DEADLIGHT is an actual play, live-streamed Pathfinder 2e experience that follows scattered survivors across a failing world.
Each is on their own and probably not by choice. They don’t know each other. They don’t know what’s coming. But they move toward the same dark shape on the horizon, drawn by broken signs, old debts, or the simple need to outrun whatever they left behind.
No parties. No legends. Just one step forward and collaborative story left in their wake.
Exact days and time may vary based on player availability.
All times Eastern Standard Time
Raith
Apocalypsicle
Larpgenie
Chris
Everything that could burn or drown, did.
And still the sun kept rising.
They call this the Fifth Age, though no one agrees on when it began and fewer still remember anything before. Some say it started with the floods. Others, when the moons broke pattern. Doesn’t matter. By the time anyone noticed, the age had already changed.
What’s left isn’t a kingdom or a cause. It’s people. Clinging. Scraping. Killing. Digging. Lighting fires because there’s no warmth without effort, and no safety without noise.
The gods are gone. Their names mostly forgotten.
Nature’s taken the bones of the world and started again, but not kindly. Forests shift. Weather disobeys. Animals grow strange in their silence, and people don’t always come back the way they left.
No one rules anymore. Just factions, cults, old bloodlines clinging to myth. There’s trade, sometimes. Shelter, if you earn it. Magic, if you’re willing to pay the cost.
Four places still endure at the edge of it all. Thornhollow, where faith is forged in ash. Mütvia, where the firelines watch the dark. Hollow Spine, where stone listens. And beneath it all, something moves: slow, certain, and not quite sleeping.
They say it’s balance.
They say it’s a reckoning.
They say a lot of things.
But whatever it is…
…it’s coming.
They say the land always takes back what’s left untended. But now it doesn’t wait.
In Thornhollow, Wisp, a veteran scout, was sent to track a creature through the woods, but soon discovered it was he being tracked.
Out east in Mütvia, Khêprîn, a fire-watcher, vanished after a signal tower failure, only to return with strange tales of ghouls and a spirit who named him prince.
In Hollow Spine, Korvell, a silent ranger, followed mirrored footsteps to his own death, and something rose to walk in his place.
And beneath the streets of Thornhollow, Castor, a reformed monk of the independent Free Choirs, uncovered a secret that turned the flame-bearing Iron Choir into monster-makers.
They all walk separate paths, but the same wind follows behind them: hot, quiet, and full of spores. Whatever this is, it isn’t just hunger. It’s strategy.
Wisp, a seasoned scout of Thornhollow, is sent east with a clear order: track the thing that’s eluded them for years. The signs are subtle, the trail cold, but Wisp knows how to read what others miss. Still, something about the task feels off. The path is his to follow but the purpose may not be.
Khêprîn is stationed alone at a remote firepost outside Vireskya, where something isn’t right: fuel disturbed, lens misaligned, the flame cold. That night, another signal flares across the dark, but he holds his silence. Come morning, the silence ends. Something feral waits in the fog, and it’s not alone.
In the quiet wilds of Hollow Spine, Korvell senses something wrong—tracks that match his own, sounds that move backward, patterns that don’t belong. When he finally sees what’s watching him, it’s already learned too much. What follows is brief, brutal, and not the end it should have been.
Castor, once a monk of the Free Choir, is forced into the depths beneath Thornhollow to recover a flame said to burn without end. What he finds instead is a place built on fear—trapped, twisted, and masked in illusion. And waiting inside it: a ghost from his past with dangerous knowledge. What they carry out may change everything, but only if they survive long enough to share it.
Wisp follows a trail of ruin through the woods: scattered metal, an empty camp, and the body of a fellow scout. Each step leads him closer to something he doesn’t yet understand. When he finally stops to rest, the woods close in. He’s not alone and the one who sent him may never have planned for him to return.
Khêprîn narrowly escapes a ghoul ambush and finds refuge in the remnants of a forgotten tomb. Within its roots and stone, something ancient waits: a presence that answers when called. What begins as survival becomes something stranger, as Khêprîn leaves the ruin not just alive, but marked by the land itself.
Castor is sent to investigate the death of a scout and uncovers evidence of a carefully staged ambush. What begins as a wilderness patrol quickly spirals into something more: strange behavior from local ghouls, signs of coordinated movement, and a hidden cave holding something not quite dead. Wounded and shaken, Castor returns with grim news—something dangerous is unfolding beyond the trees. Now, with only hours to act, the Free Choir rides to intercept a threat they barely understand and rescue one of their own before it’s too late.
Wisp is rescued from the edge of death when Free Choir fighters storm the grove, but the cost is steep. The next day, he and Castor follow a trail into the wilds west of Thornhollow, where they uncover signs of something unnatural: metal and growth fused in quiet ruin. As the wind stills, something rises to meet them.
Blue Flame
An aberrant pyre signal believed to herald the unnatural—spiritual corruption, plagueborn phenomena, or moonstruck creatures. Often tied to divine warning or metaphysical bleed.
Deadroot / Ghoul-Slope
A known region beneath the southern ridgeline, where the soil doesn’t hold corpses. Ghouls regularly surface to consume exposed remains. Patrols there are considered short but dangerous.
Firepath
One of the seven ridgelines stretching from Vireskya, each lined with pyreposts. Their alignment allows warning signals to reach distant settlements or watchpoints.
Green Fire
A sign of spiritual rot. If seen in a pyrepost, the tower is considered lost until properly reclaimed. Few return from such missions.
Ironwort
A tough, bitter herb grown in Vireskya terraces. Used in medicine, poison, or ritual depending on how it’s prepared. Smoked by veterans, brewed in field kits, burned in cleansing rites.
Moonfall
A local calendar term marking the waning of the twin moons. Considered the most stable time to travel or send runners. Watch rotations often shift with it.
Pyrejohns
Ritual-keepers and fire-tenders of the signal towers. They maintain the sacred stacks, interpret flame colors, and recite the signal liturgies. Each is trained in both survival and ceremony.
Pyrepost
A designated fire-signal tower. Each has a unique burn pattern, fuel type, and meaning. Watching them is sacred duty; misreading them gets people killed.
Signal Flare / Ward-Flare
A single-use alchemical device meant to burn bright enough to alert surrounding fireposts. Only used in emergencies. Carrying two is rare and considered a bad omen.
Tap Rhythm
A quiet method of forgecraft and coded speech. Used to shape tools in secret or communicate in silence. Common in Vireskya, where loud hammering can attract unwanted attention.
The Wane
Local term for the creeping, devouring wilderness tied to Nor’dagha’s influence. It’s not a place—it’s a process. Rot, regrowth, and reclamation. Anything left too long falls to the Wane.
The Whispering Line
One of the seven firepaths. Its name comes from wind phenomena that cause strange auditory illusions. Watchers stationed there report hallucinations and memory gaps.
Threadwork / Knot Token
Scraps of knotted cord passed between watchers, believed to carry protective memory or ritual significance. Not officially recognized—but nearly everyone carries one.
Watcher’s Mark
A scratched symbol or pigment stamp left on posts to indicate inspection, hazard, or last known direction. Breaking someone else’s mark without cause is a punishable offense.