OOC:
There's no urgency at the moment and things aren't particularity concealed here, so no roll necessary.
Items in the hag's bedchamber sprawl across the uneven algae ridden stone floor. The air is thick with the scent of mildew and salt. The imp’s earlier rampage had left much tossed carelessly about—scattered and broken scraps of human lives long since stolen.
A leather-bound journal lies waterlogged, its inked pages smeared into oblivion.
A tarnished silver locket, its clasp broken, dangles from a bedpost.
Among the debris, a wooden child’s toy sits, one arm missing, its painted surface faded and moss growing on it from damp neglect.
...
Behind the bed frame that is now almost completely reduced to flaming embers, a concealed panel in the seaweed headboard sits with a small hole burned into it, the imp’s hasty entrance to the secret chamber hidden within. Inside, it is dark, but Regan and Admiral make out more of the hag’s treasures not yet torn through by the imp.
Draped haphazardly over a pile of rotting silks is a garment of black silk interwoven with faint, silvery threads that shimmer, clinging to the air like dew on a spider’s web.
Nearby, nestled within a heap of dull trinkets and combs tangled with hair, lies a slender wand. Its polished surface gleams faintly, and a spiral of arcane runes winds its length like ivy.
Against the back wall leans a tall mirror. Similar to the one that Cordey carried earlier. Its mirror surface is dark and rippling. The carved frame is ornate, its edges etched with motifs that seem almost to writhe when not directly observed.
A small vial of milky liquid, corked tightly, rests within a shattered wooden box. The liquid swirls lazily, catching any faint light in hypnotic patterns that hint at its strange properties. There are other weathered tools within the box, perhaps a carpenter’s or furniture maker’s.
A gemstone lies within a pile of cracked and dull baubles, its polished surface outshining the mundane stones around it. Within, flecks of light seem to spark and fade like stars in the night sky, giving it an otherworldly allure.
Other treasures stand out nestled in the clutter.
A golden ring lies within a small pouch, its surface engraved with symbols that seem to pulse faintly with an invisible rhythm.
In another corner, a sword rests, its hilt simple but well-crafted. As if sensing its own dormant power, the blade hovers slightly above the ground, vibrating faintly, ready to spring to life.
A belt rests atop a jagged outcrop of stone near the edge of the secret chamber, its placement seemingly deliberate, as though the hag had been careful with this particular treasure. The belt is a striking piece of craftsmanship, made of dark, fire-blackened leather with intricate embossing that shimmers faintly in the low light. The designs decorate its surface like flames, curling and twisting in mesmerizing patterns. At its center is a gemstone, a deep, fiery orange, stone like an ember clinging to life. The stone beneath the belt is slightly blackened, as though scorched, and the faint scent of smoke lingers in its vicinity.
