Episode 40 - Against the Cult of the Reptile God: Part 1

Sword of Air

Book II

Episode XXXX

Against the Cult of the Reptile God

Part 1

The Twentieth Day of Eleint, in the Year 2020 of the Nurian Era, known in some far-flung realms as the Year of the Snake…

Zimlok the Lightbringer, standing apart from the others, admires his reflection in his newly-worked flail snail shell shield. A noble beak. Just the right curvature. Could do with a shine, but that’s easily fixed. Sets his teeth together. Ooh! And what a smashing set of choppers!
“… Don’t you think so, Zimlok?… Zimlok?”
“Wha– ? Oh, yes. Definitely.” He’s finding it very difficult to draw his narcissistic gaze from his glinting teeth.
“Are you even listening, Zimlok?"
Haji Baba shakes her head in despair, and all return to their huddle in the back room at Kilian’s.
“Grover used to be my most trusted aide in Orlane,” Mayor Ormond continues. “The people respected him, and he had a good nose for troublemakers from out of town. But these days he’s… distant… belligerent, even. It’s the same with everyone, all who disappeared without explanation and returned a fortnight or so later. They’re all changed. And some don’t return at all, of course. Then there was that strange affair at the Foaming Mug…”
“Foaming Mug?” Mherren’s eyebrow acquires the studied quizzical arch of a private dick.
“There was a fight there, some months ago. The proprietors were killed. Good people, they were. Most of the patrons died in the skirmish, too. Grover seemed hesitant to investigate. Put it down to a simple argument that got out of hand. But the place has been abandoned since. Nobody goes near it. It’s derelict now, falling to the elements. People say it’s cursed. And there are stranger rumours…”
“What about the temple?” interrupts Lightstrike.
“The temple is a very old structure overlooking Orlane from the bluffs to the north. It was here long before the village sprang up around the lake. No one knows which god it was built for originally. But as long as I can remember it’s been a temple to Geb, deity of seed, grain and harvest. He has been good to this town. We have been blessed with fertile soils and plentiful crops every year without fail. Enough to feed ourselves, and to sell on in the markets of Astlav…
“Until this year, that is. This year the crops went rotten before they’d even reached maturity. Black, brackish water pools in the fields. What we have done to offend Geb, I do not know. Misha says not to worry. Says she knows some rites to appease him. I couldn’t get much more out of her than that. Her vagueness was… disconcerting.
“To be honest, she’s changed like the others. The temple used to be a focal hub of Orlane. A place of celebration, of renewal and hope. Its stone walls sparkled; as you walked barefoot across the threshold, your feet sank into soft, white, silky sand. Brother Abramo and the monks were full of humour and song. Now the congregation is small and dour. Many, myself included, have stopped attending. Misha is stern and solemn, her sermons uninspired. It wasn’t that way before. And no one has seen Abramo or the brothers for weeks.”
He pauses, thoughtful.
“Come to think of it, there is one person who went away and came back unchanged: Gideon Finla. The Traveller. He’s always been a drifter, full of wanderlust. I was like that, once. Of course, this time he came home to dire news. His daughter, Cirilli, is one of those who has gone missing. It’s been nearly a month now, and no sign. We fear the worst. Gideon spends his days at the Golden Grain, watching – and drinking. I know he suspects Bertram and that nasty little goblin chef he employs. What’s its name?... Snigrot Dogroot. That’s it.
“But there’s never any evidence. Folk get taken in the night. No footprints. No noise. No struggle. It’s like they just vanish. Some have disappeared from their own abodes. Candles left burning, food on the table. But a great many have gone from the Golden Grain. You did well to move to the Sleeping Serpent, although Vilma is, well… she’s a little touched in the head these days. At least folk don’t go disappearing from there, not so far.
“Llywillan and Dorian have been keeping an eye out at night, but they haven’t seen anything except for a few mangy stray dogs, or Vilma out sleepwalking. Misha, the priestess at the temple, visited the Foaming Mug one evening. And sometimes men go knocking at the Golden Grain– ”
“Which wouldn’t be so strange except they all press two fingers to their lips on entry,” says Dorian.
“Personally, I have reservations about that mad little hermit in the Grove of Stately Elms,” continues the mayor. “The watchtower might be a ramshackle old heap, but still he has no right squatting there. Grover says he has no jurisdiction beyond the town boundary. I say he’s scared off by rumours that Ramne’s some kind of a sorcerer. I say he’s a tramp. And probably a thief.”
“Well, we’ll certainly look into it,” says Haji Baba.
“Careful, considered investigation is kind of our thing,” says Mherren, trying out his quizzical arch on the other eyebrow, then alternating between the two, unable to decide which is best.
“We’ll… continue to monitor night-time activity,” says Llywillan, looking doubtfully at the gurning half-orc.
“I really hope you can help us,” says the mayor. “This used to be such a pleasant town. A thriving place, with good people. But the good people are becoming fewer and fewer. Some darkness has befallen us, and its shadow reaches longer with each passing day.”
“Ouch!” cries out Zimlok, and everyone looks round. “I sthtabbed mythelf in the gumths with a toothpick!” Everyone stares. “It really hurtths!” “Come on,” says Haji Baba. “Let’s go see if Jo’deh has woken up yet.”

*

At the Sleeping Serpent, they are greeted by a surprised Vilma.
“Back already? Your tortoise friend is still asleep. And the other one’s left his room in such a mess! I haven’t plucked up the strength to clean it up yet!”
“We’ll sort it,” says Babs. “Can you get us some pies ready to go?”
“Well, certainly. Be my pleasure!” she croons, and waddles off holding her skirts.
“She doesn’t seem very addled to me,” says Lightstrike.
Upstairs, they take a good look around Zellingar’s room. Although it’s a mess, nothing is broken. But all his possessions are gone. Zimlok peers out of the open window. And sees a haycart parked below. He muses for a moment, screwing up his brows as he ponders, then thrusts one index finger into the air with a triumphant “A-ha!”, and promptly throws himself headfirst out of the window.
The others rush to the window and peer over, to see two inverted bird legs sticking out of the haystack and thrashing around helplessly. Eventually he manages to pull himself free, ears and nostrils full of hay, snorting like a feathered horse.
“I think Zellingar may have defenestrated on purpose!” Zimlok yells up to the others.
“Defenewhatted?” Lightstrike yells back.
“Defene– ”
But Zimlok doesn’t get to finish his sentence, as Mherren leaps out of the window and lands square on top of him.
The half-orc pulls Zimmo up out of the hay, his wizard’s hat flattened, spluttering and sneezing more hay out of his beak.
“What did you do that for, you stupid orc?” he shouts.
“I was just testing out your theory,” says Mherren apologetically. “Look! Footprints!”
And lo and behold, there is a single set of footprints in the mud behind the cart, a good match for Zellingar’s slippers.
“But why would he just run off like that, without saying goodbye?” asks Lightstrike.
“Maybe he’s gone to see his father in Wolden,” says Haji Baba, stroking her chubby chin. “Do you remember Jo’deh’s fate-weaving? He said Zellingar had a choice to make, between betraying his father and taking some kind of powerful elixir from him, or joining his father in his madness and despotism. Or something like that. I wasn’t really listening.”
“Yes! The Elixir of Fire!... And speaking of Jo’deh, let’s go wake him up,” says Lightstrike. “Lazy tortle! It’s nearly noon!”
They find Jo’deh still fast asleep and snoring loudly. The companions try various methods to rouse him, from subtle tickles of a feather to nudges to kicks to magical drenchings and healing spells.
Eventually Zimlok steps forward, chest thrust out. “Stand back, folks. Highly dangerous arcane magicks are imminent. All clear!” And he thrusts his arm into one of the arm-holes in Jo’deh’s shell, unleashing a fearsome blast of electricity. At least that’s what he’d hoped would happen. But, with Jo’deh still being rather damp from Haji Baba’s drenching, he instead finds himself fizzing momentarily with a feeble jolt of voltage, and then nothing.
“Dangerous arcane magicks, eh?” sniggers Mherren.
Zimlok storms off huffily, mumbling something about earthing points and unconducive electrical resistance and fluctuating conductive current. Finally giving up on the snoozing Songline Walker, Mherren tucks a note into his shell saying: “Gone investigating. Back soon.”
And, picking up their steaming pies from Vilma on the way out, they set off for the Grove of Stately Elms to see what the mad hermit knows.

*

Parting the undergrowth, they spy sleuth-like upon the dilapidated watchtower that hunkers on a high clearing in the woods. Zimlok’s hat, with restored pointiness, is sticking out the top of the bushes. There are birds flitting between branches, and little rustlings and flickers of movement as woodland animals go about their business – a very different vibe to the stark, rotten fields that encircle Orlane.
The tower itself is round, stout, and crumbling, its single oaken door hanging forlornly from its hinges. The four sneaky adventurers and bat-quasit tiptoe up to it. Viper hangs from the door, as Mherren creeps around the back, and Zimlok secretes himself in the trees, along with a resolutely vocal songbird that has alighted upon his pointy hat. Babs and Lightstrike venture in.
Up the darkened spiral staircase they climb, Lightstrike barely a shadow, past arrow slits and a heavy, closed door. Lightstrike creaks it open a crack, and pads inside the room. There is no one here – but there has been. A dirty bedroll lies untidily next to a cold fireplace and cooking pot. There is a pile of jumbled rags on the floor.
Something catches his eye. One of the rags has form. A sphere. Tentatively, he picks it up. It’s heavy. He shakes it. No noise. Carefully, he unfolds the cloth, to reveal a small glass orb that swirls with shifting patterns of colour. Lightstrike checks left and right, and tucks it into his pocket.
“Hello?” shouts Haji Baba, electing for the direct approach, as puffing hard she climbs the final flight of stairs on her diminutive hobbit-legs. “Is anybody here? Hello?”
“Who goes there?” comes a voice from above.
“I am Haji Baba the Grand of Kagonost, daughter of Uslektil Kagonestri, Druid of the Circle of the Forest. I come in peace and good will.”
“A druid? Oh my, that’s wonderful!” returns the voice with enthusiasm. “Do come! Do come!”
As Bab’s peers out blinking at the open top floor of the tower, she is greeted by the sight of a crusty little gnome with a short, white, moss-tangled beard and a long robe that perhaps was once a vibrant blue – now grey, faded and torn.
“I’m a druid, too!” says the gnome. “Ramne, they call me. Not that I really ever see anyone ever more. I’ve lived here so long, but I have talked with anyone except the birds and voles and squirrels for… years… decades? I lose track. But then my memory isn’t what it was. Please, seat yourself. You’re most welcome. One moment. I’ll be back shortly.”
Suspicious, Haji Baba sits cross-legged on the stone slab floor and waits.
In a few minutes the gnome is back bearing a pot of fragrant tea. He hands Babs a pewter cup.
“Best tea from across the Gasping Ocean,” he enthuses. “It has a delicate fragrance. But it packs a punch. Now, what brings you here, Haji Baba the Grand of Kagonost?”
“We… er… I’m investigating some strange happenings at Orlane,” she ventures. “Do you know anything about what’s going on?”
“Orlane has had its troubles over the years, it’s true. There are some funny people about. Cults of Nephthys, and Zon-Kuthon, and the like. But I fear this is something worse than one of those fallen ascendants. I don’t meddle in people’s affairs, but I do keep my nose to the ground, so to speak. My little friends keep me informed.”
Haji Baba notices something squirming disconcertingly in Ramne’s trousers, but decides not to mention it.
The gnome takes a long sip of tea. “Why don’t you invite your companions to join us? We can all have a nice chat.”
“Ah. Okay,” says Babs, sheepishly. “Um, Lightstrike! Zimlok! Mherren!”
Lightstrike appears from the shadows of the stairwell, and sends Ramne a disarming grin.
“I’m Lightstrike. The Epic. Would you like some pie?”
Ramne clutches greedily at the still-steaming pie, and begins to guzzle it down amidst unintelligible noises of gratitude. The adventurers wait patiently for him to finish, as Viper flaps up and lands on the turret.
Presently, Zimlok comes pit-pattering up the stairs, a little bird still perched precariously and swaying on his pointy hat. The bird flits over to Ramne, and lands on his staff, tweeting.
“Zimlok the Lightbringer, at your service,” the wizard bows low, attempting a dignified air, and accidentally scrapes his beak on the floor-slabs.
“I’ve had to expend a lot of energy keeping my little grove full of such vitality,” Ramne continues eventually, spitting crumbs. “There is some sort of strange malaise, some malign sickness spreading over these lands.”
“It’s coming from the swamps to the north,” volunteers Lightstrike with enthusiasm.
“We may have accidentally kind of made things a tiny bit worse, too,” says Haji Baba. “You see we sort of accidentally brought an alien whale god to the surface, and its dark blood is currently sort of leaking out a bit over the verdant vales of the hinterlands.”
“Yes, a little bird told me,” says Ramne with a wink. “Well, we all make mistakes. And you might just have brought things into the open in more ways than one. Nobody’s going to argue the veracity of your claims when the damnable thing is laid across the hilltops like some monstrous tor. I’ve suspected for some time there was a darkness brewing beneath these lands. Now I know it to be true, thanks to you.”
“Darkness…?” prompts Lightstrike. “What kind of darkness?”
“Demons. And worse.” Ramne has drawn out a pipe and starts to tap out the ashes ritualistically. “Hmm. Come to think of it, there is one person I have spoken to quite recently. Old Vilma. She came to see me. Said she’d seen something horrid at the abandoned tavern of the Foaming Mug. Said nobody believed her.”
“What did she see?” asks Babs.
Ramne starts filling his pipe. Stops. And looks her dead in the eye, his playful gaze now steady and serious.
“Servants of Sseth.”
“Servants of whom?” squawks Zimlok, poking his ear and pulling out a long strand of hay.
“Sseth. The Snake Demon. The Sinuous One. He Who Slithers. The Sibilant Serpent. Some say the old Temple of Geb itself used to be an altar to Sseth, before more civilised folk arrived from the west. Most call it fable. I’m not so sure.
“When I listen to the wind, I hear the names of all kinds of demonic entities whispered on the breeze. Sseth. Yeenoghu. Zuggtmoy. Graz’zt. Orcus. Demogorgon. Their influence grows. Something is giving them… confidence.
“I fear the worst. Folk are being taken from their homes. Or stolen while they sleep at the Golden Grain. If Vilma saw truly, then I am afraid those that do not return are being enslaved, or murdered – sacrificed, even. Those that do return are surely under some kind of sorcerous spell.”
“But what did she see, exactly?” persists Lightstrike.
“Serpent-headed men at the Foaming Mug. Four of them, in the dead of night, carrying a body-bag.”
“Yuan-ti!” shouts Mherren from below, unable to resist and quite forgetting he’s supposed to be incognito.
“Perhaps, although they do not belong in this land,” continues Ramne, unphased, packing down the herbs in the end of his pipe. “Nor on this continent, even. Whatever they were, she’s lucky they didn’t see her.”
“So, you believe her?” asks Haji Baba.
“I do.”
There is another bout of squirming in Ramne’s pants, and suddenly a little weasel pops its head out from his waistband.
Ramne’s eyes crinkle with laughter, seeing the Fellowship aghast. “That’s Whiskers,” he says merrily. “Keenest sense of smell in all the land.”
Whiskers looks around at the newcomers, sniffs the air, nose twitching, and dives back into Ramne’s trousers.
“I don’t know exactly how they are kidnapping folk,” he continues, snapping his fingers and producing a flame at his fingertips. “Of course, there are magical means of doing such things, and those who return to Orlane after disappearing are very likely to be involved, don’t you think?”
He takes a few long draws on his pipe, and settles back in a cloud of smoke, eyelids drooping in satisfaction.
“Our friend,” says Haji Baba. “He’s been poisoned. Some kind of sleeping potion. We think it was the goblin at the Golden Grain. Can you help?”
“Ah! I have just the thing,” he says, sucking on his pipe and coughing. He rummages around in his belt pouch, and tosses Babs a pouch of herbs. “Dawnweed. It’ll wake the dead. Well, not literally, but it should do the trick.”
“Thank you… Erm… One last thing, Ramne. Do you know anything about this?”
And she reaches into her bag of holding to produce the Lost Egg of Koschei the Deathless. Like a sinister jewel, its opaque, grey- and pink-mottled shell glints through the smoke that coils off Ramne’s pipe.
His jaw drops open and his pipe falls out and clatters to the floor. “All my giddy graces, where in Seven Heavens did you get that?” he exclaims.
“The witch, Baba Yaga gave it to us,” says Lightstrike. “Told us to keep it safe. It was in a duck inside a hare inside a goat called Martha. We lost Martha, and we nearly lost the egg to King Eoneril, but we got it back, or rather I did, with my friend Ki-Shun, and…”
“Eoneril of Qualimor? But he is a good king, one of the Eldaranari, those who have passed into the Light. Whatever would he want with such a cursèd thing?”
“Alas, he has been corrupted. There are Shadowmancers in Qualimor. We know not what they want, but Aelar Caphaxath is their High Sorcerer,” says Zimlok.
“He’s a stinky-poo,” says Lightstrike. “He sent our friends away. Just because they were a little bit undead.”
“He did give me my brains back!” calls up Mherren from below. “Hi, I’m Mherren, by the way.”
“Oh, this is dire news,” says the gnome. “Very bad news indeed.”
“What do you know of the egg?” presses Haji Baba.
“I know a little,” says Ramne, recovering his pipe and sucking at it hard until it rekindles.
Expectant looks. Eventually, satisfied that his pipe has a good ember, he proceeds.
“Koschei the Deathless is an immortal incarnation of Death, and his presence in the world ensures that the cycle of life continues. He is associated with dark caves, eggs, tribal drums and cave paintings, shapeshifters, ecstatic dance, and mesmeric trance.
“However, he is an entity without reserve, and if he were to be let loose upon the world there would be a tidal wave of mortality in the form of plague, war, or famine, as he danced his dance of death throughout the lands. It was decreed he should be curtailed, and thus his soul was bound.
“In some writings he is described as an Antipaladin of Poliel, the Plague Mother, but in all the histories he is presented as an embodiment of the scything force that counters exponential growth, and in every account he goes mad in some way and decimates entire populations to the brink of extermination.
“And so, his gleeful and excessive soul was captured by Grandmother, old Baba Yaga, and hidden inside an egg inside a duck inside a hare inside a goat, to whom she gifted eternal life, so that his ghoulish hunger for the living could be balanced with the generative capacity of the Great Mother.
“It is believed his immortal body is imprisoned in an Azath House in some forgotten corner of Amarthaur.”
“Ooh! I’m the Speaker of the Azath! Jo’deh said so!” blurts Zimlok, preeningly.
Ramne looks him up and down from behind billowing pipe smoke. “I very much doubt that,” he chortles condescendingly.
Zimlok pouts in annoyance, at least as much as having a beak allows one to pout.
Ramne continues: “Should Koschei’s soul be returned to his body, there would be dire consequences for mortal beings, as the quiet contemplation of winter and the silent repose of death would be replaced by a dervish-like wave of carnage that would rival and stifle the celebratory growth and fruition of new life. The balance would be lost.
“But there are those who covet the Soul of Koschei, either for his crazed and destructive power, or for his opposition to undeath, for Koschei abhors those who would deprive him of his harvest… and make the dead undead.”
“Well, that’s clear as mud,” snorts Zimlok.
“Yes, we’ll leave you in peace,” says Haji Baba, as Ramne takes another blissful puff, and his eyeballs start rolling around alarmingly in their sockets. “Thank you for all your help.”
“Stop by any time for tea,” says Ramne, his words slurring. “And do bring some more pie!”
The companions turn to go, but just as they are setting foot on the stairs Ramne calls out.
“And by all means, you can keep the globe of invulnerability, young tabaxi!”
Lightstrike looks round, eyes agog.
“Consider it a permanent lone. It will protect you from all kinds of low-level magic. If you and your friends can get to the bottom of this mystery, and see off the malignancy that is poisoning this realm and bringing forth the demon cults, you would be doing me a great favour. You would be doing us all a great favour. If only I were a little younger I would come along with you, but I am past such adventures these days. Still, if there is anything I can help you with, anything at all – just ask! You know where to find me!”
Feeling rather embarrassed at being caught red-handed, Lightstrike offers a nervous smile, mutters a muffled thank you, and disappears quickly down the stairs. Haji Baba presses her palms together in gratitude, while Zimlok just gives a scornful, sulky look, wraps his robe about himself melodramatically, and immediately trips down the stairs with an alarmed squawk.
Ramne lays back in a haze of pipe-smoke, chuckling and petting Whiskers the weasel, who has scampered out of his trousers and curled up in his beard.

*

Jo’deh’s nostrils twitch as Haji Baba wafts the smouldering Dawnweed under his nose. He sneezes, and his eyes ping open as he jumps up with a start.
“What the…? Who the…? Where am I…?” he stutters in confusion, staggering around the room. But as soon as he lays eyes on Zimlok, he clasps him by the shoulders, and snaps to his senses.
“I remember!” he wheezes in Zimlok’s face, who turns away, wincing at Jo’deh’s overpowering halitosis. “Last night, after eating at the Golden Grain, I started feeling rather queasy. Yes, I was really rather unwell. Hot flushes and crippling stomach pains. And then… nothing. I dreamt, though…
“I dreamt I was at the Gnarly Oak where the Moot is held. But there was nobody there. Just me. So I headed off into the swamp, looking for the other Elders, hallooing until I was hoarse. Nobody. I was tired, so I laid down against an old ruin. I’d never seen it before. Its architecture was… colossal… and… strange.
“And as my mind started to drift, and my eyes closed, I began to fall into the rock. Into solid rock I fell, and was entombed within. But then I opened my eyes, and I was in a strange, volcanic land. The sky was burning orange and filled with broiling clouds of ash. And there was a giant. He was building a house. Hefting great slabs and piling them one on top of the other. I sensed he’d been here a very long time, building houses. He looked at me. There was a sadness in his eyes. That sadness spoke of the sorrow of aeons. I opened my mouth to speak with him, but he shook his great head, and glanced behind him, as though in warning. Then I felt a presence. A presence that hummed and crackled with sorcery, with dark and pitiless intent. I looked back at the giant, who continued to build his house. And there, in the patterns of the stone, I saw a name…”
Jo’deh stares meaningfully into Zimlok’s eyes, his own eyes wide open, his overbite trembling.
“Whose name?” demands Zimlok, still making disgusted faces at Jo’deh’s bad breath.
Jo’deh looks with a steady gaze at the fidgeting wizard, a gaze loaded with meaning and dripping with portent.
“Well, if you’re not going to tell us… see if I care,” snaps Zimlok, breaking away from the tortle’s grip.
The others roll their eyes in incredulity.
“I must hasten to the Moot,” says Jo’deh. “Fare thee well. But it is not goodbye. For I foresee we shall meet again, before too long…”
And, grasping his cane and rucksack, he shuffles off down the corridor.

*

“You lot off again already?” asks old Vilma as the Fellowship make to leave the Sleeping Serpent.
“Yes, we’re very carefully and cautiously investigating the disappearances here in Orlane,” says Mherren.
“We’ve been speaking to Ramne,” says Haji Baba. “We know what you saw– ”
Vilma’s eyes widen.
“ –And we believe you.”
She looks relieved. “Oh, thank Geb, someone does. Everyone says I’ve lost my marbles, but I know what I saw. Snake-headed men at the Foaming Mug. They sent a shiver down my old spine. There’s not much scares me these days. I’ve seen most things, good and bad. But it was like I was looking at something – other. Something not of this world.”
“Well, you can count on us,” says Lightstrike. “We know precisely what we’re doing. We’re expert sleuths, you see.”
“There was another one last night, so I heard. Another disappearance, from the Golden Grain. Iggy Olivero – a trader from Astlav, apparently. Vanished in the middle of the night, like all the others. Oh – did you find your friend?”
“We… think we know where he went,” says Haji Baba. “We don’t believe he was kidnapped.”
“I invegsticated it,” says Mherren proudly.
“We’re going to check out Constable Grover next. Ormond thinks he’s in on it,” says Zimlok…
… But there is nobody in at the constabulary. The doors are locked, the windows barred. Zimlok shrugs to Haji Baba. “Wanna go feed the ducks?”
Haji Baba, thinking this is code for “snoop around the lake, talk to a few folk and suss things out”, nods and winks. Zimlok wonders what she’s got in her eye.
Mherren sends Viper in snake form to take a look around the abandoned Foaming Mug tavern, while he and Lightstrike head to the Golden Grain Inn.
There are no patrons in the taproom, although some muffled voices can be heard speaking in a side chamber. Bertram is cleaning glasses behind the bar.
“Ah! How can I be of service!” he exclaims with a disingenuous smile as the rogue and warlock swagger up to the bar.
Mherren leans in close to him and rasps: “We know what you’re up to. We know about the kidnappings.”
“And the cult. And the snake-men,” snarls Lightstrike. “You’d better start talking – fast.”
“I don’t know what you’re on about,” the innkeep laughs nervously. “Have you been talking to Vilma? She’s loopy as a wolf on a full moon, that one… ha-ha…”
Three burly men have sidled up behind the two heroes.
“These gents causing trouble, Bertram?” asks one, a swarthy man holding a wooden pipe in one hand, and fondling the hilt of a short sword with the other.
“You Grover?” asks Mherren.
“Maybe I am. Maybe I ain’t,” sneers the man, as his two heavies close in, fingering heavy cudgels.
“Well, I hope Sseth knows who you are,” says Lightstrike, pulling open his jacket to reveal his shiny new temple sword.
“These two are troublemakers, boys. Let’s take ’em in,” drawls Grover, and the two heavies go to grab hold of Mherren…
“AITHINDÉE!”
Mherren screams a bloodcurdling yell, as he draws the Flaming Tongue of Idu Maagog and it bursts into licking, vengeful spirals of hellfire.
“Yaaaaaahhhhh!” yells Lightstrike, leaping and spiralling through the air, the temple sword flashing in devastating arcs of spattering blood.

*

“How d’ya think they’re getting on?” asks Haji Baba as she throws another hunk of bread to the wagging, bobbing ducks.
“Oh, I’m sure they’re fine,” says Zimlok, his crowfeet sploshing gently in the water as he swings them lazily to and fro.
“You don’t think we should go check on them? They’ve been gone a while now…”
“You worry too much. They’ve just gone to gather a little information, is all. I’m telling you, they’ll be absolutely fine.”

*

“Gaaaaahhhhh!”
Mherren’s face contorts with blood rage as his flaming blade swings down across the thug’s torso, cleaving him in two and leaving him a smoking mess of entrails on the floor.
Lightstrike plunges his sword into the other, skewering him to the hilt. Blood spurts out of the man’s mouth as he clutches the blade, eyes wide in horror. Lightstrike grimaces and pushes the blade in deeper.
Seeing his chance, Bertram leaps over the bar with uncanny speed, a carving knife appearing from the folds of his grubby apron.
But Lightstrike turns and, with a casual whistle, sends the sacrificial dagger of the Derro Savant snaking through the air and snicking through his jugular. Bertram collapses, clutching his neck as blood pumps wildly from the severed artery.
Mherren advances on Grover. “Well? Still having trouble with your memory?” the half-orc looms over him, his muscles rippling.
Lightstrike turns the entry sign to “Closed” with an emphatic snap. Snigrot the goblin, who had been cowering behind the bar, makes a desperate dash for the kitchen. Grover just grins a bloody grin.
“Whatever you plan on doing to me, she will do far worse,” he hisses.
“She? I thought Ramne said Ssesh was a he?” says Lightstrike to Mherren, confused.
“I will never talk! Kill me if you must!” says Grover, spitting dark blood on to the floor.
Mherren grabs him by the collar and studies him closely, searching deep into his eyes. There is something dead in Grover’s stare. Like he is not really present. Like there’s something else present, in fact. Something… controlling him.
“Let’s tie him up,” says the warlock. “And get after that little goblin runt!”

*

“Look at me! I’m a flamingo!” says Zilmok, standing on one leg at the edge of the lake.
“Come on, Zimlok, quit fooling around. Lightstrike and Mherren might need us.”
Haji Baba turns her back and starts heading back to the Golden Grain.
Splosh!
She stops. Looks heavenward. Groans. Looks around.
Zimlok is hauling himself out of the lake, bedraggled with pondweed.
She turns round again and, muttering under her breath, starts walking.
The kenku mage follows, tapping pondwater out of his ears, unravelling tangled weeds from around his beak and wringing out his limp and sorry hat. (When will he learn he can just use prestidigitation? – DM.)
When they draw near the inn and he is almost dry, Babs turns around and drenches him again. She gloats with satisfaction, and steps inside…
… To find a scene of utter horror. Blood splattered across the walls, daubed across the floor, bits of gore and burnt flesh strewn around like macabre ornaments. Mherren is just in the process of wheelbarrowing a hacked-up body behind the bar, a thick trail of crimson smearing from its misshapen head. Behind the bar is Lightstrike, leaning innocently, trying to look casual. Something moans weakly and he gives it a jab with his toe. He flashes Babs a guilty smile as Mherren halts mid-drag and looks up.
Haji Baba gaups at Lightstrike, then at Mherren, then around this horrific scene of bloody violence, then back at Lightstrike.
“Wha– ?” he says, several tones too high. “We found it like this.”

*

What evil lies behind the mystery of Orlane? A demon serpent-lord, or something else? Something darker yet?
What did Jo’deh’s dream-vision mean? Who was that giant? What house was he building? And where? What sorcerous entity did lurk beyond? And what in Seven Heavens did it have to do with Zimlok?
Has Zellingar really slipped away in the night? And if so, which path of fate will he choose? Will he betray his father? Or join with him in his dastardly scheme? What need has he of this Elixir of Fire?
What undead threat was Baba Yaga so frightened of that she entrusted the Egg of Koschei to Eoneril Ostoroth, who yet holds the Bloodstone of Orcus? And what hold do the Shadowmancers of Barad Quali have over him?
What foul threat in the swamps is drawing demonic cults out into the open? And what roles playeth the Immortal Phaorah, the Archwizard Kayden, and the Avatar of Mael who holds the Seventh Soul Shard of Arden?
What secrets are still held at the Golden Grain Inn? What creatures lurk at the Foaming Mug? And what foul curse has befallen the holy Temple of Geb?
What creatures stalk our valiant and vainglorious heroes? Gnolls, Drow, and… something else?
Will Ramne the Druid wake up from his pipeweed stupor long enough to be of any use?
And will Zimlok the Lightbringer ever get over himself?
Find out in the next spine-tingling episode of…

Ye Sword of Air

Experience

Sleeping Serpent 100
Grove of Stately Elms 200
Golden Grain: Thugs 200
Golden Grain: Bertram 25
Golden Grain: Grover (incapacitated) 75
TOTAL 600
Per Player 150

Items

Minor orb of invulnerability The bearer has immunity to all cantrips and spells of first to third level (affects one person).