Sword of Air: Book 2
Against the Cult of the Reptile God: Part VI
Chapter L
The Hunt
Prologue
Dragon Keep, Wolden…
A human figure, wrapped in heavy woollen blankets, sprawls in a luxurious, velveteen couch before a huge, roaring fireplace. Basking in the crackling, dancing flames, Nibenay Athas, the Sorcerer-King, self-declared Lord of the Dragon Coast, grins as he fondles the glowing vial in his arthritic hands. His long, red hair is falling out, leaving bald patches and unsightly tufts, and his pale, sallow skin is drawn and cracked, like a man poisoned.
Gazing lovingly into the luminescent red glow of the corked, glass vial, with amber eyes that look strangely reptilian, he mutters beneath his breath, between teeth stained and filed to points: “O Tiamat, are you envious? Soon I shall achieve what you could not. The reign of dragons is nigh! A reign of fire! And where are you? Imprisoned within the jewel! Hah! Nothing can stop me…”
A knock on the heavy, wooden door. A servant enters meekly.
“Lord King, a message from your Chief of Eyes.”
Startled, Nibenay gathers his composure and levels his draconic eyes upon the trepidatious serf. “Yes?”
“It is your son, my Lord. He has been spied within the city walls.”
The Dragon King, veiling his surprise, pauses for a moment to consider. “Tell the Eyes to do nothing yet. Observe him closely and report to me.”
“Very good, my Lord.”
The servant bows and retreats from the chamber, leaving Nibenay Athas to ponder, silhouetted before the writhing flames.
Upon the wall behind him dancing shadows are cast. Shadows that bear remarkable resemblance to a creature of legend. A creature not seen alive in Yore for centuries. A creature whose name is whispered in fear, uttered by nurses to scare misbehaving children. A creature of untold power.
A
dragon!
*
The 23rd day of Eleint 2020, by Yore Reckoning (and also by mine)
When last we left our heroes, they were making preparations to seek out the dastardly yet elusive Defidia, and flush out the remaining critters still lurking in her stenchful hole in the sinister Groves of Nephthys.
The Great Wizard Zimlok is still stoically maintaining his tiny hut. Lightstrike is tightening the makeshift chinstrap he has attached to Kla’rota’s hat, and secretly sniggering to himself about how ridiculous Haji Baba looks. Haji Baba is adjusting her magnificent, golden pharaonic headpiece, and stifling her laughter at how dumb Lightstrike looks in that overblown colander.
Morag is busy poking around in a soggy residue of tea leaves at the bottom of a ceramic bowl she has produced from her overly plentiful skirts, claiming that she can divine good fortune for the motley, and increasingly knackered, party of adventurers.
Mherren the Malevolent, of course, is particularly pooped, still suffering as he is from the curse that befell him after he was wounded by the mysterious hell being known as Asuran. So pooped is he, in fact, that he is regaling Dagmar with a torrent of random nonsense and riddles.
“When you have me, you feel like sharing me; but when you share me, you no longer have me – what am I?” the increasingly deranged warlock declares, and thrusts one mad-looking bloodshot eye close into the old dwarf’s confused face.
“Erm… ur…”
“Aha! I am a secret!” Mherren stabs one finger high in the air in a gesture of triumph, and poor ol’ Daggers attempts to look impressed.
“Come along, Mherren,” Babs smiles apologetically at Dagmar, and steers Mherren away. Some convoluted swapping of headgear follows, as a plan of sorts is formulated (the term “plan” is, as ever where our noble heroes are concerned, employed decidedly loosely). Babs grumpily dons the mind flayer’s colander, feeling rather foolish, whilst it is decided Yalsk should wear Duorik’s regal helm of gold. For some reason he doesn’t look too happy about this, but he goes along with it, feeling he rather owes this band of lunatics a favour for breaking him out of this gods-forsaken place.
Babs, dragging the still-babbling Mherren along by the arm, goes with Morag and Daggers to clear out the rest of the lair. “Show yourself, Defidia!” she snarls, gripping her staff as her rosy, pudgy face contorts into a mask of boiling, righteous anger. Perhaps imprudently, Mherren is awarded the task of bringing along the rapidly disintegrating head of the basilisk, the gaze of which they protect themselves from by covering it with one of the fnail shail snell sields.
Exploring the vicinity of the old temple to look for signs of Defidia’s escape are Lightstrike the Epic, Zimlok the Lightbringer, Gideon the Traveller, Yalsk the itinerant monk-bard, Druth (his vulpine companion), and Slim the… er… well, no one has actually asked Slim exactly what he is as yet. They have discovered that he hails from someplace called the Astral Sea, and Lightstrike wonders (with his usual keen insight) if it is the same place in which they discovered the Astral Library of Athenaeum.
“It is indeed,” says Slim. “Whereas the Ethereal Plane is a phantom overlay upon this material world, much like the Shadowfell and the Feywild, the Astral Sea is an infinite expanse of space that divides the Planes of Existence from one another. It is a vast, starlit realm – a celestial void hiding portals to the heavens, and the hells for that matter. It is home to my people, and many other strange races and creatures besides. Gargantuan ships glide silently through the silvery haze, past the petrified hulks of dead gods, and towering clouds of stardust swirl and morph into beautiful, nebulous forms of impossible colours.”
“I see,” says Zimlok thoughtfully, not understanding one iota.
Bertric thanks the adventurers profusely for their daring rescue mission, before turning to Gideon. “I would aid you, and gladly give my life, after all you have done, but I fear we would not be much use against such a foe.”
Gideon clasps his hand in his own. “Better you return to Orlane to aid Kilian and reunite with your family. Send my love to Cirilli. I only pray it is not already too late, and the town has held out against those creatures. Gods’ speed to you all.”
And Bertric, Brian and Tank nod solemnly at each of their rescuers in turn, before heading out of the temple and southwest through the accursed forest towards Orlane… and whatever fate awaits them there.
Lightstrike uses the divine sense granted him by Elovyn Sorrowsong, angel of the lost Elder God Arden, to search out evil in this awful place, but (being range-limited) his holy sonar receives no pings.
(Nice idea, though – DM.)
Meanwhile, Team Babs happens upon the last yuan-ti, making her escape after unlocking the door that held the great snake-hydra prisoner.
“Shillelagh!” cries Daggers with an embarrassingly high-pitched scream, and runs at the monster, brandishing his club, now imbued with the awesome power of Mother Earth. But Babs is too quick for him, delivering a wicked blow with her thunderstaff as Mherren releases a devastating, jagged blast of magenta eldritch energy. Morag traces a glyph in the air with her bony fingers, and sends the thing into a magical sleep. Babs then shot putts it into the armoury and locks the door, caring not if it lives or dies.
(Hmm… I’m beginning to wonder if some shifts in character alignments might be on the horizon – DM.)
Then, emerging from its stinking prison, the six-headed anathema squeezes through the doorway and half-crawls, half-slithers towards them. It is enormous, as big as a hill giant, and it lumbers forth, its great heads hissing and intertwining and dripping with venom.
“Halt, foul minion of Defidia’s!” Haji Baba plants her little legs wide and stands fast before this looming apparition of death, hoping no one can see her bottom lip beginning to quiver.
“Defidia? We are no minion of that abomination!” the heads retort in cacophonous, sibilant union.
“Er… you’re not?”
“Why do you suppose we have been locked away and held in a magical sleep, whilst our people are enslaved to her will?”
“Um… well, I guess we never really considered that…”
“Too long has she dominated these lands, spreading the abhorrent malaise of her master, creating mutants in our image and desecrating the idols of our Lord, Unholy Sseth. We know not who you are, little rabbit, but if you do not step aside we shall squash you like a gnat.”
“Wait!” shouts Mherren. “We too our enemies of Defidia. We also seek her and would bring about her demise. Join with us! Most of your people are dead. The rest, sent to a futile battle far to the south, in which truly they have no stake, all at the behest of that slime-ridden naga! I, Mherren Halfblood, Champion of Demogorgon, give my dark word that I speak the truth!”
The anathema stops in its tracks. Its scaly heads exchange questioning looks, and, almost as if it has rolled dice to determine if it will relent to the will of the half-orc, it appears to reach a decision.
“Very well, then. The enemy of our enemy is our ally. Erm… I suppose you might as well hop onboard.”
And they clamber on to the back of the beast, and upon their unlikely steed they go to join Team Lightstrike.
Emerging blinking into the unexpectedly bright midday sun, they find Lightstrike et al. examining the rubble-strewn rampart and ditch that encircles the buried temple and keeps out the surrounding swamp-waters. Zimlok’s beak gapes open in amazement as he squints up at the silhouette of Babs, Mherren, Morag and Daggers rodeoing precariously upon the sinuous back of the giant snake-monster.
Recovering from his initial shock, and trying unsuccessfully to appear unperturbed, the wizard points at at a recent, smoothed-out trail that leads from a hidden exit, over the earthworks, and disappears into the murky waters. “I found these tracks,” he says nonchalantly. “Looks like she headed this way.”
“You found the tracks?” Lightstrike asks incredulously. “You were busy riding up and down in the zombie-powered bucket in that well-shaft over there. I found the trail.”
“No matter who found it,” declares Haji Baba in a statesmanlike tone from the back of the anathema. “We shall have to work together to detect her route, for between us and our quarry are miles, if not leagues, of mosquito-clouded forest and marshy terrain. It will be a difficult task, if not impossible. We should accept that in all likelihood we will fail, and Defidia will make her escape to whatever den she is running to.”
(Cue a series of ridiculously lucky rolls in our tracking challenge. Bloody unbelievable – DM.)
“Looks like she is headed in the general direction of the Howling Hills, beyond which lie the Festering Marshes,” hisses Houatl, their serpentine steed. “Come.” And, admittedly rather tentatively, the others climb on to the anathema’s back and it winds silently into the opaque waters, half-swimming, half-wading beneath the dense, sun-blocking canopy.
Mherren spots signs of broken foliage here and there, confirming they are on the right course. Eventually they emerge from the dismal Groves into the wooded uplands of the Brinestump Covert (and, unbeknownst to them, narrowly avoid the notorious local tribe of savage goblins – DM).
Babs finds a vantage point from which to survey the terrain to the north, and spies a likely route that follows a rocky valley towards the prominent, round-shouldered tor known to locals of the Dragon Coast as Hvel’s Bluff. Entering a narrow, twisting gorge, its high walls shading them from the rays of the now fast-dipping sun, Zimlok realises that the tell-tale signs of the passage of a large, ophidian creature have abruptly ended. Lightstrike ponders for a moment, wondering what he would do if he were Defidia.
“She’s a cunning one, rather like me,” he says after some reflection. “She’ll suspect we’ll be tracking her, and probably will refrain from pressing on and potentially reveal her destination to her pursuers. If I were her, I’d hole up somewhere for the night, and lick my wounds.”
He looks around at the canyon walls, and spies a passable route past a gnarly, dead sycamore tree that leads up into some gorse thickets. Without another word, he bounds up the cliff, the others following on the back of Houatl.
“Found it!” comes a cheerful cry from beyond the gorse bushes.
“Keep quiet, for Volund’s sake,” hushes Yalsk, as they catch up with Lightstrike. “You might as well ring the bloody doorbell!”
But his reprimand is like water off a kuo-toa’s back. Lightstrike is staring into the black mouth of a hidden cavern, and grinning from ear to tufty ear.
And there, before the gaping entrance, are the sure signs of the passage of something large and heavy… and sliding. The soil is smoothed, pebbles pressed into the ground. And here, even a trace of blood.
“She is sorely wounded. My blight is still upon her.
(Umm, pretty sure she was immune to that. Sorry-not-sorry – DM.) I wouldn’t be surprised if she hasn’t crawled in there to die,” says Haji Baba.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” says Mherren. “Creatures such as her are highly resistant to such poisons.
(Yup, there we go – DM.) Everyone – steel your minds! Our nemesis awaits!”
The quasit, having returned temporarily to the Abyss after he was petrified by Astrid the medusa, is not available for reconnaissance purposes. And the Fellowship neglects to send their sneaky rogue in first. Or Druth. In fact, dispensing with all caution altogether, in spite of Mherren’s (rather uncharacteristically) wise words, they venture forth upon the back of their many-headed mount. The cave leads back into a wide tunnel. It is pitch black, and they must rely on their darkvision to peer dimly into the oppressive gloom.
A sound. Faint. But unmistakable. Something stirs within.
Lightstrike calms his nerves with Arden’s aura of courage, and he prepares to enhance his strikes with His divine smite. In his pocket, Ramné’s orb lies forgotten, but nevertheless repelling the effects of any low-powered magic. Quietly, he nocks an arrow to his catgut bowstring.
Mherren glugs down a potion of endurance, followed swiftly by a chaser in the form of the bezoar of the manticore, a revolting semi-digested pellet that immediately causes deadly spikes to sprout painfully from his skin and through his armour.
(Remember it lasts for five days! – DM.) He pats his brooch of shielding and grips the hilt of the sword of Idu Maagog, the command word already forming upon his lips.
Deeper into the tunnel they go, their senses alert to every louse and beetle that calls this home. And there, curled up and tucked into a corner like a cornered rat, the familiar, grotesque form of…
Defidia!
Babs doesn’t waste any time with words. Without hesitation, she utters a spell of infestation and directs it at her foe. But Defidia appears to resist her druidic magic, and manages to hold Morag in a psionic iron grip.
Zimlok the Lightbringer seizes his moment. He summons six tiny meteors, which whirl around his head in ever-hastening circles of fire, and launches them in quick succession at the cowering form of their formerly arrogant and deadly enemy.
Defidia, unafflicted by the blight, but still grievously wounded from Haji Baba’s lightning strike earlier, and not yet having had time to heal herself, perishes before Zimlok’s torrent of magical meteors. There isn’t even opportunity for one last vengeful quip. Just a hiss of outrage, cut short.
“I did it! I did it! Did you see that? Huh? Did you see? Zimlok the Lightbringer singlehandedly brought the beast to its knees!”
“It doesn’t have any knees, stupid,” says Babs, not just a little miffed, and wondering if it would be a physically feasible and ethically acceptable solution to forcibly remove his self-important beak.
Just to be sure, Mherren slides from Houatl’s back and steps up to the smouldering form of the slime naga. “Aithindée,” he rasps, and as Magog’s blade bursts into flame, he cleaves down and parts Defidia’s head from her body.
“You are indeed worthy allies,” hisses the anathema as the others dismount. “We had thought to dispatch you when you served no further purpose, but we see now that we would be foolish to do so. Such a fight would likely see much needless injury on both sides. Our grim and perilous task is complete. Vengeance has been exacted. We wouldst leave now, and go to found another colony far away from here, and far from the influence of those whom Defidia served. We bid you farewell.”
Depleted and exhausted, the Fellowship of Ten defer to Houatl’s snaky wisdom, and make way for her to depart. The last they see is her hulking, snaking form silhouetted in crepuscular blue against the dark mouth of the cavern.
“Can you call your warriors off from Orlane?” calls out Zimlok, a glimmer of hope in his voice.
Houatl turns, and her heads answer in union, a note of sadness in their voices. “No. They have sworn themselves to the Frog. Those she brainwashed – the cultists who once were villagers of the town you seek to defend – have no doubt been released from her spell. But our own people believed it was our desire to serve the one who gathers his legions in the Ebon Mire. It was us she held in her power, and with us so ensorcelled the yuan-ti were Defidia’s to command. They will remain faithful to her cause, no doubt of that. They are Zvilpoggua’s now.”
And then she is gone. Perhaps for good – only time will tell.
Morag, freed of Defidia’s spell, is staring aghast at Haji Baba, who is busying herself butchering the corpse of the naga. Babs catches her looking. Her face is spattered with blood. She clutches some misshapen viscera in one slick hand.
“What?” she demands.
Morag averts her gaze and turns away.
(Babs, you can make some harvesting rolls in the next session to see what you can successfully salvage from the body. If you want to return to the temple of Sseth to see about looting the basilisk, shadow mastiff and yuan-ti, you may do that also. Frankly, I don’t dare deny you when you get that feral look in your eye – DM.)
Mherren, still full of bloodlust and slightly deranged by the curse of Asuran and the raging thirst of Flametongue, is stomping around looking for something to kill.
“Don’t worry, Mr Halfblood, sir. We’ll find some more foes to fight soon enough, I’m sure of it,” Zimlok laughs nervously. It seems to placate him. Sort of. For a bit. Or perhaps it is merely the curse tightening its grip upon his soul.
(Best find a cure soonish; another level of Exhaustion will set in as night falls – DM.)
Lightstrike, reminiscing upon previous forays, is holding forth with Slim, describing the Battle of Runor in great detail, and how the Drow had arrived to crush the Duergar and Elder Brain.
“I am in your debt, creature,” says the ordinarily supercilious and solemn being from the Astral Sea. I shall return now to my people to report of the demise of K’Varn and the illithids he had enslaved. Your deeds shall be remembered, and your praises shall be sung in the timeless halls of the Githyanki!”
“I am unsure if my magic – powerful though it is – would be able to penetrate to the Astral Sea,” pipes up Zimlok. “Should we need to contact you again…?”
Slim rummages in his pockets, eventually producing a brass ring set with a strange, violet gemstone that seems to glimmer with starlight when looked at askance. “Meditate upon this stone, and concentrate upon my name. Be assured, creature, I shall answer.”
“That’s Slim, right?” says Zimlok hopefully.
Slim looks scornfully down at Zimlok, his alien face a picture of haughty derision. “No, great wizard. My name is Xaphado’clithquith-viraslimdath’dzallinth’ll. Remember it well. I’m sure that will be no trouble for a sage of such lofty intellect as your own.”
And, with that, Slim stalks off, out of the cave and into the fading light.
Zimlok, in a typically preening moment of self-satisfied smugness, has already forgotten his name.
Haji Baba, slick with blood, her wild hair matted and decorated with indecorous chunks of flesh and entrails, sidles up to Morag, who has begun to prepare some tea.
“Have you heard of Dagon, the God Below?” the druid asks.
Morag flinches slightly, before answering. “Dagon? Hmm, let Morag see now. Dagon, Dagon. Yes! Morag knows! Oh, yes! One of the Old Ones, who came here from another world and were banished beneath the earth long ago by heroes of yore. And of Yore, too, I suppose. But definitely of yore. Yes! Yes! Worshipped by crazed dwarfs, he was. The Derro they call them, yes. Evil things that lived in the deepest deeps. Our people despise them.”
“And if I said I had some of Dagon’s blood… what powers might it possess, do you think?”
“Dagon’s blood, you say? Well now, that would be very dangerous. Old Morag knows, yes. Very dangerous. They say it was their proximity to Dagon that made the Derro lose their minds. The Old Ones are bringers of madness. Their minds are unknowable, far beyond the ken of mortals. Even beyond the divinations of Morag, yes. Even a glimpse into their thoughts would send you insane.”
Morag leans in close to the blood-smeared halfling, her previous fear forgotten. Her milky, glass eye seems to stare directly into Babs’s soul. “They say blood is the humour that carries our thoughts,” the old dwarf croaks. “If you have Dagon’s blood, then you have liquid madness in your possession. Mark Morag’s words. Morag knows, oh yes, yes.”
(There’s a description of the effects of Dagon’s blood in the appendices; I know how you enjoy my appendices – DM.)
*
As dawn breaks upon the 24rd day of Eleint…
Weary and depleted, with Gideon also having left to take a direct route, bypassing Astlav, to see if it is not already too late to be of aid to the besieged people of Orlane, the Fellowship of Eight makes the arduous journey back to the Groves of Nephthys. Their minds are on the piles of treasure in Defidia’s lair, rather more than on saving the Orlanians from their potentially gruesome fate.
(Erm… about that alignment change… – DM.)
Now lacking their convenient, giant, amphibious steed, and being forced instead to wade, and sometimes swim, through the murky, putrid waters and mud that have blighted the already ill-reputed forest, they arrive at the first paling of the night sky, still ominously stained by the sinister presence of the suspended blood comet, the deeper darkness behind it even more prominent as the black night relents.
Haji Baba keeps watch in the clearing, her narrowed, beady eyes looking out especially for any lurking Drow, while the others go below to salvage what they can carry from the treasure hoard. (I’ll get you a list of goodies – DM.)
Their pockets stuffed, and carrying all they can manage, they rest up briefly before setting out for Orlane in trepidatious silence.
(You all benefit from a Short Rest, apart from Mherren, who takes another level of Exhaustion. Viper is still taking a holiday in the depths of the Abyss. I like to imagine him in a sun hat, a pair of Bermuda shorts, and flip-flops, slurping on an oversized, garishly-hued cocktail. I assume you’re not taking a Long Rest and leaving the Orlanians to their own devices for even longer? Mherren, you have Disadvantage on Ability Checks, and if you fail a Constitution saving throw, you’ll move at half your speed, too. We’ll roll for that next time – DM.)
Progress is painfully slow, as Mherren glowers darkly and drags his feet. His entire body and mind appear to be gradually shutting down as the curse of Asuran squeezes tighter and tighter around his very soul… and the Demogorgon remains stubbornly silent.
As they stumble and slosh through the stinking swamp, they each have a nagging feeling that they are being followed, and their imaginations play tricks on them, as they see shadowy figures moving in the shadows.
Apart from Zimlok, that is, who is still bathing blissfully in an inflated sense of his own awesomeness. As for the others, whenever their paranoia gets the better of them, and they go to investigate, they find nothing more than shadows, or at most a three-eyed hare or misshapen lizard that darts away spooked into the twisted undergrowth.
Then Lightstrike, his feline eyes as keen as his wits, notices a flash of colour in the trees. A vibrant blue – not a natural colour you would expect to see except in Spring blooms. But this is the month of Eleint. Nature’s hues are subdued and preparing for the rusts and acids of Fall. There is a scent, too, in the air. A vaguely familiar one, although he cannot quite place it.
“Who goes there?” the rogue-paladin of Arden slides his bow from his shoulder and reaches for an arrow.
A moment. Then, from behind a girthy elm, a humanoid figure strolls confidently in front of them. His face is elegant and handsome, his prominent chin amply goateed, and his skin tattooed with swirls and spirals and geometric, azure designs. He wears expensive-looking silks, entirely out of place in this accursed backwater, and carries himself with the studied poise of a nobleman. His eyes are golden, with black slits at their centre, but his most striking feature is the pair of huge, curving ram’s horns upon his head.
The stranger opens his arms and flashes the travellers a winning smile. He opens his mouth to speak, but Mherren is having none of it. His orcish face pale, drawn and haggard, he staggers up to the newcomer, drawing his sword. “Aithindée!” He spits the word out under his breath, and Flametongue, its tip dragging across the sodden ground, ignites. Before the tiefling can move or say a word, Mherren’s empty hand has closed around his throat, his manticore spikes pressing into his flesh and piercing his fancy, couture jacket.
“Who in the Abyss are you?” he growls.
The newcomer’s eyes widen in sudden fear, his windpipe being crushed by the homicidal warlock. The veil of confidence falters, and in a panicked misfiring of illusion magic, his face flickers through a range of false faces. A washerwoman, a portly laird, a drunken dwarf, a grizzled soldier, a fierce goliath, a confused firbolg, a noble aasimar, a pious cleric, a shady-looking thief, (whom some, but not those present here, would recognise as Derek Desleigh, Master of the Road), and…
“Illintendo Sharpchin!” Lightstrike cries out. “He’s…”
And the stranger’s face reverts to its tiefling form. Glancing over at the rest of the Fellowship, and recognising Lightstrike, Babs, and Zimlok, he struggles to speak, only managing to rasp out a stuttering reply.
“You! I might have known it would be you, ruining my efforts once again! Was it not enough that you murdered Gobchuck and his minions, just as I was about to flush out the witch and get to the bottom of the madness that had come to the Margreve Forest? Here I am, endeavouring to repulse the gathering forces of Chaos for my master, and you bumbling fools get in the way at every turn! I wouldn’t be at all surprise if it wasn’t you who exhumed the sleeping Chaos-god, Dagon, and laid his poisonous corpse across the peaks of the Hinterlands!”
Our heroes exchange sheepish glances.
“Unbelievable!” exclaims Sharpchin, whom Lightstrike recalls is the brother of the Orcus-worshipping tiefling, Šati, whom they allied themselves with at Zobeck, shortly before they let the city burn to the ground. “And now, as I was about to mine Defidia and her cronies for crucial information on her superiors and their plans, under the pretext of wishing to be transformed into one of those abominable yuan-ti, you come along and chop her sodding head off! Just who do you think you…”
But his words are strangled as Mherren tightens his grip even tighter. “We are your worst nightmare,” he sneers, pressing the tip of Maagog’s flaming blade against the tiefling’s belly.
“Who is your master?” demands Haji Baba.
Sharpchin gurgles something unintelligible.
“Speak!” commands Zimlok, feeling suddenly rather brave.
“Speak.” Mherren’s low growl drips with menace. He releases Sharpchin’s throat just enough for him to take a breath and reply.
“I work for none other than Asmodeus, the Lord of Hell!” wheezes the tiefling. And his hands begin to weave elaborate arcane patterns, even as his toes wiggle helplessly in midair.
“He’s trying to escape!” yells Lightstrike.
Once again, it is Zimlok the Lightbringer to the rescue.
(Oh, give us strength – DM, on behalf of everyone.)
Inspired by Morag’s foretelling of good fortune, the mighty Zimlok throws his feathered arms forward and, with a guttural, mystical utterance from his beak, he counters the escape spell of the wily servant of Asmodeus.
Mherren plunges Flametongue into Sharpchin’s abdomen. “And I work for Demogorgon, Demon-Prince of the Abyss. Your hellish master is anathema to me!” He twists the hilt.
The tiefling’s face is a mask of horror and surprise. Rich, red blood bubbling out from his mouth, he coughs and looks down at the burning blade.
“No! You carry the Sword of Maagog? The Elemental Blade of Fire?” Desperate, his life’s blood seeping from him, the magical flames refusing to cauterise the wound, Sharpchin searches for a solution. And he does what devils know best: he seeks to make a deal.
Dropping his voice to a burbling sussurance, he pins his last hopes on appealing to the half-orc’s thirst for power.
“Asmodeus is a terrible enemy to make,” he whispers, with his last ebbing strength. “But a fine ally. I implore thee, desist from thy love of demons. See how they come to destroy all under their reign of Chaos! Release me, warlock! Renounce the Demogorgon! Pledge yourself to Asmodeus! To the righteous path of Law!
“Maagog is already incarcerated at His pleasure. Yet still he seeks his Narsilambe tel Maagog, the Flametongue! He sends his servants to bring him the blade. Perhaps you have already met with some of them? He will not stop. He will never cease. Let me go! I will speak with Asmodeus. When he hears of his prisoner’s plot, he will put an end to him. For good. The sword will be indisputably yours!”
Mherren hesitates.
So Sharpchin persists. “In exchange for your loyalty, you will have a cohort of devils at your command. Spined devils, barbed devils, chain devils – all at your behest, to summon at will from the Nine Hells. A fair and lucrative deal, yes? Think, warlock. What has the Demon Prince given you? Some paltry spells? A few measly invocations? A little pet demon? Give your soul to Asmodeus, and he will reward you handsomely!
“Doubt not my words. A contract is a solemn bond to a devotee of Asmodeus. The denizens of the Nine Hells are not like your Chaotic demons. They are Law personified. Their hierarchies are strict, their contracts sworn in blood. Now, I swear to you, as my life essence flows from me. Hear this, my iron oath:
“Release me, denounce the Demogorgon, give yourself over to my master, and you shall taste power of which you have never even dreamed! By the power Asmodeus has vested in me, as his trusted emissary upon this Plane, I swear this to you. Whatever curse grips you, I will release you from it. Whatever powers that sword gives you, I will imbue it with magic even greater. Whatever demons you can summon, I will increase their number ninefold. All for the little trifle that is your eternal soul. What say you?”
*
Epilogue
As we wait for the cursed and confused warlock to make his momentous decision, let us turn our gaze to an as-yet unfamiliar locale. A hall of strangely metallic obsidian, where a hulking and peculiarly amorphous entity roils with unbridled anger. Slimy, tentacle-like appendages sprout from its shapeless mass, and then disappear back into it like crashing waves. Something like a head, constantly morphing and churning, seems to form momentarily from its glistening, iridescent body. A dark pit opens in its centre, and from that cavernous maw a bestial scream escapes.
No.
Not bestial.
Alien.
It is a scream of anguish. Of loss. Of mourning. Of outrage. Of wrath.
Of vengeance.
Perhaps, dear readers, you might recognise the name it cries…?
… Defidia!
*
Will Mherren the Malevolent accede to temptation, forsake his demonic patron and make a deal with the Devil?
Will he find away to rid himself of the Curse of Asuran?
Will Zimlok ever shut his beak about finishing off Defidia and counterspelling Sharpchin’s escape?
And will he be able to remember Slim’s name in a time of dire need? (Unlikely.)
Will Haji Baba ever get the stink of entrails out of her hair?
And will Lightstrike ever find his true master, Light Touch? (Or that blimmin’ elusive Sword of Air, for that matter…?)
What were the true intentions of the witch, Baba Yaga? And what sayeth the Psalms of the Frog?
What ill does Nibenay Athas plot in the shadowy halls of Dragon Keep?
What terrifying entity rails so against the death of Defidia?
Have we seen the last of the serpent-hydra, Houatl? And the escaped medusa, Astrid?
What has befallen Kilian, Ormond, Ramné, and the brave people of Orlane? Will the Fellowship reach them in time?
Where is Malice and her Drow hunters? Do they still track our indomitable heroes?
Find out in the next chilling episode of…
Sword of Air
*
Appendices
1.
Experience
Yuan-ti malison 700
Yuan-ti anathema 8,400
Slime naga 6,400
TOTAL: 15,500
TOTAL PER PLAYER:
3,875
2.
Treasure
Githyanki Ring of Stardust: By looking askance at the ring, and calling upon the true name of one whose mind is psionically linked with it, the ringbearer may communicate effortlessly through the vast gulf of timeless space that is the Astral Sea, ordinarily impermeable to magic. What’s more, the ringbearer ceases to age whilst wearing the ring, but upon taking it off will age true to his or her years in an instant.
Blood of Dagon: If imbibed, the blood of Dagon grants the following effects for 12 hours –
Disadvantage for spell attacks, and all ability checks and saving throws for mental stats (Int, Wis, Cha)
Advantage for mundane attack rolls, and all ability checks and saves for physical stats (Str, Dex, Con)
Immunity to fear, mind-reading and charm effects
Every hour roll percentile dice. There is a cumulative 10% chance that the imbiber will… (roll 1d4) 1. Be incapable of speaking anything other than utter gobbledygook; 2. See terrifying hallucinations that cause them to be paralysed with fear (movement = 0) [50% chance], or ferociously attack their unsuspecting allies [50% chance]; 3. Believe themselves to be gods and attempt inadvisable or impossible feats such as running up or through sheer walls, flying, carving single-handedly through a horde of ravening demons, etc., etc.; 4. Become literally unkillable for the duration of the effects. Whenever they are reduced to 0 hp, they stabilise automatically at 1 hp.
Defidia’s hoard:
150 platinum pieces
500 gold pieces
Ring of black pearl (value 800 gp)
Gold chain set with topaz (value 600 gp)
Xiatian-style silver chalice (value 400 gp)
Ceremonial dagger +1 (attack rolls & damage)
Portable hole – a fine, black, silken handkerchief, which unfolds into a circular sheet 6’ in diameter. Use an Action to unfold it and place it against a solid surface, to create an extradimensional hole 10’ deep. The space exists on a different plane, so can’t be used to create passages. Any creature inside can exit by climbing out. Use an Action to close the hole by folding the handkerchief. The hole weighs next to nothing, whatever is inside. Any creatures within are trapped there, unless they make a DC 10 Strength check to force their way out. A breathing creature can survive 10 minutes inside the hole before beginning to suffocate. If placed inside a bag of holding, or similar magical item of storage, both items are instantly destroyed and a gate is opened to the Astral Plane. The gate then closes. It is one-way only and can’t be reopened.
2 kegs of black powder (if exploded, one keg deals 5d6 hp damage in a 20’ radius, halved by a successful DC 15 Dex save).
Keoghtom’s ointment – 3 doses of a thick mixture smelling of aloe. If swallowed or applied to the skin (1 Action), the recipient regains 2d8 + 2 hit points, ceases to be poisoned, and is cured of any disease
(but not a curse – sorry, Mherren! – DM).
Elixir of health – 1 dose of a syrupy, sparkling ointment that cures any disease, and removes the blinded, deafened, paralysed, and poisoned conditions.
Suit of dwarven plate armour (Dagmar’s)
Pipes of haunting (Yalsk’s) – must be proficient to use. 3 charges. Use an Action to play an eerie, spellbinding tune. Creatures within 30’ must succeed a DC 15 Wis save or be frightened for 1 minute. You can choose non-hostile creatures to be exempt. Creatures failing the save can repeat it at the end of each of its turns, ending the effect on a success and becoming immune to the pipes for 24 hours. The pipes regain 1d3 charges daily at dawn.
(+ various heirlooms, ceramics, tapestries, and items of furniture too heavy for the Fellowship to carry)
Make sure you’ve noted down your loot and experience from the last recap, too!
3.
Alchemy
Roll 1d4 + 1. You have knowledge of the alchemical formulae to make…
1. Dust of Distraction (Air, Earth, Mercury)
Tome of Alchemy p. 54
2. Elixir of Bouncing (Water, Body) p. 58
3. Elixir of False Divinity (Water, Light) p. 61
4. Elixir of Toadskin (Water, Acid, Body) p. 68
5. Salve of Reanimation (Salt, Body) p. 78
If you source the necessary ingredients, you can formulate the item during a long rest.
4.
Exhaustion
Level 1 Disadvantage on ability checks
Level 2 Speed halved
Level 3 Disadvantage on attack rolls & saving throws
Level 4 Speed reduced to 0
Level 5 Death!
Normally you don’t get a saving throw for exhaustion, but in the case of the Curse of Asuran, Mherren is allowed a Constitution save from Level 2 to avoid gaining another level of Exhaustion. These are made each day at dusk while the curse lasts. The DCs are:
Level 2 15
Level 3 20
Level 4 20 (at Disadvantage)
Level 5 25 (at Disadvantage)
You get Death saves as normal on reaching level 5.
Only a Greater Restoration spell or more powerful spell can lift the curse. Remove Curse unfortunately just won’t hack it – this is the curse of a Devil, not just any old witch.
We’ll make the Level 2 save in hindsight during the next session. If your speed is halved this could have ramifications for the people of Orlane, unless you can come up with some harebrained scheme to get around it.
When dusk falls on the 24th Eleint you’ll have to make a save against level 3 (or another save against level 2 if you succeeded your first check). … Oh, and you have manticore spikes until the 28th!
5.
Harvesting
To successfully harvest body parts you have to spend 1 minute appraising the corpse, then roll an Intelligence skill check adding the relevant proficiency bonus, depending on creature type. (Ask the DM!)
The appraisal DC = 8 + the creature’s CR.
Success grants knowledge of useful materials that can be gathered, the DC needed to harvest them, and any special requirements or risks. A successful appraisal grants Advantage on harvesting checks (if performed by the same character… let’s face it, it’s almost certainly gonna be Babs…). You can start hacking and butchering without appraising first, but you won’t get advantage on harvesting.
Harvesting is a Dexterity check using the same proficiency as the appraisal. Some harvested parts can be used as they are, or can be employed as ingredients for crafting magic items. That’s a whole other set of rules that I won’t get into now.
6.
Levelling-up
Next time you take a Long Rest you can level-up to the heady heights of Level 7! There’s a brief outline of your choices in the last recap (Episodes 47-49).
You’ll also have to choose which 3 magic items you want to attune to each. You can change which items you are attuned to each time you take a Long Rest. You don’t have to attune to less powerful items (like a ring of water walking), so you can still have more than 3 items at your disposal. Whether an item requires attunement or not is stated in the description in the PHB. Most of the custom items I’ve handed out will require attunement – if in doubt just ask your friendly, local DM!
(This is a local magic item shop for local people. We don’t want your sort here…)
That's all folks! (For now...)
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