Episodes 47-49: Against the Cult of the Reptile God! Part 5
Against the Cult of the Reptile God! Part 5
Sword of Air: Book II - Chapters XLVII—XLIX
Episode XLVII
ANATHEMA
*
Meanwhile, as a pale dawn struggles to illuminate the shadowy Groves of
Nephthys, deep in the marshy wildlands of the Dragon Coast, we join our
indefatigable heroes on Day 3 of Recon Operation “Stealth”…
Mherren Halfblood rubs his eyes and then glowers darkly around at Zimlok’s tastefully minimalist magical
sanctuary. He feels seriously orcy this morning. Not a moment’s rest overnight. Whenever he closes his
eyelids all he sees are flashing images of a slow-growing, semi-translucent spherical egg, like a giant fish
egg, within which can be just discerned the still unformed vessel for the agonised spirit of Asuran. Or he
sees the hulking back of that looming giant, his skin pitted and cracked by fire, ruminating and plotting
in his infernal cell. Or Asuran before him, his peculiarly wrong-thumbed hand grasping the hilt of
Flametongue. And the rage Mherren felt at that moment. It fills him and flushes him with anger. At his
side, Maagog’s blade stirs and murmurs.
Mherren is tormented by memories that are not his own – of Dwarven halls ravaged by fire; of a burning
sword; of a horned figure silhouetted by flame, grasping enormous chains; of a fiery titan, screaming
defiance; of his own people – an entire nation – transformed into wraiths by some dark sorcerer. Is it the
truth he sees? Or are these just figments of his tortured mind? If the Akrin are truly gone – or…
transformed – then what? How would he feel? They were his people, but… they ostracised him, treated
him like an animal. His patron saved him. Granted him powers beyond his dreams. And promised more.
But to what kind of entity has he dedicated himself? What sacrifices will it demand of him? He grasps his
onyx focus and thinks of Demogorgon. But he can barely imagine the twin-headed demon. His patron is
vague, distant, amorphous, hazy, hard to grasp.
A word in his mind. Shaghaspondium. It seems… foreign. Unfamiliar. The syllables twist and shatter even
as they form. Mherren is filled with a disconcerting sense of being cast adrift. The Demogorgon’s
abhorrent magic still courses through him, but it is becoming harder for him to manipulate. The everthirsting
whispers of the Sword of Maagog fill his thoughts and obscure his focus, pollute his devotion,
corrupt his ambition. And the curse of Asuran begins to take root and darken his already really quite
considerably dark soul. He looks at his companions in turn. The fools! They dream of glory and wealth
and high adventure. All they will meet with is oblivion.
The scar where Asuran wounded him throbs painfully. He touches it and winces. Black pus seeps slowly
from the lesion, which refuses to close and heal. He feels weaker by the hour. Viper the Quasit looks up
at his master in what might be admiration, or sarcasm. Mherren grunts with annoyance and turns him
into a millipede. His mind flowing into Viper’s perceptions, the warlock goes blank.
Lightstrike is awake and talking excitedly with Haji Baba. “Do you remember how Mherren and I got
swallowed whole by those crazy toad critters? And how Mherren carved his way out of the thing’s gullet
with his flaming sword? And how I turned into leopard form and ripped my way out tooth and claw? And
how Zimlok fell into a gelatinous cube and had to haul himself out with a magic rope? Haha! That was
funny. Ooh! Did I tell you how I ripped my way out of the toad-thingy by turning into a leopard? Oh, I
did? Well, it’s worth retelling. Wouldn’t want such mighty and heroic deeds getting lost to history.”
“That’s nice, dear,” says Haji Baba, who is busy concentrating on Misha’s serpentine bracers. There is
certainly some enchantment to them, but how to activate it? Eventually, bored by Lightstrike’s
irrepressible enthusiasm, and exasperated by the bracers, she throws them to the floor in disgust. And is
delighted when they transform into two writhing constrictor snakes under her mental command. “In a
bit,” she says offhandedly to Lightstrike, whose disposition is far too cheerful to take any offence, and
turns herself into a scorpion.
Zimlok, styled The Lightbringer, who was rather preoccupied studying his spell books and preening his
less-than-fragrant underarm feathers, suddenly looks up and acquires an expression of unexpected
constipation. It is a message, implanted magically in his mind by Ramné the Druid.
Hail, Wizard. We are as well defended as we can be. I have
salvaged as many of the crops as I can, and now return to aid
Ormond. Kilian has raised a rudimentary militia. There are a
few veterans among them, but they’re mostly green. I don’t know
how well we’ll hold out against armed and armoured serpent-men.
And even if our kidnapped townsfolk have been brainwashed and
turned to the cult, we’ll not use our weapons against them. They
are our own families. If things turn sour, we will retreat to my
tower in the Grove of Stately Elms and make our stand there. Do
what you can to cut off the head of this snake. If the enchantment
is broken, it may turn the tide in our favour. May Desna’s luck
be with you. Hugs and kisses, Ramné xxx
His glazed and stupefied expression returning to normal, Zimlok blinks and looks over to the Traveller.
Gideon, his face obscured by the brim of his hat, is busily loading black powder into some kind of
elaborate pipe.
“My goodness, this is no time for smoking!” he exclaims haughtily. “And besides, I haven’t fitted any
smoke alarms in this pocket dimension. You wouldn’t believe the bureaucracy…”
Gideon chuckles to himself, and pushes his hat back to level crinkled eyes at Zimlok. “This ain’t no pipe,
wizard. This is Bad News, my trusty musket. And this – ” He produces another, smaller contraption from
a holster on his belt. “ – This is Mabel, my pistol.”
Zimlok gapes for a moment, then shuts his beak and tries to look mildly
disinterested, like he sees muskets and pistols every day. Wistfully he
imagines himself as a gun-totin’ outlaw, and marvels at how cool he looks.
“They’re a bit like your magic missiles,” says Gideon. “Only they’re not
magical. They need this black powder to go boom. And these are my last
dregs. I had more back at Orlane, but it was taken. It could even be here
somewhere, more than likely. I’ve been saving my last pouch for when I need
it most. And I think now is the time.”
“Awesome!” coos Lightstrike, who has wandered over to see what the fuss is about. “Can you blow
people’s heads off and stuff?”
“Maybe.”
“Coooooool.”
“Sshh,” hushes Zimlok, peering through the portal to the
forest floor. He points, and they see something emerging
from behind a broken tree stump. One by one, lithe,
ophidian figures pull themselves from a hole in the dredged
ground. Ten Yuan-ti emerge, armed with various polearms,
viciously hooked and serrated, double-curved bows, and
wickedly gleaming scimitars. They are followed by twelve
robed and hooded humans holding spears, cudgels, swords,
and daggers. The
humans go willingly, it would seem, with their captors.
At the head of the warband, an horrific-looking humanoid with
arms made of living snakes. He is speaking to his lieutenant.
Grabbing the necklace of tongues, Lightstrike dares to duck his
head out of the portal, just enough to hear.
“Mistress says search the area. The intruders cannot be far away.
If we find nothing, we are to march south as planned. Burn the
town. Kill anything that moves. Should the intruders wish to
pay her a visit, I’m sure she will give them a warm welcome.”
The lieutenant sniggers sycophantically before
motioning his troops to fan out and search the area.
Our heroes sit tight, waiting for them to leave.
“So we just leave Orlane to its fate?” Lightstrike asks.
“Ormond is as prepared as he can be,” says Zimlok.
“They have a plan. And we can send Whiskers to warn
them a war party is on its way. Let’s just hope they can
hold out until we get the job done.”
“On my daughter’s life, we will destroy this monster,”
swears Gideon.
Haji Baba wags her stinger in concurrence. And
Mherren sits blankly, milliquasit already descending
the rope. (It’s surprising how quickly a biped can get the
hang of being a thousand-legged arthropod, innit? – DM.)
One by one, the others follow. As Zimlok dispels his
actually-really-quite-impressive illusion magic, they
pause in the glade and listen. Not a stir. And then – a
creaking, squeaking noise, coming from a clump of thorny bushes. Gingerly, Lightstrike and Gideon go
to investigate. They find an old well, hidden behind the bush. And at the top of a pulley is suspended a
still-swinging bucket, sloshing warmish water over its rim. Listening intently, Lightstrike can hear
movement from the bottom of the shaft, like legs wading
through shallow water, but it is too dark to see anything.
Then, another sound – a rustling to the north. And a
glimpse of fur, like a fox’s tail, vanishing into the thickets.
Milliquasit winds his way down past the ancient, carved
stone block that protrudes angularly from the centre of
the clearing. The crevice opens into a wide, smooth-worn
tunnel that after a few feet becomes walled with masonry.
A cracked, tile floor, strewn with dust and debris, and
pooled here and there with fetid swampwater, confirms
they have indeed found the ruined basement to some
forgotten shrine of old. A room to the right contains a
wooden table and stools, and a bunch of large iron keys.
He finds an armoury, mostly empty bar some broken
weapons, and various stinking dormitories. A decapitated
statue lies amongst the dirt and refuse of the
hallway, its face resembling the giant visage of
Perun in the undercity of the Zobeck Cartways.
Scorpibaba sends her snakes to investigate the
corridors to the north, while she turns south to
a crumbling archway adorned with the stone
bust of a dragon. The archway is gated, but she
easily scuttles through and finds herself in a
large, partly flooded chamber supported by six
wooden pillars. Upon a large, malodorous nest
is coiled an immense lizard-like creature with
six snake heads, sleeping soundly. Keen to keep
things that way, Haji Baba tiptoes back out as
best she can on her arachnoid limbs.
From beneath a set of bronze double doors to
the west, hot steam billows out. Babs squeezes
under the doors, to find a foggy, humid room
containing a large, deep pit. The pit is filled
with large, reptilian eggs, the topmost of which
are showing signs of cracking. A glint of light
from behind a pile of rubble catches her attention, and she scuttles over to reveal a loose stone that has
been pushed aside to make way into the adjoining room. This room is set lower, and is flooded to waist
height with hot water. At the centre is another pit that glows with churning lava. Three statues of what
might be Elder Gods, in various states of disrepair or iconoclastic violence, line the walls. And behind
one, a door to another hatchery. In this room patrols a female yuan-ti, her lower body entirely snakelike,
armed with two faintly glowing sabres.
Returning to the lava room, Haji
Baba sneaks through another gap
into what appears to be a more
recent and cruder excavation. The
tunnel scans one way, where the
tunnel bends out of sight, and
then the other way – to see, all too
close, the muscled form of a large,
hook-clawed mastiff, its nose
twitching as it tests the air, and
whose dark form seems to wisp
away gaseously at the edges in a
manner that is hard for the eye to
grasp. If scorpions could gulp, Haji
Baba would.
The dog swings its heavy skull towards her and growls. Scorpibaba jumps an inch off the ground and
makes for the closest flooded area, the shadow mastiff hot on her trail. There! Refuge! She wedges herself
between some fallen rubble. The mastiff, having lost her scent, continues up the tunnel. Haji Baba waits
motionless in her crevice, a bead of sweat forming upon her arachnid brow.
“You’re out of time! Get out now!” shouts Richard O’Brien, randomly, and rushes off waving a big stick.
Meanwhile, Milliquasit has
located a doorway to the north
that leads into what appears to
be an even older section of the
ruined temple. The stonework
here is broken and buckled, as
the weight of earth above
begins to finally take its toll. A
long, straight corridor is lit at
the far end by torchlight,
causing long shadows to dance
across the bowing walls.
Several rooms adjoin this
corridor, and from one there
comes a loud snuffling noise –
one that might belong to a
very large boar.
But from the room emerges not a boar, but an enormous,
eight-legged lizard. More massive than a bull, its huge,
laterally undulating body bristling with spines, its toothy
maw fixed in a perpetual crocodile smile, it levels its
piercing, mesmerising gaze at a disturbance on the wall.
…But the milliquasit has already vanished.
Another room, with desks piled with scrolls and beakers
and vials. His back turned to the door, a yuan-ti busily
consults a hefty manual before carefully decanting a
fuming, yellow fluid into a test tube! Alchemy! If they have
incendiary devices, and they do have barrels of Gideon’s
black powder hidden somewhere… Bad News indeed…
At the end of the corridor milliquasit finds another room,
well-lit by torches flickering in their sconces, and large
copper brazier that burns before a hideous, garishly
painted wooden altar to Sseth: a snake-headed humanoid
with flared cobra’s hood and bared fangs. A
small, circular pool in the antechamber is
inhabited by another, more peculiar statue:
a particularly lifelike human apparently
sculpted in an expression of abject terror.
Other similar statues dot the pillared room
in strangely asymmetric positions. Around
the corner, something clinks and stirs…
But the lumbering steps of the basilisk jolt
milliquasit into millilegging it through an
open doorway opposite, and down another
corridor. The eerily dripping rooms at the
end are smothered in darkness, but one
appears to be a canteen of sorts, and another
a storeroom clogged with crates and barrels.
A locked door – no hindrance to a millipede, of course – leads into a pantry containing a dresser and
some burlap sacks spilling out some kind of black powder… behind which is a loose panel that leads
through to the second incubation room Scorpibaba found previously. Milliquasit sneaks through, and
finds his way to the tunnel where Babs met the shadow mastiff. The demonic dog apparently absent,
Mherren watches as the quasit flows across a log laid over a pit filled with hissing, rattling serpents, down
some crudely dug stairs, and through an open stone door that leads back into the ancient, stone-blocked
temple. Rows of barred cells line the dark corridor. And the cells contain prisoners!
In the first, an old dwarf
languishes against the wall. A
pudgy, tattooed, three-fingered
hand idly strokes his long, white
beard, and his bald pate is grimy
and scarred. In the next cell,
another dwarf. This one has
long, crimson hair tied back in
plaits, and a long, plaited red
beard dyed green at the tip. Even
in the dinge of this miserable
dungeon, his blue eyes sparkle
keenly. Milliquasit, though
invisible, has an unnerving sense
that the dwarf is looking right at
him. He moves on – the next
contains a greenish-skinned,
humanoid figure unlike any
Mherren has seen before. Its
features are vaguely orcish, but
gaunt and angular, with a
lowered brow and extended
philtrum. Adjacent is a female dwarf, hook-nosed
and warty, with one milky eye and a directionless and
sadly diminished set of yellow teeth. She seems to be
chuckling quietly to herself in a crazy sort of a way.
The last three cells hold human males; one greystubbled
and swarthy, the others in their twenties
and built like sumo wrestlers.
At some barely audible steps from around the corner
(the gaoler?), milliquasit turns tail and flees back the
way he came, spotting a previously unnoticed room
to the south that looks to be piled with coins, jewels,
and treasures of all kinds. The wealth, perhaps, of
Orlane and other blighted townships in the region,
stolen by the felons of The Road and brought to rot
in this hole by the yuan-ti to honour their despicable
and self-proclaimed deity.
Milliquasit scuttles through the stone doorway and
under a double arch into a bizarre and cavernous
space. The damp walls and ceiling made of packed
soil crumble disconcertingly, and irregular gaps
appear to reveal and encircling corridor beyond. Upon the floor, an elaborate symbol of geometric shape
and runes is laid out in what looks like blood, not long dry. And at the centre of the space, upon a pedestal
scratched with the characters of some black speech, squats a statue that fills even the demonic quasit with
revulsion. A giant toad, with heavy-lidded eyes and bat-like ears, opens its maw as though to swallow some
passing fly. Although the thing itself neither glows nor burns, from it emanates a sickly, green light that
fills the entire cavern, leaving only the edges dim. Intrigued, milliquasit edges closer. The statue appears
to be made of a green-veined marble, yet its surface is covered in stiff, hair-like bristles.
He starts and peers into the gloomy perimeter.
Something. There was something there. In his
peripheral vision. Something massive and
oozing, gliding past one of the gaps in the wall.
The long, sinuous body of a ginormous snake.
Is this she? Is this Defidia?
All the blood drains to the bottom of
milliquasit’s segments, as the enormous naga
circles him, round and round, making his head
spin. He catches glimpses, as her corpulent body
slides past the gaps in the wall. She is muttering
to herself, in a sibilant soliloquy of madness.
Quasit, rather cheesed off that his senses have once again been commandeered by that warlock of
Demogorgon, wearily rolls his ocelli.
“What now, genius?”
*
Somewhere to the north, upon a wind-lashed coastline, a flock of startled
gulls fly up squawking from the wreckage of a beached galley…
A few moments pass, the crested waves
rushing in to break upon the seaweedstrewn
shores of sandy coves, and against
the rugged bulwarks of towering, fossilridden
cliffs. High up on a vertiginous
ledge, a huge, winged eagle with the
hindquarters of a horse peaks down
towards the disturbance.
And there, emerging slowly from the water
far below, as though it has walked along
the very ocean floor – a scalp, then a
forehead, face, shoulders, torso, of a
slender figure, bedraggled and clad in torn
and salt-eaten leather armour.
With unsteady but determined steps, it
wades out of the surf, leaving wet
footprints in the crab-infested sand. A
woman, her long, black hair falling limply
across her face and shoulders. Tiny crabs
latch on to her feet and shins as she
traverses the beach, but she pays them no
mind. Her eyes are cast down as she passes
the exposed, sun-bleached ribs of some enormous,
prehistoric creature, pushing from the wet sands as
though seeking once more to breathe the salty air
and live again. Past, the horned, monstrous, lizardlike
skulls that watch impassively over the ceaseless
tides, as though they are immune to Time itself.
Behind her, the broken ship creaks and cracks and
laments its fate. In fact, a chorus of dry, rasping
voices shouts at her as she staggers past: “Hey! Hey,
Captain!” “Spare a thought…” “Don’t leave us
here!” No figures rush to the shattered gunwale.
Whence do these voices arise?
But no matter, for she pays them no
mind, either. Plucking an especially
ambitious crab from under her
leather vest and tossing it away, she
begins to scale the forbidding cliffs.
The hippogriff looks on
disinterestedly as she climbs, sending
rockfalls tumbling below her
wherever she slips and stumbles. But
nothing deters her. Finally, she
reaches the top, and takes a moment
to look back upon the indifferent and
relentless waves.
There, upon the horizon, a black stain spreads like molasses across the Gasping Ocean. A fleet of ships,
so many and so dense they appear like a floating island. Her eyes narrow, her lips pursed tight. As though
with renewed purpose, she turns and stalks away, leaving a faint scent of lavender behind her upon the
ocean breeze… and the ruddy shepherd-boy looking on from behind a rock dashes off to tell his tale.
Episode XLVIII
Defidia!
*
Meanwhile, prowling through the undergrowth of the dredged site of an
ancient, ruined temple, somewhere in the dark heart of the Groves of
Nephthys, our fearless heroes prepare for their daring assault.
Zimlok the Lightbringer finishes his little snooze, and awakes a little disappointed that he is not the
celebrated, dragon-slaying gunslinger of his dreams. He does feel to have gotten a good grasp on his spells,
though, and thinks he must look pretty dapper in his new wizard’s hat. (It’s a size too big for him, and looks
faintly ridiculous, but let’s not tell Zimlok, eh? He’s a sensitive sort; don’t want him getting in a huff – DM.)
Haji Baba, having scuttled out of the lair and popped back into her true form – that of a rather squat and
portly halfling druid – glides silently through the bushes, her hirsute feet crunching neither leaf nor twig,
looking for other entrances to the lair. She finds several: a vine-choked burrow; a shaft dug between the
roots of a decrepit tree stump; a steep passage, slick with moss, hidden in the rubble of long-fallen temple
walls; and, out near the perimeter ditch, beyond which mosquito-clouded swampwaters stretch out into
the gloom of the forest, another tunnel, in a hollow behind a wall of thick, thorny, gorse. And – what’s
that? There, in the sickly-looking, black-veined bracken – a flash of colour. That same, furry, amber tail
with a white tip, disappearing into the thicket. Babs decides to return to the group and report.
“We know where the prisoners are, and that most of the stolen treasures are close to the cells,” says the
Traveller, making one last check of his weapons. “We could get them out quick and find a way to trigger
an explosion. If we could spark the gunpowder it’d blow ‘em all sky high. Or we could undermine the
rampart and flood the place.”
Lightstrike stretches and yawns pointedly. “Yuh. Or we could just abseil in commando-style and take
down Defidia ourselves. That’d be way cooler.”
“Yeah, let’s do that!” says Mherren.
“Sounds like a plan!” says Babs.
“I’m in!” says Zimlok. “Stürm und drang!”
“But – ” Gideon shrugs and follows on.
They find a convenient tree root just beyond the hole they believe leads straight to the green-lit cavern.
Within, Milliquasit has already sneaked around the back of the circling, muttering snake-creature, and
located its stinking, slime-gunked nest, from which a beautiful, gold-hilted, ruby-inlaid sabre pokes out.
Pinging into quasit-form, he nabs the sword and slinks gingerly back towards the cavern. He has already
caught a glimpse of the monster’s face. And, well, it’s, erm – it’s monstrous. A bald, half-scaled head, as big
as an ox’s, sprouts from a sinuous body, thick as a tree-trunk, that seems to ooze a viscous, greenish slime.
The face is vaguely female, but distorted and hideous, with venom-dripping fangs and unblinking, coallike
eyes that seem to lead the gaze into a spiralling oblivion. But she was too lost in her own manic
delusion to notice the slight disturbance of an invisible millipede. This time, it might not be so easy.
Quasit can’t help but tremble as he grips the sword.
Having secured a rope to the tree root, our
intrepid band of adventurers line up
to go in. Zimlok is holding forth on
the correct hand grip and optimal
position for abseiling into
the chasm, using illustrative
illusions to demonstrate,
and to show off a bit at the same
time. Lightstrike,
being way too epic for a boring
health and safety video, has
already disappeared into
the blackness.
After a few metres, the near-vertical drop begins
to level out, and soon Lightstrike finds himself in a
curving tunnel, curtained by dangling roots and smelling of damp
earth and… ugh! Something fetid and rotten. Something that hasn’t cleaned its teeth in a very long while.
His tabaxi feet padding silently, the whale-shaped piece of carved bone that summons the whistle-blade
of Dagon clutched in one hand, and his flail shail snell shnield upon the other arm, he finds himself
looking down upon the cavern from an opening close to the ceiling. Literally at the end of his rope, he
jumps down, landing without a sound and ukemi-rolling to his feet. Above, he can hear his companions
following on.
Then, bathed in the sickening green light of the disturbing, bat-eared toad statue at the centre of this
blasphemous space, he hears a voice. It seems to come not from without, but from within his own mind.
Dulcet, soothing tones – the most beautiful voice he has ever heard…
“My dear, I am sssssso pleassssssed you came to ssssssee me. Have you come to join me in my righteousssss
conquesssssst? Ssssssuch a good idea. Our penssssion ssssscheme is ssssecond to none. And the perkssss?
You might even qualify for promotion to sssssserpentkind. How doessss that sound? Pray, tell me your
name?”
Despite his better judgement, Lightstrike finds himself besotted, and suddenly willing to do nearly
anything for this subterranean angel. The rune upon his forehead glows angrily as he glimpses the
enormous snake flowing around the tunnels that encircle this chamber.
“It’s Lightstrike,” he says amiably. “And that all sounds positively wonderful. I’d never considered
becoming a mutant yuan-ti abomination, but now that you mention it… Where do I sign? Who are you,
anyway?”
“Why, I am Sseth to thossse who know me not, and Defidia to thossse who do. In truth, I am the Plague
that heraldssss the coming of Zvilpoggua, the Shapelessssss One, unholy Ssspawn of the Frog God. Hisss
mutant army, led by assstral toad beingsss who call themselvesss the Tsathar, soldiers of Tsathoggua, and
who are better known here as Slaadi, gathersss in the Ebon Mire. They await the word of Cassius, Herald
of the Toad, who will emerge from centuriessss of hiding when the Time of Yuggoth iss nigh! Great
armiesss shall clash as eassst and wessst collide! The Black Pharoah shall reign again, and the Shadow of
the Old Onesss will extinguish once and for all the endlessss, pointlesss ssssuffering of the ssstruggle of
good against evil! Dragon, demon, angel, devil, assscendant, king, and emperor – all shall kneel… or
perish!”
“Sounds reasonable,” muses Lightstrike.
“Already much of this forsssaken outland is under my influence. Only the sssoutherners of the Rashan
Coassst, and that pesky Dragon Sssorcerer in Wolden, yet hold out againssst me. And the wizard who
hidesss away in hisss high tower. But my yuan-ti grow ssstronger in number by the day, as Astrid
transformsss more and more ssslaves into the noble race of ssserpent-men. Even now the Massster of the
Road is begging my ssservant to begin The Change. The hydra, Houatl, declaresss me Sseth Reborn at my
own whim, for he is my ssslave. All shall be my sssslavessss! Yesss, this isssolated realm is dooomed! No
help arrivesss from Yore! Sssoon the Athas, Sorcerer-King of Dragons will fall! Then the ssseat of Feirgotha
will fall before the combined might of Zvilpoggua and the orc-wraithsss of the Black Pharoah! The
Dwarven Underking hasss already fallen! And ssso too the Elfking, at least in ssspirit. It is written in the
conssstellationsss. Do not resssissst! Come into my embrace! Sssoon the propheciessss of the Psalmsss
shall be fulfilled! Tsathoggua shall rise from N’Kai. And the Great Old Onesss shall follow through assstral
portalsss to the Plane of Shadow. Why condemn yourssselvessss? You cannot fight the Inevitable! Join
with ussssss!”
“Oh, no. Quite right. No, I’m not resisting in the slightest. In fact, I’m very much on board with the
whole thing. I dig your whole slimy-creepy snake goddess vibe.”
“You do?”
“Oh, yes. Makes no sense being on the losing side. Sounds like you’ve got this all wrapped up. Where do
I sign?”
“Oh, that’sss wonderful!”
Defidia emerges from her warren, her face now transformed into something of sylph-like beauty, albeit
still attached to the body of a giant constrictor. Her beguiling, black eyes swirl with foul enchantment,
drawing Lightstrike deeper into his pleasantly dazy trance. To the others, watching on from above, she
remains a revolting, mucus-dripping, long-fanged hag, but to Lightstrike she’s… well, she’s just the best!
She slides in close, her stinking breath a fragrant bouquet to Lightstrike’s nose.
“Now!” Haji Baba screams, and hurls a javelin that streaks towards Defidia, exploding into her side like
a lightning bolt. Zimlok holds on to his hat and flaps his other arm, legs cycling madly, as he leaps, eyes
shut, to the cavern floor. Immediately he begins weaving his magic, his arms spiralling as his eyes roll
backwards and his beak invokes the arcane words of the Way of Sarastra, drawing on the ley powers of
the Songlines. Around him, beside the central statue of the bat-toad, a shimmering dome materialises.
Zimmo yells to the others. Babs throws another lightning bolt, jumps down, and pegs it as fast as her little
legs will carry her to Zimlok’s tiny hut. She tries not to look impressed.
Defidia, flinching at the druid’s cruel strikes, and already bleeding badly, flees for the relative safety of the
encircling tunnels, from which she would pick them off one by one, or take them out by the sinister
witchcraft with which she has enchanted her lair. She tries to incapacitate them with her nauseating
breath, poison them with her putrid trail, restrain them with her oozing walls, charm them with her
dominating presence… but all to no avail, for our heroes are all cosily holed up in another of Zimlok’s
defensive illusions.
Babs tries another javelin, this time tainted with sleeping potion, but the tincture has no effect on this
magical monstrosity. Mherren invokes the name of Demogorgon, and is relieved to feel the demonic
power surge within and emerge from his palms as twin rays of purple flame. Gideon unloads a shot from
Bad News, and finds his target. He grins with satisfaction through a cloud of gunpowder smoke. Zimlok
scowls and holds his hands over his ears.
Then his eyes widen in surprise as a look of possessed rage comes across Lightstrike’s face, as he holds the
amulet of Dagon to his heart and the whistle blade appears, hovering before him. Lightstrike whistles,
and the dagger hurtles towards the unsuspecting Traveller.
“Watch ou– ” starts Zimlok, but it is too late.
The Derro dagger sinks in deep. Then Zimlok
and Lightstrike are rolling upon the ground in a
flailing mass of fists and feathers. When they
emerge, Zimlok is wheezing hard and holding
his sides. And Lightstrike is trussed up like a
turkey, struggling and fuming.
From out of the surrounding umbra, the
shadow mastiff leaps, teeth bared, its semiethereal
form trailing in wisps as it arches
through the air. But it isn’t ethereal enough, and
with a yelp it bounces nose-crunchingly off
Zimlok’s dome of smugness.
“A thousand curssesss upon you!” Defidia’s voice resonates like a legion of demons. “You exassssperate
me with your dome of cowardice! This day will be your burial! Thisss temple shall be thy tomb!” And with
a yowl of frustration, she vanishes. Babs’ magic ice knife clatters against bare rock. Mherren sticks his
head out of the dome and gets a glob of slime on his head.
“Well, that’s nice,” he mutters.
“Leave him!” shouts Haji Baba, as Zimlok kneels over Lightstrike and slaps him repeatedly across the
jowls.
“Snap out of it!” he roars. Lightstrike’s glazed eyes begin to focus, and he wriggles free of his bonds, and
of the crazy kenku sitting on his chest. He staggers backwards out of the dome, only to look up and see
the mastiff in mid-pounce.
But Lightstrike’s reactions are so uncanny he even has time for a wry smile, and to deliver the line, “So
long, sucker,” before double-backflipping away at the last instant. The hapless shadow mastiff collides
once again with Zimlok’s dome.
“Aithindée!” Mherren whispers, gripping the blade of Maagog, and it bursts into hungry flames as it seeks
out the hound before it can scramble to its feet. Babs finishes it off with a stiff quarterstaff up where the
sun don’t shine. It collapses with a whimper.
Just then, a snake sidewinds into the occult chamber and morphs into a tall and sinuous, black-scaled
yuan-ti: a Mind Whisperer! Its whole body flexes in a queer, undulating motion, as though settling into
its new form, and it directs its alien gaze at Mherren. The warlock’s eyes begin to burn, as a jagged iron
crown appears upon his head, and flecks of froth appear at the
corners of his mouth. He launches himself suddenly at
Lightstrike, Flametongue arcing down and bouncing harmlessly
off the blood-painted floor, as the tabaxi rolls effortlessly out of
the way.
Another snake slithers into the room, this one morphing into
another yuan-ti, a Nightmare Speaker, female and snake-bodied,
who speaks in a sibilant, abyssal tongue, and spirals her arms
menacingly towards Zimlok. Her psionic attack penetrates the
magic-defying barrier, and Zimlok finds himself momentarily lost
in a nightmare world of paranoid visions. But he shakes it off, and goes to hide valiantly underneath his
flail slail sheld snield.
Bolstered by her allies’ support, Defidia reappears in the tunnels, attempts once more to inflict her
nauseating breath upon her now exposed enemies. But they are a surprisingly hardy bunch, and Mherren
replies with another chastening scorching ray.
It is then that Haji Baba meets with a sickening blow from the Mind Whisperer’s scimitar, which seems
to penetrate not just her flesh, but her mind, like venomous fangs sinking into her very being. She cries
out in pain, and staggers backwards, stunned by the wound, but replies with a quick succession of
throwing knives. The affront to nature slinks away, vanishing amongst the deeper shadows.
Zimlok, meanwhile, has overcome his momentary lapse in morale, and is setting to work destroying the
statue. He chips chunks from it with the Jim’s butt, and sets its wiry, swinish hairs alight.
Defidia is enraged. “Ssssacrilege! You defile the image of the Ssssleepy-Eyed One! For your sssinsss of
desssecration, you will die the sssslowessst, bird!”
But Zimlok, safe inside his dome of prudence, only takes
things further, donning his crab-pincer glovers to really go
at the thing. Lightstrike looks around after letting fly an
arrow at the Nightmare Speaker, to see the yuan-ti alchemist
entering the fray, a massive, ponderous basilisk straining at
a leash beside him. The Nightmare Speaker recovers her
poise, and summons tendrils of dark energy that leap from
her form and lash around Gideon, who, having jammed up
Bad News, is desperately trying to grasp hold of Mabel, his
pistol, all while staunching his seeping wound. Lightstrike
intervenes with his whistle-blade, dropping the yuan-ti, as
Mherren and Haji Baba renew their efforts at pounding
Defidia with rounds of eldritch fire and forking lightning.
But Defidia, screeching a defiant, unearthly cry of anguish and
desperation, vanishes once more. Babs howls in frustration. “Oooh – now
I’m really mad!” she snarls, her half-elven features contorting in a barbaric
rage. She sprints at the alchemist, wielding her thunderstaff, and swings it
in an almighty haymaker that floors the shocked yuan-ti with a crack of
sonic energy. She never gives him the chance to test his explosive
concoctions. He is of interest now only to historians.
As Zimlok continues his courageous assault on an inanimate and defenceless statue, Lightstrike, Mherren
and Gideon go at the basilisk; the warlock and gunslinger taking potshots, as the arcane trickster dashes
in and out, hitting it with vicious sneak attacks. Then in comes Babs, a spinning dervish of anger and
spittle, her great axe whirling and carving through the stale air: “Yaaaaaaarrrrrrrgggggghhhhhhh!!!!!” And
with one almighty swing she beheads the thing where it stands. Its eight, stocky legs buckle, a perplexed
expression crosses its face, and it flumps to the ground in a heap.
“Um, we had that, y’know,” ventures Mherren cautiously, as Babs picks up the gruesome, dripping head,
and uses a bowstring to fashion it into an improvised backpack.
She whips round, her face contorted with battle-lust. “What’s that?” she demands.
“Oh, er. Nuthin’. You did good there,” Mherren laughs nervously.
“Yeah. Real good. Haha,” Lightstrike joins in, unconvincingly.
Zimlok feels slightly nauseous, and turns away as Babs slings her gruesome prize over Mherren’s back, his
cheeks filling.
“She can’t have gone far! Let’s get after her!” urges Gideon, badly hurt but determined to finish it.
As the absent quasit creeps sheepishly into the cavern, dragging a goldhilted,
ruby-inlaid sword, they all look at each other, wondering what
to do next. Aside from the Mind Whisperer, the imprisoned serpenthydra,
the guard patrolling the incubation chambers, the mindless
zombies at the bottom of the well, and whatever was stirring in the
shrine to Sseth, they had massacred their foes, and only had their
noses bloodied. Only Defidia remains! (Sort of.)
A faint and plaintive voice emanates from the cells beyond the cavern. “Erm, excuse me? Any chance of
a wee bit o’ help, here?”
Haji Baba, splattered with blood and smeared with gore as she hacks away furiously at the necks of their
fallen enemies, looks up in wild, unhinged annoyance.
*
Many leagues to the north, beyond the forbidding wall of the Icespire
Mountains, and deep in the untamed, boreal forest of Bor Nyster, a king
sits beneath the falling, violet blossom of an ancient plum tree, surveying the
serene beauty of the Valley of Perfect Silences.
Uslektil Kagonestri,
King of Kagonost and
High Consul of the
Forest Council, white of
hair but fresh of face,
steely eyes set in
perpetual contemplative
reflection beneath his
lush crown of laurel
leaves, turns to look
down at his consort, a
rosy-cheeked and
rotund hobbit woman
with long, red plaits and
impressive sideburns.
“She has been gone a
long time.”
“Were we right to send
her away?”
“She had much to learn of the world. Here in the
Valley we have only books, and precious few of those.
She will be well-protected by the tabaxi. They say he was
trained by a strange vagabond in the forest – a master
of disguise and swordsman bar none, whose origins are
nebulous at best. But whoever he was, Lightstrike is a
valiant fighter, a skilled scout and burglar, and an
amiable companion for the road. That kenku, on the
other hand…”
“I do wish he hadn’t tagged along. I know his type.
Always trying to prove something. Always
overestimating himself. He’ll bring nothing but
trouble.”
“I’m not so sure. The Speaker of the Forest said there was something about him. Something he was
unaware of himself. But something important, nonetheless. And when Tanueviel returned, she said he
was a bit green and a bit gung-ho, and his sorcery was little more than a few unconvincing illusions, and
she couldn’t really think of any redeeming qualities at all actually, but they sort of tolerated him and it
kind of worked. She said that they’d picked up another on their travels. A half-orc who dabbled in some
sort of black arts.”
“That’s discouraging.”
“She needs free space to learn. To connect with nature and learn to channel its power. Thremm says she
showed great promise. It just needed unlocking.”
“Well, I just hope she hasn’t gone and got herself mixed up in some mad quest for a legendary artifact
with which she’s going to save the whole world from a catastrophic evil.”
“No, I’m sure there’ll be nothing like that going on, dear.”
An elfmaiden approaches, clad in greaves and a brigandine vest. A bow is slung over one shoulder, a
longsword at her side. She kneels and bows her head.
“What news, Kuriond?”
“My king, visitors. From afar.”
“Strangers?”
“One, my lord. The other…”
“Go on.”
“It is the Winter Queen of Qualimor. Travelling without her entourage. She is gravely ill, but the High
Priest of Sarenrae believes she can be saved.”
“What ails her?”
“Some unnatural darkness has sunk its claws into her soul, I fear. She mutters garbled tales about the
poisoning of the feywild, the bloodstone of Orcus, and Koschei the Deathless. My, lord, it is only a few
days before the passing of the crown.”
The king pauses for a moment to consider. “And her companion? The Summer King?”
“No, my lord. He awaits your pleasure.”
“Bring him, then.”
Kuriond signals to a phalanx of
guards standing a few yards
distant, and from their midst
prowls a powerful-looking,
mauve-scaled dragonborn.
Across his back is slung a
vicious-looking, double-headed
weapon, and in his hands, a
bizarre, barbed sword that
seems to be made of living
wood. He prostrates himself
before Uslektil.
“Speak freely, monk.”
The dragonborn rises and hesitates for a moment before speaking. “O King, I am Ki-Shun of Draconia,
Solemn Devotee of the Platinum Dragon. I have carried Queen Caerdonelle o’er mountain and dale,
with barely a morsel to eat or sleep, in hope your priests would heal her and you might grant her sanctuary
from Eoneril. A shadow has been cast across the king’s heart, I know not what. But it ravaged the feywild.
With the help of a young rogue by the name of Lightstrike, I purged the darkness and rescued the queen.
She was at the verge of death, and still appears lost in some limbo realm of shadow.”
“Lightstrike? A tabaxi?”
“Yes, your Grace.”
“Where was this?”
“In the Neblinhala, the Halls of the Deep Gnomes beneath the Galentaur.”
The queen consort interrupts. “Was Haji Baba with him? Our daughter?”
“The tabaxi was a prisoner. We broke free and swam through a portal. He said there were others with
him. I left with Caerdonelle before he could reunite with them. The name you speak is familiar, yes. They
were headed for Nidlhammer, looking for another elf – a priestess of Arden.”
“Arden? The Sundered God? He who sacrificed himself to banish a great demon far below the earth?”
“The very same.”
The queen shakes her head. “Our Babs, getting mixed up with Old Gods and Duergar and worse. I do
hope she’s careful.”
“As sure as the rains of Silvanus, she can look after herself. She has your temper, for one thing.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your Grace?” the dragonborn ventures.
“This sword… Eoneril tried to
bind it to the shadows. I
believe… could it be…?”
He proffers the jagged sword
horizontally towards Uslektil,
who studies it intently, his brow
furrowing and his expression
darkening. At last he speaks, a
horrified whisper.
“Lhang Eryn! The
Brambleblade! Winter’s Bane!
The lost Elemental Sword of
Wood! For centuries it has been
missing. And the Summer King
kept it from us…?”
Another interruption, by a breathless elf clad similarly to Kuriond, except his boots are muddied and his
hair matted beneath a scalloped helm. His expression is grim as he bows deeply.
“Forgive my intrusion, my King, but I bring grave news from the south.”
“Tell it, Samrethdin.”
“Our eyes in the Freedlands have spied a great army marching north. As we speak they move through the
Trollfells, close to Unga’s Gap…”
“What army? Whose army?”
“Your Grace. It is an Elvish army. And Eoneril Ostoroth rides at their vanguard.”
Uslektil already knows the answer to his next question. “To where do you believe they march,
Samrethdin?”
“Here, your Grace. They march on Kagonost.”
Episode XLIX
CARNAGE
*
Many hundreds of leagues to the east, down in a dark, deep hole in the
ancient forests of a bleak and trackless headland, a peculiar behatted,
humanoid raven sets about determinedly destroying an occult statue with
hands that resemble a pair of oversized crab pincers.
His battle-wearied allies watch with fascination, as he chips away at the strangely-furred, green-glowing
entity that resembles some kind of demonic hybrid of bat and toad. All studiously avoid looking at the
nightmarish, still-dripping basilisk head that Mherren the Malevolent has strapped to his back.
Haji Baba is breathing hard after methodically decapitating their fallen foes, whilst Gideon, now out of
black powder, tweaks the mechanism of his heavy crossbow.
“We should search for Defidia while the trail is still fresh,” suggests Lightstrike. “It could be she hasn’t
gone far. We could yet catch her and destroy her!”
“At least we know we’re not fighting a god!” snorts Mherren. “She admitted herself that her persona as
Sseth is just a front. Really she is a servant of Tsathoggua!”
Zimlok pauses for a moment and studies the statue quizzically. Did it just move?
“Erm – guys?”
“What is it, Zimlok? You quite finished fighting with an inanimate object?”
“It’s not so inanimate now,” says the wizard as an unearthly, piercing screech fills the cavern, and the idol
of Tsathoggua shudders to life.
Mherren, stunned by the deafening shriek, drops to his knees, clutching his ears. The others stagger
backwards out of the magical shelter, as the demon leaps from its pedestal with stop-animation, staccato
movements, and seems to grin a hideous, froggy grin.
Babs, now frothing rather disconcertingly from the corners of her mouth, grimacing from beneath her
magnificent, golden pharaonic headpiece, serpentine bracers now returned and glinting, gives it a right
old clout on the noggin with her thunderstaff, cracking the unnatural, veined marble of its hide only to
release a cloud of billowing spores. Mherren, recovering his senses, blasts it with a beam of eldritch energy,
as Gideon charges it from one side, his longsword raised above his head, and Lightstrike attacks from the
other, his temple sword dealing devastating blows upon the demon-possessed golem. He suffers a painful
swipe, but then Zimlok grabs the basilisk head from Mherren, and levels its gaze at their enemy.
Immobile and swiftly returning to cold marble, the demon can do nothing as Haji Baba’s great axe and
Mherren’s flaming sword rain down upon it. One final, sickening blow from Lightstrike’s hefty temple
sword, and the foul entity is cleaved in two, its green glow subsiding and returning the chamber to
darkness. Just to be sure (and arguably influenced by Haji Baba’s gruesome habits) Mherren uses the
Sword of Idu Maagog to part its ugly head from its bristly, marble body. One last insult to Tsathoggua.
Let’s hope he doesn’t rue it later…
As the others begin to relax their guard, Lightstrike spots the escaped Mind Whisperer returning from
the direction of the gaol, one of the prisoners – the old dwarf – held hostage in front of it. Lightstrike is
in no mood for negotiating. He is just about to send his whistle-blade to do its work, feeling the surging
evil of Dagon course through him and clutch at his heart, held steadfast and pure by the holy touch of
Arden… when Mherren’s quasit suddenly appears on the yuan-ti’s shoulder, scaring it out of its blackscaled
skin. Haji Baba seizes her chance, and launches her last throwing knife with pinpoint accuracy, this
time skewering the creature between the eyes. It sags for a moment, then drops dead.
“Why do I have to do everything myself?” huffs Babs, as her companions look on in dismay. Lightstrike
rather forlornly returns his whistle-blade to its whalebone form and stuffs it into his pocket.
Silence holds the cavern. Then, a bestial roar, from somewhere beyond the cells, shakes the ancient walls.
Something has awakened.
Our stoic heroes go with the old dwarf to release his fellow prisoners.
“They call me Daggers,” says the old dwarf, looking rather admiringly at the blood-smeared and scowling
Haji Baba, and suspiciously at Zimlok, who has gotten a bit of demon-statue lodged at the end of his beak
and can’t quite reach to dislodge it. “I brew the finest mushroom soups in all of Yore. Many years I’ve
spent sailing the seas, scuttling pirates and generally blowing stuff up. A few months back we docked at
Endholme. When I heard of a King in the East who had found an elixir of fire, me alchemical nose told
me to make me way there. Found me way to Astlav, where I met Yalsk, here. We got snatched in the night
by a bunch o’ thieves.”
“Aye, it’s true, though I’m ashamed to say it,” says the gaudy-bearded dwarf called Yalsk, his face smeared
with grime, twinkling blue eyes shining through. “I was on my way to the meet the carnies on their way
to the Dragon Festival in Wolden. Heard the King was to make a big announcement. Could make for a
good song. But they kidnapped us. Took us to the snakemen, who bound us, took our weapons, and me
precious lute, and brought us to this hellhole. Morag here thinks the monster was going to charm us, and,
if we proved strong enough to resist, would grant us the dubious honour of being mutated into an
abomination like the yuan-ti. We fear there are already some poor souls receiving the rites – if only you’d
come sooner!”
“It’s true, I do think that, I do,” interrupts Morag, a wizened old dwarf with one milky eye, making a
knocking motion with one fist and strolling casually out of her locked prison cell.
“But why didn’t you escape?” asks Lightstrike in dismay.
“It’s one thing unlocking a wee door, dearie, but it’s quite another tackling or slipping past that horrid
slithery thing that was guarding us. Morag knows a few tricks, but she’s no fool, yes! It had strange, alien
powers, that creature. Psionics some call it, yes – like magic, only its their own thoughts that carry the
power. Morag knows these things, yes, yes, Morag knows! Heeheeeeheeeheeee!”
Finally, Lightstrike releases the stubborn locks of the remaining two cells. The three men introduce
themselves as Tank, Brian, and Bertric – the last indeed being the stepfather of Cirilli, who thanks our
heroes profusely when he learns that she is safe. There is a standoffish pause between him and Gideon,
but then they clasp hands and draw their shoulders close.
“It’s been a long time,” says Bertric.
“I’m glad you’re safe,” says Gideon.
From the deep shadows of the last cell, the sinister-looking, gangly humanoid strides, his face locked in a
seemingly perpetual scowl.
“Who are you?” asks Lightstrike.
“I am Xaphado’clithquith-viraslimdath’dzallinth’ll
of the Astral Gith Corps,” he says, watching
Lightstrike’s jaw work vacantly. After a moment:
“You can call me Slim. I seek the Underlord,
K’Varn, who would enslave the Elder Brain of the
Illithid scum and unite the denizens of the
Underdark in the name of some Elder Being
worshipped by the Tsathar. I am on a top-secret
assassination mission to take out K’Varn.”
“Oh, him? You don’t need to worry about him. We
already dealt with all that. K’Varn’s gone, and his
creepy Mind Flayer henchmen. We left just as the
Dark Elves were pulverising the Duergar.”
Slim just looks at Lightstrike, obviously having difficulty processing the fact that his high clearance
mission has already been accomplished for him.
“Then I am in your debt, creature. Come, let us retrieve our arms!”
And he strides past Lightstrike and the others, to a nearby room where not only the prisoners’ confiscated
equipment is stashed, but also it would seem the stolen wares, goods and treasures of many of the region’s
towns and villages. Gold, armour, jewels, ceramics, and heirlooms of all kinds, piled without care in a
heap in a crudely dug-out chamber.
Yalsk joyfully finds his lute, and Daggers his strangely twisted club and… erm… daggers. Slim picks up a
gleaming great-sword and swings it familiarly. “Let’s finish this,” he says with his best Hollywood cool.
Salvaging some of Gideon’s black powder from the pantry, they split up and make quick work of the
snakepit and the hatcheries. Mherren is rather put out when he accidentally drops his lucky mummified
goblin hand that he’s been carrying round for weeks, blaming Asuran’s curse for his continuing streak of
bad luck.
But the decisive “Kkka-kkaaa-BBOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!!!” from deeper in the lair, and Gideon’s
returning, face caked in soot and a broad grin on his normally brooding face, suggests the eggs are no
more, and almost certainly the giant constrictor that was lurking amongst them.
Unfortunately, Gideon had been rather overenthusiastic with his measures, and the force of the explosion
caves in much of the already damp and unstable ceiling of the ancient temple. Could anything have
survived? They pause and listen. Then, from a distant part
of the dungeon, the faint sound of a turning latch, and the
distinct sound of an enormous body stirring from its nest…
And then, another scuffle – and poking a twitching nose
around the threshold to the treasure hoard, a beautiful,
sleek fox appears.
“Druth! Y’found us!” cries Yalsk, and runs to greet the
animal, which pushes against his legs and arches its back
with pleasure.
“Wait! There’s something else,” says Mherren, holding up one palm. His eyes glaze over as he tunes his
senses into the quasit, which he has sent on another daredemon errand to scout out the remaining
unexplored sections of the ruin. The west side has collapsed, but the alchemist’s room has survived, from
which he salvages six potions and an armful of scrolls, and the shrine to Sseth also remains largely intact,
though the pillars buckle and the ceiling crumbles alarmingly. Peering cautiously around the corner, he
sees a prone figure, a hooded, purple cloak ridden up and obscuring the head, and one ankle shackled
and chained to the wall behind the garishly painted altar.
A feeble, female voice escapes from the figure. “Help me! Don’t leave me here!”
Realising time is of the essence, Mherren
prompts his familiar to try to break the pin of
the shackle. The semi-concious figure groans as
he makes several attempts with some broken
masonry (actually the forearm of one of the
nearby petrified “statues”), but eventually the
pin gives way.
“What’s your name?”
“Astrid. I am a holy woman. Or at least I was.
Before that monster changed me forever!”
And as she rises and turns to look towards her
invisible rescuer, the cloak falls away – to reveal
a woman with a writhing headful of snakes. The
quasit goes pale and turns to stone, his defiant
little demonic soul once again launched out of
his body and into the depths of the Abyss, where the Demogorgon awaits. Mherren begins to feel a little
numb, but just manages to look away in time, barely glimpsing the medusa stepping past and slipping
away into the shadows.
*
Amidst the lumps of broken soil and debris above the exploded lair, a single
hand pushes up through the dirt.
It pats around to find solid purchase,
and shortly after an arm follows, and
then the head and shoulders of a thin,
furtive-looking, mud-caked man with
matted, mousy hair and an unkempt
goatee beard.
Struggling and coughing and gasping for
air, he pulls himself free with bloodied
wrists, and begins to crawl away.
Pushing himself weakly to his feet, he
staggers and limps for a few paces, looks
around, and allows his gait to transform
to a smooth, confident lope. As it does,
his skin turns to a mottled blue, his
wounds close, and a pair of great,
curving ram’s horns sprouts from his
head. His grows taller, and his skull
elongates to lengthen his chin and brow.
He pauses upon the rampart, scanning
the murky waters for signs of movement.
Then his close-set, black, pupilless eyes
narrow, and, dismissing the illusion of
his torn and ragged clothes, he wades
out naked into the black waters.
Epilogue
Forced back by the savage onslaught, and desperately outnumbered, the desperate citizens of Orlane withdraw to the Grove of Stately Elms. Skirmishes are short and bloody, Kilian’s untrained militia no match for the strength and brutality of the serpentfolk. Many good men fall to the cruel arrows and scimitars of the yuan-ti, though perhaps not as many as would have had Whiskers not made it back in time to warn them of the imminently approaching warband. Kilian, his nose bloodied but otherwise unharmed, barricades the broken door of the squat, dilapidated tower as best he can with the help of a few loyal men, even as they are peppered by hails of barbed and poisoned arrows. At the top of the tower, Ramné nurses Mayor Ormond, who has been mortally wounded by a spear to the abdomen. Even the druid’s magic cannot reverse the thickening poison that seeks to stop his heart. “If only I had Adventure Seeker! I would run at those monsters in a blaze of glory, instead of dying here like an animal,” Ormond gasps. Ramné goes to glance over the parapet. The last few men and women are running for the barricade. One takes an arrow to the calf and stumbles, and a couple of his comrades hurry back to drag him along with them. Another, accosted by two yuan-ti, bravely fights them off, but she is eventually forced to the ground, pleading for her life. But then Ramné’s eyes widen, for on the far side of the clearing, a dozen hooded figures emerge silently, like shadows of death, clad in black leather and wielding black iron crossbows and long katanas. They kneel and aim at the bloody chaos in the Grove of Stately Elms as one of them, a female with a shock of stark, white hair, strides between them and issues a command. “Anna-gurth ilye!” she rasps. “Death to them all!”*
A frail and venous hand releases the crystal orb, and the image of a besieged tower mixes, melts and
vanishes in parting wisps within the swirling glass. The robed figure sits back in the shadows to
contemplate what he has just seen, his other hand using a clawed staff to idly stroke an appreciative black
cat with its hideously wiggling, wooden fingers.
“So,” he says, with a sigh of satisfaction. “It begins…”
*
What begins?
Will our doughty and intrepid heroes track down and put an end to Defidia and her plans, or will she escape to return
to her master and plot her revenge?
Will Mherren survive the encroaching Curse of Asuran?
And if they do succeed, then what? To the Dragon Festival at Wolden, to investigate the role of this rebel sorcererking?
To consult with the archmage Kayden in his Lonely Keep? Into the Ebon Mire to deal with Zvilpoggua and his
mutant army? Or onward to seek out the Black Pyramid itself? Or perhaps it’s time for a nice shopping trip to the
capital?
Whatever happened to Zellingar? And Mordenkainen? And what of the Master of the Road, supposedly in cahoots
with the yuan-ti? What will become of Astrid, the medusa? And how will our Accidental Heroes of Yore deal with the
remaining monsters in the collapsed Temple of Sseth? Can any of the prisoners help with their perennial quest?
Are the citizens of Orlane doomed to die? Will our heroes lift Defidia’s enchantment and be celebrated by the peoples
of the Dragon Coast? Will they manage to recover the stolen riches of the Dragon Coast? Or (dare I say it) that sword?
What grim tidings bring these vast armadas to the shores of Yore? Has civil war come to the Elves? What dire fate
has befallen the Akrin orcs? What significance have the Elemental Blades? And what do the Shadowmancers of Barad
Quali have to do with all this? What alliances will our heroes forge? And what new enemies will they make?
Oh by Volund’s beard, so many questions! Perhaps we will have some answers in the next ssssssensational episode of…
Ye Sword of Air
Ye Obligatory Appendices
1. The Abandoned Temple of Sseth
2. Level 7!
At the end of Episode 50, you’ll be able to level up to the giddy heights of Level 7! Woohoo! Here’s a summary of your experience rewards and treasure, and a quick guide to the choices you’ll need to make... Ye Count of Ye Slain Shadow mastiff 200 Talash – Nightmare Speaker 1,100 Alchemist (Malison) 750 Basilisk 700 Demon-statue of Tsathoggua 2,300 Sisava – Mind Whisperer 1,100 Egg chambers 200 Giant Constrictor 450 TOTAL EXPERIENCE: 6,800 XP AWARD PER PLAYER: 1,700 Loot 3x potions of healing (2d4 +2 hp) 2x flasks of alchemist’s fire (ranged improvised attack, throw 20’ for 1d4 fire damage at the start of each turn – DC 10 Dex check to extinguish) 1 dose of elixir of control human (control up to 8 humans as though under dominate person, a DC 18 Wis save to avoid) Various scrolls on alchemical theories and experiment logs – spending a long rest studying these scrolls will provide knowledge of how to make 1d4 +1 uncommon alchemical compounds Adventure Seeker, Blessed Blade of the Thrillseeker (see over) Level 7! At the end of Episode 50, you’ll be able to level up. You’ll get another hit die and an increase to your maximum hit point total. ❖ Babs – you can choose to improve your barbarian or your druid capabilities. Barbarians get Reckless Attack and Danger Sense. Druids get an extra 3rd level spell slot and Land’s Stride. Any of you can choose to multiclass if you so desire, but otherwise… ❖ Lightstrike’s Sneak Attack is improved to 4d6, and he gets the Evasion class feature. Elovyn’s Blessing also grants him the Dawn’s Radiance paladin feature. ❖ Mherren learns a new warlock spell at 4th level, and also gains a new Invocation. ❖ Zimlok gets a 4th level spell slot, and can add two wizard spells of his choice to his spellbook. Each level of a spell learned takes 2 hours and costs 50 gp in components and experimentation. We’re going to start using the Attuning to Magic Items rules, which means you’ll have to pick which three magic items you want at hand, just like when you prepare spells. You can change your attuned items during a Long Rest. Once you’ve dealt with Defidia one way or another, you should have the opportunity for some Downtime activities, should you choose. You have a list of suggested pursuits (like research, healing, making contacts, training, trading, customising items and building a base of operations), or you can come up with your own. Flash a bit of cash or let your reputation precede you, and you should be able to attract some Retainers, who can be directed to accomplish certain tasks, craft items, undertake diplomatic missions on your behalf, or even accompany you on your adventures. Also, just as a note, if you are ever knocked unconscious and recover, you do so with a point of Exhaustion. And Mherren – Asuran’s curse will manifest another level of Exhaustion in you the next time everyone takes a Long Rest. Best find a priest who can remove curses pretty darned sharpish… Scenes of extreme violence, depictions of gore, allusions to torture, incarceration, and mind control, and an atmosphere of supernatural threat throughout. If you or anyone you know has been affected by any of the issues raised in this adventure, kindly do please get a grip of yourself.Remove these ads. Join the Worldbuilders Guild
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