The Temple of All Gods was a sight to behold, its ancient architecture marred by recent battles. The party had just defeated a pair of Duergar slavers and were now standing in the main entryway, their spirits weighed down by the memory of their fallen comrade, Konekon. Scattered around them were the spoils of their victory – gleaming weapons, valuable trinkets, and various objects of arcane significance.
As they prepared to venture further into the temple, a soft rustling sound echoed through the grand hall. Turning their attention towards the source, they saw a figure emerging from one of the side rooms. A Kitsune, silver hair cascading down her shoulders, eyes as blue as a winter’s morning. It was Konkeko, the Winter Witch, and sister of Konekon.
“I felt my brother’s spirit leave this world,” she began, her voice echoing softly in the vast hall. “I have come to continue his fight.”
A heavy silence fell upon the group. The resemblance between the siblings was uncanny. It was as if Konekon had returned, but the icy determination in Konkeko’s eyes set her apart.
Zotil, the Oracle, was the first to break the silence. “We mourn your brother’s loss, Konkeko,” he said, his voice filled with empathy. “His bravery was unmatched. He fought valiantly to the end.”
The Champ tightened his grip on his sword, nodding solemnly. “Konekon was a friend to us all. His memory will live on in our hearts, and every enemy we fell.”
Galen Lightstep, the Elf, stepped forward, his silver sickle glinting in the dim light. “We welcome you, Konkeko. Your brother’s fight is ours. We will see it through to the end.”
Konkeko nodded in appreciation, her icy gaze sweeping over the group. “Then let’s not waste any more time. We have a dragon to slay, and a crown to reclaim.”
Grigs, the Vanaran Monk, watched her intently, his expressive eyes reflecting a deep sorrow. He had trained alongside Konekon and had been there when the brave Kitsune Gunslinger fell in battle. The memory was still fresh, a wound yet to heal.
With a heavy heart, Grigs approached Konkeko. “Your brother, Konekon,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, “he was a true warrior. His aim was unmatched, his courage unyielding.”
He paused, drawing a shaky breath as he fought back his emotions. “I was there when he…when we couldn’t save him. I wish things could’ve been different. I’m sorry for your loss, Konkeko.”
Konkeko’s blue eyes met Grigs’, an understanding passing between them. Konekon’s death had left a void in their group, one that they were all trying to navigate. But they were not alone. They had each other. And together, they would honor Konekon’s memory by continuing his fight.
With new resolve, the party turned their attention back to the task at hand.
Within the Temple of All Gods, the party, now joined by Koneko, prepared to explore the rooms on the west side of the main entry. Galen took point, his keen senses on high alert for any traps or sounds that might indicate danger.
Upon opening the doors, the group came upon another chapel to the north and another set of doors directly ahead. Galen and The Champ, Megov Omigamagov, a stalwart Half-Elf Champion of Ragathiel, cautiously opened the second set of doors, revealing a barracks occupied by three female Duergar Droskar worshipers, all laying in their beds.
Without wasting a moment, Galen sprang into action. “Looks like it’s time to wake up,” he quipped, a glint of mischief in his eyes as he leaped onto the bed of one Duergar, his silver sickle and cold iron light mace at the ready. His swift double strike left the Duergar bleeding and enfeebled, her surprise evident in her widening eyes.
The Champ, following suit, rushed into the room and positioned himself in front of the middle bed, his bastard sword humming with divine energy as he smote the same Duergar Galen had attacked. The slave lord winced as the radiant energy coursed through her, her injuries deepening under the relentless onslaught.
Grigs swiftly entered the room and targeted the same Duergar, his fists a blur as he struck at her. Even though she managed to resist the stunning impact of his attack, his blows landed true, further injuring her.
Finally, Zotil, known for his mastery over both healing and destructive magic, moved into the room. His hands glowed with divine energy as he cast Divine Lance, targeting the Duergar on the furthest left. The lance of light sped through the air, hitting its mark and causing the Duergar to flinch in pain.
The once quiet barracks was now a scene of chaos, the surprised Duergar scrambling to react to the sudden attack. With the element of surprise on their side, the party pressed their advantage, ready to end the battle swiftly.
The sudden onslaught had the Duergar scrambling. The slave lord in front of Zotil leapt out of bed, drawing her twin hatchets with a snarl. She lunged at Zotil, but before her blades could find their mark, Champ sprang into action. His retributive strike intercepted her attack, his bastard sword meeting her hatchets with a resounding clang and then finding its way to her side.
The middle Duergar had more luck, her hatchets digging into Champ’s side, eliciting a grunt of pain from the Half-Elf. Yet the last Duergar, already bleeding and enfeebled from Galen’s initial attack, swung clumsily at Champ and missed.
As the melee continued, Koneko began to weave her magic. A ball of dense snow appeared in her hands, chilling the air around it before she hurled it at the Duergar in front of Zotil. The snowball struck true, causing the Duergar to recoil as frost spread across her body.
Galen saw an opening and took it. With a swift move, he tripped the last Duergar, sending her sprawling back onto the bed. He followed up with a double slice, his mace landing a critical hit that left her gasping for breath. Not missing a beat, Champ pressed the attack and delivered the final blow, ending her struggle.
Turning his attention to the remaining Duergar, Champ roared, “Drop your weapons and surrender or meet your end like your comrade here!” His voice echoed through the room, causing the Duergar in front of Zotil to flinch, fear creeping into her eyes.
The tide of the battle was turning in their favor, their coordinated attacks and quick thinking keeping the Duergar on the back foot. They were not about to let up now.
In the heat of battle, Grigs lunged towards one of the Duergar, his nimble Vanaran body darting effortlessly through the chaos. His fists flew in a flurry of attacks, but the enemy nimbly sidestepped each blow. Undeterred, he tried to disarm her, but she held onto her weapon with a firm grip.
Watching from the sidelines, Zotil began to weave a complex spell. His hands glowed with an eerie light as he invoked an ancient curse. The Duergar in front of him groaned in agony, her body writhing as invisible forces wracked her body with pain. To protect himself from any potential counterattack, Zotil summoned a magical barrier that shimmered in the air before him.
The Duergar, now wary of the formidable Champion’s retaliatory strikes, changed their tactics. They focused their attention on Champ, their axes swinging in deadly synchrony. One of them managed to land a hit, but the other’s attack missed its mark entirely.
From the corner of the room, Koneko began to chant. Her voice wove through the air like a chilling breeze, and her palms glowed with a cold light. With a final word, she cast a spell aimed at disorienting one of the Duergar. The enemy blinked rapidly, her gaze unfocused for a moment, but she quickly shook off the effects of the spell.
Galen, seizing the opportunity, taunted the Duergar who had managed to hit Champ. He called out to her, successfully diverting her attention. With her guard down, he struck twice, his weapons ripping through her defenses and leaving her wounded and weakened.
Champ, seeing the enemy in front of Zotil falter, seized the opportunity. With a swift, practiced move, he knocked aside her hatchet with his sword, creating an opening. He followed through with a powerful strike that left her on the brink of collapse.
The party continued their onslaught, their shared determination driving them forward. Their enemies were faltering, and victory was within reach.
Grigs, lunged at the Duergar confronting Champ. His first strike connected solidly, and he quickly shifted his footing, adopting a defensive stance reminiscent of an unyielding mountain.
Zotil once again summoned the dark magic of torturous trauma. The Duergar facing him convulsed as invisible pain wracked her body, yet she remained standing. With a growl, she swung at Zotil, but her attacks were wild and unfocused, missing him completely.
Koneko, chanted an incantation under her breath. Her hands moved in complex patterns, summoning a glacial heart spell. A chilling wave of cold swept over the Duergar slave lord, freezing her from the inside out. She let out a cry, stumbling back as the frostbite took hold.
Galen saw his chance. He darted forward, landing a successful hit on the off-guard Duergar. Meanwhile, Champ struck at the Duergar near death, his sword cutting through the air and leaving her teetering on the brink of demise.
Suddenly, a soft glow enveloped the Duergar locked in combat with Zotil. Her eyes widened in surprise and fear as the holy damage from Champ’s earlier strike took its toll. She let out a final strangled gasp before collapsing to the ground, her body dissolving into a pile of ash.
Koneko, undeterred by the death of one enemy, turned her attention to the last remaining Duergar. She cast a ray of frost, but the spell flew wide, missing its target.
Galen, ever the trickster, decided to throw the Duergar off guard with a vulgar maneuver. He gestured towards his crotch area, causing the Duergar to blink in surprise.
In that moment of distraction, Galen struck with his sickle, landing a hit.
Champ, seizing the moment, tried to call upon the divine favor of his god through a battle prayer, but felt his connection falter. Undeterred, he swung his sword in a wide arc, the blade cutting through the air and landing a critical blow on the Duergar. She fell to the ground, lifeless.
The remaining adventurers found themselves standing in the shrine of Folgrit, the dwarf goddess of motherhood. They paused, catching their breaths amidst the lingering chill and the echoes of the fallen Duergar’s final cries. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. And in the spectral shadows of Saggorak, every victory counted.
Zotil turned towards Koneko, his gnome face breaking into a rare grin. “I must say, Koneko,” he began, “You’ve got a knack for this. Your magic… it’s powerful and precise. We’re lucky to have you with us.”
Koneko’s silver hair shimmered as she nodded appreciatively at Zotil’s words. “Thank you, Zotil. I’m just doing my part. We all have our roles to play.”
The rest of the party murmured their assent, with Galen giving a curt nod of approval and Champ clapping her on the shoulder in a show of camaraderie. Grigs, ever the mischievous one, flashed her a toothy grin, his tail swishing in delight.
As they exited the East Chapel, the sight that greeted them was awe-inspiring. Two enormous statues of an imposing dwarf man stood sentinel at the northern wall, their stone eyes seemingly watching the party’s every move. A ramp sloped down to a majestic iron door, with two other doors flanking it. Matching stairways led up to rooms on the east and west, hinting at the labyrinthine layout of the fortress.
Koneko, ever vigilant, cast detect magic but found no magical auras. It was Champ who picked up on something else. He held up a hand, signaling for silence. He moved towards a door to the right of the double doors, his ears picking up low, guttural speech emanating from within.
Zotil joined him, his sharp gnome ears twitching as he listened in. “That’s Abyssal,” he whispered, recognition flashing in his eyes.
Galen joined them, his ancient elf eyes narrowing in thought. “Treachery demons… Glabrezus. They manipulate desires into acts of betrayal. They’re vulnerable to the truth, and cold iron and good-aligned attacks will harm them.”
The party members exchanged troubled glances. Glabrezus were formidable foes, their large pincers and smaller humanoid arms a testament to their physical might. But it was their skill at magic and ability to twist mortal desires into ruin that made them truly fearsome. As the party prepared themselves for what lay ahead, they knew they had to tread carefully. The treachery demons would not go down without a fight.
With a swift motion, Champ thrust open the door, revealing a stairway that led downwards.
Lurking at the bottom were two Glabrezus, their massive forms filling the space. The treachery demons looked up in surprise, clearly not expecting to be disturbed. Their disbelief was short-lived, however, as they quickly regrouped and prepared to attack.
One of the Glabrezus acted first, casting a spell that whisked him from the room he and Champ stood in to the one where Galen and Grigs waited. He materialized near them, his enormous pincers slashing through the air towards the pair. His attack, however, was off-mark, missing its intended targets. Meanwhile, the second Glabrezu lumbered up the stairs to face Champ, its pincer landing a solid hit against the half-elf champion.
These Glabrezus, standing 18 feet tall and weighing just over 6,000 pounds, were imposing foes. Their muscular bodies were covered in scales and horns, their second set of arms sporting massive pincers. However, these particular demons seemed to lack their smaller set of arms, their bodies dominated entirely by their enormous pincers.
The teleporting Glabrezu’s surprise attack might have seemed a clever tactic, but it made a grave mistake. As soon as its pincers missed their mark, Koneko unleashed a vitrifying blast. A cone of glass shards erupted from her hands, embedding themselves in the demon’s hide and turning parts of it into glass. The demon roared in pain, its movements becoming sluggish as the transformation took effect.
Seizing the opportunity, Grigs lunged at the slowed demon. With a swift overhand punch, he struck the beast squarely, the impact resonating through the chamber. The demon reeled from the blow, its form momentarily stunned.
Galen, ever the tactician, moved swiftly to flank the disoriented Glabrezu. His silver sickle landed a solid hit, opening a wound that began to bleed profusely. Following up with his cold iron mace, he delivered a crushing blow that resonated with a force of goodness, causing the demon to howl in pain and stagger.
The Glabrezu was in a dire situation. It had taken significant damage from Koneko’s vitrifying blast and Grigs’ punch. Now, it was bleeding persistently from Galen’s sickle strike and writhing from the holy damage inflicted by his mace. The once formidable demon now stood weakened and battered, its movements hampered by its injuries and the glass-like transformation creeping over its body. Despite its initial surprise attack, the Glabrezu was now on the back foot, its future combat turns looking grim. The party, however, stood resolute, ready to face whatever lay ahead.
Champ stepped forward to engage the second Glabrezu. With a prayer on his lips, he invoked the divine power of Ragathiel and smote the demon with his bastard sword. The demon retaliated with a swift swipe of its pincer, which landed a hit on Champ. Emboldened, it attempted to grab him, but in a twist of fate, the demon’s footing slipped, and it fell prone.
Meanwhile, the gnome oracle, focused his energy and cast a divine lance at the heavily injured Glabrezu that Galen, Koneko, and Grigs were battling. The lance of divine energy struck true, leaving the demon teetering on the brink of death. Sensing its imminent end, Koneko cast a ray of frost at the demon, the icy beam hitting its mark. She followed up with a spell of clinging ice, which enveloped the demon in a layer of freezing sleet and heavy snowfall. The demon tried to shake it off, but it was too weak to resist, causing it to slow down even further.
Seizing the opportunity, Grigs launched himself at the Glabrezu, his body spinning in a powerful roundhouse kick. His foot connected with the demon’s head with a resounding thud, the force of the blow amplified by his momentum. The impact was so powerful that the demon’s form crumbled, its life force extinguished.
With the first Glabrezu defeated, Grigs turned his attention to the other demon. He sprinted into the room where Champ was engaged in combat, his prehensile tail providing extra balance as he moved swiftly. He attempted to land a hit on the prone demon, but his attack missed its mark. Despite the miss, his presence bolstered Champ’s spirits, and together they prepared to face the demon’s next onslaught.
As the battle with the Glabrezus raged on, another door flanking the double doors suddenly burst open. Out stepped a figure clad in dark armor, her cruel eyes gleaming with malice. Another Duergar, a race of deep-dwelling dwarves known for their ruthlessness and cruelty. This slave lord was a high-ranking member of the Scarlet Triad.
With a cold, calculating gaze, she marked Galen as her hunted prey. Drawing her bow, she let loose an arrow that found its mark in the elf’s side. Galen winced but didn’t falter. With a swift motion, he closed the distance between them. His sickle sliced through the air, landing a debilitating strike on the Duergar. The wound began to bleed profusely, and the Duergar’s movements became noticeably slower, a clear sign of enfeeblement.
Back in the room, Champ engaged the prone Glabrezu. Invoking the divine power of Ragathiel, he smote the demon with his bastard sword. The blade glowed with holy fire, searing the demon’s flesh and leaving it with persistent fire damage. The Glabrezu retaliated, its pincer landing a solid hit on Champ. Dark energy coursed through the blow, dealing additional damage to the champion.
Seeing Champ’s injuries, Zotil acted quickly. He cast a powerful regeneration spell, his divine magic flowing into Champ and accelerating his natural healing process. Meanwhile, Koneko turned her icy magic on the Glabrezu. She cast clinging ice, enveloping the demon in a layer of freezing sleet and snow. The demon tried to shake it off, but failed, slowing down even further. Her follow-up ray of frost, however, missed its mark.
Grigs joined the fray, launching into a flurry of attacks. He started with an axe kick. He lifted his leg high above his head, his body forming a straight line. Then, with all the force he could muster, he brought his heel down in a swift, chopping motion, his foot following the trajectory of an axe’s swing. The strike landed squarely on the demon, adding to its injuries. Despite the chaos around them, the party fought on, their determination unwavering.
The Duergar slave lord dropped her bow and reached for the two hatchets at her belt. However, Galen had been waiting for such an opening. His eyes gleamed with anticipation as he struck with a speed that belied his age, his cold iron mace connecting with a resonating impact. The critical hit caught the Duergar off guard, but she was not to be deterred. Ignoring the pain, she launched into a twin takedown, her hatchets cutting through the air in a lethal dance. Both strikes found their mark, one of them landing with such force that it was clear to all that it was a critical hit.
Galen, though staggered, fought back with a double slice. His sickle missed, but his mace connected once again, the impact echoing through the chamber. With the Duergar momentarily reeling, he seized the opportunity to retreat, moving swiftly towards Zotil.
Meanwhile, Champ turned his attention to the Glabrezu. He locked eyes with the demon, his gaze burning with divine fervor. In a booming voice, he roared a litany of condemnation, his words echoing with the power of his conviction. The demon flinched, clearly unnerved. Seizing the moment, Champ launched a divine smite at the demon. His bastard sword, glowing with holy fire, struck true, the critical hit causing the demon to howl in agony. A second strike followed, the divine energy consuming the demon. With a final roar, the Glabrezu collapsed, its form disintegrating under the onslaught of Champ’s righteous fury.
Zotil quickly moved into action, casting a powerful healing spell on Galen. The gnome’s magic flowed into the elf, knitting together his wounds and rejuvenating his strength. Koneko, meanwhile, turned her icy magic on the Duergar. Her ray of frost hit its mark, but the Duergar managed to resist the effects of her clinging ice hex.
Then Grigs charged in, his body spinning into a hook kick. His foot traced a wide arc in the air before connecting with the Duergar, the impact stunning her. She managed to shake it off, and also stopped the bleeding from Galen’s earlier strike.
As Galen returned to the fray, he launched a double slice attack. His weapons cut through the air almost simultaneously, striking the Duergar with perfect synchrony. The resulting spatter painted a gruesome picture as the Duergar let out a final, guttural cry before collapsing to the ground, the light fading from her eyes.
With the last of their enemies dispatched, the party turned their attention to the room around them. The chamber, vast and square, bore signs of a recent negotiation between the demon and the Duergar. The remnants of a tense discussion hung in the air, as tangible as the lingering scent of battle.
Champ, his gaze sweeping the room, noticed an inscription etched into one of the walls. “Go now in peace,” it read, a shrine to the god of Oaths and Mercy. It was an odd sentiment in such a place of violence and treachery.
Galen, ever the curious rogue, began examining the room more closely. His keen eyes spotted a hidden compartment, tucked away in a corner. Inside, he found several scrolls – a scroll of restoration, a scroll of divine decree, and a scroll of regeneration. Each one contained powerful magic, their potential uses numerous and invaluable.
Meanwhile, Zotil had embarked on a rather gruesome task. He knelt beside the fallen demon, his hands steady as he made an incision in its abdomen. The smell that emanated from the demon’s insides was stomach-churning – a sickening mix of sulfur and decay. The sight was no better, with the demon’s innards a grotesque display of alien anatomy.
Yet Zotil persevered, his hands delving deeper into the demon. The squelching and slurping sounds echoed eerily in the silent room, drawing grimaces from his companions. After several minutes of this macabre exploration, Zotil’s hand closed around something solid. With a final pull, he extracted a mithril buckler from within the demon.
The buckler, surprisingly unscathed by its gruesome hiding place, gleamed in the spectral light of the room. Despite the unsettling circumstances of its discovery, it was a valuable find. As Zotil cleaned the buckler, the others couldn’t help but admire its craftsmanship. It was a small victory in the aftermath of their brutal battle, a reminder that even in the darkest places, they could find something worth fighting for.
The party ascended the stairs to the east, stepping into a cramped chapel. The air was thick with a sense of menace that seemed to seep from the very stones. Dominating the room was a statue of a furious dwarf, its hand extended forward to clutch a bowl. Champ recognized the figure as Dranngvit, the Dwarven God of Debt Pursuit and Vengeance. Known for her relentless pursuit of those who shirk their debts, her statues were often depicted as stern, unyielding figures – a perfect embodiment of the deity’s unforgiving nature.
In the statue’s bowl lay several valuable items, glittering temptingly in the dim light. Yet, none dared to touch them, aware of the potential wrath they might invoke.
Galen moved towards a door in the room, opening it to reveal a small office. It was a nondescript space, filled with the usual trappings of an office. Another door was visible on the west wall, and one more on the south.
Champ approached the western door, pressing his ear against it. All was quiet, no hint of movement or sound. The room beyond was another study, filled with shelves of dusty tomes and scattered parchments. A door to the south caught Champ’s attention, and as he approached it, he heard something. A soft sound, almost imperceptible, but unmistakably the rustle of movement.
Champ pushed open the door to reveal a room filled with metal urns. They were large, towering structures, their surfaces etched with intricate patterns that reflected the dim light in an eerie dance. Some of the urns lay smashed, their contents spilled across the stone floor, adding to the sense of desolation that hung over the room.
In the back corner of the room, something stirred. Slithering out of the shadows came a monstrous form, a grotesque conglomeration of flesh and corpses. It was a Warsworn – an animate mass of battle victims, a terrifying testament to the horrors of war. The creature paused, its many eyes fixed on Champ.
Then recognition flickered in those eyes. It had noticed the king’s sash that Champ wore. The Warsworn became non-hostile, its monstrous form seeming to relax slightly. Despite its horrifying appearance, it seemed that the creature would do them no harm.
Leaving the Warsworn be, the party moved to another door on the opposite side of the floor. This room was a mirror image of the previous one, but instead of a Warsworn, it housed a group of malevolent spirits. At their head was a female dwarf spirit, her spectral form shimmering in the gloom. Her mouth moved in silent words, stirring the other spirits into a frenzy. Yet, just like the Warsworn, they too acknowledged the king’s sash.
The room contained nine jail cells, each one housing the skeletal remains of a dwarf. The spirits seemed to have been prisoners in life, trapped in an eternal cycle of incarceration even in death. The sight was sobering, a grim reminder of the cruelty of the world they lived in. Yet, they pressed on, their resolve undeterred. Their mission was far from over.
With King Harral’s spectral promise kept, the party moved with renewed purpose. The undead king’s sash had proven to be a valuable asset, and his suggestion to eliminate Ghoul Falrok had been sound advice. The party was left to wonder what their journey would’ve looked like without these aids.
The question of whether they would return the crown to Harral hung in the air like an invisible specter. He was, after all, an entity of malevolent intentions. For now, they chose to focus on the fact that he had remained true to his word.
The upper level of the temple of the All Gods had been nearly fully traversed, save for a lone door to the north. Galen approached it cautiously, his elven eyes scanning over its ancient wood and iron reinforcements. No traps were evident, and the door was not locked. He pressed his ear against the cold surface, listening intently. The faint rustle of movement reached his ears, a sure sign that the room beyond was not empty.
Champ stepped forward, gripping the door handle. With a creak that echoed through the silent corridors, he pushed it open. Inside, the room was occupied by four members of the Scarlet Triad.
All female, their agile figures moved with a deadly grace, carrying an aura of danger. Each was armed with a blowgun and a shimmering rapier that radiated magic. Their leather armor bore intricate runes, and manacles hung from their belts, a sinister reminder of their trade. Ruby and sapphire rings adorned their fingers, glinting menacingly in the room’s dim light. Vials clinked together at their sides, likely filled with potent poison.
As the door opened, they turned to face the intruders, their expressions hardening. The room filled with a palpable tension as both parties prepared for the inevitable clash. The party knew this encounter was unavoidable, another battle in their ongoing war against the Scarlet Triad.
In a blur of motion, Galen was the first to act. He darted into the room, his elven agility carrying him swiftly across the stone floor. His target was one of the Scarlet Triad agents at the far end of the room. With a swift, fluid motion, he unleashed a double slice attack, his silver sickle and cold iron mace slashing through the air in a deadly arc.
Caught off guard, the Triad agent could only watch as Galen’s weapons struck true. The sickle landed a critical hit, igniting her in a sudden burst of flame. Meanwhile, the mace inflicted a deep wound that began to bleed profusely. Galen’s rogue abilities came into play, adding an enfeebling debilitation to her injuries, and the intimidating presence of Champ had already put her on edge.
Then, it was the Scarlet Triad’s turn. They moved with the grace and precision of practiced assassins, their agile forms darting in and out of combat range with lethal intent. One of them targeted Galen with a blowgun, the dart finding its mark and injecting a potent poison into his system. As he staggered from the poison’s effect, she drew her rapier, ready for the next phase of their assault.
The wounded agent, despite being aflame and bleeding, managed to draw her weapon and make a feint at Galen. She swung her rapier, landing a hit on the nimble elf. Meanwhile, another agent attempted to cast hideous laughter on Champ, but the half-elf champion shrugged off the spell with a defiant roar.
The last agent made her move, lunging at Galen with her weapon. But even in his poisoned state, the ancient elf danced away from the strike, his movements as fluid as water.
The room they fought in was cramped, its ceiling a mere six feet high. Three forges lined the northern wall, each paired with a matching anvil. In the room stood a statue of a stern dwarf with one arm, wrapped in chains. It was a shrine to Droskar, the dwarven god of toil and suffering, but its placement and condition suggested that whoever built this room did not hold the deity in high regard.
Grigs saw the opportunity and seized it, cutting through the tension-filled air. He moved in swiftly, his monkey-like agility carrying him to the side of one of the Scarlet Triad agents. With a swift motion, he thrust out his hand, the thumb-side aimed directly at his opponent. This was a ridge-hand strike, a maneuver requiring precision and control. The air whistled as his open hand sliced through it, hitting the agent squarely in her midsection. The force of the blow took her by surprise, sending her reeling. She gasped, clutching her stomach as she failed to withstand the stunning effect of the blow.
Champ was next, his half-elf form moving with a deadly grace. His bastard sword danced in his hands, its blade catching the dim light as he lashed out at the wounded agent. His first swing was a quick slash, cutting across her chest. But his second strike was the one that sealed her fate. With a swift thrust, he drove his sword right through her heart. Her eyes widened in shock and pain as she fell to the ground, lifeless.
Meanwhile, Zotil, the gnome oracle, had been silently chanting, his hands weaving intricate patterns in the air. As he finished his incantation, he cast Torturous Trauma on another agent. She screamed as invisible forces battered her internal organs, doubling over in pain. Her failure to resist the spell left her reeling from the damage and fatigued.
Koneko, the winter witch, joined the fray, her hands moving in a swift, slashing motion.
As she did so, she cast Slashing Gust, conjuring miniature ripples of air that sliced through the nearest Triad agent. She cried out as the invisible blades cut into her flesh.
Galen, seeing an opening, decided to seize the moment. With a crude gesture and a string of foul language, he caught one of the agents off guard. The distraction was enough for him to land a critical hit, his weapons slicing through her defenses and inflicting persistent bleed damage. She tried to retaliate, attempting a feint, but Galen was too quick, easily sidestepping her attack.
The agent near Champ tried her luck with a feint. She moved her rapier in an elaborate pattern, trying to distract the half-elf champion. Champ’s eyes followed the tip of her weapon, momentarily losing sight of her other hand. That was all she needed. She lunged forward, her rapier finding its mark. But Champ was not so easily defeated. He shrugged off the pain, ready to retaliate.
Grigs moved swiftly, his agile Vanaran form darting through the melee. He tried to flank one of the Scarlet Triad agents with Champ, but the woman proved to be too quick. As Grigs launched a backfist strike, she sidestepped, his fist slicing through the air where she had been moments before.
Champ, however, capitalized on the distraction. With a roar, he brought his flaming bastard sword down in a swift, deadly arc. His attack was perfectly timed, the blade striking true and igniting the agent with persistent fire. She screamed as the flames licked up her body, illuminating her in a dreadful light.
Zotil repeated his earlier incantation, casting Torturous Trauma again. The agent targeted by his spell doubled over, her body convulsing as invisible forces wracked her form. Koneko followed suit, her voice weaving the incantation for Glacial Heart. A chill seemed to descend upon the room as she directed the spell at another agent. The woman gasped, her body stiffening as if encased in ice from the inside out.
Galen, seeing an opportunity, lunged at the agent in front of him. He attempted to trip her, but she nimbly leapt over his extended leg. Undeterred, Galen followed up with a swing of his sickle, the blade slicing across her midsection. She staggered back, blood staining her leather armor.
In retaliation, the wounded agent feinted at Champ then struck, her rapier cutting into the half-elf’s side. Her companion, however, wasn’t as successful, her three strikes missing Champ entirely. Another agent attempted to feint Champ and managed to land one hit, her rapier finding a gap in his defenses.
Then, it was Grigs’ turn again. He landed a critical hit with a hammerfist, his clenched fist driving downwards in a powerful arc. His hand wraps, etched with magical runes, ignited upon impact, setting the agent aflame. He hit her again, then shifted into a defensive stance, his body becoming as immovable as a mountain.
Champ, seeing an opportunity, moved in for the kill. With a swift maneuver, he brought his sword down on the near-death agent. His blade cut through her defenses, ending her life in an instant. Her expression was one of shock, her eyes wide as she fell to the ground, extinguishing the flames that had consumed her.
After landing the killing blow on the near-death agent, Champ used the momentum of his swing to make a quick turn towards another Scarlet Triad agent.
His flaming bastard sword, still dripping with the lifeblood of his previous adversary, cut an arc through the air, leaving a trail of embers. The blade found its mark, slashing across the agent’s torso. The impact was devastating; the agent staggered backward, clutching at her wound as she let out a pained cry.
Zotil, seeing her weakened state, decided to capitalize on it. He began to chant, his voice steady and confident. “It keeps working,” he announced, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. As he completed his incantation, he directed his spell at the injured agent. Invisible forces wracked her body, causing her to convulse violently. She let out a scream as the torturous trauma took effect, her failed resistance amplifying the spell’s effects.
Meanwhile, Koneko started her own incantation, her hands moving in a complex pattern. The air around her hands shimmered with cold energy, frosting over as she channeled her magic. With a swift motion, she released the spell. A ray of frost shot from her fingertips, streaking across the room towards the agonized agent. The icy bolt hit her squarely, causing her to shudder violently as the intense cold sapped the life from her. She fell, her life extinguished as swiftly as the frostbite had taken hold.
Galen, seizing the opportunity, sprang into action. He lunged at the last standing agent, his weapons slicing through the air in a deadly dance. His double slice attack landed, both the sickle and mace finding their mark. The agent staggered as the weapons inflicted deep wounds. Blood seeped from her injuries, staining her clothing as she clutched at her abdomen. Her movements became sluggish, her strength sapped by Galen’s debilitating attacks.
In a desperate attempt to escape, she turned and ran towards a set of stairs leading down. She stumbled, her footing unsure as she clutched at her bleeding wounds. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her eyes wide with terror. As she descended the stairs, she yelled out a name, a final plea for help, “Embermead!” But it was too late. Her life ebbed away with each step, her blood leaving a macabre trail down the stairs. Her body slumped onto the cold stone steps, her life extinguished as quickly as the spark in her eyes.
With the death of the last Scarlet Triad agent, the party moves forward, descending the narrow stairs where she had tried to make her escape. Their boots echo in the stairwell, each step a haunting reminder of the battle that took place moments before.
They step over the lifeless body of the agent, her eyes wide open in a stare of eternal surprise. Galen, the ancient elf, gives the corpse a disdainful kick as he passes, sending it rolling down a few steps before it comes to a halt.
The name “Ilssrah Embermead” echoed in their minds. The author of the note they’d found; the one who’d painted them in such derogatory terms. Insults that were now fuel for their determination. Her words had done nothing but strengthen their resolve.
Galen takes the lead, his stealthy skills coming into play. His body moves fluidly, blending into the shadows as he advances. The rest of the party follows at a safe distance, their eyes scanning their surroundings, hands ready on their weapons.
At the bottom of the stairs, Galen finds a large room. It spreads out before him, about forty feet long and thirty feet wide. Two iron statues stand guard, their feminine forms imposing and rigid. There’s something mechanical about them, a suggestion of golems perhaps, but he can’t be sure.
And there, at the far end of the room, stands Ilssara Embermead. A dwarf, a cleric of Droksar, her holy symbol – a stone arch with a flame underneath – proudly displayed. She has a whip at her side, molten lava dripping from it, and a hammer adorned with multiple runes in her grip. Her dark hair is pulled back into a stern bun, and she wears heavy armor, her face etched with seriousness.
Galen signals to the others, indicating the room ahead. He’s seen, but not yet been seen. Their enemy is in sight, and the stage is set for their next encounter.
The tension is palpable as they prepare to face Embermead. The memory of her words, the disrespect she’d shown them, fuels their determination. They’ve come this far, faced countless dangers, and now, one more challenge stands between them and their goal.
As they ready themselves for what could be their toughest battle yet, the session comes to a suspenseful close, leaving them on the precipice of an epic confrontation.
