Episode 42: Shalkashlah and Episode 43: Pureblood - ATCOTRG Part 3

Sword of Air - A Tale of Yore

Episode XXXXII

Shalkashlah

Eventide, the 20th day of Eleint, as Autumn encroaches upon the Year of the Snake

As four serpent-headed monstrosities tear apart the crates and barrels under which Viper has hidden, an ugly bat materialises over their shoulders and peers down at what they’re doing. Its face transforms momentarily into that of a horned Quasit. “Need a hand, there?” The snake-men turn as one and hiss with anger as the bat disappears with a pop. Their clawed hands swipe at empty air.

*

“There are four of them,” whispers Mherren, hunkered behind the huge trunk of a centuries-old elm, its leaves turned prematurely yellow, orange, and bloody red. The warlock’s eyes are rolled back in their sockets, showing only the whites. “We could lure them outside, take out three, and question the survivor.”
“I have an idea,” says Zimlok, turning to the others. “We should lure them out, kill three of them, and capture the fourth for questioning.”
“Good plan, Zimlok,” says Lightstrike.
“Good grief,” says Haji Baba.
“Looks like there’s good vantage on the roof,” says Lightstrike. “Half of it’s collapsed. I could pick some of them off from above. They’ll never know what hit them.”
And he scampers off to silently scale the ruined tavern. Shortly afterwards, a shadow crouches upon an exposed rafter, arrow notched, feline eyes glinting in the moonlight from beneath his hood.

*

The snake-men pad upstairs, serpentine necks craning and twisting, tongues flicking to taste the air. Their prey might be invisible, but their uncanny senses are not blind to his presence. They spread out, two venturing outside as they hear a tell-tale rustle in the bushes. One rounds the corner of the Foaming Mug. Past the well. Approaches a large elm, its leaves aflame with autumn colours.
“Rrrrraaaaaaarrrrrrrrggggggghhhhhh!!!”
A mad little hobbit sprints out from behind the tree, her face twisted with rage, mouth a-slaver, eyes bloodshot and filled with the delicious anticipation of slaughter. The snake-man stops dead in his tracks, bewildered.
Lightstrike hears his cue, and looses an arrow into the snake-man below him. The arrow lodges in its shoulder and it spins round in confusion. The rogue leaps down silently behind it and draws his dagger across its scaly throat.
“That’s how you do it,” he whispers under his breath, and goes off to hunt down another.
Snapping out of his trance, Mherren yells: “Aithindée!” and the Sword of Maagog bursts into flame as the half-orc stalks from beneath the fiery leaves of the elm, a vision of Death incarnate. With a casual flick of his muscled, sinewy forearm he sends Bouldir spinning end over end towards the gawping snake-man.
Zimlok the Lightbringer edges gingerly away in the opposite direction. Not out of fear, understand, dear reader. How could you even think that? Zimlok is a valiant hero, a wizard of unparalleled artistry, a tactician of genius! No, not out of fear does he retreat; his strategy is one of entrapment. He waits beneath the overhanging boughs of the great, orange elm, waits for his victim to emerge from behind the dilapidated building. Zimlok the predator. Zimlok the raptor. Waiting. Waiting.
“Wait for it, Zimlok. You got this. You’re the best. You got this!” he says under his breath.

*

The Yuan-ti cocks its head as it hears the sounds of combat from the other side of their hideout. Musst aid Teo’shi. But not too fast. Take your time. Shalkashlah could be leader. Shalkashlah should be leader. Not too fast, now. Perhaps…
And, even as it plots, the creature called Shalkashlah finds itself frozen mid-stride. From one unblinking eye it sees a weird little bird-man in a wobbly, pointed hat come waddling out from the shadows beneath an ancient elm tree. He appears to look particularly pleased with himself.
The creature called Shalkashlah curses inwardly as it suffers the indignity of being trussed like a pig and thrown to the ground.
The creature called Shalkashlah might not be able to move, or speak. But it can think. And that is all it needs to do. A crow-face, mistressss. It hass magic. And alliessss. We are too few. Be ready.
And an insidious, darkly charismatic voice echoes in the creature’s reptilian mind. You have done well, Shalkashlah. Sseth looksss favorably upon you. You may die assured of hisss pleasure.
And while the little crow-man busily tightens the knots around Shalkashlah’s wrists and ankles, his silly beak contorting into a trumpet as he whistles away obliviously, speaking condescendingly to his prisoner with unintelligible words in a smug and highly irritating tone, Shalkashlah smiles an inward, invisible smile…

*

A spray of blood. Lightstrike rolls away again into the shadows, as his next target whirls about, enraged. “This is too easy,” chuckles the rogue to himself, and launches himself once more at the creature’s exposed back.
But this time it senses him coming, and turns to block his attack at the last second. Lightstrike’s knife flies from his hand and skitters across the floor.
“Uh-oh,” he gulps, as the snake-man slithers around his guard, hisses, and swings with its scimitar.
But the tabaxi is too fast. He sidesteps the blow and closes in, drawing his temple sword and plunging it into his enemy’s heart in one deadly flurry. The creature’s brilles slide across its unseeing eyes before it even hits the floor.
Lightstrike steps back, his own heart beating. “That was close,” he breathes, gathering himself for a moment before he swings back up through the roof-beams and surveys the carnage outside.
Below him, Zimlok is crouched with his back to a bound snake-man, his crossbow levelled at another, which is running around in wild fright, Viper clinging on to its shoulder and leering at it with demonic glee. With (frankly unbelievable) precision, Zimlok lets a quarrel fly from Jim, and the snake-man falls, a crossbow bolt skewering its windpipe. Falls – right on top of Haji Baba, so that all that can be seen are her little arms and legs flailing around, fuming. Let’s just say, dear reader, that it’s a good job her words are muffled beneath the weight of the dead Yuan-ti.
The last snake-man is lying spread-eagled beneath the flaming elm, a Bouldir-shaped indentation in its forehead.
Lightstrike drops to the ground in a silent three-point superhero landing.
“Wait!” squawks Zimlok, as the rogue moves to garotte the captured snake-man. “The plan was to question one, remember!”
“Oh, right – yeah.” Lightstrike sheepishly pockets his garotte wire.
As Mherren heaves the Yuan-ti’s body off the still-struggling Babs, who clambers to her feet, dusts herself down and straightens her armour in a vain effort to recover her dignity, Zimlok narrows his eyes and presses his beak up to his prisoner’s snub, reptilian nose.

*

I should spit poison in this wretched creature’s face, thinks Shalkashlah, only to find that he cannot. He is still held by his enemy’s evil spell.
“I am Zimlok the Lightbringer, Archwizard of Kara-Tur, Speaker of the Azath, single-handed Slayer of the God Below, and Harbinger of Thy Doom. Tell us what you know!” demands the sorcerer in perfect Yuan-ti, its black-feathered fingers clutching some kind of gruesome necklace suspended with what look to be dessicated tongues. “Tell us and your death shall be merciful!”
Shalkashlah finds that he can now speak. “I care nothing for your mercy,” he hisses. “Sseth shall take me in his embrace!”
“Whom do you serve? The priestess, Misha?”
“Misha ssservesss as we do. We take the Chosen to our Misstressss to be ssaved. Misha ssspeaksss the word of the Sssibilant One to the Converted. And Misha tellsss the Road who iss next to be ssaved by the Misstresss.”
“What is Misha? Is she human? Or an abomination, like you?”
Shalkashlah is almost amused by this birdman and his black magic. Abomination? The irony!
“Hah! She wasss human. Defidia has blesssssed her with the Transssformation.”
“Defidia? Who is Defidia?”
Shalkashlah grins a hideous, serpentine grin. “Defidia is the Misstresss. Defidia is your death!”

*

And before it can spit venom in Zimlok’s face, a line of dark blood seeps from the Yuan-ti’s throat. They all look up at Lightstrike, who is busily wiping his blade. He senses eyes upon him and looks up.
“Wha’?”

*

Zimlok, Lightstrike, Mherren and Viper watch Haji Baba from a broken window, having dragged the body of their dispatched prisoner inside. “I swear she’s getting worse,” says Lightstrike.
“Let her get it out of her system,” says Zimlok.
Haji Baba, having squeezed the last drop of venom from the Yuan-ti that fell on her, proceeds to hack off its head with cold efficiency.
“Why is she doing that?” says the warlock of Demogorgon, Prince of Demons, slightly repulsed.
“Just let her do her thing,” say Zimlok.
A few minutes later, Babs hauls the headless corpse into the tavern and grins at her comrades, brandishing the saggy-looking Yuan-ti head in one triumphant fist. The fiery elm seems to glow behind her in the twilight, as the rising moon reveals her face smeared with blood and gore.
“A trophy, to prove our word!” she declares, her voice ragged and half-bestial.
“Erm… well done,” offers Zimlok, cautiously.
They all stand there for a while in awkward silence, Lightstrike studying his feet, and Mherren suppressing dry-heaves as Babs placidly hooks the head on to her belt by its eye socket.
Zimlok weaves a magical message to Dorian and Llywillan, Ormond’s half-elven allies. His eyes roll back and his feathers stand on end as he makes the mental connection.
Meet us in the cemetery by the Temple of Geb. The priestess – she’s one of them. We’re going after her – tonight!
We’ll be there, responds Dorian. We’ve just found something in the fields to the north.
Found something?
Bleached Skull gnolls. A scouting party, looks like. All dead. Butchered.
Any clues?
There are traces of poison in the wounds. Arachnid poison. There’s only one tribe uses it to coat their weapons… Dorian hesitates, and Zimlok senses fear in his tone.
…Drow.

* * *

Episode XXXXIII

Pureblood

A bell sounds. The full moon claws higher into the firmament and splashes its eerie, pale light upon the crooked tombstones of Orlane’s cemetery. As our heroes survey the sullen edifice of the Temple of Geb, there is movement from behind. Two silent shadows flit between headstones.
“Could be ghouls!” whispers Lightstrike, his hand moving instinctively to Whisper’s hilt.
“Don’t be silly. There’s no such thing as ghouls,” smiles Haji Baba indulgently.
Dorian and Llywillan squat down next to them, just as a sullen group of shuffling, cloaked figures leaves the temple gate, which clunks shut behind them.
“Looks like the congregation leaving the evening service,” whispers Zimlok.
“Should we follow them?” asks Llywillan.
“They might know something,” says Dorian.
“No. We think they’re part of the cult,” says Mherren. “They’re being mind-controlled by some entity called Defidia. It looks like the priestess tells the thieves’ guild who to target, and the Yuan-ti take the prisoners to Defidia in her lair, wherever that is. Some never return. Those that do serve Defidia’s cause. Like those service-goers. This reptile cult has almost overtaken the whole town. Perhaps other places, too. It spreads its sickness like a plague…”
“Aye, and with it a sickness spreads to the crops and to all living things,” says Haji Baba.
“Who and what is this Defidia?” asks Llywillan.
“We don’t know,” says Zimlok.
“Could be an incarnation of Sseth himself,” says Mherren, cheerfully.
“Let’s hope not,” says Haji Baba, absent-mindedly fondling the dripping Yuan-Ti head at her hip. “We’ve already killed one evil god this week. Two might be pushing it.”
“It’s strange,” says Mherren. “I don’t know much about the Yuan-ti, but I do know they’re not native to these lands. Their tribes live far to the south, beyond the mountains, in the primeval jungles of Udhult. What could have brought them so far north, to this remote peninsula of Yore? Why do they seek to enslave these simple people to their cult?”
A rare, inspired look suddenly graces Mherren’s orcish features, and his pitch rises with excitement. “Could they be the source of the blight in the marshes, and the curse upon the Old Margreve? Could they have instigated the assault on the Astral Library, and the flight of the Urzin?” The others exchange glances.
“Nah,” they say as one.
“Either way, we need to eliminate the priestess,” says Zimlok.
“Not before we find out where this entity known as Defidia abides,” adds Dorian. But nobody hears him.

*

(Cue Mission Impossible theme.)
Lightstrike scrambles up on to the top of the temple’s perimeter wall, followed by the two half-elves. In a half crouch they run along, past a large brass bell suspended in a wooden frame, to where a shack nestles up against the inside of the encircling wall. Following Lightstrike’s lead, they pad ninja-style, placing their feet upon their hands, across the ramshackle roof. Dropping down, they find the door ajar.
Peeking in, Lightstrike scans the dark interior with his tabaxi night-vision, and sees haphazard shelves piled with gardening tools, stores of dried grains, and bags of fertiliser. His attention is caught by a grubby mattress in one corner, but there appears to be no one here. He sneaks in, gesturing to the half-elves to follow. Overturning the mattress, he finds a sheaf of papers that appear to be some kind of diary. He scans over the most recent entries.

18th
I deserve it just as much as Misha… I am loyal. Why does she not choose me?
Imagine it. Their blood in my veins. Their strength. Their poison. Their power. I want it so much!
19th
The last one was… awkward. He resisted the goblin’s potion. No matter. The snake was getting hungry, anyway.
20th
Someone has found our tunnels. That wretch, Snigrot, led them there. He will suffer for it. As will they. No one crosses the Road and lives. But first, I must warn the Mistress.

The rogue stuffs the papers into his pocket. “Dorian. Llywi… Wylli… Lilli… You, as well. With me.” And he darts out of the shed and makes for the temple.
The structure is square and squat, two stories tall, and built of dour granite. Its windows appear to have been blocked up, and yellow-flowered vine creepers suffocate the exterior. Crumbling friezes depicting rustic scenes decorate the eaves, and a cross-legged, benevolent figure grasping a sickle and a bundle of corn is carved into the heavy, oaken double doors.
Lightstrike takes his position at the door, and waits for his comrades.
From behind the perimeter wall, grunting and cursing. Haji Baba’s voice: “Ouch! You stupid bird! That’s my face! Why don’t we just cast spider climb?”

*

Viper flaps his bat-wings and, emitting a series of clicks, he swerves and veers and dives over the temple wall.
Poof! Now a centipede, wiggling his way through the keyhole. Dropping to the floor and squirming upright, he sways his insectoid head and surveys a large, lightless, central sanctuary. Tapestries illustrating idyllic, rural scenes decorate the walls, and five thick elm trunks support the ceiling. At the far end is a dais upon which a large, jade figure sits. It resembles the individual carved into the doors: Geb, Lord of the Harvest, stares out from the gloom. The floor is strewn with a layer of freshly raked sand, and five closed doors lead off from this central chamber.
Poof! Viper flits to the nearest keyhole in bat form and peers through. As he crosses the cylindrical threshold beam upon the floor, a traditional feature of some temples to indicate the border between the profane and the holy, a faint tinkling of chimes resounds somewhere in the temple…

*

Misha, having just laid down her head for the night after raking down the holy sands, sits bolt upright in her cot.
The bells! Some foul demon has crossed the threshold! Some unholy thing desecrates my temple! Stains the perfection of Geb with its evil presence! Could it be the ones Derek warned me of, come to murder me while I sleep? Let them try! I am more now than I was. Stronger! Superhuman! Yess! My vision showed me the way. Showed me that Geb wanted me to follow the way of the serpent. To venture into darkness and so see better His divine light. To accept the gift of Defidia and so transform myself into something more powerful, something primordial, which could defend my innocent flock against this hostile world. Protect them from the depravities of the Brinestump tribes and the gnolls of the Bleached Skull.
She climbs from her cot, opens her trunk, and begins to pull on her mail hauberk over her nightdress. She pulls on her serpentine bracers, straps on her buckler shield, and grips her mace – her holy avenger. And now He tests me. Now He wants to see if I am worthy. She smiles fondly at the black snake coiling at the base of her trunk. My Lord. I will show you my worth. My transformation may be incomplete. But I am ready. These demons, these devils that soil Thy holy sands with their presence – they shall feel Thine holy wrath!
The unmistakable clicking of a bat. There! She swings her mace blindly as she invokes a magical darkness. “Show yourself, demon!”
A cackling voice from high up in the corner. A demonic visage leers down at her from the shadows. “I know who you are, Misha. Do you know who I am?” She swings again, the mace head slamming into the wall as the demon disappears into thin air. She stops, scans around, breathing heavily. There! She flings open the door to her antechamber, disturbing the unrolled parchment and yarrow stalks that lie on her desk. The stalks scatter, and the parchment floats to the floor, where a black snake coils and hisses.
Listening for the tell-tale clicks, Misha swings again and again at her invisible tormentor. Out into the sanctuary, across the threshold and into the atrium. Something wiggles through the keyhole. I have you now! She slams her mace into the door, which splinters and flies open, and she staggers out on to the porch steps, her breathing ragged, her slitted pupils glowing yellow.
Then, a warm wetness across her abdomen. She looks down to see blood seeping from her belly. A mortal wound. She looks up in horror. A tabaxi, wielding a bloody, curved temple sword, grins a wicked grin. Next to him, a barbaric-looking halfling, blood spattered across her face. My blood.
Another blow, this time to her back. A hooded half-elf withdraws his knife from beneath her ribs. And that cursed demon sneers as the life-blood ebbs from her. “Taste your mutant blood, puny priestess!” it cackles. “You’ll never be a true Yuan-ti, Pureblood. You are nothing!”
One final blow, this time from the front. As the staff connects a peal of thunder shakes the very foundation of her inner being. Savage halfling eyes lock with hers and narrow with hatred. A druid!
Misha drops to her knees. The world begins to blur and spin. Pureblood. That word. Meant to torment one such as her. It bit harder than the blades that slew her. Shook her deeper than the thunder that cracked open her bones. My Lord. I have failed you.
And the last thing she sees is a visage of pure horror. An angel of death, raven-faced.
Why is it wearing that pointy hat? – the last thought to cross Misha’s confused and stricken mind.

*

Zimlok is shaking Jim in an accusatory way, as though it was somehow the crossbow’s fault that he missed his mark. He looks up to see the priestess collapsing upon the temple steps. Her eyes seem to plead with him for a moment before she slumps. Those eyes. Like a snake’s. Eugh!
Slinging Jim across his back, Zimlok begins to search the body. A few gold dracs, and – what’s this? A nice ring on her finger. It has an aura of magic. And these, too: bracers upon her forearms, cold-hammered to resemble twining serpents with ruby eyes. Around her neck, a gold snake’s head amulet upon a neck chain, eye sockets also inlaid with rubies. Not obviously magical – but valuable, for sure.
He takes one last look at this despicable creature. In so many ways, a woman. But her skin is scaled in patches, around the collar and upon her arms. Her lolling tongue is forked. And in some subtle, indefinable way – perhaps in the shape of her brows, the slope of her forehead, her cheek bones – something serpentine in her features. No. Not a woman. A corruption of humanity. Zimlok is glad she’s dead.

*

Haji Baba the Grand, her eyes closed, stands with her little legs planted wide in the centre of the Sanctuary of Geb. She traces a sphere between her palms and rolls it before her as magical winds begin to circulate and swirl around her. Soon she is the calm centre of a whirling vortex of the holy sands of Geb. As the sands lift, she opens her eyes…
…And looks disappointed. No trap door, as she was determined there would be. But then, how is a Druid of the Kagonestri to know the customs of some peculiar human god of agriculture? She drops her hands and the winds cease. The holy sand falls unceremoniously back to the floor. And on to Haji Baba, where it sticks in a crust to the drying Yuan-ti blood upon her face.
She turns and walks through the nearest door, pushing aside a blue, velvet drape to find an unopened bottle of vintage Orlanian wine upon a mahogany table. Well, at least some of her instincts are still sound. She pops off the cork with her teeth, spits it out and takes a long swig.

*

Viper is exploring again. Ignoring the door to the dining hall, with its handsome display case containing dusty wine bottles, a plump ear of corn, sheaves of wheat, a fine pumpkin and a particularly large carrot, he instead makes his way into the long corridor he had found, with its alcoves housing golden ornaments in honour of Geb. He passes a gold potato, a golden turnip, a golden marrow, a gold cluster of oats, wheat, corn, and golden grapes, and turns the corner to find a staircase leading up. The stairs double back on themselves and come to a closed, wooden door. Peering through the keyhole, he sees a long room lined with life-size statues. They are hooded, their hands clasped in prayer. Two more doors lead off to the right at the far end of the hall.

*

Hunched behind a tilted gravestone in the cold cemetery, Mherren’s eyes snap open. A chill runs up his spine. Something is coming…

* * *

What approaches in the dead of night?
Who murdered the gnoll scouting party? Was it Dark Elves, as Dorian and Llywillan claim?
And if so, what do these Drow want? What did the gnolls want?


Have our plucky heroes cleared out the Temple of Geb?
Was it really that easy?
Who escaped before Lightstrike could get to them?


And with Misha dead, how will our heroes find her hidden lair?
What is Defidia, anyway? An avatar of Sseth, or… something else?
And who are the good guys in all this? These “heroes” seem pretty darned brutal to me…


…Find out in the next sssssscintillating episode of…

Sword of Air

Treasure
3 doses of snake venom
20 gold dracs
Ring of protection (+1 bonus to AC & saving throws)
Serpentine bracers (+1 bonus to AC… and a mysterious sense of “aliveness”)
Snakeshead amulet (2 ruby eyes worth 200 gp; amulet worth 100 pp intact)

Experience
Gold 20
Malisons 2,800
Pureblood 200
Total 3,020
Per player 755