Episode #18: Hags and Other Gross Things

From the Diary of Elody Skullgrinder

Hello to whom may read this.

A little while ago before my friends and I were attacked by some little blue gremlins that were in a bad mood and some terribly unhappy vines that haven't seen enough sunshine, we found a scroll in which a fellow priestess of Avandra was mentioned. So following her example, I choose to write about our latest adventure.

 After clearing out most of the nasty mist-filled vine room, our courageous halfling Bartholomew opened the door with three locks so we could all escape. He's so brave. He was wearing our newly acquired Amulet of Passage—a arrowhead-shaped magic gem on a lovely silver chain that grants great powers of movement, which we all became attuned to. I remembered a legend about it, which said that the goddess Avandra created the Amulet to help guide heroes on their quests. She’s so wonderful. Penitence thinks the artifact was created by her Raven Queen but I guess everyone is allowed their own delusion.

The door led us through a tunnel and at the end we found a cavern and an underground lake. The water had floating, slimy wooden platforms that led two different directions. One arced around to the exit—a slime-covered wall, ledge, and another passage—while the other path of platforms went only partway across the lake. On the last plank of wood was a bundle of cloth. Something was clearly wrapped up inside it.

 Finally, there was a lump of something in middle of the water. Something gross and unpleasant. We didn’t like the look of it.

Our courageous, shiny, and noisy knight friend, Ecaris decided to try the platforms first, the ones leading to the way out. He held one end of a rope and I held the other. He did a fine job getting most of the way across, with only a few slips along the way. Bartholomew was next but, unsurprisingly, went the other direction. He was obviously curious as to what was in that bundle of cloth. He was probably trying to protect us from any harmful surprise hidden it. He’s very brave. Our very pretty elf friend Edrathior, who has quite glorious hair, followed Bart to ensure his safety. Such a nice gesture.

 Next on the platform was our tielfling, Penitence, who is a lovely lady if only she was a bit less fatalistic. Her horns recently curled a bit more, which she found devastating for some reason—yet I think they are very pretty and she's lucky because I can't even get my hair to curl at all in this nasty climate. As Penitence jumped toward the first platform, she slipped fell and partially fell into the sludgy waters and emerged with leeches clinging to her tail. Oh my! I really don't like those nasty blood-sucking critters.

Meanwhile, when Bart jumped onto the final platform, he was stuck fast to it. This, along with the commotion of Penitence’s splashing, seemed to draw the attention of the mysterious lump in the water. It drifted towards Penitence at first, then disappeared below the scum completely. Finally it emerged, first as a young (and not so healthy-looking) lady, then in her true form: a hag. A sea hag or bog hag, I’m not sure which. Quival, the will-'o-the-wisp, whispered a name: Agnethea.

Hags, the old stories say, are the Feywild’s personification of ugliness. Well I don’t know if that’s fair. This poor soul, in any case, had an awful skin condition and seemed to have turned quite bitter over the years. I’m sure she wanted us dead but my wise friend Penitence offered to tell her a warrior’s tale, and this interested the hag greatly and made her stop to listen instead of try to eat us. Penitence's own story was about being from Malpheggi Swamp, and growing up with her tiefling brothers, and then it got a little more disturbing when she talked about fighting with them and she bit off one of her brother's ears. I'm not sure if this was perhaps just a story but she was quite convincing.

Edrathior also spoke up and drew the hag's attention. I think he used magic, because he somehow became even more colorful, his eyes brighter, and his hair seemed to shine as if newly washed. The hag looked very intently at him; she was either very pleased or very eager to eat him. Gross. Either way, he had her attention and the hag didn't seem to bother with the rest of us. Just those two.

The hag then ask of both of them something like, “If you had to pick one of your companions to die, which one would she pick?” I was shocked at the awful question, yet I soon became further shocked at the answer. Ecaris was too quick to answer “the orc” but I gather he was talking about Gregor, since he’s been in an awful mood lately. (And Ecaris hadn't even been asked!)

Yet Penitence, knowing she could not pick herself, she picked me! Well…I know my beautiful hat and horn helm combination doesn’t sit well with everyone, but that’s no reason to kill me off. Yet it satisfied the horrid creature and she said she'd let us all pass through her cavern safely. She said, "I do not like the dead that move, the dead that I did not make move. They foul my air. Make them stop moving." I guess she was talking about the foul undead creatures we keep encountering on this Isle, courtesy of the cultists of Orcus.

The hag also let Bartholomew go. Suddenly the plank he was standing on wasn't sticky anymore. She also allowed him to keep the cloth bundle, inside which was a thick wand-like stick carved at the tip with a closed eyeball. The hag told him to plant it in the earth to reveal its power.

Penitence, on the way out of the cavern, explained to me her reason for choosing me. It was quite nice actually—she realized that Avandra is quite a wonderful goddess to meet someday, and that I would be good company. Yet I better keep my eye on my tiefling friend anyway.

Beyond the hag's cave, we walked for a long time through a long and stretchy passage. Eventually we came upon a stone door with tiny slits in it that looked out into a new room. Apparently this was a secret door, because the people—too nice a term for them—on the other side didn't know it was there. In fact, the people were disgusting: A ritual-casting ghoulish man was standing at a table, consulting a book, and performing some sort of ritual. Beside him was a chest full of blue-purple stone shards; they looked like the inside of those stones the villagers were forced to break open. He was trying to conjure a horrific demon in some sort of blurry, smoky corner of the room! Not good!

Nearby were three dretches—minor but still dangerous demons. And some ghouls and even some of the Isle's native humans who didn't look much like the nicer ones we'd met so far. Well, we definitely had to stop whatever they were doing. Not only that, the ghouls were calling out for food—ghouls are cannibals!—and they asked for a child or two from "above."  The smarter, robed one ghoul-man performing the ritual told them no, "the living must eat first." Gross gross gross.

The will-o'-the-wisp said something about demon summoning here on the Isle of Dread. Apparently it's not easy to conjure such planar creatures here. But these stones seem to be used to aid in the attempt.

Well, we had a plan. Which mostly involved charging in and putting a stop to these troublesome people. Using Avandra's Amulet of Passage—which Penitence wore but we were all able to use magically—we had the ability to teleport a short distance. So everyone but Ecaris and myself simply teleported into the room to surprise our enemies. When they did so, weapon and spells started flying. Not my favorite part about this island walkabout.

Ecaris and I then barged in as gracefully as possible, which unfortunately isn’t graceful at all. Well, all my friends were very courageous in their fight. Edrathior always has such pretty spells—if it wasn’t that I’d be killed, I would like to just sit back and watch him, it’s like a fireworks show.


Everyone gave it their all because it was important to stop these cultists and what they were doing. Ecaris is always so strong and unafraid. Penitence was somewhat to eager to put these demons to rest and of course Bartholemew. He’s so brave. Gruff stayed in the back, as usual, and peppered the room with arrows. Sometimes they stuck somewhere and the bad guys didn't like that.

Well with some difficulty, we managed to clear out the room and the summoned demon eventually began to fade away, the ritual foiled. I helped heal my friends but I sure do hope we rest soon. This quest has turned out to be quite a challenge and I do miss my family and my village full of happy and loving half-orcs.

Yet I must say I’ve grown attached to my new friends and hope we finish our quest safely. May Avandra keep us safe.

Episode #17: Fingerbones and Catacombs

From the Ashen Codex of Lady Penitence

In the name of the Raven Queen [salutation shows signs of being erased and rewritten multiple times],

The fires in my mind are starting to dissipate, for the nonce. Adventuring and questing leaves little time for dealing with personal devils.

Immediately after the battle, Elody began assisting the pregnant native, while Edrathior attempted to engage the two native men in conversation. We were quite frustrated by the language barrier, until it emerged that the halfling could understand them perfectly well, as if they were speaking the Common tongue! Most curious, though it may be related to gemstone we acquired outside the oracle's lair.

Though the two men still did not speak to us, they motioned us toward their village, and we took refuge in a hut, crowded with many natives, in a most wretched state. With the halfling translating, and some honeyed words from Edrathior, we managed to convince the elder, who called himself Onlo, to speak to us. But his trust came at a terrible cost—it seems the foul demon-thralls that have enslaved these people have put a curse on the natives, so that anyone who speaks to a stranger finds their tongue rotting away. Most foul necromancy!

In sympathy, Edrathior lent Onlo some of his own resistance to necrotic damage—a touching gesture, but ultimately pointless, since the protection will fade after we journey onward.

We soon learn, thanks to Onlo and the local shaman* (the Zombie Master), that ages ago there passed through this village some strange heroes, engaged on a quest similar to our own. They showed us markings on a piece of wood that illustrated these heroes—one, clearly a servant of My Lady, and another a servant of Avandra, and the third was an elven form bearing the crescent moon symbol of Corellon, god of magic and beauty whom the elves revere above all. These three apparently went through a secret passageway underneath the ziggurat at the center of the village, which brings one close to the Wall—which is also where the foul servants of Orcus have imprisoned the villagers’ children. There were also said to be some artifacts left behind by this previous band that could aid us on our quest.

Then, before any of us could intervene, the old shaman took up a knife and chopped off his own fingers from one hand! The digits, when grasped, will supposedly hide us from the eyes of the abominable undead that stalk the halls underneath the ziggurat—the undead created by the Zombie Masters themselves. They call them the "walking ancestors" and seem to make a distinction between these animated bodies and the undead raised by Orcus's minions. I do not.

We approached the ziggurat with caution, and Elody and I espied the hidden door near the base of the steps. The Zombie Master had imparted that only way we could open the passage was to strike the door with a strong burst of elemental magic. Ecaris struck the steps with his lightning-invigorated blade; I called upon my natural burning heritage to bathe the stones in flame. All for naught.

Then Edrathior, reluctantly, suggested perhaps he was the one best-suited to open the door. He gingerly removed one his curiously mailed glove, and there was a sudden, truly terrifying transformation—the eladrin's body vanished, replaced with, in succession, figures made wholly of water, earth, lightning, green shining light, and fire. Thus the passage was opened, but Edrathior sighed in sadness, because apparently this display would call a certain kind of doom upon us.

Grasping freshly cut fingers (or a half-finger, in my case—the shaman had only five fingers to give our party of seven). It seemed churlish to ask for more, so I split mine in twain and gave the other half to Gruff. We descended beneath the ziggurat.

Almost immediately, we came upon two undead servants, but ones of a much different character than any we have seen before. Their bodies were of Olman natives; mostly bear, wearing ornaments and scant clothing. But one had a tiger’s head stitched onto his shoulders in place of a human head; the other a boar’s head. The shaman’s sacrifice mostly hid us from their eyes, and we passed on.

A fork in the passage soon presented itself. The right proved to lead to a dead end (literally)—a chamber which had clearly spent some time in service as a necromancer’s workshop. To the left, we continued through a passage, until we stumbled upon the blasted-apart bones of a fellow tiefling. Among the bones I found an opened scroll case and a letter, which—praise Her!—came from a fellow servant of the Raven Queen. The last hero, perhaps! The letter, which I attach at the end of this entry, spoke of their journeys, and mentioned a gift that lay in wait ahead. The letter also employed a spell that would bring swift death to anyone who was not a servant of the Raven Queen, Avandra, or Corellon. Though I do not know how to cast this particular magic, I recognized by the watermark on the letter that this ward had already been discharged—hence the bones of the tiefling who had opened the scroll-case. I wonder if it was that insolent wretch that asked for my sword at the archway.

We then came to a verdant chamber with tree-like clusters of vines crowing in all four corners, and swirled with mist that covered the entire floor, save for a central space covered by a grate. Elody and I ventured out into the mist and attempted to open the grate. I had not the strength to lift it, but Elody wrenched it up, revealing a moderately deep hole, like a well.

As Elody opened up the chamber, I felt my mind overwhelmed by a strange rage—not the familiar fiery wrath of Amon, but a cold, calculating anger that burned cold. I suddenly was seized by the notion that whatever lay in that well was mine and mine alone, and Elody would try and steal it from me and give it to the servants of Orcus. I attacked her straightaway, but her strength was too great and she pinioned me, and brought me out of the mist, where my head cleared.

Meanwhile, Edrathior peered into the roots of one of the "trees" in the corner of the chamber, whereupon a small, blue-skinned creature rushed out and attacked him. Several others followed, and we threw ourselves into the fray. It was difficult—the mist poisoned some of us, put odd notions into our heads, and the gremlins had that annoying ability to turn invisible once approached or struck. In the midst of battle, feeling my strength waning, I vaulted into the well to see if the gift left behind by my colleague could prove helpful.

At the bottom of the well was a necklace with a jade-blue pendant, shaped like an arrowhead. It was the object I had seen in my vision as my soul was being recalled from Hell’s gate! When I threw the necklace on, I felt a sudden surge of invigorating energy. I leapt out of the well to find my companions overpowering the gremlins, but also dodging attacks from the vines, which appeared to be suffused with a malevolent energy. Soon, the gremlins were slain and we fell back out of the mist, slinging ranged attacks at the vine-trees, contemplating how we might best open the locked door at the other end of the chamber.

I must return to my companions to discuss who will cross the mist, and meditate upon the importance of this pendant, which as my fellow cleric said, does seem to have a mind of its own…

In Her Name,

Penitence

------------------------

The letter:

It is not my desire—or indeed, the tradition of my order—to write things down so that others will find them, unless they are scriptural axioms meant to instruct initiates of the faith. I value privacy and discretion, but my companion insists that should we fail, others may come who need to know what has transpired. And if I don't do this, she will.

In truth, my companion's words may be prophetic—I will concede this. She says there is an Avandran saying: ‘Make your own path, but do not hesitate to follow the footprints of a friend.’  The sentiment is foolish, but I understand its meaning: There are times when the greater wisdom lies in accepting the aid—or acquiring the knowledge—of a like-minded ally.

My companion on this quest is Shareth, a priestess of Avandra, a heroine among her own people—or so I'm told—and a skilled healer. She has pulled me back from the halls of Letherna several times already. She carries not a censer or flail, but a mere staff of wood and I must admit that despite her size, she wields it well.

She is also insufferable. Were it not for the unusual arrangement of our gods, I would not willingly endure her company at all. Yes, Shareth's hygiene is impeccable. Her obsession with life itself and its experiences is admirably unswerving. But she will NOT stop talking. Does Avandra condemn silence itself? I have missed the quiet.

To the matter at hand: We carry in our possession the Deluvian Hourglass, a relic of indeterminate age and power, and we have been tasked with bearing it to the ruins of Thanaclan at the center of the Isle. There it will be hidden from all divinations, especially the roving eyes of the Abyss.

Three gods have enacted this plan of misdirection: Corellon, First of the Seldarine; Avandra, the Maiden Who Travels; and of course the Raven Queen, Mistress of Winter. We are their instruments on this quest. Only mortals, such as Shareth and I, may bear the device to its place of hiding. Once secured, the demon princes will be fed false information that the Hourglass lies elsewhere: Far from this plane-shifting island, far even from the kingdoms of the Known World. Indeed, they will be led to believe that the Isle of Dread is the last place anyone would find it. Misdirection isn’t the purview of evil alone.

Shareth and I are spending this night in the town of Tanaroa before we cross the Great Wall and head north. The natives, who call themselves Olman, are a hospitable and peaceable lot, if spiritually misguided. They are descended from the humans who once governed this island in its early days, who were favored by the archfey. But since the fall of Thanaclan, they have fallen into a primitive state. Though they have established a balance with the forces of the Isle, they follow unpleasant vestigial traditions. Their shamans are known as Zombie Masters, devotees to necromantic rites laid down by Nerull before he was deposed by the Raven Queen long ago—praised be Her glory. Were our mission not so dire, I would seek to correct these traditions. Perhaps when we return from Thanaclon, I will purge the Olman tribes of these practices.

This is all I will say. Secrecy seems the greater wisdom to me, but Shareth insists that others may come. She says she will leave further words for our 'successors' along the way. Wonderful.

Shareth leaves a gift to those who find this letter. It has served us well thus far, but it has disapproved of many of my decisions. My companion wishes to leave it behind before it chooses to quit our company in more circumstances. So be it. It is time to pass it on. You will find it beneath the grate.

Know this: If you are not a servant of the Mistress of Winter or a disciple of Avandra or Corellon, your ambitions have reached their conclusion. I deliver you now to the blessed realm of my Queen, where she will ferry your soul accordingly. 

Episode #16: Blades and Brands

From the Ashen Codex of Lady Penitence

In the Name of the Raven Queen

From the hand of one penitent

From an utterly lost soul


To whomever reads this:

I pray your gods are good and powerful.

Halderek had ordered us to drop our weapons and parley, while Ecaris shouted at the foes to do the same. Poor Ecaris; ever-faithful to the Empire and its chain of command, ever faithful that order and civilization will prevail. But Halderek blasphemed the Empire, so it was clearer than ever that he was beyond hope.

A chilling fog rose up around us, slowing our senses. But I felt a sudden surge of speed, and broke through the mist, charging towards the perversely altered Thyatian captain. My blood was starting to grow hot. I threw down my sword at Halderek’s feet, as he had asked.

“I don’t need a sword to kill you,” I hissed.

Even beneath that shadow of foul sorcery, I could see fear in his eyes. He stepped back.

“Little raven,” he said mockingly. He gestured to the archers, who let fly. Several shafts punched through my armor.

I fell to my knees. Anger began to pulse through me, blooming through my limbs, as a dormant ember takes light again with breath placed upon it. The anger began to suffuse me with an unholy strength. There was a scorching sensation at the hollow of my throat, as though a live coal had been placed there. On my throat, a familiar sign flamed into being: two devilish eyes and a sword. The Mark of Amon.


I heard his voice in the rush of my own blood.

A gift, Amon said. Then he laughed.

So he still had his claim on me after all. Then it was all for naught. The Raven Queen would not take me to her cool marble palaces; my soul was destined for the pits of Hell.

I snatched up my sword. Surging with rage, I struck at Halderek, feeling stronger than I had ever felt before. I caught flashes of my companions here and there: Gregor punching two corpse-skinned knights, a whirling dervish of punishment; Ecaris in the mists, grimly raining steel on the foes.

Then there was an opening. My sword flashed, and Halderek’s head went flying. But a foul mist exuded from the corpse. Cold claws pierced my heart. I began to sink into a darkness where flames licked the edges. I saw no infernal architecture just yet, but that ringing voice in my blood returned:

A thousand thousand have tried to run before you, and they’re screaming in my halls today. You think your feathered bitch queen can save you, where a hundred other gods have failed to save the other fools?

Despair. Despair. I cannot even now write the truth of it, the depths of it. But just as I began to see the dim outlines of Amon’s realm, I felt my course arrested. A gentle light called me back. Just before I woke, I saw a vision: some sort of holy charm. Avandra!

I awoke only second later to find myself changed. Amon’s malison—his gift, his curse—had lengthened, thickened and curled my horns. My lips failed to close around unfamiliarly large fangs. I wanted to retch.

A couple of the natives were hanging back, eyeing us, not attacking, but not offering aid either. Halderek’s head was mouthing words. Elody came to try and console me, but all I could think was:

I am lost. I am utterly lost.

Somewhere, in the memory of my teachings, I remembered a piece of scripture from the Avandran faith, a tenet that her servants observe: Strike back against those who would rob you of your freedom...

Episode #15: Walls and Birds

From the Ashen Codex of Lady Penitence

In the name of the Raven Queen, I swear that what I set forth here is true.

My ruse to pose as an ally of the cultists did not, admittedly, go as well as I had hoped. Dissembling has never really been my strong suit.

After a fierce battle at the top of the stone tower, we prevailed—the eladrin seems to have a few new tricks up his voluminous sleeves, as well as a mailed glove he didn't seem to possess when I first met him—but the halfling was practically gutted.

After the slaughter, we resolved to free the animals that had been destined for the altar. The strangely-spotted cat we carried down the tower steps, still caged. When loosed, the beast took little note of us, but padded off into the jungle and shimmered. Possibly a creature of the Feywild? It is hard to keep track of what belongs here and what does not. We are certainly the aliens here.

The flying behemoth we loosed from its bonds as well. I am somewhat indifferent to the utility of these actions, but my companions seem to feel strongly about it.

To the north lies the wall that we must cross to reach the plain we seek.

We cautiously approached the grouping of villages that lay at the foot of the wall—which together forms the town of Tanaroa—but saw there wasn’t quite enough cover to sneak in undetected in the light of afternoon. Moving towards the beach, we found the same story: nothing to hide us from the guard towers on the wall. Circumventing the wall via the water was also unfeasible; it sloped out and down into the bay. None of us were particularly eager to revisit shark-infested waters.

A nighttime exploration of the town was agreed upon, with the possible goal of freeing some of the slaves to create a distraction that would allow us to pass through the gate. But until then: what if a patrol found the bloody scene at the top of the tower and news of the massacre came back to the town? We decided to lay in wait just off the path to watch for returning patrols, taking shifts while some of us rested and tried to recover. But the jungle was not exactly conducive to meditation: every few moments, we were slapping away insects or shooing away snakes. In the end, none of us got enough rest.

Near the end of my watch, I saw figures coming down the hill from the watchtower at a rapid pace. Four unmounted soldiers, and one cultist riding a red drake. I hurried back and roused my companions, and we rushed after the foes. Dead men tell no tales (I actually have had a piece of ceremonial jewelry with this phrase inscribed—a gift from another Raven Queen adept; long story—but that was lost in the shipwreck).

Despite the painful shrieking attacks of the foes—and the venomous bite from the drake, which Elody and Edrathior overcame—we overcame them and made a gift of a few more souls to Our Lady Below. I hope she puts them somewhere uncomfortable.

We took a little time to hide the evidence of our bloody work, and then made straight for the beach to get some actual rest and gauge our next move. The shifter had made a secure camp that was actually quite comfortable, though I was so exhausted that a shallow trench would have felt like a royal featherbed. Half-meditating, half-sleeping, I soon hit upon the secret of the oil that the phanaton had given me—it was Ghost
Oil! If I coat my blade with it, I can pierce the ephemeral for a brief time. So in addition to strange lizard creatures, spangled cats, and undead abominations, there are likely phantoms somewhere on this island. Praise be.

This is the Gruff at his happiest.

A few of the others had also reached the truth of some of their strange gifts as well—the leather and metal contraption the little creatures had given to the punchy monk turned out to be a ki-focusing device, and the eladrin’s rings turned out to be a matched set that could call out to its companion ("rings of bonded defense," he called them), drawing one’s ally to you in a time of need. It was rapidly decided that the halfling, who courts death almost as much as an adept of the Raven Queen, should wear the ring, while the Avandra-serving cleric should take the other.

After our rest, we were set to abandon our original plan of exploring the town and just climb the wall, but there is some spell that makes the lower parts of the barrier unscalable. Back to the town it was.

Upon closer approach, we saw structures similar to those in Mora, the first village we'd encountered two days ago, with another, larger ziggurat in the center. Instead of a cultist with a cauldron, the summit of this ziggurat was surmounted by a giant buzzard that stank of abomination. Under cover of darkness, the monk, the halfling, and I snuck into westward village—the village of the Sea Turtle Clan.

As we hid in the shadow of one of the poor hovels ringing the village, we glimpsed Olman slaves toiling over strange rocks, trying to split them in two. A group of armored figures stood off in the distance, but weren’t readily visible. I borrowed the spyglass from the halfling, only to see…

Halderek! One of the Thyatian knights that was a passenger aboard the Sea Sceptre. But altered now. He bore blue markings and stank of vile sorcery. I remembered the man as a bit of an arrogant ass, but not unskilled at magic. Worse and worse, he had nine others with him, knights and squires. I remember them from the voyage.

The others tired of waiting for us to signal them across, and began stealing across the no-man’s land in the darkness. Our own Thyatian knight seemed to be crawling along relatively quietly, but some small noise caught the attention of the monstrous bird, which flew out to investigate. Not wanting to make a meal for the undead, the knight rose and began battling the bird. Elody and Gregor soon ran out to assist him, while I hung back, waiting to strike at the knights that would surely be drawn to the clamor…

Were they not suddenly attacked by the suicidal, thrice-damned halfling! Annoyed, I rushed to help. Even with the hovel providing some cover, one of their archers got an arrow in me. I charged toward Halderek, challenging him—perhaps there was some of his former self still lurking beneath the taint of necromancy that clung to him. I still do not know exactly the nature of the abominable spells used by the island cultists. Halderek seemed to consider us, then commanded us to drop our weapons if we wanted to parley.

As we considered Halderek's offer, I felt a terrible burning sensation in my throat. A very bad sign. He may be coming for me again.

I am nearing the end of what pages I have remaining in this diary—I shall, hopefully, take up my account at a later date.

In Her Name,

Penitence

Episode #14 - Gifts and Wings

Diary of Gregorius Half-Orc the Cenobite

Third Day on the Isle

It was then our captive escaped. While I watched Edrathior incinerate the remains of the troll, the bundle under my arm writhed and then burst asunder. A mass of centipedes streamed out to the cave floor. The little beasts scattering, I stamped on as many as I could catch and shouted for my companions to help. Edrathior and I did what we could, sweeping them from the floor, digging for them in the cracks at the walls. I cannot be sure we got them all. It is likely the imp has returned to his master.

​Bartholomew had retrieved the jeweled skull from the troll’s altar. He showed it to Edrathior, who said there was some source of magic inside the skull, but he knew not what. The two began arguing about how best to break the thing open. I told them to ask Penitence or Elody what they thought, for they might know what the thing was.

​Elody and Penitence could make nothing of it. Bartholomew pried the garnets from their sockets; Edrathior worked his dagger into the occipital suture and split the skull open. Inside was what looked like a sapphire, almost brain-sized. I saw the stone was hollow, filled with fluid. None of us knew what to make of this or what to do with it, and the stone vanished into Bartholomew’s new pack.

Penitence and Gruff had finished vomiting up bits of Razamere. The phanaton held aloft a coin and Elody approached him. He seemed to trust her, and handed over the coin. She told us it was a Coin of Good Luck, a relic of Avandra. Flipped in the air, it would bring good luck for one crucial moment and then vanish. So she said. The little creature gestured about, clearly trying to tell us something. It was clear that he wished us to follow him. We followed him eastward into the jungle. At some point he stopped and passed some trinkets to Edrathior and Gruff, though I could not see what.

​Eventually we came to a clearing in the jungle. Thereinstood a tree. Our guide seemed to have a burrow down among the roots. He vanished into the hole for a minute, and reemerged bearing gifts.

He gave two of the Coins of Good Luck to Bartholomew and Elody.

To Edrathior he gave a ring, which resembled almost exactly the ring he had acquired two nights before in the sea cave tomb—worn by the corpse of an elf. Its twin?

He gave Penitence a vial of some black oil.

To Ecaris another coin; he tells me it is of Thyatian mint, likely non-magical, though quite old.

The phanaton pressed a ki focus, heavy stones strung upon leather thongs, into my hand. Who had given him this and why he gave it to me I do not know. I must meditate upon this later.

Having given us these gifts, he scampered up the tree and tossed down to each of us a bright green fruit like a mango. The flesh was bitter, but inside was a seed about the size of a pool ball. I cracked the seed open; the milk inside was sweet and satisfied all thirst and hunger. Penitence and Gruff said that the fleshy part dispelled the nausea they’d felt since trying to eat Razamere, though it sickened them first and made them purge their stomachs.

​While we were eating, our guide sprang to attention and ran back up the tree. Bartholomew followed to see what had spooked the phanaton. He told us that to the northeast stood a pinnacle. A group of humans armed and armored stood atop the pinnacle, tending to, or harassing, one of the winged behemoths of the isle in some manner. We knew not what to make of this, but our new companion seemed eager to head northeast.

He squawked, and mimed jabbing himself with some type of lance or prod. Perhaps these men were behind the poisoned behemoth we had encountered earlier. Some of us thought the pinnacle might be worth investigating; others thought we should headstraight north toward the wall, beyond which lay Thanaclan and the Deluvian Hourglass. Before we could vote, Ecaris set off northeast. Elody, Penitence, Edrathior, and the phanaton followed after him. Gruff, Bartholomew, and I looked at each other. We decided we had best hasten to the pinnacle before our companions did something stupid.

We approached from the west, climbed up the rise, and watched from the edge of the trees. Atop the hill stood a watchtower of some sort, about forty feet tall and forty across. From atop the tower issued the sounds of occult ceremony and the smell of blood. One unguarded stairway led to the top. Soon enough, we heard our noisy companions approach. Gruff and Bartholomew stood speechless and motionless. As our companions approached the stairwell, I slipped out to join them. Bartholomew and Gruff had spoken not a word of strategy on our way here, and I hoped that Ecaria and company had used their time to come up with some sort of a plan. Alas, they had not.

​We marched single file up the stairway. At the top stood a lone guard, his back turned to us. He was not adorned like the cultists, nor the native Olman tribesmen. These men looked more like slavers from the mainland, the sort of scum some of us have faced before. Tattooed, leather-clad, vicious. But not men I fear.

Penitence stepped forward and said, “I heard you’re looking for a daughter of death.” Clearly they were not, for the guard wheeled about and after a moment of shock, sounded the alarm. One of his companions charged me, wielding a slaver’s scourge in the way of one unused to and unnerved by resistance. I palmed his face and threw him back at his friends. Their leader, who had been performing some ritual upon one of the winged behemoths, abandoned this and took up arms. At some point, Gruff and Bartholomew climbed up the far wall and joined us. The raiders’ behemoth took off, circling and diving at us. The last I saw of it, our guide clung to its back, stabbing with his tiny spear as the beast winged off to the north.

With his men having fallen and his pet having abandoned him, the leader made to escape over the edge of the tower. Ecaris and I ran to the bottom of the tower to intercept. Before he could lay hands upon him, before he could touch the ground, a ribbon of lightning streamed from atop the tower. Coursing through the man and pulling him back up. Clearly this was Edrathior's work. The lightning vanished as quickly as it had appeared. The man fell to the ground, bounced once, and lay still. From the top of the tower, we can see the great wall to the north and Tanaroa to the east, occupied by the slavers. I don’t know how long we have before those we’ve defeated are missed. Soon though, we must choose our course.

Episode #13: Teeth, Vines, and Claws

From the Journal of Edrathior, Eladrin of Alfheim

My strange companions sleep again and, as I often do, I give thought to what it must be like for them to surrender so completely to darkness and the chaos of dreams. If I was able to follow their example, I can only image the destruction that would result. My time of rest is a conscious exercise to bring order to myself and I need that order more than ever.  The itch to remove my gauntlet that started on my cursed arrival to this isle has grown stronger since the night the change overtook me again and my powers increased. I believe the chaos glamour hiding it has either failed or been temporarily unable to contain my new power. I have noticed before that the spell grew thin for days after such an increase and I noticed both Gregor and Bartholomew staring at my left hand. Whether they saw the gauntlet, my hand, or my true hand, I do not know. Even so, my new power proved useful in the battles that followed, but it took all of the strength of will I possessed to keep from inflicting harm on those who fight with me.

As I have been taught, to visualize order, even in the past, leads to greater control of chaos. I let my meditative focus shift to memories of the battle with Razamere, for that is when, as my mentor often said, “things got interesting.” The great beast seemed somehow “right” and my instincts prevented me from attacking it immediately, despite the many, many teeth it possessed. With the cultists and their drake mounts dispatched, the giant crocodile turned its attention to us. Its attack was vicious and was followed by a disquieting roar that seemed to take form as unnaturally large biting beetles flew from its maw creating chaos.  I no longer suffered from doubts as to its intention.  I could see Lady Penitence had collected herself and was racing to engage our cold-blooded foe.  Gruff let fly with arrows and Gregor smashed two of the insects. I could see a flash of light from Elody and then the beast clamped its jaws onto the armor of her right arm. Bartholomew once again showed a bravery unexpected from such a childlike form—and a tremendous lack of wisdom—as he jumped upon the beast’s back and stabbed wildly. It let go of Elody and wheeled away from the shore, carrying Bartholomew, who now rid the beast holding desperately onto his blade that had sunk deeply into flesh and vines. Truly, that is a memory I will hold to my end.

I splashed through water up to my waist as I hurried to get closer to my companions. Razamere roared again. Vile insects once more made his roar manifest and flew from his maw.  One particularly nasty specimen landed on my chest. I was able to knock it into the water, but not before it had left me with a bleeding gash. The fight continued in a blur. I dispatched my insect opponent and joined my comrades on shore battling the giant Crocodile and its minions. Gruff’s arrows continued to fall. I could see several in the croc’s hide. Ecaris crushed one of the biting beetles with a single blow, but its jaws locked onto him. I could see Bartholomew suffer the same fate after killing one that had climbed up and bit him. Lady Penitence, who had reached us, had continually been harassing opponents from afar. But, as she passed me, skipping past my bug’s attacks, she faded from sight with the words, “It’s your problem now.”

Gregor smashed out several of Razamere’s teeth with a blur of blows, more of Gruff’s arrows landed, and yet another flash of holy light emanated from Elody, illuminating it from within. It was Bartholomew, though, who had the final blow as he stabbed down once more and, with a shudder, Razamere slumped and was still.

A well placed arrow dispatched the last of its bugs and Gruff yelled “Get it out of the water!”

As my friends struggled mightily to pull the beast out of the water, Gruff’s warning had instilled in me a sense of urgency and I unleashed a thunderous force that lifted the creature onto the beach. I, however, had forgotten to call a warning to my companions. Instead, I found myself uttering apologies, as water poured off of them and Elody was knocked off her feet.

What comes next I find hard to review in my mind—would prefer to forget, but that is a luxury I do not have.  

Gruff began to eat the rapidly decomposing crocodile. Even as his teeth sunk into what had been meat, it began to unmake into a foul-smelling algae-like substance not unlike the scum of the pond itself. Soon, all that was left of the beast was its bones and a green mass of vegetation. Gruff and Penitence searched the remains, but if it had ever swallowed anything of use, it was now probably deep in the pond.

After a brief rest, Gruff moved on to the sandy cave entrance that we passed to do battle. I followed in the hopes of finding anything that we could use on our journey. Quival whispered to those nearby: “Long ago, a human wizard bottled the language of the Olman when he visited the Isle of Dread to gift it to them. He entered this cave and never exited.” This seemed to intrigue some of us. In the Feywild, if a name can be stolen, surely a language can be bottled.

Elody and Ecaris stayed on the beach with the remains of Razamere while the rest of us entered the cave. Bones were scattered in the sand leading to the entrance of the cave and, as we entered, it took long moments to adjust to the darkness. Quival brightened in his glass globe until he provided light as brightly as torch's. I held him out, Penitence used her own torch, which I lit, and we advanced.

The cave turned and we could see ominous openings and cracks in the walls that continued past a portcullis that was open perhaps a foot.  We looked beyond the bars and could see a skull seated upon a tripod of bones. Jewels glinted in the skull’s eyes and greed glinted in Bartholomew’s.

Elody had joined us, mentioning something about a creature—I later I realized she meant the "phanaton," as the lamia had named it—that had appeared, about how cute it was the way it held its little spear in its little furry paws and that it was concerned with what we were doing. We continued on, not quite knowing what she was talking about. I had to move quickly before Bartholomew endangered himself again. Trusting in my ability to fey step back, should the portcullis close, I began to snake under it.

The others approached to hold the heavy metal up, but didn’t have the chance. Vines shot from the holes in the walls.  The vines flowed with obvious intent and formed two humanoid-shaped plant creatures. Penitence called to the bipedal masses of writhing vines, “Who do you serve? I am a servant of the Raven Queen! Do you know her?”  It seemed odd, but she must have recognized—and hoped to exploit—a kinship with them.

Despite her words, Gruff fired an arrow into one of them with impressive speed. Gregor lunged through the bars and tore into one with his bare hands. Gruff, Bartholomew, and I were grabbed and held fast by a spray of vines, which shot from what were now writhing masses of ill intent. My escape readied, I immediately appeared ten feet back behind the gate and my comrades.

Elody called for Ecaris.  Gruff yelled, “Burn me,” and desiring to be helpful, I released a burning spray that left his hair smoking, but weakened the vines' grasp. Calling on my inner reserves, I also released a thunderous burst of force, which unfortunately merely echoed down the tunnel. I would not later share with them the joy I felt using my powers without restraint. Elody was able to glare at me disapprovingly and simultaneously burn one of the horrific vine creatures with a holy light that left it visibly reduced.

All working together in what had rapidly become second nature, the vine creatures were cut, pounded, burned, dissolved, scorched and blasted. But victory wouldn't come too easily as I heard the distant sound of steps and the portcullis rose. Perhaps “steps” was the wrong word.  It was the approaching sound of meaty boulders hitting stone. Out from the depths of the tunnel emerged a troll. Nine feet of green rage and sinew and, before I could react, he was upon me. 

He swung with a mighty claw, but as it connected, I was as mist—fey stepping safely back. Again the gifts of my heritage had moved me from harm's way. This time, I was able to use the troll's own strength against him and send his physical energies back, in the form of a psychic lash that burned across his simple mind.  But I was weakened for it and it would be some time before I could attempt that again.

“Ecaris!” I yelled as I advanced again spraying flames, burning the last vined creature and the troll.

The troll bellowed.  The flame seemed to enrage it. Trolls loathe fire and acid, for they suppress their regenerative powers.

I could see light again burst from Elody, dazing the troll and knocking it to the ground. Once again, Bartholomew leapt upon our opponent. He buried his knife in the troll’s head, wrenching it out again in a gout of blood. A lesser being would have been felled, but the troll just grew angrier. At the same time, Penitence focused her power on the vine creature, while Gregor, in a flurry of blows, staggered both the troll and the last vine creature.

With what seemed to be a response to Penitence, the vine creature sounded an awful mix of rustling, scraping and wind sounds, “Joinnnn ussss daughterrrrr of deathhhh…”

With a bolt of pure chaos, I obliterated the last vine creature that faced me and staggered back letting out one last call of “ECARIS!”

Bartholomew, still entangled by vines, continued to struggle and stab, but the troll grabbed him, whipping him about as a shield. A fiery blast from Penitence struck both of them, and the troll fell to the ground a final time, dropping the smoldering halfling.  I continued to bathe the troll in flames, ensuring that it stayed dead.

To my relief, Gruff did not attempt to consume any of the roasted troll.  Its noxious odor was too much, even for him.

From behind us, Ecaris approached saying, “What’s going on?”

Watching these great warriors sleep, I can’t help but be thankful for their unique powers: Elody supporting us in our obvious folly with healing and disapproving gazes; Penitence’s dark power (in her, I recognize a familiar conflict); Gregor’s mastery of weaponless combat and his sharp wit; Bartholomew’s bravery, greed and sharp knives; Gruff’s connection to the natural world and his many arrows; and then Ecaris—Ecaris, a powerful knight if I’ve ever met one. Something seemed different in him during that battle. Somehow he seemed “not there” and “there” at the same time. I will have to watch him.

My companions are formidable, but if I see any hint that the grey-robed ones have somehow followed me to this Isle, I will leave my new friends for their own safety. I will not let any more die protecting me.

 

Episode #12: The Back Door

Diary of Gregorius Half-Orc the Cenobite

Third Day on the Isle

We awoke to find the lamia dormant in her block of stone. I noticed that Edrathior now wore a gauntlet of fine silvery mail on his left hand. Where he found such a thing I do not know. While snacking on the fruit we’d found, we discussed our next move: whether to head to Thanaclan and the Deluvian Hourglass straightaway or to seek the Silken Grove and thereby win the lamia’s promised aid. She’d told us the will-o’-the-wisp ("Quival") knew the way. When Edrathior asked, it said that the Silken Grove lay “beyond the wall.” If “the wall” be the wall north of Tanaroa separating the peninsula from the rest of the Isle, than it lies in the same direction as Thanaclan. So, we decided to head northward, and hopefully find the lamia’s name on our way.

Before we left, Elody woke the lamia. She offered some of our fruit, but the lamia was not interested. She told us in some final warning: “Do not aggravate the water, and Razamere will not aggravate you.” We knew then that Razamere was some guard for the back door to this place, but not what kind.

We descended the chasm, Penitence first, then I, Edrathior, Bartholomew, Elody, Ecaris, and finally Gruff. The trellis was slick, having been hidden beneath the falling water so long, but climbable. Descending, I felt a familiar wave wash over me, and tightened my grip. A new memory that was not my own.

I found my self before a roaring fire. I surmised this was either Hell itself or Penitence’s living room from long ago, for a man with horns and a tail tended the fire, turning a shank of venison upon a spit. Three tiefling boys waited for the meat—my brothers. Rather, her brothers. One whom I knew as Hamza elbowed his way to the front. He kicked me—the young Penitence—out of the way. Penitence seized him and bit his ear off. Brothers Arshem and Goshenk, not to be denied, jumped her. She snatched up a stone and struck Arshem in the face with it. Goshenk made to grab her, and she clawed at his face with her nails. Penitence stood before her father to claim her prize.

I came back to myself, and continued climbing. I suspected Edrathior would relive part of my life. I thought of the first time I met Fat Willy’s gang, and hoped he’d enjoy the ride. I was unaware at the time that Penitence, who began the descent first, seemed more deeply immersed in her received memory than the rest of us...

At the bottom lay a pond, covered by a layer of scum, spanned by a string of broad stones, each several strides apart from the last. Across the pond to the east was a pebbly beach. To the north was ten feet or so of beach and beyond that, jungle. To the northeast was the mouth of a small cave, its end beyond our sight. Just as I reached the bottom, Penitence collapsed and fell toward the water. Must have been a bad memory indeed. Bartholomew, having somehow outpaced the both of us, was already down there, and managed to break her fall with his own body.

Just then we heard riders approached from the east at the opposite side of the pond. Two of the cultists we had encountered earlier, mounted on scarlet drakes, bearing axes and javelins. At that moment I noticed something curious: inside the phanaton-net-bundle I carried, silken fibers had formed about our captive a moth’s cocoon. But I hadn’t time to worry about him sprouting wings and flying back to  Lucan. Plus, the quasit still seemed entangled.

I scooped up Penitence and leapt across the water to the north. Edrathior had already teleported there and I set her down on the sand beside him. One of Gruff’s arrows sank into a tree-trunk, trailing a length of rope. I didn’t know what he planned and didn’t much care. Bartholomew skipped across the stones toward the two cultists. One cultist picked up a great stone and tossed it into the water—aggravating the water. The other threw his javelin straight at Bartholomew, stopping him in his tracks. I sprinted across the water and fell upon the javelineer with a jab, cross, and hook. He seemed surprised. The other cultist drew his axe and whistled for the drakes.

The drakes shouldered their masters out of the way. One charged for me, but caught a horn on the cliff-face, spun about like an eager puppy on polished stone, and landed on its scaly backside. The cultist tipped his head back to scream with some primal and scathing force, as his fellows had before. I clapped my palms over my ears before he could. That was when things got strange again. It was as if something flew in front of me, showing itself not to the sense of sight, but only to the sense of thought, like the ornament the novice keeps in his shield. This was somehow Edrathior's work.

(Translator’s note — here the diarist’s idiosyncratic predilection for the obscure and rustic again rears its head, as does his frankly disastrous use of abbreviation and ligature. I have read the diarist’s scrawl as z-l-m, abbreviating the Old Thyatic for a cover, a shield. Doubtless in next month’s letters my colleague Professor Zartosht will explain how I have got it all wrong; for now I disregard his “skin” translation, if only for the nonsensical result it creates. I digress.)

The cultists and the drakes clearly saw it; panic filled their eyes as it wended its way among them. Then the drake before me vanished in a flash of light. I heard a scraping and snarling in the middle of the pond, the crash of a mace against scaly hide, and a resounding splash. Only later would I attribute this strange occurrence with Elody and her "feystrike" mace. But the more time I spend with these castaway companions, the less I am surprised by what I see. Both the cleric and Ecaris now battled the vanished drake at the center of the pond, amidst the stepping stones and splashing water.

I slid closer to Bartholomew to cover our flanks. I assumed a spiral stance, drawing the air around me deep into my center, focusing my mind upon one point, and then releasing it to burst outward and lash our enemies. One of the cultists lay still upon the beach, neck broken, and the other was still fighting, as was his drake. From the corner of my eye, I could see the other drake fighting to tread water. I drew out the "new" dagger the lamia had given us. Its scaled finish glinted, as if in anticipation. Reaching over Bartholomew, I buried the dagger in the drake’s side, and blood gushed forth.

That was when we met Razamere. A tremendous crocodile but not an earthly one, he burst from the pond and fell upon the cultist and his drake. His jaws alone were almost the length of the drake’s body, and he clamped down on the human. Remarkably, the cultist survived the first bite, but the second tore him apart. 

As the crocodile advanced upon the shore, the ground about him softened and turned to mud. Bartholomew did not look any more intent on fighting Razamere than I. Penitence still lay on the north beach where I’d left her, alone. I made haste and leapt across the water to the north, hoping I could reach my companions before Razamere did.