The First Wave

“Retreat, lads!”

The heroes withdraw from the Air Temple balcony. At the base of the stairs, they setup a defensive position, with Kale and Aldoroc ready to attack pursuers and the others ready to cast spells. That is, the others except for Verilia. In the hallway, Aramil finds the halfling druid enucleating Fachish’s eyeballs with a sharpened stone.

The dragon disciple is too busy preparing for the impending battle, however, and decides not to interfere directly with the druid. “Uh, Verilia? We got company coming. Bad company. You plan to help us?”

Suck on the eyeballs! Eviscerate his brain!

“Sure, Aramil. One second.” She finishes removing the eyes of the former High Priest, placing them in her belt pouch. She stands up and raises her still-poisoned scimitar, grinning evilly. “Let’s do some killin’.”

The walls vibrate and the buzzing grows louder, but drops off dramatically as a few of the spider eaters land on the balcony. Moments later, an opening door and footsteps herald the approach of the first riders and their mounts. Aldoroc readies his battleaxe and Kale readies his flaming shortsword. Around the corner at the top of the stairs, one of the mounted riders spots the defenders and rushes down to the attack.

Apparently he was not fully briefed on the power of Aldoroc’s battleaxe, because his mount dies on the first two swings and he gets cleaved in twain from the backswing. Aldoroc moves in and up the stairs, not really desiring to be on the defensive. Another rider falls, but the spider eaters pile in and crowd the stairwell. Kale stands at the bottom of the stairs and does his best to help. Sylvan steps in the doorway behind the ranger and casts confusion, affecting all of the visible spider eaters and tower guards.

Verilia, instead of joining the battle, she opens up the nearby door into Fachish’s lavish bedchamber. She closes the door behind her, somewhat in Aramil’s face. The beautiful suite has a wooden poster bed covered in blue satin blankets and pillows, two wooden wardrobes, a chest of drawers, a circular Kalilean rug intricately woven in silver and sky blue, a desk and chair, a round table with two padded chairs, and a pair of wooden shelf sets. An open brazier on the table lights the room, dimly illuminating some books on the table and eight portraits in elegant frames. Verilia immediately recognizes Prince Thrommel as one of the portraits and decides to appropriate it. She takes a few minutes and cuts the painting out of the frame, stuffing it into her backpack.

One mount turns and attacks another. Two of the guards flee to the balcony while the second spider eater returns the attack on the first, killing it. Aldoroc then withdraws back into the hallway and they shut the door again, hoping to draw more spider eater riders into the deadly trap. No more come, however, and after a few minutes of waiting, the buzzing sound diminishes until it is gone. The adventurers open up the door and carefully head out onto the balcony. No spider eaters are nearby and only one flies about the nearest tower.

Kale dashes to the railing and points out into the water. “I’d guess that the air elemental tossed Soulmover about there.”

Sylvan casts fly and then detect magic. “Okay, wait here. I’ll look for your longbow.” The wizard flies around in concentric circles, every growing, looking for the sunken weapon. Aldoroc joins the ranger on the balcony while Shangor, Aramil, and Verilia loot the new bodies.

One spider eater with two riders flies from around a far tower to the left. They rider on the back casts a spell and points to the middle of the balcony. A fireball erupts around the heroes, injuring Kale and Aldoroc. Kale pulls a spare composite longbow out of his quiver and shoots at long range, but misses. Aldoroc shakes his battleaxe in anger, impotent without a ranged weapon. Sylvan futilely continues searching the Stalagos for the magic longbow.

Another fireball erupts around Sylvan, who shrugs off a majority of the blast, but maintains concentration with the detect magic spell. Hearing the blast, Aramil runs outside and returns the fireball, killing the guard and hurting the sorcerer and spider eater, who quickly retreat to the nearest tower. Aramil growls deep within his golden throat, “Damn.”

The Demonstone

Sylvan returns to the balcony. “Nothing, Kale.”

“Double damn.” His fist tightens around the spare bow. “At least I always carry a few spares in my efficient quiver.”

The heroes eventually decide to just leave the Air Temple and head back to the dwarven bolt hole to rest, and deal with Verilia. The trip is short and Verilia doesn’t catch the few furtive glances in her direction. She keeps her weapon in hand, however, though, because it still drips with the deathblade poison and she doesn’t want to waste it by wiping it off. Her belt pouch also drips, but from a different, more gruesome substance.

In the secret room, Sylvan finally turns to the druid. “Verilia, hand me the luckstone.”

Eat his liver raw!

“Um, no?” She responds derisively. She grips her scimitar tighter when she realizes that Aldoroc and Kale stand to either side of her and the others look ready for a scuffle.

Before anyone else can act, Sylvan casts dispel magic and Shangor casts remove curse, but they have no effect. Verilia yells and stabs ferociously at the wizard, cutting him a glancing blow on his shoulder. The wound is superficial, but the poison quickly courses through the weak elf. Sylvan manages to shrug off the initial effects and backs away, his face turning ashen.

Aldoroc attempts to grab Verilia and she swings her weapon around. The poisoned blade glances off his armor and he easily grabs a hold of the little halfling and pins her against the wall. Kale steps in to help and without a better course of action, they quickly pummel her into unconsciousness. She screams and yells the whole time, cursing at them in abyssal, a language she does not normally know.

Sylvan clutches the wound at his shoulder, feeling the poison run through his body, quickly reaching his heart. With a look of fear in his eyes, he begs, “Help me, Shangor!”

Shangor touches the elf, granting him the powerful protective ward of Moradin. “Lad, that is all I kin do. I dinna prepare neutralize poison today and the blasted Outer Fane took me last scroll.”

As Kale binds the druid with some rope, the others watch Sylvan struggle against the powerful venom. Sweat beads upon his brow, but it soon subsides as he manages to resist its effects. He silently nods thanks to Shangor for the protective ward, without which he may not have survived. He then sits down on one of the palettes, and drops off to sleep. The others do likewise, with two people maintaining a watch throughout the night, despite the relative safety of the secret area. The night passes without incident, except for Shangor, who has a lucid dream.

The smell of dust and freshly mined rock fills the cleric’s nostrils. The faint sound of hammering reaches his ears, reverberating throughout the extensive underground caverns. There are no torches or lamps, but the dwarf’s darkvision mitigates the need for such surface comforts.

Shangor presses his calloused hand against the wall, feeling the vein of diamonds underneath. The incessant pounding of the hammer on anvil draws his attention though and forces him onward. After what feels like days later, or minutes, he finally arrives at a forge. The flames cause his face to redden and he takes off his helmet due to the stifling heat.

A grizzled, bare-chested dwarf wields a great hammer, pounding a piece of iron on a gigantic, adamantine anvil. With each swing, the dwarf’s muscles bulge, showing a truly marvelous physique, unmatched by mortal beings. The smith doesn’t turn or even stop his work, but speaks in a melodious, deep, and resonating voice.

When the four are lost,

The One will be found.

When the moon is lost,

The traitor will be found.

Shangor realizes he is now intruding about the man’s work, so he wordlessly turns and heads back down the passage.

In the morning, Shangor informs his companions about the dream. They briefly discuss the dream, but instead they concentrate on ridding Verilia from the evil demonstone. Sylvan casts analyze dweomer to identify some items, including the evil artifact. The demonstone, however, is unaffected by the spell.

“Oh, bugger.”

Aramil looks concerned. “Uh, Sylvan, what’s the matter? What else does the luckstone do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing, lad?” Shangor asks, finished with his morning prayers. “So what’re ye worried about?”

Sylvan sighs. “When I said ‘nothing’ I meant ‘nothing’. I get nothing from the analyze dweomer. Either the luckstone is intelligent and resisted the spell, which is highly unlikely because I didn’t get that sense, or,” Sylvan pauses, takes a breath, “Or, it’s an artifact of some power.”

Aldoroc stands up. “Put it on the floor then and let me destroy it.”

Sylvan quickly grabs the luckstone. “Hold on there, Aldoroc. We have no idea what will happen. Let me take it to the Silver Consortium in Khorasan and get some advice on it first.”

Moments later, the elven wizard teleports to his apartments in the castle at Khorasan. Upon his arrival, the majordomo announces that he successfully sold Lord Skassik’s unusual suit of mithril plate armor to Lord Hajid, leader of a small town named Tahmista to the west. The armor is very expensive, however, so instead of money, Lord Hajid traded a scroll of wish, a ring of mind shielding, and a large emerald. With the current hostilities in the world, armor and weapons are trading for nearly full value, even if it has to be reworked to fit a humanoid.

Sylvan takes the items as he heads to the Silver Consortium. There he finds out that head of the Consortium, the great sorcerer Juelihm recognizes the artifact as a demonstone.

The High Magician comments over a sparkling glass of white wine. “The foul thing is actually the petrified heart of a 5,000 year old demon, lovingly shaped and caressed into the image of the same demon by all the possessors of the artifact over the millennia.”

Sylvan frowns, “So, it has obviously affected Verilia. What can I do about it?”

“The demonstone should be destroyed in the Artifact Destruction Room, located belowground.” Juelihm puts his glass down. “I’m not sure if there will be a side effect to its destruction, but I don’t think you have an alternative. If you keep the accursed item, I believe it will manage to affect everyone who possesses it.”

Sylvan stands up, ready to do battle with the artifact. “Very well, then.”

“One moment. Let me make this quick, Sylvan. I’d like to offer you a job here at the Silver Consortium. Basically, I need someone of your ability to help run this place.”

Sylvan considers the offer, but quickly declines. “Perhaps when we are finished with the Temple of All Consumption. My business there is more personal, and important.”

The elf thanks the great sorcerer for his hospitality and help with the demonstone, and then heads to the basement. He prepays the 500 gold piece rental fee of the Artifact Destruction Room and enters through the large double adamantine-laced doors. The huge round chamber, about fifty feet in diameter, has scorch marks on the walls, and unspeakable stains on the floor, particularly near the center. A few pedestals line the walls, and a rack of weapons stands across from the doors, which automatically close behind the wizard.

Sylvan places the demonstone on the adamantine anvil in the center of the room and hefts an adamantine hammer. “Well, here goes.” He closes his eyes as he swings the heavy weapon into the statue. He expects the worst, but instead the item merely cracks, and then crumbles into dust. A strange wind blows, taking the dust with it and within moments, the statue is but a memory. “What the….?”

Sylvan shrugs and puts down the hammer, and then he exits the chamber via the doors. He teleports back to Rastor and informs his companions about the destruction of the stone. They are already aware of its destruction, however, due to the change in Verilia, who is crying in the corner, in remorse from her actions over the last couple of days.

Sylvan and Verilia then teleport to Khorasan. The Grand Druid at the grove of Obad-Hai performs a ceremony to atone Verilia. In the morning, rested up and prepared for the Temple, they teleport back to Rastor, again.

The Dark Communion of Hedrack

Hedrack steps inside his quarters and waits for the door to slowly close behind him, grinding upwards silently. He smiles pleasantly at the young man chained to his private altar and at the two beautiful women, one blonde and one brunette, standing on their tiptoes in the Boxes of Pain.

“Hi, honeys! I’m home!” The High Priest chuckles to himself at the joke and removes the purple robe of Tharizdun, draping it over Shangor’s dwarven plate mail. He drops to the floor for a few quick pushups, despite the constricting magical full plate mail. Getting up, he looks at the chained prisoner. “Ah, nothing like a good bit of exercise to rejuvenate the spirit, eh, Tommy?”

Tommy knows better than to reply. So do the women.

Hedrack picks up a glass goblet, fills it with red wine, and drinks deeply. On a whim, he throws the glass at one of the women, the brunette. She vainly tries to dodge, but the box keeps her from moving quickly. The glass hits her shoulder and shatters, throwing glass over her nude body and that of her companion. She inadvertently steps down in the box and screams in pain as the mildly poisoned needles in the Box of Pain stab into her delicate heel. The blonde merely closes her eyes and does her best to ignore the shards of glass and maintain her precarious balance. Tears stream down both their faces.

Hedrack pays them no more mind, ignoring their silent pleas for release from their torment. He turns to Tommy, “Well, my friend, are you ready?”

Tommy looks up, a piece of glass stuck in his cheek, “My Lord Hed…”

His reply is cut short by the gauntleted fist of the High Priest smashing him in the face. “I don’t remember giving you permission to speak, mongrel pusball.” He then prepares the altar for the ceremony of the Dark Communion. It is tedious, but an hour later he is ready to beseech the Dark Lord for aid. With one hand, he flips Tommy onto his back and holds him down onto the altar. With his other hand, he draws a curved dagger from a sheath at his waste and plunges it into the startled slave’s chest.

“Wha…?” Tommy’s blood quickly pours out of his chest and onto the altar. Hedrack takes out the dagger and licks some of the blood off the blade. The altar seemingly soaks up the blood as the ceremony continues. The High Priest kneels on the floor and supplicates to Tharizdun, initiating the questions for the commune.

“Has excavation of the nodes begun?” Yes, finally.

“Will I ever become a Doomdreamer?” Not in this lifetime. Hedrack shifts nervously at the unexpected reply.

“Will I ever become part of the Triad?” No.

“Will the intruders attack the Outer Fane?” Of course, you imbecile. The high Priest grits his teeth, knowing that Tharizdun does not brook idiocy and wishing he could take the question back.

“Will the Doomdreamers help the Outer Fane in the event of an attack?” What an utterly stupid question.

“Is there a traitor in the Outer Fane?” Always.

“Is there an ally of the intruders in the Outer Fane?” Yes. Hedrack frowns. This is clearly not good news, though not entirely unexpected. Something happened to the rest of Sylvan’s and Shangor’s equipment. It couldn’t have just disappeared.

“Is the ally of the intruders Naquent?” No. That’s the expected answer. She didn’t reveal anything in bed last night.

“Is the ally of the intruders Thrommel?” Not really. Thrommel’s always been a wildcard.

“Is the ally of the intruders Varachan?” Yes. At this point Hedrack flies into a rage and loses concentration on the commune.

He shoves Tommy’s still dying body off the altar and smashes a nearby, priceless chair with his fist. “My second in command! How could you!” He then glares at the women, daring one of them to make a sound. The blonde is a veteran of Hedrack’s moods, however, and maintains her composure, such as it is. The brunette, still suffering from the Box of Pain, squeaks quietly, but loudly enough to provoke the powerful cleric. He casts destruction and the beautiful woman disappears in a puff of violet smoke.

Momentarily sated from his destructive rage, Hedrack picks up the hook of dissolution from its peg on the wall. With murder in his eye he leaves his room and turns right, past the Greater Temple and into Thrommel’s room. He waits till the vampire appears, standing just outside the area of silence. “Thrommel. I have some good news and some bad news.”

The former crown prince materializes from gaseous form, his great sword in hand. “Hedrack.” Thrommel is one of the few beings who dares address the High Priest without prefacing his name with Lord. “What’s the bad news?”

“We have a traitor, an ally to the intruders, in the Outer Fane.”

“Well, that’s not entirely unexpected now, is it?” Thrommel licks his fangs, studying Hedrack’s throat with a look of pure hatred.

Hedrack ignores the hungry look in the blackguard’s eyes, subconsciously fingering the obex at his neck. “No, it is not. But, it is not who I expected either.”

Thrommel peers at his greatsword, Dirge. It is a good weapon, but a poor substitute for the power of Fragarach. He sheathes the weapon and crosses his powerful arms, circling the cleric warily. “What’s the g…go…other news?” The vampire just can’t bring himself to utter certain words.

“It’s your old friend, the one who made you into a vampire.” Hedrack pauses for dramatic effect. “Varachan.”