, Viko’s guards moved. They stepped forward and handed the Uninvited their equipment, piece by piece, in front of the other stunned guests. Then they produced Kilijan, brought before the group whether he wished it or not. Alderman Viko smiled the kind of smile only a man absolutely certain of his own cleverness can manage. Here, before the party, before the hags, before the summoned arch-witch, he presented his “gift” to the Uninvited. He gestured toward the weakened, bloodied Tasha and said, in essence: Here she is. You can kill her now and get this all over with.