Session 35 - Bite Club

General Summary

Under the dim glow of torchlight, the party found themselves at the threshold of the Crimson Cage—a subterranean arena where the line between sport and survival blurred. Thorgar "The Hand," a towering half-orc with greenish skin and a jagged facial scar, managed the pit with ruthless efficiency. Dressed in fine clothes that clung awkwardly to his muscular frame, he eyed the heroes with a mix of ambition and indifference.   As they stepped onto the sand, the heavy double doors groaned open, revealing the vast circular pit. The crowd above was a shadowy mass behind iron bars, their murmurs a distant thunder. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the stale breath of anticipation.   From the opposite end, another door creaked open. The atmosphere shifted instantly. A roar erupted as Bruce entered—the arena's reigning terror. Standing over eight feet tall, the hulking shark-man's gray, scarred skin glistened under the flickering flames. Tribal tattoos coiled around his muscular arms, and his black eyes locked onto the party with predatory hunger.   Galen "Golden Tongue" Rivorn's voice sliced through the cacophony. "Ladies and gentlemen, brace yourselves for the one, the only, the terror of the Crimson Cage! Feast your eyes on the monstrosity, the legend himself... BRUUUUCE!"  

Round 1: The Appetizer

  The first challenge was a test of endurance: survive three rounds against Bruce in a one-on-one fight. The hero stepping forward was Tike Myson, the powerful brawler whose fists were as lethal as any blade. Weapons were limited to basics; magic was strictly forbidden. Tike had one minute to prepare before stepping into the 40-foot diameter ring, enclosed by steel bars.   Bruce wasted no time. He lunged forward, claws flashing in the dim light. Tike met him head-on, his movements a fluid blend of offense and defense. Each strike was met with a counter, each dodge a narrow escape from those razor-sharp claws. The crowd watched with detached curiosity, their cheers muted. Three agonizing rounds passed, each second stretching longer than the last. When the final bell rang, Tike still stood—bruised but unbroken.  

Round 2: The Main Course

  Galen's voice echoed again. "Now, the challenge gets harder! It’s time for the Main Course! Full magic, full fury! But beware, the crowd is in on the action! Can our heroes outlast Bruce while dodging the hail of deadly colored balls? Let the mayhem begin!"   This time, the entire party faced Bruce. He consumed a grotesque bucket of chum, rumored to be made from the bodies of wizards and sorcerers—a meal that unlocked his mythic abilities. All spells and abilities were now fair game. The arena turned hostile as spectators hurled colored balls, forcing the heroes to dodge or suffer bludgeoning damage.   Ekalim Smallcask stood on the sidelines, his voice rising above the chaos as he shouted coaching tips to inspire courage. Bruce fought with renewed ferocity, his claws and teeth whirling with lethal intent. The battle seemed bleak until Vaz'non, the half-orc sorcerer, magically rose into the air. Channeling the magic in his very blood, he focused his power into a single, devastating fireball. The spell erupted from his fingertips, a searing orb of concentrated destruction that collided with Bruce.   Flames engulfed the shark-man, his shrieks of pain echoing through the arena. The crowd fell silent, their indifference shattered. Bruce staggered, smoke rising from charred flesh. He grinned through the flames, eyes locked on Vaz'non. "You’ve bitten off more than you can chew… and I say that as a shark!"   Seizing the moment, the rest of the party unleashed their attacks. Blades struck true, crushing blows found their mark, and spells crackled through the air. Finally, through coordinated assaults and sheer determination, they brought the behemoth to his knees. Bruce looked up, a glint of respect in his eyes. "Well... this is rather embarrassing. I must admit, you've bested me, but don't get too comfortable! Next time, I won't go so easy on you! A shark never stops hunting… even when he's down!"   The crowd erupted into a frenzy, the once-indifferent spectators now roaring with approval.  

Back at the Silver Siren

  Victorious and weary, the party returned to the Silver Siren. The familiar warmth of the tavern was a stark contrast to the cold indifference of the arena. Celebratory drinks were poured, and the air filled with the comforting hum of laughter and clinking glasses.   As they settled into their usual corner, Tarquin Shortstone approached with a tray of ale. "Thank you again for saving my life," he said earnestly, placing the drinks before them. "Your drinks are on the house."   Ekalim Smallcask joined them, a satisfied smile on his face. "I've set you up with private accommodations aboard The Wavestone. It's a 450-mile journey by water—should take about fourteen days at the most. Comfortable quarters for each of you, at a fair price."   Just then, Dunner's gaze drifted to a large poster tacked onto the tavern wall. Bold letters announced the upcoming Champions Games, a grand spectacle promising glory and riches. But it was the name of the Games' host that sent a chill down his spine: Loris Raknian.   He nudged Vaz'non, pointing at the poster. The half-orc sorcerer's eyes narrowed as he read the name. Memories flooded back—the hired devil and the larva assassin sent by Raknian to kill them on behalf of the Ebon Triad in this very tavern. They had slain the assassin, but the devil was still at large. All in the name of Theldrick—the cleric of Asmodeus they had defeated—who had been Raknian's close associate.   The party exchanged determined glances. Their path was becoming clear, though fraught with peril. The victory at the arena was just a respite before the storm. The devil was still out there, and Raknian had an entire cult at his disposal.   As they raised their glasses in a silent toast, a renewed sense of purpose filled them. The journey aboard The Wavestone awaited, but so did the shadows cast by old foes. The flicker of hope burned brightly against the encroaching night, and the bonds forged in blood and fire would carry them through whatever darkness lay ahead.

Shopping at Eldritch Embers

  Before their departure, the party decided to visit Eldritch Embers, the renowned shop of arcane wonders. But as they entered, an unsettling sight greeted them. The normally vibrant, multicolored flames of the hearth flickered grey and black, casting eerie shadows across the walls.   Ignatius Flinthearth, the dwarf owner with eyes like smoldering coals, approached them with a troubled expression. "I've made a terrible mistake," he confessed. "Purchased a magic lantern from an elf who seemed trustworthy. When I took it into the Ember Realm for storage, a shadow escaped and attacked me. I barely made it back."   He glanced toward the distorted flames. "I can't return home, not while that thing lurks. I've sent for help, but no one has come. If you can retrieve the Obsidian Lantern and rid my home of this shadow, I'll offer you a deal on any items you desire."   The party exchanged glances and agreed to assist.  

The Cursed Obsidian Lantern

  Stepping through the hearth, they entered the Ember Realm, where the air felt thick, and the light played tricks on the eyes. Not far from the portal, they found the lantern lying on its side, dark and foreboding. Two Tainted Ember Shadows hovered around it, their forms shifting and ethereal.   Tike Myson stepped forward, muscles tense. The shadows moved with unnatural speed, their touch like icy tendrils that sapped his strength. He staggered, feeling an enfeebling cold spread through his limbs. The rest of the party leaped into action. Spells of light and fire were cast, and swords swung through the resistant air. As they battled the initial two shadows, a third emerged from the lantern, its wail a haunting echo.   Amidst the chaos, Cal's eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the insignia on the lantern. Recognition flashed across his face. "This lantern—it's cursed!" he shouted. Without hesitation, he darted forward, dodging the grasping shadows. Grabbing the Obsidian Lantern, he turned and sprinted back toward the portal.   "Cover me!" he yelled over his shoulder. The party rallied, forming a defensive line to hold off the shadows. Cal burst through the hearth back into the shop, the sudden change in atmosphere disorienting. He didn't stop. Barreling out of Eldritch Embers, he emerged into the street, bathed in sunlight. He placed the lantern on the ground, the harsh rays of the sun washing over it. The lantern's malevolent aura seemed to wane under the sunlight, its dark glow fading.   The rest of the party regrouped outside, catching their breath. Ignatius emerged from the shop, eyes wide. "You did it," he whispered. "You actually did it."   True to his word, he offered them generous deals on their purchases. "And this," he said, nodding toward the lantern, "needs to be destroyed properly. You've done more than help me—you've likely saved many others from its curse."