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.

Episode #11: Riddles, Allies, and Enemies

Diary of Gregorius Half-Orc the Cenobite

Second Day on the Isle

The sphinx told us the first riddle had been answered, and then asked us the second when we were ready.

"I have no sword, I have no spear

Yet I rule a horde that many fear.

My soldiers fight with wicked sting;

I rule with might, yet am no king.

What am I?"

“A queen bee," Penitent said.

I’m not a learned man, but I know a bad riddle when I hear one. The sphinx asked if we were ready for the second riddle. I thought it plain unfair that we be made to answer one riddle after the next with no chance to ask one back, and said as much. The voice made to continue, and I said, “No, first you answer me.” “What” I stuck my left hand into my pocket, “have I got in my pocket?”

It paid me no mind and asked the third riddle. It was no better than the last.

"You can find it on a human, or a halfling, or a gnome.

You can find it in a glass of beer, with frothy, sudsy foam.

You can find it in a cabbage patch, growing in the loam.

What is it?"

“A head,” Edrathior decided.

The sphinx fell silent after confirming that the third riddle had been solved. We wondered if that was it. The riddles had been easy—almost too easy, we thought. Penitence and Bartholomew approached the stairwell, suspicious as always. The cultist on the floor had lost his head trying to descend, but we knew not how. They looked close, and found a crack between the flagstones of the third step. Bartholomew said it was just the kind out of which a sprung blade might swing. Apparently not satisfied with this, Penitence kicked the dead cultist's body down the stairs. As far as we could tell, nothing more happened to him.

One by one we descended, each stepping gingerly that suspicious step. Sprightly Ecaris hurdled over the step and fell down to the ground and his armor rattled around him. Finally I stepped under the sphinx, stopped for a moment, and looked up at her. She never did answer my riddle, so without further ado I took the answer out of my pocket and with it I gave her a short sharp rap on the chin.

At the bottom of the stair, we entered a chamber about ankle deep in water. A single corridor stretched out into the dark, and the water ran thither. Vines grew up the walls. On the wall directly above the entrance was a stone panel, looking something like a door and something like a tombstone. Upon it was carved the image of a four-armed ape, accompanied by Elvish script. Edrathior told us they read Cuacatl, Guardian of the King, or words to that effect.

I surmised Cuacatl was the creature’s name. I climbed up to the panel briefly, to see if the panel were a door that might somehow be opened, either by us or some other power. As far as I could tell, it was solid with neither crack nor hinge. We decided to continue down the corridor, but before we could, the imp-thing woke with an ear-splitting shriek. I was able to subdue him, but not before anyone waiting ahead would have heard him. We considered briefly whether he had alerted his master to our presence here, but quickly decided it made no difference and continued on.

We finally emerged into a wide-open chamber. The chamber ended at a chasm, into which the water poured. Across the chasm I could see a high ledge, and several tunnel entrances beyond it. This was not what concerned me, though. In the center of the chamber, atop a stone plinth, encased in a massive block lapis lazuli, was a tall woman of regal, but powerfully savage bearing. Her upper body was encased in an exotic, sleeveless armor like the carapace of a beetle, her arms and neck crawling with runic tattoos. Her lower half, frozen in the blue rock, was that of a leonine beast. Her eyes were vivid, and leaked a green fluid that stained her cheek. Though I had never seen one before, we realized she was a lamia—an infamous deceiver of the fey world. We felt a chill behind us, though at that moment we knew not what it was. As she was awakened by our presence, the vines in the room writhed. She looked upon us.

Edrathior asked her if she was the Truth Seeker.

"The Olman call me the Truth Seeker," she replied. "But I am no oracle. I predict nothing, but I know many things, especially as they concern this island. I know the  names, races, and locations of all living things here."

Though it seemed hard to believe, I had no better explanation. She told us how she knew of all beings on the island. She told us she knew we had recently parted company with the Uja Zem, the "Zombie Master" of Mora. She knew of the "quasit Ilnix, demon-familiar to the elf Lucan, who is now wrapped in a phanaton's net here in my prison." She said she knew of the tiny creature who had followed us here but refused to enter the temple. This was the phanaton, and that his name was Holtoy.

The lamia concluded her introduction: "I know each of you, though I cannot see into your hearts and minds. And yes, I know of you, Vestryl, who stands unseen before me."

It was then that this “Vestryl” emerged from her apparent spell of invisibility, a human woman dressed all in black and reeking of necromancy. She wore a leathery, bat-like cloak and carried a staff made from the bones of children. I was less than impressed, but both Penitence and Elody were immediately disturbed and agitated by her presence. I do not know if she followed us, or preceded us, in this temple.

Almost immediately, the lamia spoke calmly. "There will be no bloodshed tolerated between my guests in these halls. If you do not heed this, I will awaken Cuicatl."

Without waiting for us to discuss the situation, the necromancer Vestryl asked her question. “Where is the Deluvian Hourglass?”

The lamia's answer: “In the ruins of Thanaclan.”

Ecaris, of the Emperor's Guard

This obviously meant something to Vestryl—whose pale face grew paler still—though neither the question nor the answer meant a thing to me. Vestryl very clearly desired to set out for this Thanaclan, but desired more to hear what we were going to ask the Truth Seeker. This left us in a bit of a bind. Whatever Vestryl wanted with this hourglass, it couldn’t be good; she had a staff made of dead babies, after all. So we decided we had best find out what was going on, but without giving Vestryl too much information. These are the questions we asked.

Ecaris (click here!) offered the first one. “What is the Deluvian Hourglass?”

The lamia answered.  "Prophecies in your world have foretold the next awakening of the Tarrasque, the Harbinger, the Great Beast. If unimpeded, this will come to pass. It has been ninety years since its last fitful run, but that occurrence lasted only five days and the Tarrasque devoured only thousands. This time the Great Beast will not slumber again. In the wake of this destruction, agencies malevolent to the freedom of mortals will rise and seize power. Only one device exists to forestall this event—perhaps indefinitely. The Deluvian Hourglass, an artifact as old as the world. With it, the Tarrasque can be leashed. Or freed for all time. Or...made to sleep for eons more."

Gruff spoke the second question. "What did you do to get imprisoned here?"

The lamia answered. "My sisters and I attempted to usurp the Queen of the Summer Court. As punishment, we have been exiled here, stricken with knowledge, and forced to answer the questions of those who find us."

Edrathior took our map of the Isle, the one we uncovered in the Olman's sea cave. He drew forth a twig, sharpened to a fine point, and pricked his finger with it, adding a crude grid to our map. He asked, “At what grid coordinates on this map are the ruins of Thanaclan?” He held out our map and our makeshift pen, our plan being to thus conceal the answer from Vestryl.

With that, the Truth Seeker explained that "for my crimes, I have been bound here." She said that she was required to answer one question from each person who reached this chamber. She she was also empowered to punish any breach of the peace occurring in her presence.

The Truth Seeker answered. “The ruins of Thanaclan lie in the center of the plateau at the center of the island. It was once a great city of humans—humans who were favored by the lords of the Feywild and were invited to live on the Isle so that they might visit both worlds. But Thanaclan fell, destroyed by one of its own factions, which was not content with the blessings of the fey alone. They made pacts with demonic entities that found a way into the world through their fell agreements." The lamia marked a spot on the map in Edrathior's blood.

Penitence asked, “What guards the Deluvian Hourglass?”

The lamia answered. "No beast guards the Hourglass itself. Beasts of the island, Olman traitors, and the cults of Demagorgon and Orcus lie between you and the artifact—though not all denizens of the Isle would oppose you."

Bartholomew asked, "Where are your sisters, according to this map?" Again, we hoped Vestryl would not be privy to the answer.

The lamia seized Edrathior's bloody hand and put more spots on the map, indicating the location of her sisters. Most were far, on the other side of the island, but one was somewhat closer, on the eastern half. We do not think Vestryl could see this, and the lamia did not speak the locations aloud.

Elody asked, "How can we free you?"

Looking directly at the cleric, the lamia said, "You must find my name. It was taken from me and has been secreted away somewhere in the Silken Grove. If you choose to do this, the will-o’-wisp Quival can guide you to the Grove. The glassy orb that Edrathior had been carrying flared up with electric light. So this was a will-'o-wisp, a fey being that feeds on fear and suffering. In faerie tales, wisps are known for luring the hapless to their deaths in dark bogs.

The lamia added, “If I am free, I will turn my powers against these intruders. I will send Cuicatl against them, and sew chaos in their ranks.”

I asked her my—and our final—question. "What is the story of Cuacatl?” 

The Truth Seeker's answer was surprisingly brief. "Cuicatl was the friend and protector of the last King of Thanaclan, exiled from the city when he refused to bow to demons. Cuicatl is an girallon  made to slumber in living death and roused only when disturbed. He will destroy those deemed an enemy to his king. Cuicatl has always been revered by the phanatons and is feared still by the Skin Eaters, but he will not hesitate to kill any who disturb him."

While questions were asked and answered, we attempted to drive Vestryl out. We knew we could not do so by force, and so tried to do so by threatening, cajoling, or Elody’s peculiar combination of the two. Elody demanded to know whether the children who made up the woman's staff were slain by the necromancer herself. Vestryl refused to answer, saying only that the "Avandran" (worshipper of Avandra?) knew "nothing of children." This only frustrated the cleric.

Even Edrathior had some words for Vestryl. Evidently, he had absorbed one of the necromancer's own memories when we climbed the trellis and the moss earlier. The eladrin made a reference to it, but Vestryl seemed to take only pride in the memory. "That is when true power is born," she retorted arrogantly.

In the end, it took five of us crowding her by the chasm’s edge to persuade her to leave. She left in haste, as if fearing pursuit; she jumped into the chasm and spread her cloak out wide. It snapped out like the wings of a giant bat, clawed and functional, and she glided away into the night. She had no heard all of the questions; fortunately, she learned little about Cuicatl.

After we had finished asking our questions, and after Vestryl fled, the Truth Seeker offered to help us if we would help free her. She told us she could lend us her own strength and knowledge, and that she could command the power of Cuacatl for us. Although the lamia are known to be great deceivers, we accepted her offer.

At the Truth Seeker’s command, the flow of water slowed and almost stopped, revealing a trellis along the cliff face. Across the way, three insect-like, or perhaps crab-like monsters emerged from their tunnels, cast three cadavers before us and vanished into the tunnels. The bodies had some salvageable equipment: two backpacks, fifty feet of silk rope, an antlered helm, and a dagger engraved with scales. The helm was clearly enchanted. Trying it on I felt all my senses sharpened, though I suspect its bulk would be more hindrance than it’s worth. I suspect the dagger is enchanted as well. I think Bartholomew may have pocketed some treasure, but I can't be sure.

Episode #10: Chokers and Memories

From the Ashen Codex of Lady Penitence

In the name of the Raven Queen, the most merciful ---

Has it only been two days since the shipwreck? Time and space are warped on this island into unnatural forms. I cannot tell.

My thoughts keep returning to Andalou's diary, lost among my other effects to the waves. It is like my mentor has died again. I could have used her wisdom. Perhaps she had some knowledge of the alien beasts that walk here, or the shadowy cultists that have cast their pall of necromancy over this place. What I miss even more than the diary, I am ashamed to say, is my cache of calming draughts. I have not had one in days, and I can feel the ashes of anger I thought long-dead beginning to flicker into life... underneath my robes, I can feel his brand beginning to awaken again.

All I can do is pray.

After dispatching a necromancer, his thrall and the strange monsters that he summoned, we sallied into the ziggurat, towards what we can only hope is the Oracle (or Truth Seeker?) of which the shaman spoke. At a fork in the path, the eladrin found a mysterious glass orb with some intelligence inside, with light at its heart and an Elvish tongue.

The Shifter, as he is wont to do, broke off from our party and shot at the great globe-like plant that hung from the cavern ceiling, puncturing its rubbery skin. He and the others rolled some fruits in the shining fluid that issued forth and rubbed it on to the fletching of some arrows.

There is an old tiefling superstition called 'the Left-Hand Path'; basically, when torn between the two options, choose the sinister road. This is not always meant to be taken literally. But the left-hand path here in the ziggurat smelled of damp plants, like the swamps I grew up in, and I was more eager to follow it than the dry, dusty way, which puts me in mind of a catacomb or grave.

The eladrin and I entered a chamber with curious square holes in the floor that led to a pit with figures underneath—not necessarily undead, but definitely under some sort of magical influence. Stone beams arced up into the darkness that concealed the ceiling—and as we shortly found out, other things.

Long limbs shot out at us from above, with deadly claws extended. I managed to dodge, but Edrathior was caught by the throat. Our cries soon brought the others to our aid, and we soon discovered that the beast we grappled with had only a small, halfling-sized body, with long rubbery limbs that it uses to move swiftly overhead and catch prey. (I found out later these beasts are called 'chokers,' which—really? This only demonstrates the paucity of creativity in today's naturalists.)

Our party managed to vanquish two chokers and several of the bodies that levitated up from the pits, though we all took all manner of grievous wounds. The halfling was quite nearly done for, I think, but he recovered quick enough to engage in a bit of graverobbing in the pits below.

Past the room with the chokers, I and the half-orc that serves Avandra came across a curious wooden statue, of a great elf maiden or goddess, which turned out to be hollow. Both the half-orc and I stood inside and looked through the statue's eyes, and we were soon suffused with calm as we were embraced by plants that healed our wounds. We called to the others, but it did not seem to work for the—perhaps the statue has a limited amount of power, or it reserves its gifts for the feminine, who can know?

In the next chamber, we could only progress by climbing up a vertical shaft, all overgrown with vines and moss, but relatively easy of footing thanks to a trellis underneath. I was half-cheered by the climb, as it put me in mind of my girlhood days climbing trees in Malpheggi. But about halfway up, a curious thing happened—I had a vivid vision, totally alien to me, where I was a small halfling. My father was gone—a not uncommon occurrence, I knew, though I cannot describe just how I knew – and had left behind his pipe and pipeweed. I filled the pipe to the brim with the fragrant herb, smoked it all, and became violently ill. I surmised that the vision came from the memories of the halfling, who was scrambling up ahead of me.

At the top of the shaft, it appeared that the others had also received visions plucked from the mind of the person climbing above them. I told of what I had seen—somewhat untactfully, now that I think upon it. The Shifter, whose gaze is often suspicious, had a tinge of pity in it when he declined to share what I know must have been some scene from my own past. I do not want his pity, or his charity. That bestial visage reminds me of … him.

We had not much time to ponder these visions, for almost as soon as we finished our climb, a voice spoke in our heads:

"The first riddle has been solved," she said. "I will speak the second when you are ready. If you fail the riddle, you will be slain by the answer."  The voice was deep but feminine, a telepathic voice coming from everywhere—or nowhere.

As I write, we are pondering our options. At the end of the chamber stands a massive statue of a beast, a woman above the neck and a lion below. Her paws lie on either side of a staircase that drops into darkness. A fresh corpse—one of those cultists—lies atop the stairs, headless.

I do not fear death. If the Raven Queen takes me now, all the better... I can go to her before Amon sinks his claws into my heart again.