#32 - Trials In Shadow (part 2)

Shortly after their awakening in a chamber in the Eye of the Shadow temple, the PCs met their hostess: Zerasha, a black-scaled medusa and a high priestess of the Sovereign of Magic and Mayhem. Her eyes were fixed above them—for to meet the gaze of a medusa is to be rendered in stone—as she spoke to them, though the eyes of her serpents were on them.

Zerasha had been described previously by the changeling Drivinia—herself a cleric of the Shadow—as "the second most influential figure in Graywall," second only to the mind flayer who was given control of the city by the Daughters of Sora Kell (the rulers of Droaam).

Zerasha spoke to the PCs of prophecies—specifically, one part of the Draconic Prophecy that she learned in her youth. Zerasha's own grandmother had told it to her because it evidently concerned her, and that medusa had learned it from Sora Teraza, the hag seer of ancient folklore who also happened to be one of the Daughters of Sora Kell.

This was the prophecy as told to Zerasha, placed into rhyme by her grandmother.


In the Tower of Shrouds
Where goblin's key is found 

Dragons are the true children of Siberys, and
they have devoted tens of thousands
of years to studying the ancient
mystery—the Draconic Prophecy.

Seven mortals emerge
Their deaths nearly unwound

Dolurhh is delayed
By a daughter of stone
And followed by he
Who died for the throne

First they are seven, then they are six
Bearing bone and blade with powers transfix’d

Son of the mountains, sailor and priest
Squire of dragons,  far from the east

Student of witchcraft, as dark as the night
Legacy of Xen'drik, mournful of sight

Blood of the Marches, both hunter and prey
Blood of the beast and heir of the fey

Gathered in shadows not of their volition
Born then anew, winter coalition

Zerasha explained that she had sent the young medusa Sa-Jira to the Tower of the Shrouds ostensibly to search for the "goblin's key." In truth, she has long been hoping to trigger this prophecy. Sa-Jira, a medusa, was a "daughter of stone," and she was needed to help the "seven mortals" emerge from the Tower of Shrouds.

What was the Tower of Shrouds? Formely a watchtower of ancient Dhakaan, then a burial ground for orcs, and now—for whatever reason—a place haunted by wraiths. The PCs had fought gnolls there, and an umber hulk, and had certainly encountered some of the "shrouds." Thought he PCs would later rescue Sa-Jira herself from a gnoll party, her appearance helped them get out of the tower before the wraiths overwhelmed them.

So far, the PCs had no understanding of the "And they are followed by he / Who died for the throne" part.

It was surmised that the "son of the mountains" referred to Doongul, the "squire of dragons" was Magnus. The "student of witchcraft" seemed to be Xoma, and the "legacy of Xen'drik" Cypher, given that warforged were inspired by schemas originally discovered in the ruins of Xen'drik. "Blood of the Marches" was likely Rendar, for most orcs and half-orcs hail from the Shadow Marches, while "blood of the beast" seemed likely to refer to the shifter, Cyzicus.

Now, the validity of this entire prophecy was another matter. But the discussion brought up the question: What was this "winter coalition"? The PCs had heard this phrase only once before—in the scrap of paper uncovered in a goblin laboratory below the ruins of Paluur Draal. Written in a letter by the Eldeen ranger Wolaf, before his death and transformation into a wight, it was intended for an orc named Koruun, a Gatekeeper druid who also happened to be Cyzicus's own mentor back home.

Here is the second half of the letter. Towards the end, the handwriting deteriorates:


I have learned this much from the mind of the creature that killed Claviger, that has killed me. It spoke truths in my mind that burn me still. They burrow through my skull like a relentless worm. Through it I have learned the name of the being the Governor came to serve, and I cannot get it out of my head. To think it is to fear it, to speak it is to weaken its bonds. I dare not write it. In turn, I know it knows of me now, where I came from, what I fight for, and the fact that I came here alone. Even without your approval, old friend. I am trapped here.

I do not know how to send this letter to you, Koruun. Warning you of this fiend is the only quest I have left and I am failing even in this. I have prayed that even after my death, someone will bear this message to you. If they succeed, then there may be hope.

Listen to me now. I believe this fiend is one of the rajahs from the Age of Demons, the first children of Khyber. If so, then it is the greatest threat we face now, for there are those abroad who work even now to free him. And he is stirring. They will not stop until they have opened the seals in the Seven Caves. The Draconic Prophecy speaks of several ways to do so.

The enemy knows that the Emperor of Dhakaan himself possessed an object that could open any gate erected by any of his subjects. The loyal, the remote, even the traitorous. All doors would be open to him. This object alone can remove some of the seals, but the rajah's servants do not possess it yet.

Koruun, I know you fear the opening of the Changegate. That day may come, but there are fiends already present we must be concerned with.

they will not sleep

forever

The governor now guards the nexus

he must not be fed

    i must stop

don't feel

the same

    anymore

need   hide

winter coalition must form

         claviger has

                            key

Zerasha knew, in part, what the Winter Coalition was. She'd researched it herself already.

“The Winter Coalition was an order of warriors who guarded against the rajah—demon Overlord—known as Katashka. During the Age of Demons, which ended more than one hundred thousand years ago, Katashka wielded power over undeath and was even attributed to creating the first undead creatures. During the war between the dragons of Siberys and the fiends of Khyber, none opposed Katashka more than the white wyrm Vensharatryx. Mortally wounded by the rajah’s minions, Vensharatryx founded the Winter Coalition to make sure others would oppose him after her death.”

Presumably, the rajah written about by Wolaf was Katashka, overlord of undeath, and that he'd learned of the possibility that he might somehow be freed—and that agents were actively working to free him. It would certainly account for the creatures, and the deathly devices, the PCs had encountered deep beneath the surface.

Of her own reasons for helping the PCs, Zerasha said only this: “The Shadow has plans for Eberron, and none of them involve the awakening of a rajah from the Age of Demons. That would be...unfortunate for most of us. Consider this fiend our common enemy.”

As they considered this, the PCs at least now had the support and apparent aid of Zerasha as high priestess of the Shadow. She said she would recommend them to Szalas Jal, the oni (ogre mage) proprietor of Tooth and Steel, the best smithy in Graywall, and some access to the Eye of the Shadow's arcane libraries. And of course, she would speak on their behalf concerning Sa-Jira's mother, Sa-Zira, the Ambassador in Graywall who represented the interests of the warlord Sheshka, the Queen of Stone.

#32 - Trials In Shadow (Part 1)

Excerpt from the Cypher's Codex: The Scrawlings of a Warforged Scholar

Having defeated the Master Ennen and his animated flesh golem, we decided to explore the rest of the House of the Hand. There were two remaining unexplored egresses from the main chamber. I found nothing but empty monk cells through one door but Doongul, Rendar, and Cyzicus discovered Master Ennen’s cell and a staircase down through the other. The party went to explore down the stairs but I was determined to thoroughly search Ennen’s chamber. I hoped to find some magical trinkets or scrolls that I could use to study the monk and his powers. I had never had the opportunity to study the ascetic disciplines of monks outside of the library. Unfortunately, I found nothing of note in these very bare chambers.

Trug came running into the room excitedly shouting “Cyphiare”; my expertise was required downstairs. I joined my companions in a small antechamber, the strong stench of unwashed ogre flesh in the air. There was a single locked door with a small grated window. Xoma, who can see perfectly in the dark, told us that the room inside was small and cramped with pipes and levers. There was a single, unclad ogre strapped to a chair in the center of the room, possibly restrained by his own half-flayed flesh. We had a long discussion of tactics for how to deal with the ogre. In fact, Magnus and Rendar became so disgusted with the tactical preparations that they headed back up the stairs.

Finally Cyzicus fired an arrow through the window and Doongul instructed Trug to throw his torch through the window so we could assess the damage.  he ogre bellowed loudly but remained in the chair; it was clear at this point that he was fettered by his own skin. Xoma fired a magic poison missile at the ogre and it responded by pulling one of the levers out of the floor and hurling it at the door. The bottom of the lever turned out to be a rusty, pitted blade, and the lever-spear struck the door, pointing out through our side by several inches. Cyzicus was able to fire a deadly strike into the ogres throat and Xoma finished the task with another poison missile.

Before picking the lock on the door, I determined that there was a mechanical trap set upon it. Any attempt to bypass the lock without the proper key would cause a blade in the ceiling on the other side of the door to drop on anyone who walked through it. I was able to disable the trap and then unlock the door using my lock picking tools. I inspected the complicated machinery around the disabled ogre. Each of the levers could also be removed and had blades like the one he threw at us. There were many interconnected pipes that attached to the levers and went into the walls. I believed this was the control mechanism for the Grinder in the temple basement and told this to the others. While I inspected the device further, Cyzicus, Xoma, Magnus, and Rendar traveled back to the Grinder to explore it now that the ogre controlling it was disabled, but they found nothing interesting.

We decided this device—used to train evil monks and possibly kill their enemies—needed to be disabled.  Despite the lack of arcane magical presence, this device had clearly been built by a master artificer. In order to really disable the Grinder beyond the repair of another artificer, I went to work carefully destroying the inner workings. Doongul lent me divine guidance in my task by the power of Onatar’s forge. I expended my supply of iron spikes and some sealing wax during the efforts. I successfully disabled the vile machine.  Doongul set ablaze all of the flesh skins found in Master Ennet’s chambers, as well as the ogre and we returned upstairs.

There was still one ogre unaccounted for, as there were three ogre-sized pallets in the basement control room. The only unexplored section of temple was the vile blood pools near the entrance.  No one was interested in swimming into them, so I volunteered. My fragile companions’ need to breathe air certainly gave them a reason to avoid submersion. I didn’t really want to go but I felt it was my duty to make the effort.  Rendar made a harness out of fifty feet of rope and he and Magnus lowered me into the pool. The liquid was a crimson, sticky fluid with the consistency of milk; certainly blood had been a vital ingredient, but I suspect other alchemical reagents were involved. Once submerged I could see nothing, even with magical light infused through my dagger. I felt my way along the walls into a passage that would pass me under the floor and deeper into the temple.

However, I began to feel very uncomfortable. Even though I was safely connected to my companions by silken rope, I was reminded of my time inert and immobilized in the dregs of the Brey River. I swam a bit further and the feeling of despair grew stronger. The rope went taught, exhausted of its length, so I gave the signal to return to surface. As I was pulled back, I felt something attacking me from behind. I panicked, already distraught from the feeling of helplessness, and tried to grab at the attacker with a surge of energy, but was unsuccessful. As I emerged from the pool, Xoma cast his final thunderwave spell, which sent the spiders splattering against the wall.

As I tried to clean myself, and regain my composition, Magnus noticed that the blood pool had stained all of the wood fibers of my body a deep red. He was very intrigued by this change and congratulated me on my new look but I refused to acknowledge him. The trauma today of having twice relived the experience of hopelessness underwater was too much for me to handle. I grabbed my old scholar robes and wrapped them tight around my body, covering my head with the hood.

We finally left the vile temple, rejoined Drivinia, then followed her through the alleys that led us here. The changeling female altered her form again, this time to the old beggar lady-orc and brought us not directly to her temple—the Eye of the Shadow—but to another alley and a secret door. Ushering us into a twisting passage belowground, she told us to go ahead, that she would follow us. Xoma, never fazed by natural darkness, led the way. But then we came upon a curtain of magical darkness which blocked even Doongul's forgelight. Xoma cautiously stepped into the darkness and the others began to follow him, one by one. As Cyzicus walked into the darkness, Drivinia said to him with a smile, “No hard feelings.”

This was more than I could take after the trials I had been through. I turned to her in a rage and angrily grabbed her with both hands. I said, “I have had enough of your tricks. Explain this right now.” She didn’t resist but certainly she was taken aback by my anger. Rendar, the only companion left at this point, carefully flanked her and put his hand on his hilt. Drivinia carefully talked me down, saying she was just a messenger in this affair and she promised to follow us through the darkness. This wasn’t good enough, and I told her to lead the way.  After some thought, she accepted her fate and we followed her through the darkness.

It turned out each of had a difference experience beyond that curtain of darkness.

*          *          *

Cypher's Experience (in his words):

I emerged from darkness to find myself entering a small room with metal walls. My companions were gone. Instead, there were three taller warforged warriors and a badly damaged, human knight with the markings of Thrane and the Silver Flame on his armor. The human was weaponless, held on his knees in before them. The largest warforged of the three—clearly the superior—was holding the human upright. The sergeant told me that he would give me the honor of killing this pitiful human. I asked why and he said that they had retrieved all the information they were going to get out of him.

The situation I was in was very strange. It did not make any logical sense that I was there. I stalled while I tried to figure out what tactical options were available to me. None of the soldiers bore national or organization emblems by which I could identify their allegiance. I made a quick search of the decidedly metal room we were in but could not gain any insight into our location.

I told the commander that I should try to determine whether the knight had any more information of value and I tried to bluff out of him what information they wanted from this human. They insisted they were done with him and he should be discarded. I started to ask where we were and the commander laughed while his soldiers reached for their weapons. At that point, I made the determination that I would not last a moment in a fight with these soldiers—and the human would be no help to me at all. I was still heavily damaged from the Mockery's temple and lacking any infusions to bolster my defenses. I did not know what this human had done to deserve death at the hand of a warforged, but if I were not here to do it, certainly he would not have been saved anyway. Hoping to intimidate the warforged in front of me, I eschewed my dagger and instead grabbed the knight by the head with one hand and infused unrefined energy through the metal and wood of my hand, permanently disabling the human with a jolt of electricity. The commander pulled his hands back with a start and then laughed, the fake hollow laugh warforged make when mimicking the human sentiment of amusement. He said, “Ah, an artificer, I see,” and I replied with a gruff, “Yes, a very skilled one.” He simply turned around and walked out of the room.  One of the soldiers told me to follow him and I did.

*          *          *

Magnus's Experience (in his words):

I walked into darkness as Doongul grabbed my belt.  I appeared, alone in a small underground chamber with an opening leading to a cavernous area with torchlight to the left. I stepped over and peeked out the door. I could sense a big one outside the door, some breathing noise, little settling of the great scaled body. A dragon, without doubt. I looked to the torches to add some light and they were obscured by a great paw.
I knelt.
     “Do you kneel to any dragon?” he asked in the oldest language of this world.
     “I kneel to you.”
     “Serve me.”
     “Who are you?”
     “If I were Garcerix, would you serve me?”
     “No.”
     “Why?”
     “I serve another.”
     “He is dead.”
     “Prove your identity.”
     A small belch of flame revealed a great, red draconic head. Huge.
     “I control you. Serve me.”
     “You control my body. No.”
     “Serve me or burn.”
     “I serve another.”
     “Then burn.”
     He began to chuff up a flame. I crouched and charged as he belched. I burned, my mace skittering against his scaly hide.
     I collapsed from the burning.
     I awoke.

*          *          *

Doongul's Experience (in his words):

The darkness faded and I find myself in a place that reminded me instantly of the Fist of Onatar, a holy site from my homeland and a crucible of the Sovereign's great power. Although I had been there before on pilgrimage, I had never seen the awe of the molten metal of the earth so close. Looking down a ledge precariously placed, I felt strangely at peace seeing the greatness of Onatar's forge once again. The heat was unbearable yet in my heart I knew that can not be the truth...

Looking out in desperation I called out to Onatar, peering out to the vastness for a sign. I quickly realized my newfound acolyte, Trug, is across the great pool of magma on a ledge as well. He was afraid and I felt his pain. Trying to focus on a solution, I realized we had been placed in some type of doomed oblivion that only the darkness of the Eye of the Shadow could have created.

I used what spells I had left upon myself and Trug to ease the pain of the heat. I sat and pondered the meaning of this... whether illusion, vision, or something else. With desperation, I called out to Onatar one last time, asking him for guidance, but to no avail. We were trapped but it could not be real. There was no where to go and the prospect of dying at the hand of the Shadow was not an option. My mind was resolved... I would not be taken by a trick of the Dark Six.

Trug told me to ask the Keeper for guidance... The Keeper, that was worrisome. The Keeper is the Sovereign of Death and Decay. I felt torn at the thought of Trug still having faith in a god like that. I called out to the Keeper to show himself... Knowing all to well he would not have helped one such as me, a Vassal and follower of Onatar. Channeling the divinity of Onatar, I stepped to the edge, knowing that if I was to die it would be on my own terms. I called out to Trug to "have faith in Onatar, he will save you." I stepped forward to my fate, resolved as this is the solution.

I felt myself falling towards the fire, the magma, and my god... embracing all that I know is true.

There was pain, searing pain... A pain I have not felt since I lost my leg.

*          *          *

Xoma's Experience (in his words):

The inhabitants of Khorvaire must have a lot of time on their hands. I can think of nothing else that explains their preoccupation with mind games that runs so rampant in the religions present here.

Let me explain. I came from a tribe that worshipped the spirit-god Vulkoor, commonly depicted as a fierce male drow with the body of a scorpion. Vulkoor isn’t a “nice” dark elf by any stretch. You wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley in Graywall (or anywhere else). He teaches us to be self-sufficient, to be strong. The strong survive and the weak perish. That is the law of Vulkoor and that is the law of the wild.

I understand that there are faiths in Khorvaire that have more “benevolent” ends. Doongul has never seemed all that interested in proselytizing, so I can’t truly evaluate the tenets of his faith. There is certainly power in Onatar, but I know nothing of the beliefs he espouses.

The Mockery and the Shadow—two gods of the Dark Six—however, seem to never be happy unless they are messing with your head. They aren’t content to steal, kill, rape, or pillage. No, for them, it has to be personal. And not personal on an individual, spiritual level.

They want to get personal with you.

That brings me to my encounter with the Shadow. I know nothing of what my companions experienced when we all walked through the curtain of shadow. I can only surmise that they too experienced some sort of test. I don’t know whether or not the test was supposed to be some sort of manifestation of individual fears, hopes, and challenges. I suspect that it was more what the Shadow—or the minions of that deity—think are our challenges. If this is the insight the Shadow has into me, I am not impressed.

I was confronted by another drow who looked quite a bit like me, almost identical, but was possessed of entirely different sacred tattoos. His bespoke a focus on necromancy that I found interesting, but also somewhat limited. I would have been content to trade knowledge, but this more unpleasant Xoma clearly had battle on the mind.

He was also stronger than I am. He was not affected by wounds from previous battles and seemed to have his full resources to employ. Also, I think he might have been some sort of vampire, given the fangs and claws he sprouted.

Every time I hit him, I was further wounded. I’m not sure what the symbolism behind that is.  I suppose the lesson was meant to be: “When you are faced when an overwhelmingly superior foe who you cannot harm without harming yourself, and who isn’t interested in negotiation, you will lose.”

Of course, that’s no lesson. That’s simply logic. And to further compound the lack of logic, the foe who you cannot defeat is unwilling to consider the possibility of not fighting.

So perhaps the lesson was: “Xoma, sometimes you just lose.”

Of course, that’s a lesson with which I’m quite well acquainted. There’s always someone bigger and scarier in the jungle than you. While it would be foolish to show weakness in the face of others, I never doubt that there are those more powerful than I, and if I faced them, they would destroy me.

*          *          *

Cyzicus's Experience (in his words):

I found myself in a cavern lit with a purple glow by luminescent fungi, which suggested I had been teleported into Khyber’s subterranean realm. Two eyeless, gray-skinned humanoids of a sort I’d never seen before
shuffled into the cavern, blocking the only visible exit. I noted each creature bore an axe hewn from stone as they raised their snouts to sniff the air. I suspected Drivinia and her fellow Shadow-worshipers had once again led us into danger, so I retreated from the creatures, and shot two arrows at one of them. Both shafts struck their target with some force, but it did not react as much as I'd have thought.

It was then that an unfamiliar voice inside my head asked, Why do you always attack first?

I disagreed with my unseen questioner, protesting that I usually was both cautious and patient and held back from violence, but I fell silent as a foul creature out of nightmares strode into the cavern. Although I’d never actually seen one before, I immediately recognized the thing as a mind flayer, a vile abomination out of Xoriat.

It spoke telepathically, and I recognized the "voice" of my questioner. I asked it why it had brought me here, but it denied it had done so, and ignored my further questioning. Instead it asked if I would speak with one of its kind without offering violence. For a moment I considered the possibility that none of this was real, all of it simply an illusion created by the Shadow. However, if it were real, my prospects of overcoming the abomination and its servitors were bleak. It seemed best to play along for time and information. “It would be educational,” I replied.

The mind flayer turned and strode out. I waited a moment then spoke to the gray creatures in Common. They also turned and left. As the purple light faded away, I lit my lantern, and stepped out of the cavern into a curtain of darkness.

*          *          *

Rendar's Experience (in his words):

I found myself alone in a tomb, not far from the surface but clearly underground. Standing before an open sarcophagi, his back to me, was Drazul d'Tharashk. I knew this couldn't be real but now that I've seen him with my own eyes, this certainly looked just like him. Was this another changeling, or a trick of the Shadow's?

Drazul, the excoriate, who had tried to kill me and my companions before, turned and spoke to me. He spoke vaguely of loyalties, and of a "dying house." Specifically, he referred to House Tharashk, the dragonmarked house of "unity," as having its days numbered. 

He spoke of choosing sides—the house's, or "the winning side (his)—and he offered me a choice to join with him. Drazul gestured to the open sarcophagus, but I could not see what lay within.

He warned me that if I rejected him, if I walked away, he would hunt me down. He said they were still looking for us. I can only assume he meant himself, and Avashad, or perhaps the knights of the Emerald Claw we'd faced off against in Paluur Draal.

For me, there was no question. My honor would not allow me to join with him. But if he still wanted the Emperor's Key, then perhaps he could be led on a chase of our choosing. So I chose to walk away, and as I did I felt one of his arrows take me in the back of the neck. Then were was darkness once again.

*          *          *

Again from Cypher's Codex: The Scrawlings of a Warforged Scholar

The party began to awaken in a small, if dimly lit, healing chamber, fully rested and rejuvenated. Even I felt the sensations of awakening, nothing like I have ever felt before. It was like my awareness had been taken away from me and was just returned all of a sudden. I was seated, propped up carefully against the wall.  Everybody else was lying on the ground, their wounds expertly bound and armor neatly piled next to them.

The young medusa—who we had not seen since the first day in Graywall—was seated next to Rendar, delicately painting on his arm around his dragonmark with some sort of dye. He looked up at Sa-Jira, and spoke, with what I think may have been a bit of venom in his voice, “Glad to see you are okay.”  She responded, “I am glad that you are alive.”

#31 - Bones and Blades in the House of the Mockery

Excerpt from the Cypher's Codex: The Scrawlings of a Warforged Scholar

Cold. Wet. Endless.

There is much talk and speculation about the mortal soul and what transpires after the flesh is no longer viable. Religions and entire nations have warred over differing opinions about this since the Age of Dragons. Daanvi, Baator, Dolurrh, perhaps even Khyber itself: these terms are all used by different creatures to signify different planes, different realities, but all of them seek to define a unifying concept—everlasting life, continued existence for the soul.

The concept of a warforged soul is as novel as warforged themselves. It is a question that haunts my curiosity as I journey through this plane of existence. I believe it is the direct consequence of their own mortality that humans and their like tend to dwell so deeply on the matter of soul. Their lives on this world are so fleeting that they must speculate on eternity in order to soothe their anxiety. Of course as any warforged, I could become irreversibly disabled, and then the matter of an "afterlife" would become relevant to me as well. I have heard soldiers lamenting their fate, worrying what will become of them when they died. They assumed they would pass into Dolurrh, the Shadowfell, the realm of the dead. Some feared that the atrocities of war would send them into the clutches of Baator, the Nine Hells, to be tormented by evils.

But what my mortal peers can not relate to is the fact that their speculations of an everlasting Hell is in fact a distinct possibility in this realm for me and my kind.

20 Olarune, 994 YK, the Day of Mourning: My platoon was camped out on the Cyran banks of the Brey River when the fateful holocaust of arcane energy overtook the entire nation. My entire being was enveloped in unquenchable flames—not precisely hot, nor the opposite, but deadly all the same. I charged towards the river with every last ounce of resolve left in my body.  By the time I jumped into the Brey, the wood fibers in my body had stiffened and my composite metal plating felt molten hot. I was completely disabled as the water overtook me. Like all warforged, I can live on even when inert. How much damage the matrix of our being can actually sustain before total dissolution, none can say, but it does happen.

I needed neither sustenance nor sleep, nor air to breathe. So there I lay on the bottom of the Brey River for two years, four months, and three days, unable to move, unable to repair. And unable to die.

This memory which is ever-present in my thoughts became a twisted reality for me again. One moment I was inspecting the religious idol in the House of the Hand and the next moment I was again lost to the world for eternity. I spent another 7 years on the bottom of that fetid river before being rescued again by the gentle magewright, Halmon of Vathirond. Then reality faded again and I was prone but uninjured on the floor before the altar of the Mockery. I noticed the monk Master Ennet had reappeared. I made a trained assessment of the battle and realized that I had only been in my private Hell for a matter of seconds.

Xoma was shaking off what must have been the same phantasmal effect that had made me a vulnerable prisoner of my own mind. He then made a feeble attack at Ennet. The shifter Cyzicus was just in front of me but clearly he was still within the effects of the idol’s power. He was striking wildly around his head, fighting off some unseen beasts. But I noticed wounds taking hold on his face and knew this was some powerful magic. I took hold of his shoulders and turned him towards me, trying to shake him into reality. There was no change to his demeanor and I felt powerless once more. But the battle was raging and I had to leave him to his own Hell. What is Hell for an Eldeen shifter?

Magnus came around opposite Xoma to flank Ennet and wailed on him with a massive blow from the hobgoblin’s dragon bone club.  If ever there were a weapon for a barbarian from the Seren Isles, that was it. Master Ennet then proceeded to flay the flesh off of Magnus’s right arm with a single scrape of his kama before deftly jumping the twenty feet down to the main floor. Magnus’s arm had become a grotesque sight: a tattooed piece of flesh the length of his forearm hanging free that will not be easy to forget.

Rendar then made a resolute dash down the stairs to the garden. He succeeded in blocking Ennet’s escape path, but was unable to take the monk down quickly by himself. From above on the altar, I was able to sink a magical bolt from my armbow into Master Ennet’s torso while Doongul threw one of his divine bolts at the monk—after shoving Trug to safety behind a pillar.

It was at this point that the dread blossoms from the garden started to swarm again—sensing the fresh blood from the battle or triggered by the monk’s hand claps. Ennet amazingly took hold of Rendar’s violet-hued byeshk scimitar and wrenched it from his hands before running past him between the dread blossom flower beds.

We all ran after the monk, firing and striking out, but none of us was able to connect. Xoma missed with his boomerang after applying to it the scorpion poison he’d bought to inscribe new spells onto his “spellbook”—his own tattooed body. Doongul called forth one of his last available spells and conjured the thunder of Onatar into the courtyard! Even Xoma’s margoyle, perched uselessly atop the the courtyard’s overhang, was rocked back by the sound.

Magnus with his powerful legs was able to run through the blossom garden and flank the monk, blocking an easy retreat. Master Ennet looked back between Rendar and Magnus, with his arm skin still flapping. He smiled and said, “The Mockery curses you. Only pain will cleanse you.” He then brutally slit his own throat using Rendar’s scimitar.

Suspiciously, at the same moment as the life was pouring out of Master Ennet’s throat, Doongul noticed behind him that the grisly statue started lurching forward off of the altar.  The idol-golem made up of flesh from different creatures attacked Doongul but the dwarf blocked the creature’s considerable strength with his shield. I fired off an unerring magic missile while the rest of the party ran back to the altar to deal with the new threat.

Doongul, Cyzicus, and Rendar all landed powerful blows to the idol’s frame but caused no visible damage! While I was under the influence of the altar’s phantasmal power, Magnus had thrown a flask of oil from his bandolier at the inanimate statue. When Rendar’s physical attack didn’t cause any damage, he deftly wove through the golem’s defenses and lit a spark on the creature, causing the oil to conflagrate—which flared all the brighter in proximity to Doongul and his forgelit hammer.

My view of this scene was blocked by the pillars of the shrine room but I ducked out from the pillar and fired a perfect shot from my magical armbow into the creature’s center of mass. The shot caused it to step back; clearly I inflicted some major damage. Cyzicus then attempted to use Xoma’s mysterious decanter of necrotic “healing,” hoping to damage the golem. He didn’t realize that the power of the mysterious fluid required a strong will to control—which, I am sorry to report, is not necessarily one of the shifter’s strongest qualities.

However, Cyzicus was able to deal some harm to the golem, evidenced by minor abrasions all over the creature—and simultaneously healing himself, albeit with obvious pain. Xoma, meanwhile, was standing by the courtyard’s edge making his third (and in vain) attempt to will the margoyle to help us in our attack. Perhaps it would have been more useful to have had kept the dagger as a weapon that he could actually control instead of sacrificing it to create the oversized gargoyle.

Calling upon magics I cannot quantify, Doongul sanctified his warhammer in the holy name of Onatar, hoping that the blasphemous creature was susceptible to the Host’s holy power. The warhammer, glowing now with both forgelight and holy light, crunched satisfyingly into the idol’s body. Clearly, it was in some way anathema to Onatar’s power—or to Doongul’s belief in such power. There is no way to know what force supplies clerics with their magic.

Nearby, Trug was up against the wall swatting at the dread blossoms that were hounding him, killing some of the swarm over his head. The idol punched Cyzicus in the face while he was stunned by the drain of blood the dread blossoms had taken from him. I had a swarm of blossoms about me but they soon left for more sanguineous pastures. Evidently they didn’t care much for alchemical fluids that keep me operational.

Rendar slashed at the idol, this time with his recovered byeshk scimitar, and caused a massive wound. I fired another bolt directly into the idol’s face, cracking into its skull. The idol shuttered and began to fly into a rage. What followed was a supernatural effect I had never witnessed before: blood started spraying directly into the creature’s body from the open wounds of my companions (those nearest the golem). Fortunately for Doongul, he was yet unharmed but Cyzicus, Magnus, and Rendar were not so fortunate. Cyzicus turned to run but was drained further by the dread blossoms and he dropped, disabled and bleeding.

Doongul used his cleric’s spell of minor healing to stabilize the shifter and then drove another blow into the idol with his sanctified hammer. Magnus landed another hit with his dragon-bone club. By this point the creature’s innumerable skins were starting to become an amorphous mess of blood from itself and my companions. It siphoned the blood from those nearby, rendering Cyzicus unconscious seconds after he’d come to again. Finally Rendar landed the final blow to the creature and it dropped to the floor.

My party wasn’t in the clear yet, though.  The dread blossoms had been harassing us throughout the entire battle. Deeming it to be too difficult a shot with the armbow, I killed off some of the blossoms attacking Cyzicus with a magic missile. Unfortunately, the remaining blossoms knocked poor Cyzicus down for a third time. I finished them off by channelling a surge of pure infusion energy. Xoma used his own variant of this effect—shocking grasp—through his weapon to kill off the blossoms attacking him and Doongul sent Onatar’s light above Trug’s head, finishing those off.

But by far the most creative means of getting rid of this insidious horticulture came from our barbarian. Obsessed—I would say even religiously—with fire, Magnus let out a great roar reminiscent of a dragon and set himself alight with his tinderbox and a flask of oil. What an awesome, if horrific, sight to see the tall, red-tattooed human attempting to immolate himself  The feat worked exactly as planned, the blossoms burned up along with the barbarian, forearm skin still flapping wildly. Magnus promptly—and deftly, as if he’d done this before—rolled to the ground to douse the flames, but I thought I could discern a slight smile on his charred face.  Strange human.

The brutal battle finally over, we regrouped and made plans for a short rest to repair. Xoma declared that if we could rest for at least half an hour, in hopes of salvaging the scorpion venom he’d applied to his weapon by inscribing another spell upon his skin—lest he waste the resource. Understanding his plight, I convinced the party to spare the time. During this time, Doongul looted the bodies while Magnus and Rendar resumed their earlier task of cutting down the skin tapestries which formed the perimeter of the shrine room. In short order, they found a secret door in the corner of the room behind one of the skins.

Meanwhile, I spent my time doing a hasty autopsy of the idol-golem. It was a spectacularly complex creature.

When Xoma finished, we looted the vault room beyond the secret door: our physical reward for entering this damned temple. The room was filled with hanging chains, hooks, corpses, and a collection of fine blades from across Khorvaire, even Xen’drik.

For our records, I compiled a list of plunder on parchment.

• A longsword of masterwork, and Flamic design.
• A Xen'drik boomerang, this one carved with symbols of a tribe of drow that only Xoma seemed to recognize. He observed that this weapon was enchanted and warm to the touch.
• A Talentan sharash.
• The haftless blade of a Brelish glaive.
• A Valenar scimitar of masterwork quality.
• A masterwork Karrnathy bastard sword carved with the symbol of the Academy of Rekkenmark.
• An Aundairian dagger.
• A Cannith warforged parsing blade.
• An assortment of unlabeled alchemical and preservative fluids.
• Needles and thread.
• Flaying blades.
• Whetstones.
• 340 platinum pieces.

#30 - Returning Guests of the Mockery

As told by Magnus of the Island of Seren.

We’d been in the temple of the Mockery for only a little while, killed some creatures, and run from the poor monks who worship here. These guys were really creepy. It seemed that their religion revolved around blood sacrifice (which I sort-of get) and a lot of evil acts (which I don’t). The creepy part is that they sacrifice their own blood, a little here, a little there (you have to bleed to open the door to the place!). The monks have torn the flesh from their own bodies in strips, leaving them looking pretty gross.

Some of them seem to think that the mockery will benefit them if they bleed all the way out...to death. We found some of these volunteers in a room with pools of blood-scum (kept in a near liquid state) under them as they were in the final stages of whatever ordeal it was. Xoma interrupted the ritual and killed them outright. I understand that sometimes one has to make personal sacrifices as part of a tribe. It even makes sense to die for your own people. These men and women took it too far for me; as far as I am concerned, I am happy to let them die, or to help them on their way. Whatever their laws required!

I wanted to kill them all and burn the place down. I thought it best to do it right then, since we’d already started: the incident with the blood flowers, the web, Xoma’s darkness spell, and an attack of the flayed monks had the group running for the door, and I was bringing up the rear.

Faced with a few of these disgusting monks, Cypher delivered one of his electric shocks to the lead monk, Master Ennet. The monk looked surprised and Cypher ran back out the door, saying, “You could run!” I took a swing at Ennet and, missing, step back out into the hallway between the door and Xoma, who looked to be prepping something nasty for the flayed ones.

Master Ennet said something in a weird language I didn’t understand and then all four monks dove into the blood pools around them. Xoma translated shortly afterwards: "Enact the Grinder!"

In the courtyard outside the temple, I could  hear Doongal healing someone. Xoma grabbed the crowbar which had been holding the door open and said “Let’s go!” before he ran out, too. I didn't get it. We should be going in and killing these torn-up idiots!

About the time I decided that my friends must have a reason or a plan, and that I should just follow them,  the floor opened up and I fall down into a chute that gently curves to horizontal at the bottom—leaving me tumbled but unhurt about forty feet below my friends. Xoma had grabbed a ledge and kept from falling.

Cypher flung a rope down to me so I grabbed on and started to climb. Only a few feet up, some sort of blade swishes through the hallway and cuts the rope, sending me back down. But it wasn't long before Xoma remembered his Levitate spell, so he floated down to get me up. Only when I wrap my arms around the drow's body do I realize just how thin he is.

About that time, Cyzicus returned with Drivinia—who he'd chased down using his keen shifter nose—and a crowd of reptilian-looking toughies. Xoma took advantage of his levitate spell to float up to the rooftops of the courtyard to scout around. Drivinia stopped moving where we all can see the group.

Changelings have smooth, pale
features. They are rarely seen in
their true form.

Rendar, standing guard, said, “What is going on?"

Cyzicus replied with something like, "Drivinia is a changeling, working for people with our interests at heart and I have been convinced that we must destroy the monks as best we can.” This may not have been his exact words, but that's what I heard from him.

Drivinia added that there was some kind of vault in the temple with unknown goods to be plundered. She was trying to motivate us with talk of treasure and prophecy. Cypher said we are not ready for any kind of assault—but I was!

Drivinia started to carry on about how we were being tested and that we had to go fast and great were the powers in play and that someone named “Zarasha” wanted us to fulfill the this prophecy. That was all fine with me, as long as our "allies" stopped double-crossing us. I was starting to want to know what was going on! The only people we could really trust were the ones we came here with. Except....Halbazar. Nevermind.

Cyzicus and Rendar took a minute to soak this in and then shared a look. Rendar believed that what the changeling was saying was mostly true. We all talk around for a few more minutes and agreed to get back into the temple and start some serious killing. WGREAT, that’s what I'd said all along! Prophecy be damned, the Mockery was serious evil and needed to be wiped out.

Cypher asked for Drivinia to heal us if she could and she took stock of us and saw that Rendar still had a few feet of Seren war spear sticking out of him (bad luck, that). Drivinia healed Rendar with a prayer to her own god (the Shadow), and I got my spear back.

Xoma ferried us all up to the roof and we waved goodbye (for now) to Drivinia and her quiet companions. The changeling said something like, "Survive and be favored." No shit—surviving and killing opponents always brings favor! Speaking of that, Xoma told me that the spiked club I'd grabbed from that big baddie is made of...

DRAGON bone, and probably enchanted. I drop my own mace into its sheath and got ready to kill monks with the new weapon, for the glory of the dragon born. No bugbear deserved to carry this fine weapon.

Once on the roof and with a little privacy—as much as one can expect in a nightscape with harpies and gargoyles flying about and watching—we rested for only as long as we needed, binding wounds and preparing for the next phase of our assault. During the rest, Cypher looked over my new weapon and pronounced it superior to my original. The warforged then fixes the silk rope that was cut getting me back to the surface.

We mustered at the far edge of the open courtyard—there blood flowers were all quiet now—and used some rope to lower ourselves onto the stairs of the inner courtyard and the mezzanine level where the monks had first appeared. It was very quiet.

But behind the pillars was a ghastly sight. The walls were covered with the skins of dead humanoids and there was a butchery of a sculpture—some sort of idol—on a dias against the back wall. The idol seemed to be made of scavenged body parts and then sewn or magicked together to create a humanoid form with a dragonoid head. Not a proper dragon, either, but some sort of fiendish half-dragon. Bad stuff. Xoma and Cyzicus called it a golem, though we did not see it move. Doongul, more offended by all of this than any of us, tried to light the skin tapestries afire. They merely smoldered and smelled bad.

Xoma noticed and then pointed out that his “Margoyle”—an overlarge gargoyle—had landed on the rooftop above the courtyard, where we'd been only minutes before. I had no idea what that portended…another friendly foe perhaps. Continuing on our way, we descended to the courtyard and proceeded to the tall stone door that was directly under the mezzanine level. There was a handle with no lock, and Xoma called said it was labeled “The Grinder.” Xoma said there was no magic upon it, and Cypher said there was no trap, either.

Cypher, then Rendar, then Xoma tried the door, failing. Doongul made it move just a bit. This door was tricky, or we were getting our bad luck out of the way now! I wrenched it open, revealing a wide spiral stair headed down in darkness. Cypher got some magic light going and Doongul used his forgelight, so down we went.

At the bottom was a door, easier to open and behind that, a room. Lights pierced the murk and showed another nasty bit of work. It was a big, long chamber filled with pillars of blades that look just right for desecrating and shredding flesh. We heard the stair-top door slam (that was easy!) and the blades began to spin, turning the entire room into a death-machine. Cypher somehow decided that the blades were hand-powered, from somewhere, but he couldn't tell where.

Next thing, Doongul heard footsteps and announced that monks were coming down after us, no doubt to feed us to the “Grinder.” Yuck. Cyzicus saw shapes coming down and it’s time for killing. The lead monk popped the shifter in the face and knocked down. Cyzicus stood back up and cut the female monk pretty bad. This all pissed me off so I let go, releasing the rage of the Seren-born: the female died under my new mace, and that felt pretty good to me. Cypher shouted out that the machine was all on one drivetrain and that some single being was powering the whole Grinder. Weird.

Doongul let his lance of faith flare into the male monk nearest and boy does it rip into him. But the monk, obviously hurt, began to mock Onatar. Not a great idea when we are all up for a fight. Rendar fired a gnoll arrow and missed. A few more monks make their way down the stairs to join the party. And Cyzicus got another strike to the face. One of the monks threw a spinning blade at me and although it hits, I was so fired up, it made no difference to me.

One of the new arrivals, an older female, shouted to Xoma, “ I must have your skin!” I doubted she’ll get it, though. She launched another blade—a “shuriken,” I later learned—but it missed. Cyzicus missed his foe, sending the monk splattering against the wall, probably devaluing his skin. Cypher popped up the stairs and zapped one of the female monks with his magic missile. Doongul loosed his lance of faith again, missing the slippery monks who really start mocking Onatar in earnest now.

Rendar nailed one of the women with an arrow, getting her blood  pouring out, probably too fast for even these wierdos. Xoma let his thunder-clap cat-roar and pushed everyone around; no one falls, but the monks look more beat-up.

The older female monk stepped right up to me and bashed me pretty good, knocking me down. She then wraps her overly long topknot around my neck, going for the strangle. Sad for her, I was really big, really strong, and really very angry then. I stood up and plowed her with my new mace, dislocating her arm and shrugging off the skanky hair-noose.

Cyzicus  slashed one monk with the scimitar, letting lots of blood out onto the stairway. Cypher sent another magic missile at the woman and then Doongul followed up with another radiant spell, killing the misguided bitch. Rendar stepped up and lops off the arm of the male monk, killing him dead.

We don’t get a chance to celebrate because a giant, fouler-smelling, scarred-up ogre comes barreling down the stairs, pretty much naked but for a big spiked shield he wanted to bash me to death with. He did hit me and it knocked me back a bit, but his entire charge was checked by a spell from Xoma.

Cyzicus zipped an arrow into the ogre, giving me a chance to really let him have it with the new mace.  Cypher made a nice shot with his arm-bow, right in the monster’s eye. It seemed that an eye-shot was too much for the ogre’s brain pan. He died and crashed to the stairs.

The warforged began to rob the dead (really!?) while I took a minute to clean my mace, letting the rage fall away. Cypher wanted one of the monks' skin-cloaks, muttering about alchemy or some nonsense. Even Xoma was put off by this as Cypher tried to wear one of the ill-fitting skins.

Meanwhile, Rendar and I grabbed the giant shield and did our best to toss it into the still spinning Grinder room. I guess it wasn’t the ogre powering it, as I had thought. The shield didn't roll or fly true and we did get it into the first blade, bending it, but not doing any real damage to the thing. A person might be able to dodge their way through those blades, maybe.

We make our way to the top of the stairs and opened up the door. Surprise: Master Ennet awaits us above and immediately turns and disappears into that mezzanine room. We follow him only to find the chamber empty again. We began a serious search, while Rendar and I began cutting the skin off the walls as a means of searching the walls and destroying this unholy place.

Xoma and Cypher approached the imitation dragon-idol. Then Cypher dropped to the ground suddenly, seemingly inert and unconscious—which didn't make sense. Xoma, at the same time, freaked out and started biting at unseen enemies and screaming something like, “Not alive!” Weird. And scary. Were they spellbound?

Doongul, as a reaction to this, sent a lance of faith at the idol—why? Perhaps this was the source of the warforged's and the drow's problems? Rendar followed his lead and lobbed a hammer at the idol and misses. I threw a spear at it and that barely sticks into its leather chest. Cyzicus charged the idol with his morning star. But then he suddenly acted like he had been grabbed in the face (which he hadn't been by anything I could see) and started waving his arms.

What fresh hell was this?

#29 - Blood and Mockery

Here the narrative is again written by Xoma of the M’jai family, drow wizard of Xen'drik.

* * *

There are those who claim that Vulkoor, the Mighty One, lord of the drow of Xen’drik, is an aspect of the Mockery, a benighted deity who is part of the Dark Six.

They are wrong.

Vulkoor is a manifestation of the unforgiving nature of the wild. But he is not cruel any more than nature is cruel. Nature does not care about right or wrong, law or chaos, morality or amorality. In nature, the strong survive and the weak do not, but that is the law of the wild, not one imposed on men by the laws of civilization. Even those who are strong among my people recognize that causing needless suffering serves no purpose. They do not delight in killing the animal they hunt. They do not torture unless the information held by an enemy is crucial to their survival.

Nature never goes out of its way to single out individuals or groups for destruction. It is not purposefully cruel or malicious. It simply is, and those who understand that survive.

It baffles me how anyone could equate the Mockery with Vulkoor. Vulkoor represents self reliance, strength, and independence. The Mockery perverts nature and mortality simply because he enjoys it. His followers do not alter their bodies to display their heritage or honor their ancestors and traditions. They mutilate themselves to mock and frighten. Such desecration of the body survives no purpose beyond perversion. Hence it is wrong.

Nothing in my travels through Khorvaire has offended me until now. I am content to allow others to live their lives as long as they allow me to do so. But what I have seen in this place is enough to make me an enemy of the Mockery and his followers for eternity.

But enough musing. You will not understand why this angers me so unless you know what happened.

                                                                         *          *          *

"Kill the girl. She is already
past saving." - Drivinia

We stood in the courtyard with the blood-stained floor. The place reeked of ancient, putrefied blood. I had webbed the young acolyte to the wall, preventing potential enemies on the other side from breaking through and attacking us.

Drivinia, our enigmatic half-elven escort, seemed to hold great enmity towards the young woman. I can’t blame her. Anyone who would ritually sacrifice her own brother deserves no mercy beyond a swift death. So after our company disputed and finally gave our guide the choice, she slashed the throat of the misguided acolyte and dumped her in the charnel pit along with her brother.

We rested briefly so that I could regain some of my magical energy. I overheard snippets of conversation between Drivinia and Cypher. Apparently, he hadn’t realized she was a former scout from the Brelish Army until now. I would have told him earlier, but I had assumed he would have figured it out on his own, considering that he, too, was Brelish. I pick on Cypher a lot because I believe he is capable of far more than he has displayed thus far. He needs prodding to be willing to take more risks. His duel with the gargoyle was an excellent step towards embracing his power and confidence, but there is still a long way to go. If he is truly to achieve freedom, he must cast off the bonds of his former servitude.

I do not envy Cypher: a being created for war, who is finding his purpose in the world, only now that the war is over. It must be disorienting and disheartening. My methods may be harsh, but I believe that he needs to be pushed away from caution at least somewhat in order to embrace his place in the world.

After meditating, I examined the door that was behind the web I had created. Finding no lock or obvious trap, we opened it. Beyond lay a short hall, ending in another door. This one was covered in sharp metal protrusions and appeared to have no obvious means of entry, though a barred window peered into the darkness beyond. The door itself was inscribed with an inscription in Supernal, the language of demonic and angelic beings. I had come across the language before, though I was not conversant in it. Fortunately, I had prepared a spell to allow me to decipher languages. The inscription read: "You who walks beyond this door forsakes all but the Mockery. Bleed for him, the Sovereign of Betrayal and Bloodshed, Lord of the Host,or bathe in his justice."

I knew immediately that the door required a blood sacrifice, so I cut myself and bled on the door. This accomplished nothing, so I asked Magnus to do the same—perhaps it needed more blood. But the quantity of blood wasn’t the issue, and our barbarian comrade’s primal instincts revealed the way. He cut himself directly on the door's own blades, which seemed to satisfy it, causing it to unlock.

What was beyond was almost enough to turn my stomach, and that is a remarkable feat. Four pools of bloody slime occupied the corners of the room. In between each pool, on the walls, were four doors. Jutting up from the pools were bladed imitations of the Octogram, the symbol of the Sovereign Host. This imitation is the symbol of the Mockery—vilest of the Dark Six, who in turn are the gods cast out of the Host.

Skewered or hanging upon each hideous device was a tortured, mutilated, or desecrated corpse of a human, half-orc, or member of other common races. It was difficult to discern the racial features, given the torture that had been perpetrated on these individuals.

It was hard to know if these people had voluntarily chosen to take part in these rituals, or if they were miscreants, vagrants, and unfortunate souls who had been kidnapped by agents of the Mockery.

Unsurprisingly, and with great justification, Doongul was incensed at the desecration of his gods. Magnus wished to move on and leave the people to their suffering—but I could not. Ordinarily, I really like Magnus—in fact, I probably enjoy his company more than anyone else in our band—but in this instance, I was unimpressed by his casual disregard of the suffering of these people. Our missions mean nothing it we allow for unnecessary suffering. Even the weak deserve to die with honor.

Several of us dispatched the crucified and tortured human sacrifices with simple spells and strikes to end the misery of those on the platforms. It was then that we heard the voices. They were coming from the blood, whispering profanities and heresies.

Soon after the voices began, strange spider-like creatures with hard, reddish carapaces emerged from the bloody slime pits. The creatures lashed out with their mandibles in an effort to grab hold of us. They were not the most difficult creatures we had ever faced, but they were tenacious and frustrating.

One of the creatures latched onto me, but I blasted it away from me with my leopard’s roar, sending it hurtling against the blades of one of the Mockery's symbols. Several times, the creatures latched onto my companions, though they managed to shrug them off. Even little Trug, who at first I doubted, put up a respectable fight against the creatures. He may not be much of a warrior, but the goblin has heart, and that is very encouraging.

We continued to battle the creatures, though Doongul was flummoxed by their jerky movements. I don’t think his failure to hit them had anything to do with his skill at arms, which is formidable. Rather, I suspect that the unholy desecration of the Dark Six  that permeated the temple was inhibiting his holy powers.

Rendar sought a way out of the chamber at the far end of the room. A door separated the room from an unknown, other part of the temple. At the time, escape seemed like a good idea. No one wanted to remain in the presence of the bloody pools, and for good reason.

In hindsight, we should have finished the battle in the chamber before moving on. When Rendar moved into the next part of the temple, he opened us up to trouble on multiple fronts. I do not blame him, for he had no way of knowing what would happen. It is a mistake I think none of us will make in the future.

When Rendar left the chamber, he emerged in a large courtyard, open to the sky. Stairs ascended up the walls of the courtyard near the back, leading to additional levels, perhaps some sort of platform for further sacrifices.

When Rendar entered the chamber, he walked a path surrounded by strange red flowers. I recognized them as dread blossoms, benighted flora that flourished upon spilt blood and fear. On the opposite end of the chamber was a massive, scarred bugbear and two hardened orc guards. The bugbear called up to a level above the courtyard to a “Master Ennin.” Apparently, there were other enemies waiting above.

Realizing that the spider creatures were mostly under control, Magnus and I joined Rendar, not wishing to leave our half-orc companion to fight the thugs on his own.

Right after we entered the open courtyard, Drivinia showed her true colors. From what I’m told, she moved passed Cyzicus and slammed the door to the blood-pit chamber, retreating back the way we'd come. Cyzicus was enraged.

I heard after the fact that she half-apologized, saying “I’m sorry. It was Zerasha’s idea, not Sa-jira’s.” I can only surmise that Drivinia’s hands were tied. She received orders from this Zerasha, who may be the mother-ambassador who the young medusa is so at odds with. Clearly, the half-elven scout was unhappy about betraying our group, but she had no choice. I can understand her predicament, though I have no sympathy for it. If we see her again, I intend to enact vengeance.

If you don’t want to follow an order, don’t follow it. Do what your honor dictates of you, even if it results in your death. Otherwise, your life has no meaning.

Meanwhile, we—that is Rendar, Magnus, and myself—faced the bugbear and his friends in the courtyard. The massive goblinoid, who wielded a curious bone club studded with spikes, seemed somewhat cocky, which is an expression I always enjoy on an enemy that is about to die.

The courtyard was perfectly shaped for a web, so I trapped the three goons in a mass of sticky strands. The spell held the two orcs for some time, but the massive bugbear broke free almost immediately, charging forward to grasp Rendar and choke him with one hand.

The bugbear called to me, saying, “Tell your friends that Gray Garrak killed your friend.” Bugbears are not known for their intelligence. If he had been smarter, he would have realized that repeating “friend” twice in the same threat lessened the impact of his words. He would come to pay for his grammatical ineptitude.

As the scarified bugbear choked Rendar, Cyzicus retaliated against Drivinia, grazing her with an arrow through the viewing plate of the door. He had trouble opening the door, having been elsewhere when Magnus and myself discovered the mechanism of entry.

Drivinia responded to the attack, calling out, “I’m on your side!” This confused nearly everyone. If she were on our side, why did she abandon us? But then she said a prayer to the Shadow, blessing those in the blood chamber with her dark magic. Perhaps Drivinia hoped we would succeed in helping Sa-Jira, even if she was being ordered to work against us. Such half-hearted logic proved how weak she really was.

Back in the courtyard, Magnus made a mighty spear throw that should have gutted the bugbear, but in an almost unimaginable feat of agility, Gray Garrak swerved, interposing the still choking Rendar in front of the spear. Rendar was badly skewered through the back and I feared the wound might incapacitate him, but he was still alive—at least for now. How he cried out. I could not blame him; I would not want Magnus throwing a spear into my back.

After Rendar’s impaling, four ghastly, self-mutilated monks—or were they priests—appeared at the top of the stairs on the level overlooking the courtyard. Seeing the new threat and hoping to dispatch the bugbear before the monks could join him, Magnus entered into a rage. He delivered a crushing strike against the bugbear with his massive mace.

One of the monks—who may have been the elder named Ennin—whispered a word of power meant to paralyze Magnus, but the enraged barbarian shoved of the magic. He also called out in the Common tongue, "What is the purpose of this intrusion?"

Doongul finally joined the battle in the courtyard, firing a lance of holy light at the bugbear. One of the orcs managed to get out of the web, delivering a nasty strike against me. He would pay for that. I released a cone of fire that incinerated the orc. Rendar, Cypher, Magnus, and Doongul brought down the other one and the bugbear, who seemed surprised to be bested even as he toppled to the ground.

The monks started to descend the stairs, moving through the webs like they were spiders. It was clear we needed to escape, so I threw up a sphere of darkness at the door back into the chamber with the blood pits.

I retreated, along with Cypher and Rendar, through the darkness and into the blood chamber. Magnus lagged behind, taking longer because he wanted to pick up the massive bone club that had been wielded by the bugbear. I hadn't had a chance to tell him yet, but the club is actually a dragon bone. If we survive, I suspect he’ll be quite pleased.

Unfortunately, the monks had other plans. The leader, Ennin, roused the dread blossoms with a mere clapping of his hands, causing them to explode into a swarm that enveloped Magnus and Rendar, though they seemed to ignore Cypher. Perhaps they only feed on those with souls. Or maybe it’s a blood thing.

Magnus came charging out of the darkness, swarm on his heels, carrying the massive dragon-bone club. Alas, the monks were right behind him, moving swiftly—at least as fast as the barbarian himself!

As Magnus attempted to retreat, Cypher and I followed Cyzicus out. The shifter with his keen, bestial nose had caught the sent of our half-elf betrayer and was in pursuit. But we could not follow him outright for fear of leaving Magnus to the depredations of the monks.

Cypher, Rendar, and I turned back to the temple, only to see the monk send Magnus sprawling to the ground with a stunning kick. Rendar sent an arrow shaft into the gut of the elder monk, much to the pervert’s surprise. But it did not slow Ennin down. He kicked Magnus again, a powerful, bone-crunching blow. Cypher and I tried to provide cover fire for our escape, but the monks proved too nimble.

We stand at the precipice of destruction. Will we be able to retreat and solve the mystery of who is setting us up and why, or will we become meat for the sacrificial altars of the Mockery?