10APRIL26
Episodes 93,94,95
NO WHERE TO RUN, NO WHERE TO HIDE
Players
Irving the Fighter
TerryOr the Cleric of St. Cuthbert
Silversun Ubermage the Magic-User
Slash Loudlute the Bard
Tiger Wong, Monk of the Eastern Lands
Kern Blackshield of Safeton
Do I stand alone in a chaotic void of my mind? Too much blood has been spilled in shadowed halls for it to be alone like dust upon the wind. I have walked paths where knowledge itself seemed to hunger, where death was not an end but a lingering curse that clung to flesh and soul alike.
My companions—those who yet draw breath, and those who have fallen—walk with me. Each step we take within this accursed stronghold is paid for in pain, in fear, and in sacrifice. And though my command of the arcane grants me sight beyond that of common men, even I cannot yet see the end of this dark road. And this sickens me as I delve darker and press on.
For knowledge. For vengeance. And for the faint, stubborn hope that something of us will remain when the darkness has taken its due. Or are we all already doomed as great warriors once wrote:
"We cannot get out. The end comes. Drums, drums in the deep. They are coming".
MY STORY CONTINUES:
The torture chamber yet breathed its
last foul vapors when we returned to our grim work. The very stones seemed to
sweat with agony, and the air clung thick in the throat like spoiled meat. It
was Kern who first turned his eye to the wall—ever the stubborn hound of
secrets. He pressed his gauntleted palm against the stone, testing it as one
might a rotted beam.
“There is hollowness here,” he
muttered.
Dog gave no protest, only stepping
back, bow half-raised though no arrow yet flew. “Be swift,” he said.
Steel rang upon stone as the fighter
willed the secret door open. The wall yielded at last, breaking inward with a
choking cough of dust and grit. And then—gods preserve us—the stench. Not death
alone, but age and rot so foul that the bitter tang touched the lips. Within
that cramped hollow lurked a thing swaddled in gravecloth and spite—a mummy,
its wrappings blackened, its hollow gaze burning with a hunger older than
memory.
Without hesitation, Dog loosed
first. Kern followed with a roar, blade biting deep. Yet the creature did not
falter. It came on, slow and inexorable, living death incarnate.
“Hold it there!” Terry Or bellowed.
Terry, half within the breach,
raised his holy symbol with a trembling hand. Slash darted low, his new blade
flashing like a serpent’s tongue. Tiger Wong struck with measured precision,
each blow placed as though guided by unseen wisdom.
Still, it endured, slashing at the
cleric as the priest wrestled with his vials of oil. Just a touch from the
undead horror was all it took.
Then came the oil and fire, the
cleric striking the creature and setting it ablaze. Yet even as the flames
consumed it, its withered hand lashed forth and struck Kern full upon the
chest. I heard the impact—like dry wood snapping.
At last, we brought it low. It
collapsed into a heap of smoldering ruin. Kern stood motionless, breath ragged.
Slowly—too slowly—he lowered his gaze to his own hands.
Terry needed no words. “It has taken
hold of us both,” he said, voice grave. “The rot.”
This was no common sickness. No
simple prayer would banish it. We would need magic or divine intervention to
rid ourselves of this curse.
“At our next rest,” Terry said, “I
shall attempt the cleansing. Until then… we endure.”
I said nothing. My thoughts were
elsewhere, though I knew that if I could but rest, my own magic might aid us.
Four scrolls lay upon the floor, untouched by the ruin about them. This was either
a boon or further despair. Slash and Terry peered upon them, frowning, baffled.
The script was tight, deliberate—arcane. They waved me over.
I knelt, tracing the sigils with a
careful eye. Recognition did not come easily. I could only hope these were not
cursed glyphs.
“These are not the work of priests,”
I said. “They are meant for one such as I.”
Find Familiar. Hold Portal. Knock. And
others… stronger still, their secrets not so easily revealed.
“Not chance,” I murmured. “These
were placed.”
“Or hidden,” Dog replied.
Aye. And neither answer brought
comfort.
We pondered our predicament, then
pressed on. The corridor narrowed, choking the breath from one’s lungs. Dust
lay thick as burial ash—save where it had been disturbed.
Dog knelt, fingers brushing the
faint impressions. “Old,” he said. “Weeks, mayhap longer.”
Old tracks are oft worse than fresh.
They speak of things that move unseen… and return unbidden. The undead had been
numerous. Death of friends is the only outcome when dealing with them, and now
two more of my company rotted from the touch of the unclean.
The next chamber lay silent as a tomb. Barrels and furniture lay shrouded in cloth, the remnants of a life abandoned—or interrupted. Within an armoire, we found garments and linens… and, tucked amidst them, a slender pin of mother-of-pearl. Too delicate and out of place. Someone had dwelt here, or been kept. At last, we came to the final unopened door. Terry searched for traps with one of the finest blessings his god had bestowed upon him. The door creaked wide, and the air changed at once—thick, wet, alive with decay.
The creature sprang upon us without
warning. Terry Or bore the brunt of it, its teeth sinking deep into his flesh.
“Disease!” he spat through clenched
teeth.
Kern surged forward, intercepting.
Slash followed. Dog cast aside his bow and drew steel, pulling the thing off
Terry Or and dispatching it without mercy. The execution was brutally bloody,
yet swift.
“Bloody hell, does anything ever die
fast and clean around here?” Slash grumbled.
Nothing here ever did.
Then, in the corner of our eyes, we
saw it appear—a light. A pale orb drifted toward us, silent as the grave. Dog
stepped toward it first.
“Do not—” someone muttered.
Too late. The orb moved with
unnatural speed and struck him with a violent pulse of energy. Kern lunged,
striking at it with his blade. The sword cut through the glow and met something
solid with a sharp, ringing clash.
The light recoiled… then folded inward,
reshaping into a mockery of a man. Terry invoked his god, his holy symbol
clutched tight. No answer came. I began the syllables of my spell—but the thing
was swifter. It fell upon Dog once more in a flash, engulfing him utterly.
Then it was gone. Dog staggered
back, then took a step. He yet lived… but he was not right.
“That bodes ill,” he muttered.
We withdrew to the chamber behind
us, seeking rest. But rest is a fragile thing in such a place. Dog vanished
from us as we settled, slipping away like a shade. We were too spent to pursue.
Terry Or and I needed to rest and replenish crucial spells to continue this
mission, this god forsaken task, to finish. Six hours passed and the side door
opened. It was not Dog it was a whole patrol of goblins, a whole score and
more.
They were as startled as we were but
we were quicker and Terry acted first. Three frozen in place by divine will. I
spoke the words of power, and my missiles struck true—three more fell lifeless.
Kern and Irving, weapons drawn, waded in then with blades carving ruin. The
creatures had no chance yet we were still in a dire predicament. Our rest was
broken and our strength not yet restored. I seized one of the paralyzed
wretches, speaking in the harsh tongue of their kind. They spat defiance and
this set Slash off. He cut one down where it stood and reached for another.
That broke them and one began to sing.
Fast goblin babble told us of Markessa, of paths and chambers, a room of vials,
and a lot of guards. When he had finished, Slash opened him and the other from throat
to belly and I kicked their bodies to the side. We followed the directions
given to a room of doors. That’s
where we found Dog sleeping in the corner.
When we woke him the Ranger was well rested and ready to go.
"This way,” he said, as though called
by an unseen hand.
There was something in his voice I
did not like as he was still acting strangely. The laboratory beyond was
cluttered with vials and tinctures. We gathered what potions we could. Terry Or
grabbed as many empty vials as he could carry and started filling them with his
burning oil. We watched and joked yet Dog had already moved on. Following the persistent Ranger through
another door and another hall he stopped to slow us down. Snoring echoed
faintly from one direction but Dog ignored it, drawn instead to a southern
door. We slowly walked through what we
thought was a barracks area to the door where Dog was waiting at the end of
the hall.
“This is the one.” Dog said.
“Tarry!” Terry Or called as we all
watched Dog reach for the door. Dog did not heed him as the door opened freely. There
she was, the Slaver Lord, Markessa. She was sitting at a war table, goblins
massed before her. She moved with cat like precision as she stood and cried out
the vile words of her spell.
She was fast but still surprised. Kern
ran in behind his shield smashing into her, breaking up her casting. Dog and Terry
also closed in. She fought like a fiend, pulling a blade that flashed like
lightning, her fury fixed upon the ranger. She fought like the Strongholds
leader as Magic leapt from her fingers—missiles of force striking us in turn
and wielding that flashy blade of speed. The rest of us charged. Tiger and Slash engaged
her directly.
I—fool that I was—sought position
for a greater working. I had the perfect opportunity once again I thought. Then
the arrows fell. Pain blossomed in my chest as one struck true, breaking my
focus. Rage took me. I tore the shaft free, blood spilling hot down my robes,
and drew forth my wand. Kern’s blade pierced her then—deep into her belly. Her
scream died upon her lips. Watching the goblins knock more arrows and draw their
bows to fire I answered with Fireball. The wand spat molten magic into the goblin ranks. They burned as I sought vengeance for thwarting me earlier. I burned them all.
Every single one.
With the smell of burnt flesh almost unbearable I walked over to the dead Elf
Leader. An elf amongst so many orc, hobgoblins and gnolls ... curious. I knelt beside the body, her corpse still draining blood. Something was not right. Her appearance was not right.
“See here,” I said.
I rubbed her face as it exposed the lie.
Her flesh was dark. The surface a paste, a disguise.
“She is of the deep kind,” I
whispered. “Drow.”
Even that revelation was but a
whisper amid our exhaustion. Then a sudden move from the surefooted Dog caught
my eye. I watched it all; a darkness
lifted, like smoke drawn away by unseen wind. It drifted and faded away taking
the evil affliction from Dog away also. Whatever had touched him… was gone.
Not giving in to the moment Dog, Slash & Terry Or eyed the
east stairs and went to look for safe passage. The rest of us waited in the
room but that proved fleeting, for scarcely had we gathered our breath when a
nearby door burst open with a splintering crack. In its frame stood a gaunt and
towering horror, its limbs long and unnatural, its hollow visage fixed upon us
with a hunger that was not of this world. Behind it pressed a line of
hobgoblins, their cruel eyes gleaming with savage intent.
I wasted no time. I hurled my weight
against the door and forced it shut, then turned and fled toward the stair, my robes
snapping behind me. Kern raised his shield as Tiger Wong looked within, focusing
his Ki once again. Irving downed a
potion. For a heartbeat there was silence—then the door exploded inward as
though struck by a giant’s fist, its hinges torn free and the wood reduced to
flying shards.
Tiger Wong moved first, swift as a
striking falcon. He leapt through the air and drove his heel into the
creature’s face making it howl in fury. In that instant, Irving surged forward,
his strength swollen by liquid magic, and delivered a crushing blow that would
have felled a lesser foe outright. Yet this abomination did not fall—it simply
vanished, as though plucked from the world by unseen hands.
The hobgoblins roared in fury, their
formation breaking as they charged. What followed was chaos wrought in fire and
steel. Terry hurled a flask of burning oil into their midst, and it shattered
against armor and flesh alike, bursting into hungry flame. The stench of
burning hair and scorched meat filled the air as more fire followed, each
impact drawing forth fresh screams. Kern and Irving held the line with grim determination,
their weapons rising and falling in bloody rhythm.
One of the creatures broke through
the melee, rushing past the clash of arms with wild desperation, only to be
struck down mid-stride by one of Dog’s arrows, which took it cleanly through
the throat. At length, the last of them fell, and the chamber was left to the
crackle of dying flames and the ragged breathing of the living. We did not
linger. The smoke thickened with each passing moment, clawing at our lungs and
stinging our eyes as we forced our way up the stair to the double doors we knew
were there. Irving, with his Cloud Giant
strength, kicked the heavy barred doors down. Beyond, Dog found a narrow
passage where two great Worgs lay chained, their lips drawn back in snarling
menace. Dog did not hesitate; his arrows flew true, and both beasts fell before
they could so much as lunge. The passage ended in what seemed a dead end, yet
careful searching revealed the Worgs were hiding something. After searching what the beasts were guarding
a concealed door was found. The hidden door gave passage to a narrow shaft,
within which rose a ladder vanishing into shadow some forty feet above.
Tiger, ever the most nimble among
us, took it upon himself to ascend. He climbed swiftly at first, his movements
sure and practiced, until near the top he faltered. I saw him pause, his body
stiffening as though seized by some unseen force—then, without warning, he
fell. He struck the ground hard and did not rise.
Dog cursed and moved at once to
follow, determination burning in his eyes. He climbed with haste with Kern
following behind him. Both of them scarcely heeding our warnings. Yet he too
halted near the top, as Tiger had done. For a brief and terrible moment he
clung there—then he fell as well.
Kern had no time to react. Dog’s body struck him full, and the two crashed together to the stone below with a sickening force. When the dust settled, Dog yet lived, though incapacitated. It was Kern we were most concerned about. For Kern did not rise. Already weakened by the foul rot that gnawed at his flesh, his body could not endure such violence. The fall had claimed him.
We stood in silence then, the weight
of it pressing upon us like a suffocating shroud. Three of our number lay
broken upon the cold stone, and one—our stalwart Kern—was lost to us forever.
As I gazed upon his still form, a
grim truth settled deep within my soul, cold and unyielding as the grave
itself.
There is no mercy in this accursed
stronghold.
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