#haggemoth

There is an adventure for 4th Edition called something like The Return to the Tomb of Horrors. It is an adventure centered around the infamous lich Acererak and his various Tombs of death. One of the more fun parts of the adventure takes PCs to the Tomb of Horrors... only it’s decades after the Tomb’s first opening and the tomb has been raided and destroyed by the thousands of PCs that have come to it since that time.

I mention this, because ever since I read that module, I’ve wanted to do something similar: bring players back to a place that was familiar to them. The Tomb of Haggemoth, which featured so heavily in our campaign and plot, was the obvious choice and there was at least one loose end left in the Tomb that I felt would serve as a good hook: an ancient celestial being, trapped in a rock. Around the time of this session, I had finished working on a revival of Haggemoth, bringing it into 5th Edition with its original creator, Robert Kendzie (you can learn more about that here). As we updated a lot of the final dungeon, it felt like I now had an appropriately “changed” setting to bring the players back to.

So for this next section of the adventure, we return to the past. We return to Haggemoth. 

New Waterdhavians

The set up for this return begins in Waterdeep, with Imoaza and Milosh morose after the failure at Maakengorge and the sacrifice of Ruze. Milosh especially, has lost his entire sense of identity and nearly quits the group entirely. His only consolation is that armor has been left for him by Vraath Keep’s smith, who had promised to build him a new face. It is a wonderful piece of armor that gives him a humanoid looking face shield to cover up the damage done by Dragon fire back on the asteroid. But he also saw that smith dead in the Maakengorge temple. Everything reminds him of his failure at this point. Only one thing keeps him involved: Illrastayne. 

This is the blade he took from the Abyss, the blade which contains the soul of the bard-turned-warlock Bitterberry (and his Demonic patron) and which Milosh used extensively in the Abyss but has shunned since. He decides to rid himself of the blade, almost on a whim. He is aware that it has a demon inside of it and wishes to have no connection to anything which might impede his freedom, whether it be Surveyor, Primus, or this accursed sword. But when he tries to rid himself of it, he finds he cannot. The sword will not leave him. More than that, it taunts him, telling him in a demonic voice inside his head that in his despair, the blade has latched ever more deeply onto his heart and soul and that soon it will have him completely. Determined to find a way to destroy the blade, Milosh seeks out the Shaman from the ice tribe, who survived the events at the Maakengorge and is with the refugees in Waterdeep. The Shaman tells him there is a place called Rori Rama, where the first contract between the Demon was struck and that is the only place now where the blade can be destroyed.

It is around this time that Carrick returns to the party. Yes, Carrick! If you don’t recall him, he was the prior character that Ruze’s player had created and played for many many sessions, finally losing him in the Abyss during Esheballa’s insane game. But that was only the end of the original Carrick. Carrick’s backstory involved the inadvertent merging of his soul and personality with the energy of the final Surveyor, and so when Carrick died, his soul was borne back to Faerun to awaken in the last vessel the Surveyor had left there: a final body left safely in the ruins of the Fane, whose Yuan Ti temple had been reduced to rubble by the actions of Imoaza, Aldric, and the original Carrick during the final campaign of the Red Hand.

Carrick comes to Milosh and asks him to accompany him on a final task. You see, Carrick has worked out a good portion of the prophecy and its meaning. He believes that the players haven’t actually failed to stop the prophecy. Instead, he tells them that this is what HAD to happen in order to stop it: the three had to be one. Only when together could they be defeated. To recap, according to the prophecy, the PCs will need to bring together four objects to destroy the three and halt Chaos’ advance into the world. The pertinent lines are thus:

Four things must gather to alter fate’s course The Sword, The Shield, the The Stone, The Source Then upon the throne the three must be Before they can meet their destiny

Carrick says the sword is almost certainly Imoaza’s Black Razor. The Stone he believes is a piece of the Surveyor’s Jade stone that caused so much trouble early in the campaign, years ago. He went out on a mission of his own to retrieve it (one that wasn’t played in the course of our adventures, but was occurring while the players were at the Sea of Moving Ice). In speaking with Imoaza and learning what she found out from the library on the iceberg, Carrick now believes the Source is a piece of Primus himself. Karina, before her demise, had spoken to him at length of her past adventures and mentioned that Abenthy had begun calling himself an “Inevitability of Justice” after surviving Haggemoth’s tomb. Carrick, with the knowledge of the Surveyor living within his own memories, knows of the creations of Primus, and Abenthy’s wording stands out to him: “Inevitability.” Carrick believes an Inevitable is still in Haggemoth’s Tomb and that Abenthy encountered it. The Inevitables are celestial beings, created by the hands of Primus itself in the plane of Mechanus, where Law and Order is unquestionable. And there is one being, Carrick believes, who can channel the power of that Inevitable.

“Oh great,” Milosh said, seeing the visage of the surveyor looking down at him from the alley’s entrance. “This again.”

Years ago, a surveyor had taken Milosh from the depths of failure and despair and built him a new identity. But now Milosh had remembered, remembered everything, and again he had failed. He didn’t want a third chance. He wanted to go away. He wanted the world to go away.

Carrick knelt beside him. “We’re not very different, you and I,” he said. “Both of us have experienced death. Each has had our own failures. And we’ve been brought back to do more. We have been brought back to save the world.”

Milosh scoffed. “I have no world.”

“No. You have a million. Every world is yours to protect. That was your mission. It is your mission.”

“I’ve lost a lot already.” Milosh paused. “You remember Aldric, right? Did you know Imoaza killed him? I found it out from a book we got, from this old elf in a frozen library. You trust this group to save a world? We can’t even trust each other.”

Carrick stopped and considered what Milosh had said. “We all have to answer for our past actions,” he said. “Some answer in different ways. I believe Imoaza is going through her own changes. And I... I am no longer exactly who I was before. I am not Carrick. But I am not the Surveyor, either. But I am both. Do you remember the sacrifice I made as Carrick? Sometimes sacrifices have to be made. Sometimes we can avoid them. But if you walk away here, you walk away from the sacrifices we have all made.”

“Maybe I don’t care.”

“You’ll also walk away from yourself. You want freedom? Then you need to face what it is that you are afraid of. Or else you’ll never be free from it.”

While Milosh is struggling to come to terms with what he should or should not do, Imoaza begins to investigate the politics of Waterdeep, concerned by the boast from Nazragul that he had agents in Waterdeep’s council, planted there to change the teleportation destination from Vraath Keep to the Maakengorge, which is how he trapped Karina. Her investigations, which involve her ingratiating herself to certain people in disguise and exploring the homes of certain nobles, reveals to her that Yuan Ti have infiltrated Waterdeep and are turning its citizens and lords against the cause for which Imoaza and the companions fight.

These discoveries will have importance for upcoming sessions, but for now they linger as unresolved hints of danger, for it is time for the group to head to the tomb.

Return to the Tomb

“The island was warded against dragons,” Argent explained, as the bronze dragon circled down towards the island of Rori Rama. “We knew where it was, we could practically taste the magic and gold Haggemoth had accumulated, but we couldn’t get close to the island. Like an itch you couldn’t scratch. Even now, this is as close as I can come.”

For three weeks, the companions (plus Breath Giver, Milosh’s personal healer from the ice tribe) had flown via dragonback away from Waterdeep, across the Moon Sea, and towards Rori Rama, to find the Inevitable trapped inside the old tomb. They had stopped at several locations which would have been familar to Karina. They had stopped to buy provision in Ottoman’s Docks, which had changed little in a hundred years, except that it had doubled in size. They had roosted one night on a beach of a deserted island with a huge spire rising out of its middle (the site of the LaCroix mansion, though they didn’t know it). They had flown to Celaenos and spent a night as guests of the Sisters, the Keepers of the Library, who had taken over the monastery after the Knights had been murdered decades earlier. They spent a night at the island of the Oracle, and though they lacked the money to see the ageless Oracle, the monks who protected her let them at least stay on the beach for free.

Eventually they reach Rori Rama, but the closest Argent can get them is at the base of the inactive volcano which contains Haggemoth’s tomb. Breath Giver stays with Argent while the three companions use fly spells to reach the volcano’s crater and there find a way down a mysterious shaft delved into the mountain itself. The shaft takes them directly into Haggemoth’s inner sanctum, skipping the first level of the tomb entirely (I intend this to be a revisit of this infamous area, not a full rerun of it).

This high ceiling of this long chamber is held up with stout columns and the floor is tiled in marble. The rotting remains of a pair of couches can be seen towards the center of the room, along with some long-dead potted plants. Several doors lead off of this room, though some are damaged. The space is lit by arcane-looking lanterns hung from the columns, but the far end of the hall is lost in shadow where part of the ceiling has collapsed and the lamps have failed. Strange sounds echo in the distance – sounds of movement and the occasional animal like cry.

I am not going to detail all of the explorations the players make of the old tomb. There are many little rooms and surprises the players encounter, but only a few are of key importance to the plot, and I want to focus on those, the things that have changed for the worse since the last time they were here.

First, there is a new character that makes his appearance in this ruined tomb. His original name is unknown, if in fact he ever had one, but the group comes to know him as “The Painted Mummer.” He lives in paintings left behind by Haggemoth, and takes multiple disguises, different for each painting, from a feasting king to a hunchbacked dwarf. He interacts with the PCs as they explore the Sanctum, sometimes giving them dubious advice, at other times leading them through interactions with some of Haggemoth’s left over magics. For instance, they try to make a potion of invulnerability in his old study, guided by the Mummer in the guise of a twitchy scholar in a painting in the room. This ends in disaster as the potion explodes, due to them not identifying the proper heart needed for the potion (they use a Grell heart instead of a Hook Horror heart). They do get some hints that not all is well, such as when they identify some dead bodies hidden in a painting of a snowy mountain, and occasionally even get a glimpse of the Mummer’s real persona, a gaunt, tall figure dressed in skin tight black and wearing a theatrical mask, one half of which is sobbing and the other half is giving a menacing and angry snarl. Eventually, they learn to be wary of the Mummer and start burning his paintings whenever they find him in them. This only angers him the more and he begins to stalk them from room to room, not always able to do anything to them, not always even seen by them. But he watches, and he waits.

Cliff notes: The Mummer was an idea Robert and I came up with for the 5th Edition version of Haggemoth. He wanted to do more with the Inner Sanctum and was interested in maybe using the paintings to have some effect on the environment. I was thinking of GladOS from Portal, and liked the idea of an insane groundskeeper, something which was initially built to be helpful but has become broken and corrupted by time.

Secondly, while they explore, the PCs are occasionally accosted by otherwordly purple tentacles, that seem to sprout from the air itself, or the floor. The Ethereal, they discover when Milosh tries to enter it, has been completely dominated and overtaken with these tentacles, and they attack the PCs on two major occasions, sucking out not only their life, but their spell power, draining their spell slots and destorying their magical shields and other effects. The most memorable fight against them takes place in the old dining hall, where an unnatural darkness forces the PCs to fight blind against the tentacles, all the while looking for a key to a special door in Haggemoth’s Sanctum. The PCs get very creative here, with Milosh destroying parts of the ceiling to drop on the tentacles, Imoaza using the Weave Sight to be able to locate the Tentacles, and Carrick using fire and ingenuity to set up a kind of napalm effect that he uses to keep the Tentacles away from him. The scariest part is when the Mummer causes dozens of animated knives and dishes to animate around the room and swarm the players, only to have the Tentacles latch on to this living magic and erupt from the cutlery and dishes, surrounding the players with swarms of essence draining tentacles!

Another scary room involves an illusion created by the Mummer with the aid of some hallucinigenic spores. This grabs Milosh especially, and he runs into what he thinks is a vision of his old life on Eberron, where he is at a ballroom dance. He happily joins in the merriment, and takes a bite out of a thick pastry of some kind, bursting with whipping cream and flavor.

Only, what’s really happening is that he’s surrounded by Rust Monsters, absolutely attracted to his metallic form, his addled mind showing them as laughing and dancing humans. Imoaza and Carrick see through the illusion before he does, and watch as he takes a bite of what he thinks is a pastry... it is actually a larval Rust Monster, its guts and ichor spraying across his face as he bites into it.

Suffice it to say, this is not an encounter that the PCs end up liking, but it is a memorable one. By the time it is over and they flee the room, Milosh has had half his face (just restored!) eaten off. 

They eventually discover a scrap of painting in a room which also contains the broken summoning circle Haggemoth used to summon the Inevitable of Justice, centuries ago. The painting shows a gnome, who swears he is not the Mummer, but seems terrified of the Mummer. He tells them his name is Lhu-Ee and he is the last surviving painter dweller, aside from the Mummer, who murdered all of the others. He explains that the paintings were created by Haggemoth to hold his knowledge and to keep him company. They are like phylacteries, holding the souls of creatures Haggemoth pulled from beyond the grave to shape to his purposes. When he prepared to depart this plane, he “turned off” the paintings, intending to let the souls rest forever. But something went wrong. Others (Karina, Abenthy, Xaviee, and Bitterberry) came into the Sanctum and their presence awoke the Paintings again. But with no Master to direct them, the Mummer went mad. Originally designed to entertain Haggemoth and be a companion for him, in his absence he declared that the paintings had failed their master and needed punishing. Only Lhu-Ee escaped his wrath, by hiding in a torn scrap of painting. He offers to go with the party in his scrap, if they’ll keep him safe from the Mummer. 

Lhu-Ee knows more than just the history of Haggemoth. He is an expert on the Abyss and the Ethereal, filled with Haggemoth’s knowledge of those planes. He tells them that what’s happening to the Ethereal now is a sign of a being trying to weaken the boundaries between this plane and the Abyssal plane, with disastrous results.

“Why,” he says, pushing his oversized turban back up on his head, where it promptly falls down again. “It could be the end of the world!”

* * *

This is part one of a two part post. There’s a lot that needed to be set up this time, so I wanted to break the posts up to make it a little more manageable. And ya know, maybe also stretch this blog out just a little more. We are coming close to the end.

This post begins Chapter 10, which used to be called Tears and Torments, but which I’ve renamed “The Coming of the Three.” It marks the last chapter of our game and focuses on the prophecy of the three. For a reminder, the prophecy was created by a Surveyor who foresaw that Primus’ great mission to bring stability and order to the world would end in Chaos and sorrow. He passed down a prophecy of how this would come to pass and how it could be countered. The prophecy is as follows:

Three shall be the kings who sit the single throne And Order's rule by Chaos shall be overthrown The Universe will end by their divine hands Chaos will devour every woman, child, and man

Each shall be seen by a singular sign Each shall be born of a different line. The devil's blood runs in the first of the three They bear the eye that can seek but cannot see The second will by heaven be blessed But wings of black will mar their pureness The third contains the dragon's flame What was dead will rise to live again Three to rule, Three to lead, Three to destroy and make the universe bleed. Removing one will not lead to the fall To end the curse you must destroy them all Four things must gather to alter fate's course The Sword, The Shield, The Stone, The Source Then upon the throne the three must be Before they can meet their destiny In the time these things come to pass The future will be decided by the ones from the past

As this is the last chapter and there is a lot of call backs and wrap ups, I’m going to focus more on the big picture narrative and less on individual mechanics. I’ll try to put in reminders, too, of who everyone important is as I coe to them. One day I will finish the Encyclopedia but until then, I’ll do everything “in-post.”

Through the Woods to Grandmother’s Fortress

There was something wrong about this place, but what was most disturbing was that the wrongness hadn’t been there a moment ago. The very earth was becoming infected beneath him, with him as witness to its corruption. The wrongness wasn’t an attribute of this land, it was a living malice, moving through the land and turning it against all living creatures. Imoaza tensed and stood quickly, spinning around to face the horrors that were emerging on all sides of her, from the sudden mist that had settled upon everything. She held up her hand to summon Blackrazor to her and then stopped, noticing that where she had pressed it into the earth fresh blood had stained it. The very ground was bleeding... that was her first thought. But then she gasped as hands erupted from under the earth, seeking, grasping for any flesh they could find.

~ Imoaza facing the Blighted horrors of the Wytchwood

The first part of this chapter is about introducing the players to the end game set up. This means introducing them to the key NPCs and situation. But I don’t want to be blunt about it. It’s more engaging if it’s not just one big exposition but rather an experience of what’s at stake.

So we start with them not sure if they’ve made it back to Faerun. They wake up in the woods being stared at by a Forest Giant. Daymos isn’t with them, and Ruze has undergone a change: no longer a fox faced man, he becomes an elvish looking female with black hair. She does not explain the transformation or the choice of her new form, but it reveals something about her nature: she is a Changeling, a mysterious race of dopplegangers that is rare on Faerun, but which does have clans spread around the world. A rather large one existed in Brindol, and as a matter of fact, that’s where Ruze is from. 

The Giant is soon joined by a lean female Half Orc. The two are allied, their names are Grimoire and Sierra. Sierra tells the characters that they have been waiting for them and that their coming was foretold by Carrick, who found his way to these woods after he awoke in the Destroyed Temple of the Yuan Ti. Now they are to take them to the Lady of the Wood. Also, they are in for a shock: 80 years or more have passed since they left Faerun.

Cliff Notes: Carrick was the character originally controlled by Ruze’s player. He had a really in depth plot tied to the backstory of the game, as the players discovered that Carrick had long ago been possessed by the soul of the last Surveyor. The Surveyors are creations of Primus who helped usher in the age of Humanity on Faerun and who are indirectly responsible for many of the major events of the campaign, like the powers of the Jade Statue, the downfall of the Yuan Ti society, the arrival of the Mind Flayer who creates the Red Hand, and the Prophecy.

The players accompany Sierra on a short side quest, first, as she scouts out Skull Gorge, where it is said that the Enemy was recently spotted. Who is the enemy? They are told that only the Lady of the Wood truly knows, but that it is said to be the revived form of some old dead warlord, a Dragonborn who tried to conquer the world long ago.

Cliff Notes: All of this is referencing back to the PCs adventures with the Red Hand campaign. Skull Gorge Bridge was blown up by Nysyries in a very memorable moment decades earlier. The Dragonlord is Nazragul, whom the party served for a while when they were turned evil. The fact that he is mentioned to be returned is dark tidings indeed, as his power was shown to be pretty intense even from beyond the grave. How did he return, though? It should be noted that none of these PCs actually know of Nazragul or met him. The last PC who would have worked for his cause would have been Aldric.

While out scouting by the bridge, the party encounters a strange plant creature pouring some sort of necrotic energy into the land. The land becomes infected and the party is set upon by awakened trees and blights and Grimoire, whose connection to the forest causes him to be infected as well. The PCs win the battle but Hecate disappears during it. The PCs track her to a spot where they discover many prints that Imoaza recognizes as belonging to other Yuan Ti. Before they can investigate further, they are attacked by a Death Knight. He surprises Imoaza but when she draws Black Razor Alpha he retreats, and the party, taking advantage of the sudden reprieve and wondering who this mysterious helmed knight is, follows Sierra to Vraath Keep. They are about to meet the Lady of the Wood.

Cliff Notes: Vraath Keep was last seen 80 years ago, during the Red hand campaign. Xaviee, companion of General Twyin... renamed Lorin by us later... became its ruler and restored it to glory. But he died some time ago and who runs it now?

The Keep is revealed to have been expanded upon greatly in the past decades and has become a refuge for creatures of all manner, from humans and elves to giants and fey and even changelings. Really, it is a last bastion, a final hope of resistance to the forces that are growing in the Elsir Vale and swiftly taking it over. The major cities of the nation have fallen, Brindol most recently, and now Vraath Keep is all that remains, the only place housing an army left to fight back against Nazragul and his swarms of undead. Around the entire keep is a magical shield, meant to keep out all invaders and their magics.

And the Lady of the Wood? None other than an aging Karina, one of the original companions for the entire campaign and a major player in the Tomb of Haggemoth adventure. She retired from adventuring after Haggemoth and set  about creating an adventuring school in the former Desert of Thud, believing that she would one day need an army of adventurers to combat Abenthy, who turned to a dark path when last she saw him.

The PCs meet with Karina and it is a solemn meeting as she fills them in on the history they have missed. She knows much of their story from Carrick (who is currently out on a mission of his own) and she knows of the prophecy. Discussing the prophecy becomes the focus of most of a session for us, while the players read over the lines and try to make sense of it with Karina. She also reveals that Nazragul has arisen after taking over the body and mind of a former disciple of hers: Jade, whom she last saw nearly 80 years ago, when she left to travel to the Elsir Vale because she sensed Nazragul’s power and sought to defeat him. With her went Verrick, Karina’s lover, and Lee, their pet slime. Abenthy she hasn’t seen in years either, and his presence seems to have disappeared from the world of Torril, or is otherwise blocked to her scrying. She believes some ill befell him, but she cannot be sure. She says that the Yuan Ti have joined with Nazragul in a religious Jihad, for they believe the end times are coming at last and the Night Serpent will finally swallow all light.

At hearing the news about Jade, Daymos suddenly appears, still in his Quasit form. He reveals that he has been invisibly following the party since they left Esheballa’s realm and now rails against Karina for not keeping his sister, Jade, safe. He then uses his prodigious abilities to phase through her protective shields around Vraath Keep, claiming he will find a way to save Jade. 

There are some really amazing roleplaying moments while at Vraath Keep, as I ask each player what their character does in between their meetings with Karina. Each choice is a really interesting look at the character’s psyche. Here’s the brief of each one.

For Imoaza, the Weave has started to become visible to her. She can see it shaping the magic of the world around her, the way it coalesces around Karina and is tightly knit in her magical energy shield surrounding Vraath Keep. She spends her time examining her surroundings with this new found sight, but it drifts in and out and ultimately she is left without access to it, only a feeling like she has had an incredibly important thought, but cannot retrieve it now. She talks with Black Razor alpha, too, and gains a further understanding of her bond to the sword. He considers her his “mother,” a word that has uncomfortable past associations for Imoaza. And finally, I ask her what she seeks out for food, as it has been, in Faerun years, a very very long time (decades) since any of our companions have actually eaten food. They did not eat in the Chaos world (and good thing, too). Imoaza, true to a character beat that was established back on the air planet, seeks out sweets to salve her addiction to sugar, and gorges herself on fruits and baked goods made by some of the best bakers from Brindol, now refuging in Vraath Keep. 

Cliff Notes: The Weave is the magical energy that powers magic in Dungeons & Dragons. It’s never been fully explained in canonical text in order to leave its inner workings more mysterious and up to GMs to develop. The idea of seeing the Weave came to me in a moment of improvisation as I tried to find ways to picture the level of magical power that Imoaza has reached after spending time in the Chaos plane.

For Ruz, she seeks out the company of other Changelings, looking to see if she has any family left in this world. She finds a tribe of Changelings, but she does not know any of them. Too many years have passed since last she set foot on Faerun. Ruz also is given a set of magical robes by Karina, which Karina’s used to wear on her own adventures. They have a lot of powers and incorporate her old Mariner’s Armor from back when she was level 3, so many real time years ago. Ruz also donates a huge amount of wealth, her spoils from Esheballa’s realm, to the war effort, which does not go unnoticed, though does not effect the current session. My favorite thing about her downtime, however, is her description of Ruz’s reaction to normal food. Ruz was in the Abyss far longer than the others and did partake of its food out of neccessity. But food on the chaos realm is hardly sustenance. It is soul energy and it is poisoned, like a drug that worms its way inside your heart. It almost drove Ruz to insanity and suicide, but she survived, her hope restored by the companions when she found them wandering Esheballa’s dark beach. Now, the player describes in beautiful detail how Ruz reacts to real food: real vegetables and meat. She asks for a simple meal, that of beef stew, the more generic and normal, the better, for it is “normal” that she has lacked and sought all of these years.

For Milosh, he does not eat. He is no longer a biological creature and hasn’t been since the Surveyor built him so many aeons ago. But something has changed in him: he now is beginning to remember who he was before he was a machine. His manner changes, no longer naive and friendly. He is now dour and quiet. His characteristic “ah!” with finger upraised has been replaced with a cool intellect and assessment of each situation he finds himself in. And he has recently gone through several shocks: first Carrick is dead, then he finds out he is still alive and on Faerun, and now Milosh is no longer certain of his mission. He goes to the keep’s forge, which Dwarven refugees have expanded into a mighty operation in the basement. Here, Milosh requests armor be made to help cover up his disfigurement (gotten at the fiery breath of the dragon on the Githyanki asteroid) and then he falls into a deep slumber. While he slumbers, he is visited by a beardless dwarf: Haggemoth. Haggemoth tells him that he had tried to forge a better future for the world but he failed when Aldric died and Blackrazor escaped into the void to work terror and mischief in unseen ways. Now he says that Milosh is the one who can change the future and forge a better path and that if he needs a new purpose, then this should be it.

What Does the Prophecy Mean?

In a long meeting with Karina, the PCs discuss the prophecy and its meaning. Here is what they come up with...

Three shall be the kings who sit the single throne And Order's rule by Chaos shall be overthrown The Universe will end by their divine hands Chaos will devour every woman, child, and man

This section seems to be fairly obvious. It is a warning and a reference to Primus’ war against Chaos, a history that was given to them in full by the last remaining Surveyor they found on the air planet. The three kings are the catalysts for a great and terrible destruction.

Each shall be seen by a singular sign Each shall be born of a different line.

The devil's blood runs in the first of the three They bear the eye that can seek but cannot see The second will by heaven be blessed But wings of black will mar their pureness The third contains the dragon's flame What was dead will rise to live again

The three are identified. The first has devil’s blood and the eye that can seek but cannot see. Karina acknowledges this must be her, as a Tiefling (Devil’s Blood) and known by the moniker “Seeker of Callax,” and indicates the gem that is fit into her empty eye socket.

The second, Karina suspects is the Assimir Abenthy, a companion she once sought a great treasure with before he “turned his will to darker ways.” She says that Abenthy was whom she feared was leading the undead army before she discovered it was the possessed Jade.

Which brings her to the third... she believes the third is Nazragul himself, the one possessing Jade. He is Dragonborn and was dead, but has risen again.

Three to rule, Three to lead, Three to destroy and make the universe bleed. Removing one will not lead to the fall To end the curse you must destroy them all

This part Karina is contemplative about. She does not know what it means to “destroy them all.” She admits she has contemplated suicide in order to remove her from the possibility of being used to end the world, but as the PCs point out, “removing one will not lead to the fall.” They all wonder if perhaps the three have to be destroyed at one time or if there is a riddle hidden in this line.

Four things must gather to alter fate's course The Sword, The Shield, The Stone, The Source Then upon the throne the three must be Before they can meet their destiny

This is where most of the discussion takes place. What are the four things that must be gathered? Karina says that Carrick has been out in the world searching for the answers to this riddle. The Sword they think is probably Blackrazor, as it is the most powerful blade they have ever encountered.

The Shield... Imoaza wonders aloud if it could refer to a person, like “Jon Snow, the Shield of the North.” But if it does refer to a person, they have no idea who that person is.

The Stone Karina says that Carrick figured out and believes is one of the crystals that the Surveyor used to power his creations, like a certain Jade statue from days gone by. He’s searching for a piece of one of the Crystals now.

The Source is another stumper... none of them have any idea what it might mean. Milosh wonders if it is the source of the prophecy, or maybe the source of the troubles. Ruz wonders if it is a place, like a river’s mouth or a source of heat or power. Imoaza wonders if it is the Rod of Storms... a different kind of source of power.

In the time these things come to pass The future will be decided by the ones from the past

This one seems pretty obvious to the PCs. The ones from the past are themselves. They are the ones destined to determine the future.

In any case, the PCs stay up late into the evening with Karina before retiring to get some much needed sleep. But they are awoken early by a summons... Karina has dreamed of Dragons, and one in particular to whom she long ago traded the Rod of Storms when it was briefly in her possession. She was told that when the time was right, she would be given something in return and in her dream she had been told that time is now. And so she has a mission for the players.

Last time, our heroes were at the end of their ropes, defeated in battle by the corrupt leader of the Celaenos monks, Mordekai of Keltos. Even as Mordekai himself succumbed to the fire of Karina’s retributive rage, the last of the party fell into unconciousness. But behind the scenes, something has been brewing for quite a while, and fate (and Mordekai, unwittingly) choose this moment to bring it to fruition...

It was dark. What was odd was that he was aware of the darkness. It wasn’t like being asleep. It was like being awake, in a room with no lantern. He could feel, too, unlike when he slept; could feel cold stone beneath his fingers. His usual ability to see in the night was of no use here--this was a blackness that he could not pierce.

Abenthy stood, then, because there seemed no better thing to do. The battle still rang in his ears, as did the terrible word Mordekai had spoken. But they were echoes following him here to this nothingness.

He placed a hand out and felt a stone wall, dry, but cold as the floor. He left his hand on it as he walked. A few steps forward and Abenthy began to think of the ones he had left behind. The bard, and...

Thoughts of Karina sent an unusual ache through him. He didn’t recognize the feeling, nor did he like it. It was too heavy, too sad. He had fallen in battle, had failed both her and the bard, yet he couldn’t deny it was Karina he thought of first, and it was that failure that truly struck him.

Light suddenly appeared ahead. Had he turned a corner, or was someone else approaching from the distance. Abenthy continued forward, curious, and suddenly the wall was gone and he was stumbling forward into a larger space. The light ahead flared and for a moment he saw the cavern he was in. It was monstrously large, an ocean of emptiness stretching out for an indeterminate distance. The floor he could not see, but the ceiling was close and from it hung bodies. They were not dead. They writhed and wriggled, but they were stuck, upside down in the stone. All humanoid, they were. Many Goblins there were, and Lizardmen, even some Merpeople, and others he did not recognize, some like giant walking insects, others with multiple arms or heads. One seemed to be a centaur but it was too far off to make out clearly in the brief flare of light.

There were many normal people, too. Too many to count. They made no sound, except for a distant shuffling like a soft wind, caused by their gyrations from their resting places.

“My subjects,” a deep voice said. it came from the distant pinpoint of light. As Abenthy stared, he could see a shape in its flickering.

“Come closer, my son,” the voice said, and before Abenthy could even think to be surprised, he was being drawn forward fast, as if yanked across the canyon, to stand before a massive man sitting on a throne made of stone. Around him blazed torches, illuminating his features. He was not human. He looked more like a bat, his whole body covered in a coarse fur, his face elongated into a snout, his eyes black marbles which looked down on him with impassivity. He had wings, though one was white feathered like Abenthy’s own and the other was webbed and leathery, and black as the darkness.

“It has been more than a hundred years since I left your mother,” the creature said. “I have searched for you for all that time, and now fate brings you to me.”

Time for a little backstory...

Ages ago, during the Age of Baldur, a powerful Aasimir was born into the Forgotten Realms. Gifted with incredible charisma and strength, even for one such as he, he united many warring kingdoms of man into one nation and led them on a great expedition to rid the world of evil. With such a mighty host and with his own battle prowess (picture a level 20 hero) the mighty Aasimir was successful in his conquest for quite some time. But as he swept across the land, he left cities and governments behind him to hold the peace and here is where his plans began to fail. For men could not hold to the high standards he did, nor could they understand justice the way he did. Even as he continued to move forward, the Aasimir now also began to look back upon his own people and he saw corruption and imperfection there.

Perturbed, the Aasimir tried to root out the cause of this evil. During this time, he was approached by a lesser devil lord named I’a’fret, who saw the rage and distrust burning in his heart like a beacon. He spoke careful words to the Aasimir, convincing him that the evil in men’s heart was put there by other devil, and he named his rivals in positions of power in the Nine Hells. Incensed, the Aasimir entered the Nine Hells and did battle with the lords there, striking down the devils in their own halls. I’a’fret was overjoyed. At first. The Aasimir did not end his conquest with I’a’fret’s rivals. Instead he came next to I’a’fret’s cavern and struck him down, too, taking his power and then took his name, and becoming a devil prince himself. For the Aasimir had taken the devil’s words to heart and had decided that evil could only be struck from the world by attacking it from within, like a cancer that would slowly eat alive the host. By becoming a Devil himself, he could gather evil souls to him and deal them out justice for an eternity, while slowly building his power to eventually strike out at the other Devils. His ambitions had grown: he would now only be satisfied when all of the Nine Hells were under his control, ready to be purged.

Now this new I’a’fret shows Abenthy his domain, and asks him to join him, in bringing justice to those who deserve it. He shows him some of the men stuck in his ceiling. This one was a rapist. This one stole from his neighbor, who starved to death as a result. And he shows him men Abenthy recognizes, men he has sent here himself. Some pirates, guilty of murder and theft. And Targaryen: guilty of being corrupted by power (not true, in fact, but Abenthy was not present for his unwilling turn to evil).

“Who am I to judge these men?” Abenthy asks. I’a’fret laughs.

“You are my son! You are no judge: you are justice itself.”

Before he took to the Nine Hells, the Aasimir had loved a human woman, a witch of the Fangorian Forest. He got her with child, but then he left to conquer the Hells, and she became afraid of his purpose. She ran from him and used her magic to hide herself and to keep the child inside of her. For a hundred years, she held onto the child until finally her power and life gave out and in desperation she took her last journey, to a monastery, where Abenthy was born to be raised by monks.

“The Gods would not approve of this,” Abenthy protests. “Venthusias would not approve of this.”

“You do not know the gods as I do,” I’a’fret answers. “You cannot comprehend their most base desires, let alone their grand purpose. They think in ways that defy your understanding. And anyway, what care you for the whims of the gods? Have you not already sentenced men to this justice? Have you not already judged them? If you had defeated Mordekai, would you not have sent him to me?”

“Gods help me, I would have,” Abenthy whispers. And with that, he makes his decision, to join his father and live up to his fate.

Playing Evil

Paladins always walk a thin line between justice and vigilantism. We worked together (Abenthy’s player and I) to see where he was comfortable taking his character, and I set this encounter up as an opportunity for him to roleplay out his inner tormoil and figure out what would become of Abenthy.

What became of him was that he is now a Lawful Evil Hell Knight in the service of I’a’fret. Playing an evil character is one of my favorite topics to debate in Dungeons and Dragons forums. A lot of people simplify evil down to destructive maniacs who kill for fun and are one wicked laugh short of becoming the Joker (I’ve played my fair share for sure). While this can be entertaining in a fantasy environment, it often doesn’t make for a very long lasting game and is tough to do in a party where evil and good characters are mixed. For that, a subtler, more realistic kind of evil is needed.

Evil doesn’t have to mean crazy. Evil doesn’t have to mean killer. Evil doesn’t have to mean screwing others over. And even if it does mean those things, the character doesn’t have to think of it that way. Realistically, outside of demons, most evil characters probably don’t think of themselves as “evil.” They don’t laugh maniacally and twirl a mustache while looking for the next virgin to tie to a tree outside a dragon’s lair. They have wants and desires just like any character and these motivate their actions towards good or evil. Most of these characters think of themselves as the heroes of their own stories.

For Abenthy, he thinks he is doing “good.” He believes that he is bringing justice to a world bereft of it and punishing sinners. That he has joined the service of a Devil Lord to do this occurs to him for sure, but he has logic’ed this out already with himself, and with the Devil Lord in question. If anything, he questions his decisions less now then ever before, and it is this blind adherence to his desire for justice that will cause him to do evil. That, and the fact that he is feeding souls to I’a’fret. But nether of these things will keep him or the other players from having fun and playing a good/evil mixed campaign. Abenthy still has his reasons for wanting to find Haggemoth’s tomb....

For now, the power of I’a’fret brings him back to life in time to murder one of the knights and send the others running, Herzog and the young blonde among them, carrying Athos’ unconscious body between them.

And that is how the whole fight concludes. The fire is eventually put out, and the other players healed. Men at arms enter the building and determine that this is WAY above their pay grade and respectfully ask that everyone, the sisters and the heroes, remain in the monastery until a Justicar can be called from the mainland to sit in judgement of the situation. This works for the players for the moment, as they need to do their research in the library anyway. However, there is a time limit placed on them, for they soon have a visit from Clem, captain of Twyin’s Revenge, who warns them that the knights who escaped have already poisoned the world against them, making their version of events very publicaly known. The Justicar chosen to judge them is planning to end the trial quickly and declare them guilty of murder of the former Abbott and his men. And he is only days away.

The set up: having infiltrated the Monastery of Celaenos on orders from the Abbot himself to uproot the conspirators and slavers amongst the knights, Abenthy, Karina, Tyrion and their followers locate Dickon, supposedly a supporter of the conspiracy. However, talking to Dickon reveals that the true conspirator is Berthold, seneschal to the Abbot. Rushing to the Abbot’s side to defend him leads to another cruel twist of fate—the Abbot knows full well of Berthold’s betrayal, because he himself ordered it. His name is Mordekai of Keltos, and he has begun the slavery ring. With a command, he has Berthold slay Dickon and then Mordekai draws a cruel looking dagger and a large black mace to join the fray, calling for his knights to aid them...

Abenthy reached for his blade instinctively, but it wasn’t at his side. Dickon had forced him to leave it in the watchtower as part of the condition to take them before the Abbot. A well intentioned decision—one that might be the death of them, Abenthy thought as Mordekai moved towards him, his mace swinging for his skull. Abenthy backed up until he bumped against the room’s large table, knocking over a candle (thankfully unlit) onto the gorgeous, colorful rug.

“Verrick! Take the half-elves and get our weapons!” Karina shouted.

“We have names, bright-eye,” the rogueish half-elf said.

“Yeah, but I didn’t learn them,” Karrina admitted, letting some of the distaste she held for the two seep into her voice.

“Fair enough,” the half-elf said, and laughed, but his silent hulk of a brother moved not for the door but for Mordekai, snarling as his back arched and he dropped to all fours. Fur burst from his skin and his jaws elongated into a snout. Muscles expanded to twice, then three times their normal size. The mask he wore over his burned face seemed to sink into the fur and skin, leaving a peculiar pattern over half of the bear’s (for that is what the half-elf had become) face. He roared and leapt for Mordekai. The Abbott fell backwards, putting all of his might into his mace swings, cracking into the bear’s skull with little effect except to keep the beast from tearing into him.

Music suddenly filled the room as Tyrion brushed the strings of his lute, strumming a melody that was familiar in unique ways to each person’s ears, demanding their attention like a memory of something important struggling to force its way to the surface. But to no one in the room was it as loud or demanding as it was to Berthold. A spell fell over him and the Abbot’s right hand man found himself unable to come to the Abbot’s aid, found himself instead rooted to the spot as if paralyzed. Sweat poured from Tyrion’s brow as he concentrated on the holding spell, his fingers stepping in stacatto rhythyms over the strings, not missing a single note of a song that was being pulled out of the weave of magic whose loom shapes the world, a shape which Tyrion’s eyes could not see but whose ears could hear the soudn it made as it spun life into death and back again.

The non-bear half-elf had sped away with Verrick. Karrina didn’t know how long it would be until they could return with their weapons, so she reached into her bag of holding and retrieved the best thing she could find—a beaten up longsword taken from some forgotten fallen foe. She tossed the sword to Abenthy who, momentarily freed from Mordekai’s attentions by the Druid’s transformation, snatched it and strode towards Berthold. The Seneschal was so entrapped by Tyrion’s spell that he couldn’t even voice a protest as Abenthy drove his blade into his armpit, where his plate mail did not protect him. Blood trickled out of Berthold’s mouth as he died. Only after his spirit left him did the spell end, his body crumpling to the ground. Tyrion breathed a sigh, no longer needing to concentrate on the musical spell.

But the respite was short lived. The door pushed open and three knights entered the room. Quickly assessing the situation, they made their decision: drawing their fine, masterworked longswords and moving forward to attack, two heading for Abenthy, and one moving for Tyrion, crouched near Karrina at the back of the room. At the same moment, Mordekai laughed and darkness spread out from around him to engulf Abenthy and the bear, plunging them into blindness. Abenthy could see nothing. He felt the bite of Mordekai’s blade between his armored plates but could not see from which direction it came. He swung his blade, cursing his opponent’s cowardice, cursing the darkness like it was a living thing, but his swings found no purchase.

“Let there be light!” Tyrion shouted, and channeled his light cantrip at a higher level, blasting away the dark in a sudden burst of light. The room was revealed again: Mordekai snarling as he fled towards his bed chambers, his cover gone; the three knights blinking against the sudden light; Karinna, having retrieved a goblin’s short bow from her pack, planting arrows into two of them; Tyrion already running forward to try to fell the other, his belt of giant strength pulsing and vibrating with magical might. The bear, too, moved to attack the knights. And Abenthy gave chase to Mordekai.

“You cannot flee from me, coward!” Abenthy called as he rushed after the dark knight. But his words caught in his throat as he came to the threshold of Mordekai’s room. Standing just past the doorway, in a row, were five of the Celaenos slave sisters, girls who Abenthy now knew were controlled by Mordekai through forbidden magics, his commands channeled through the intricate golden bands locked around their wrists.

“Come, Abenthy,” Mordekai said, arms wide. “I am waiting. You can strike me down here. All you need is to cut through them, first.”

Abenthy felt rage build inside of him. “The lives of innocents are not worth the life of a monster,” he said. “And justice always find a way to punish the unworthy.” With that, the wings burst from his back. He leapt over the heads of the sisters and landed in front of Mordekai, striking with his longsword as he dropped. Mordekai flung up his blade at the last moment, just barely turning the attack. “You have learned nothing!” Mordekai hissed. “In all your years of life, you have not learned to do what is necessary!” But Abenthy did not hear him. His rage and desire to end this person of evil transfered itself into his blade and suddenly a white fire engulfed Mordekai. The Abbot cried out in pain as the ethereal fire bit at him. He pushed Abenthy away, turned, and fled. Abenthy again gave chase, rushing through the Abbot’s bedroom and down a staircase into darkness. Pure black darkness, like a thick cloud of it. Mordekai’s deranged laughter rang out through the darkness but Abenthy could not find him, nor did the attack he braced himself for ever come. He was just lowering his blade when a crash behind him made him jump.

“Goddamn it!” Tyrion shrieked. “Can’t see a fuckin’ thing.” The bard often relied on profanity when words failed him and, ironically, they seemed to fail him quite a bit. He had claimed, during their time in the desert, that the cursing made its own music. He also claimed that he had never cursed quite so much as he had since joining the party. Adventure had not turned out to be the fun jaunt he had expected. 

Another crash made them both jump and Tyrion felt something wet splash against his leg, accompanied by an awful snapping sound.  “Blackened hells,” he said, feeling for Abenthy in the dark, finding his cloak, and gripping it tightly. “What was that?”

Abenthy thought he knew. Mordekai had sent the sisters after them though they could see no better than he or the halfing. And one had just met her end by crashing down the stairs. Which, he wondered? Was it the young serving girl with the pretty hair? Or maybe the young woman whose eyes seemed scared even while she was enthralled by Mordekai’s magic? In his heart, Abenthy promised himself they would be the last casualties this night. No more innocents would die. Only the unjust.

“Mordekai is not here,” Abenthy said to Tyrion in the darkness. “The coward has fled again.”

“Good! Then let’s do the same. We can go upstairs, take a quick peek at the library, and go before things get worse.”

“I won’t give my enemy the satisfaction of such an easy victory.”

“What about giving me the satisfaction of living another day?”

But Abenthy was moving on, the hem of his cloak slipping through Tyrion’s fingers as he went. Tyrion cursed again, and ran to catch up.

While Tyrion and Abenthy hunted for Mordekai (unaware that he had slipped away from them into a hidden sanctuary and was even now healing himself and preparing for a final stand), a middle-aged knight named Herzog was finishing a workout and was heading for the sauna for a relaxing soak before turning in for the evening. He left the training room, wiping his brow with a sweat-stained rag, when ahead of him the door to the Abbot’s chambers burst open and one of his brothers-in-arms—a friendly man named Ethaniel—tore down the corridor towards the library with a fearful cry. Herzog did not hesitate, did not even think. His blades were in his hands and he was chasing after his brother. He had trained these men, all except Berthold and the Abbot himself, and knew each like a parent knows their child. To hear his brother cry out so—it tore at something deep within Herzog, awakening a blind rage that turned the edges of his vision blurry and red. And so he gave chase—but not fast enough. 

The bear got to Ethaniel before Herzog had quite registered its presence. Claws raked the young man’s back. Jaws, powerful as a vice, bit down on his face and the sound of screaming was sharply cut off with the sound of bone splintering. Then Herzog couldn’t hear even this, and he realized it was because he was screaming in anger. His blades cut into the bear, Herzog slashing with one and stabbing with the other, always moving around the bear so that it could not strike him with full force, but was reduced to batting ineffectually at him from odd angles. Then the bear did a curious thing. Rearing up on its back legs, it leaned backwards and placed a kick at Herzog. Herzog easily dodged the clumsy move, but the manuever left him stunned for a moment, nonetheless. Had a bear just tried to kick him? Stunned as he was, he didn’t react immediately when the bear began to run away, heading further down the hall. Realization dawned on him, then. This was no bear.

“Wait! Stop!” A voice was calling to him. He turned to see one of the Celaenos sisters running towards him. Herzog often found himself preoccupied these days, and the sisters were already below his notice most of the time. Little mice, he thought of them as, that ran around the monastery using its various passages and dungeons, to deliver meals and warm the baths. He’d given no thought to learning the sisters’ faces, let alone their names. So he wasn’t so much surprised that he didn’t recognize this one as he was that she had addressed him at all in the first place. He was slow to respond.

“Who... who are you?”

“One of the sisters, m’lord,” the girl said. She was plain looking, except for maybe her height, which was taller than most women. Dark brown hair, plain oval face. Pretty, maybe. “The Abbot... he has turned on you all! I was there, serving him, and saw it all! He has begun killing the knights, but there are people here to help stop him. The bear is one of them. Please listen!”

“The Abbot? The plot goes deeper than I had thought!”

“Yes! You must help the others defeat—”

“—oh I will! This plot against the Abbot will go no further, I assure you. You have been duped, young one, by powerful magic. The same magic, no doubt, that has put a shapeshifter in our midst. This bear has torn the life from one of my men, but the next blood he shall taste will be his own, pouring from his lips as my sword finds his heart.”

Herzog brushed past her, then, running for the bear.

Karrina cursed as the burly knight sped from her. That he had not seen through her disguise was little better than a consolation prize. Piss in a crystal glass is still just piss. The phrase came to her suddenly. It was something Raiden had been fond of saying, one of many little sayings her old commander had attributed to his own wit. Karinna was determined this would be more than piss, though. She would convince the knight of the truth of her words, and prevent further bloodshed. Her life had seen quite enough of that.

Life is funny, though, and full of irony. As she raced to stop the fight, Karinna passed an entrance to the library. The entrance was imposing: a large hallway hung with portraits and tapestries that led directly into the cavernous repository of knowledge. Large iron gates blocked the entrance, but still allowed one to see behind it to the stacks of books beyond. And here Karinna saw the old man Athos splahing a black oily liquid over the shelves, and over himself.

Oh shit.

Karina halted her rush for the bear and Herzog and moved instead to the library gate. “Master Athos!” she called. “What are you doing?”

“Move away, child. If the monastery is to be taken, I at least won’t allow its greatest treasures to fall into the hands of the unrighteous!”

There was no time for further argument. Karinna flexed her fingers in the quick and complicated motions of one of the first spells she had mastered and then sent the spell at Athos with a barely breathed word: Sleep.

The master fought the spell, but he was old, and Karinna’s magic was strong. Falling backwards into the pool of oil, master Athos sighed once, and then was stlll. Karinna used the keys Berthold had given her and opened the library gate, shoving it aside roughly as she rushed to the master’s side. No damage done, it seemed. He had landed halfway against one of the shelves and so had missed cracking his head on the hardwood floor.

A crash took her by surprise: the bear had come into the room and slammed the gate behind him. He was now holding it against Herzog, whose muscles throbbed as he wrestled with the held gate, pitting his strength against that of the bear in an impressive, if maybe ill-advised, contest. Still, Karinna saw that the druid had taken the worst of the fight. His fur was matted with blood, and saliva drained from his mouth with every heaving breath. One of his arms seemed almost useless—blood pooled and dripped from a bad wound underneath the arm.

Two knights were with Herzog. He leaned back and said something to one of them, a blonde youth with just a hint of stubble on his chin, who nodded and ran off, as Herzog continued to match strength with the bear. And, to her amazement, Karinna saw the gate begin to open, ever so slowly.

Karina had to talk to the crazed knight. But what to say? What could possibly convince him to lay down his arms against a beast he had watched slaughter his man?

“What’s the move, chief?” The half-elf crouched near to Abenthy on the stairs. He and Verrick had caught up to the paladin not long before, finding him wandering through the dungeons in search of Mordekai. The search had not succeeded.

“Haldur,” Abenthy had made a point to memorize the half-elf’s name, and that of his silent brother, Dorgon You could not expect a man to follow you if you did not at least pay him the respect of knowing his name. “Do you hear that?”

“These aren’t just for show,” Haldur said, grinning as he ran a finger over one of his long, jewlery-pierced, ears. The voice drifting down from above was plaintive, almost souding like it was begging. A gruff male voice answered it, sharply.

“It’s Karina,” Verrick said, refering to the plaintive voice. “She could be in trouble.”

“Wait!” Abenthy said, but Verrick was already moving up the stairway. Abenthy followed quickly, and Haldur moved silently into line behind him. They emerged into the library, having used its back entrance, probably the servant’s entrance. The bookshelves ahead blocked their vision of the confrontation, but they could hear it as they snuck closer.

“—I believe you think you know what you say, sister,” the gruff voice was saying. “But you have been tricked by a powerful magic. Fear not, we will soon rescue you from its grasp”

Coming around the edge of a bookshelf containing tomes of (among other things) Orcish Poetry, Abenthy saw the scene revealed. A middle-aged, powerfully built knight, was standing at the entrance to the library, holding two bloodied blades, one in each hand. Dorgon, in the shape of the bear still, was lumbering away through the stacks, but the knight hadn’t yet pursued. Standing nearby, speaking in exasperated and desperate tones, was a young Sister of Celaenos. Abenthy recognized the form Karinna had chosen for their mission.

“You must trust me!” she said. “There is no spell! The bear is trying to help, and there are others as well, a paladin, and a halfling bard.”

“And where are they? What are their explanations for this carnage?”

“I am here,” Abenthy said, and stepped forward from behind the bookcase. Summoning all of his charisma, he willed himself to appear regal and strong, though he was acutely aware of the blood staining his white chainmail, where Berthold’s life had splattered across his chest. “What Ka--the girl says is true. We have come to free the slaves the Abbot has made of the sisters.”

The knight did not balk at Abenthy’s words as he might have, and Abenthy wondered suddenly if he had known. “Surely you must have noticed something wrong,” he pressed, hoping that the knight hesitated out of suspicion and not collaboration with the conspiracy. “Surely some doubt has entered your mind.”

His words had had an effect, he realized. The knight looked down. “I do not take much notice of the sisters, not much,” he murmured. “Berthold was in charge of their keeping.”

“Exactly. Berthold was the very man behind the plot. Please, let us shed no more blood. We are allies, you and I. I serve Tyr, the God of Justice. We are like brothers in our cause. Let us work together to right the wrongs done here.”

The knight looked up, and Abenthy did not like the shrewdness he saw on the hardened features. “You serve justice? In that case, I will listen to you, on one condition.” He pointed his blade past Abenthy, into the forest of shelves. “The bear--shapechanger--who slew my knight. That knight was a good man, and the shapechanger will pay for his death with his own life,” he shot a look at Karinna before she could interrupt, “no matter who he is allied with.” He looked back at Abenthy. “Help me bring this creature to justice, and you will prove your good intentions.”

Abenthy heard the slight scrape of metal on leather behind him and could picture Haldur drawing his double edged daggers, waiting to see his response. The choice was obvious: betray the two mercenaries, and gain a chance at peace. They were most likely not just souls. Murderers, more like. But Abenthy had hired them, knowing their faults, and he would not be drawn into such dishonor as to betray men he had made companions.

“I cannot do that,” he said sadly.

“Then I must count you as guilty as the rest,” Herzog said, and came at him.

Abenthy let his wings unfold, the angelic power within him release, as he rushed to meet Herzog in combat. But he never got there. A roar came from the side, and Dorgon, still in bear form, crashed into the knight before he could reach Abenthy. Herzog was pinned to the ground with the bear seeking to get his jaws around his throat.

“Finish him!” It was the shrill voice of Tyrion, who had entered the library while the others were distracted. He was half hidden behind a rounded bookshelf, watching the scene unfold. This was Abenthy’s chance. The Paladin had an easy strike while the knight was pinned, restrained. “Finish him!” He repeated.

But Abenthy did not. “You believe your cause is ust,” he said to the knight. “I cannot fault you for that. So yield, and we shall end this violence.”

I am going to die here, thought Tyrion.

“Never,” snarled Herzog and, getting an arm free of Dorgon, he drove a shortsword up through the druid’s skull and into his brain, killing him instantly. Haldur screamed in fury as he heard his brother’s death cry and saw the body of the bear shrink back into the form of the half-elf, the elf’s wooden mask splintered now, falling away from the face and hitting the floor with a hollow thunking sound. Herzog pushed the body off of him and turned to face Haldur’s charge, leaving him open to Abenthy’s blade, but still the Paladin did not strike. Behind Herzog, one of the knights that had followed him stepped forward as well, blade leveled cautiously at Abenthy. His eyes were wide as he looked at the Aasimir’s wings. He mumbled something that sounded like a name or maybe a curse under his breath and then strode forward. Abenthy blocked his strike, a two-handed swing for his face, but did not return it.

This is not how the stories go, Tyrion thought. In the stories, the heroes defended themselves. They shouted things about justice, sure, but it always ended with a fight and no one questioned afterwards whether the right thing had been done, the right man killed. That was because the heroes didn’t die. Tyrion felt a flash of anger. He had trusted this Paladin! Trusted him to protect him, to be self-preserving enough to defend himself—and by extension, to protect Tyrion. Now for the first time since joining the party, Tyrion found himself disgusted with the adventure. There was no song to write about this. It didn’t fit the template. He pressed himself against the wall and tried to play his lute, trying to conjure up a magic to inspire Abenthy to fight for his life, but his own heart was hollow and heavy. And for what was only the second time in his short life, the music would not come.

It had all gone to hell.

Karinna watched the mayhem unfold in front of her. Abenthy was blocking blow after blow from a knight, but would not return his attack. Maybe it was for the best: the less blood they had on their hands here, the better. She still held out a dim hope that Herzog would listen to them yet, but the hope was quickly fading. Herzog was engaged in deadly combat with Haldur, his two shortswords against the half-elf’s long daggers. Haldur was faster, and blood sprayed multiple times across ancient texts as Haldur’s knives sliced through Herzog’s thin armor. But Herzog was stronger, and eventually he let himself get cut in order to drive one of his shortswords down through Haldur’s left foot. Herzog lost an ear for his trouble, but the half-elf lost his footing and with it his advantage. Herzog’s next blow took his head clean off.

Tyrion, Karina saw, was in a corner of the room, cradling his lute and shaking—whether from fear, rage, or injury, she did not know. She was about to go to him when a hand grabbed her shoulder.

“You are safe now, my sister,” an earnest voice said. It was the knight Herzog had whispered to earlier. He must have snuck in another entrance to set up a flank attack. He thought she was a sister—but the thought did not last long. Karinna’s disguise was not quite the same size as her actual body, so as to avoid attention she had made her slightly shorter and less muscular, and when the knight put his hand on the disguise’s shoulder, he actually was groping somewhere around Karinna’s left breast. As he saw his hand stop mid-air, yet felt soft skin beneath it, realization came into his eyes and he stumbled backwards, drawing his blade.

“Sorceress!” he said.

“I do not want to hurt you,” Karinna said, holding up her weaponless hands. “I am trying to help.”

The knight must not have been one of the conspirators, because he actually hesitated, as if he wanted to believe her. But a cold voice cut sharply across the room: “Do not be taken in by her lies, captain. She will beguile you and then murder you like she did the others.”

Mordekai strode into the library, no longer wearing his bedclothes. He was clad now in black full plate mail from head to toe. It shone darkly in the lamp light of the library. He still weilded his mace and his dagger, and he looked—for the first time since they had started fighting—angry. The knight attacking Abenthy backed away from the angel to stand near his Abbot.

“It is the I’afret tamoor,” he said in a low voice, nodding towards Abenthy. Mordekai shook his head.

“It is just a wasted opportunity,” he said, and his voice was ladden with disappointment. “You had a chance, Abenthy. You were destined for greater than this. Your father would be weeping with shame. Go after the others,” he added to the knight. “Herzog. To me.” With that, he said no more but let his blades do the talking. The knight moved away, heading directly for Tyrion, who had been watching the affair with a look of horror on his face. Herzog came up next to him. From both sides they struck at Abenthy, coordinating their strikes like pack hunters. Karinna wanted to go to him, to help him, to do anything other than watch, but the youg blonde knight threatening her would not let her pass. He struck hesitantly, and did not strike her, but he moved quickly to block her path away from him.

Things happened quickly, then. Karinna spun out of the way of the young knight’s next blow and, with the momentum of her movement, slammed the hilt of her dagger into the side of his head. He stumbled and fell, dazed. At the same time, Abenthy—finally fighting back—cut a slice into Herzog’s leg, dropping the knight. But the move cost him. Mordekai used the mere second of distraction to smash his mace into Abenthy’s helm. Then, as the paladin stumbled backwards, he deftly drew his dagger in a precise slice across his neck. Abenthy’s life spilled out from his neck and his head lolled forward, into Mordekai’s outstretched hand.

“I’a’fret.” Mordekai said the word coldly, with the same intonation that Abenthy had said it with when sending Targaryen’s tortured soul to his new god. Abenthy’s eyes rolled back in his head, he twitched once, and then went still and limp.

“May you be judged an eternity for your failures, and punished for your crimes,” Mordekai said. He turned to the sister. “You joined against us,” he said. “Traitor.”

He came at her then, his massive frame and black armor looming over her like an eclipse. The armor slowed him down, but not nearly as much as she had hoped for. His mace she dodged, but damn him if he wasn’t quick with that dagger! The blade, honed to a razor’s sharpness, moved quickly for her heart and would’ve found it if not for her own speed. She took the blade in her shoulder instead. It did not kill her: but the pain was incredible. She gasped and sucked in air painfully. It was the last breath she got. Mordekai let go of his dagger and grabbed her throat with one gauntletted hand, squeezing the life out of her. Karina struggled vainly to get free, and her struggle amused Mordekai. He laughed as he slammed her head back into the backshelf behind her with a force that clacked her teeth together and blurred her vision. Behind Mordekai, she could see Tyrion running for her with his sword drawn, the giant’s strength belt at his waist vibrating as it lent strength to his arm. But before he could reach her, one of the knights stepped behind him and cut him down.

She was alone.

The thought brought her back years, to when she had been abandoned in the War of Seven Sorrows. Left as a prisoner of war for a war that was ending. The betrayal still burned inside of her and now it began to burn outside of her, as well. Mordekai felt the heat but it was too late. Karina was a Tiefling and had he realized this, he would have not been so eager to harm her—or if he still decided to harm her, would have done so more quickly. The game he played now was a torturer’s game, and that was a dangerous thing to do with a demon.

He realized his mistake in the end. As Karina’s retirbutive power caused his blood to boil and his armor to heat to the temperature of a blacksmith’s furnace, her disguise dropped for a moment and the man who had killed an angel saw that he now held a demon.

Then there was flames and screams and Mordekai of Keltos let go of her, spending his last few seconds of life desperately trying to remove the armor which cooked him alive.

Before Karina could catch her breath, there was a bright spark. The flames of retribution had reached the oil Athos had spread over the library and with a flash they caught. Flame and smoke filled the library. A flash of heat washed over Karina like a crushing hand and the world went black.

***