NOW
We sat in a small storeroom, crates propped against the door — and Valen sitting atop them — just in case. He wore a simple cotton tunic, his breastplate resting atop his knees as he tried to remove an especially large dent caused by a Bigby's Crushing Fist.
Soldaris had been prepared for us this time; hitting us with a time-stop, followed by a barrage of spells against first Nathyrra and then Valen.
Realising what had happened, the deva Levoera had answered with a cone of searing light that had sent the vampire hissing for cover. I'd finished him off with an arrow to his stomach and throat in quick succession.
A swift stake to the chest had ensured we wouldn't have to face him a third time.
The looming entrance to the lower chambers had beckoned us, but — against Nathyrra's insistence she was fine — we'd retreated.
"Do I look ready to face a dragon?" I'd pressed her with a hand on my hip. "At the very least, let me change into my brown pants."
It hadn't been me I'd been worried about, anyway.
I glanced again at the tiefling, noting as he grimaced with the movement of pressing another dent out of the armour's panel.
If that's the state of his armour…
I gave sympathetic grimace of my own.
His poor ribs.
I was currently preparing more bandages for the deva, covering them with the spongy green mass I'd freshly prepared.
After the fight, I'd seen the blood pooling off the end of Levoera's unused mace, grasped tightly in her red-stained fingers.
I was embarrassed to say it had taken me a moment to piece together what I was seeing.
The exertion of the fight had opened up the wounds on her arms, pooling within the confines of her new leather armour, before dripping down her fingers.
Now, she was stripped to the waist — only her cotton binding keeping her modest — as Nathyrra and I did our best with what we had left.
"You remind me of someone I used to know," Nathyrra mused as she wrapped Levoera's arm.
Valen lifted his head at the drow's words, poised to reply.
Nathyrra considered me from the other side of the deva, a small curve to her lips.
Noting the drow's attention on me, Valen closed his mouth. I didn't miss the surprised frown on his brow, before he ducked his head again, returning to the dent on his breastplate.
He wasn't the only one that was surprised.
"Me?" I asked without thinking. "Who?" I corrected myself.
She raised a curved brow, immediately hissing at the pain the movement caused her swollen face. Bigby's Palm had certainly bitch slapped the shit out of her. I tried not to stare directly at her swollen eye and the capillaries that had burst in it.
Regaining her posture, she returning to binding the deva's arm. The young woman looked between us with a curious tilt to her head.
"You remind me of Seelamin," she continued some time later. "A servant I knew before I joined the Red Sisters," Nathyrra paused pointedly, waiting for my reaction.
When I didn't say anything immediately, she raised her brow again — despite the obvious pain it caused her —daring me to comment.
I realised suddenly that she'd never actually spoken openly about her history as a Red Sister.
…And I hadn't even feinted surprise.
Too late for that.
A shrug, and then; "I suspected you were a Red Sister," I simply admitted.
A pregnant pause and then Valen chuckled. I kept my eyes on Nathyrra, but she didn't give anything away.
The moment passed and she simply continued her story, as if we hadn't just acknowledged that she was once the assassin of our enemy.
Determined not to give anything away myself, I reached for a timber canister, pulling away the lid.
"Dare I ask why?" I pressed with a raised brow.
"Seelamin was a surfacer. House Kant'tar — my house — purchased her at a slave auction."
I rubbed a hand across my face to apply some of the ointment, hissing as my cuts stung afresh.
"Not all of us surfacer's are the same, you know," I chuckled once the sting had subsided.
Her lips curved slightly in reply. "Seelamin was unlike any of the other servants. She was facetious, even as a slave."
Facetious? I was the only one that seemed to be taking things seriously around here.
I gave an irritated huff.
I heard Valen breathe out through nose in an attempt to hide his chuckle.
"Facetious?" I repeated.
"It drew the other slaves to her," Nathyrra explained with a gentle, apologetic smile. "Seelamin would have made a great leader, given the chance. She was wise; considering rather than cunning. It was a rare thing; particularly for one in her position. She hid it all behind a show of flippant remarks … as you do. "
Was this… was this an apology?
I smiled back, before asking quietly; "What happened to her?"
"She died," Nathyrra replied without preamble. She returned her attention to the bandages. "A snide comment made to a priestess, when we were attacked. The remark saw her punished and killed." She paused, considering a long unbidden memory with a sigh. "It was not a good death."
The devas wings fluttered indignantly, but she said nothing.
I nodded slowly.
Nathyrra continued, her voice subdued. "I'd written it off as stupidity. A waste of a good slave. All because of a joke." She pulled her teeth back in disgust, wrapping the deva's arm with more force than necessary. "I realised, much later, that she'd been taunting the priestess; giving a handful of others enough time to escape."
I realised we were all still, the drow's story probably news even to the tiefling; who had known her for months before my arrival.
"How did you find out?"
"The slaves Seelamin had saved, had found sanctuary in Lith My'athar," she smiled at the memory
I considered her words carefully, turning them over.
Should I thank her? Correct her? I definitely didn't deserve the comparison.
I was doing what I had to. To remove the geas. To get home.
But if she saw my actions as something worthy of positive comment, who was I to correct her?
So we finished binding Levoera in comfortable silence, before I admired our work with a wry smile — since she resembled a mummy more than a deva.
Then I helped Valen with his own injuries.
He'd been adamant that the breather had done him good; the armour having taken the brunt of the damage. I wasn't so easily fooled. I saw his pain in the set of his jaw and the red tinge to his usually clear blue eyes.
I'd insisted we needed him at one hundred percent to face a dragon, not ready to fall on his own sword — or rather, flail — in martyrdom.
What concerned me the most was that he didn't take any more convincing than that, before he begrudgingly drank one of the last potions we owned; the one I had very obviously not offered to the recovering deva.
So, with yet another watered down potion gone — only two strong ones left, which we'd entrusted to Valen and Levoera for the upcoming fight — we packed up our belongings in silence.
As we packed, we went over the plan one final time to ensure the deva was across it.
Valen and Levoera distract the dragolich. Nathyrra and I destroy the phylactery. Kill the dragon. Try not to get killed.
Simple.
We retraced our steps, descending into the bowels of the temple with our weapons drawn, listening intently for anything telling.
We were walking slowly, side-by-side down a flight of stairs, when the hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stood on end. My heart skipped a beat, and my weapon felt too heavy in my clammy hands.
The darkness ahead was suddenly too overwhelming, the battle ahead impossible.
The fear froze me to the spot.
Levoera, noting my distress, was quick to cast something with a hushed prayer.
Immediately, I felt the crippling fear subside; enough that I could still breath, still walk.
I'd been so wrapped up in my own paralyzing terror that I hadn't noticed as the other's steps had faltered alongside my own until we were all moving again.
We were getting closer.
When the stairs leveled out, opening into a dark chamber, I halted us for our final preparations. The deva prayed in a revenant whisper, as Nathyrra — with trained silence — cast invisibility upon herself and me.
As the deva prayed, I focused on the area beside me, watching the lines of air that seemed to ripple, before the outline of the drow became more apparent. She was observing me with equal intensity when her face came into focus.
Once I could faintly see Nathyrra, I passed her a potion of speed and drank one myself, washing down the sweet red liquid with an earthy-tasting Cat's Grace.
I placed the bow on my back before stretching my legs, preparing for our dash across the cavern.
As ready as we were ever going to be, Valen and Levoera went first — the tiefling's skin a ripple of magical light that drew attention to the harsh pale planes of his face, and the deva's wings giving off a heavenly gold glow — as different as two people could look.
They lit the cavern around them as they strode in with their weapons drawn, armoured feet crunching on bones.
Be safe, I willed them silently.
I looked at Nathyrra.
Her eyes were narrowed as she searched the darkness ahead for our destination.
We felt the dragon before we saw it; a deep rumble that shook the cavern and sent rocks falling from the high ceiling above.
Then, there was a piercing scream of absolute rage.
Nathyrra paused, before finally jutting her chin ahead with a resolute nod.
It fell from the ceiling with a crash that sent small bones and dust flying, obscuring Valen and the Levoera's insignificant forms from our view.
They were on their own.
A blast of divine magic broke the darkness of the cavern. It was for a split second, but that was all we needed.
"Into the flames we leap!" There was no hint of fear in Valen's cry.
We ran from our cover without a sound, away from the battle and the horrible shrieking of the dragon.
I could hear my heartbeat, each step on the littered floor, every puff of air.
I followed Nathyrra to a flat expanse of stone wall; pausing here, despite knowing the passage was to our left.
The room shook again, and I grimaced as Vix'thra's foot crashed against the ground, throwing up another storm of powdered bone.
I waited as Nathyrra ran a hand along the seemingly smooth surface, nails catching on a crack in the stone on her second pass.
A gust of air shifted my hair as the dragon swung its monstrous tail.
A nod and we were in; the secret stone door pulling open on invisible hinges and granting us passage into a dark antechamber.
I pulled my cloak away from my chest, allowing the light from my enchanted quiver to fill the room.
The door slammed shut with an unavoidable thud behind us.
I felt — as much as heard — the dragolich's roar of outrage.
I redrew my bow, feeling for the right arrow on my back and notching it in place.
The room was small and dank, but thankfully bereft of bones. A collection of timber lay rotting in the corner.
I didn't have time to consider the purpose of the room further, as Nathyrra was already pushing open another hidden door on the other side of the room.
Then we were out.
The phylactery glowed red, lighting the narrow passage.
Bones and gold coins littered the floor, cracking beneath my feet.
Another angry roar from far off.
There was no time to celebrate as three golems came lurching to their feet, crashing through piles of armour and weapons towards us.
"Shit," I hissed.
"Invisibility is only good as long as you're not opening things and shining light in people's eyes," Enserric offered helpfully from my back.
I stood my ground, planting my feet and taking aim at the closest of the three as Nathyrra rushed out a spell.
My shoulder's burnt from the strain.
I let go.
The arrow lodged between the pelvis and femur, catching in some dried ligament. On impact, fire combusted in a bright red show of lights, engulfing the golem.
It didn't slow.
There were still three golems, but now, one of them was on fire.
I rolled away just as the flaming one's fists slammed into the ground with a resounding crash.
I drew another arrow, taking aim.
Nathyrra released a spell at the flaming bones, and a barrage of missiles — magnificent and blue — lit up the passage, blinding me momentarily.
Eyes closed against the searing light and breathing deeply, I took my best guess and let go.
This arrow flew wide, a red-tipped streak that fizzled out on the cold stone floor.
It didn't matter.
Nathhyrra's spell seemed to have done enough damage to kill the dark magic that was holding the bones together.
It collapsed in a heap, part of the litter.
The remaining two lumbered over their fallen brethren, uncaring of the fire that lapped at their feet. The skin on the leg of one caught, and the smell of burning flesh permeated my nostrils, adding to the already rank smell of decay.
They blocked the passage and waited, guarding their treasure, backlit by the phylactery's red glow.
I backed away — one step, two — drawing another arrow.
I stopped short once I was far enough out of their reach, conscious of potential traps.
They were like the stuff out of nightmares — hollow eyes, massive gaping mouths and a blue glow that came from somewhere within their rib cage.
I notched the arrow and took aim.
They were at least 10 feet tall, with hands that nearly scraped the ground and grey ligaments stretched tight between bones. They were a mismatch collection of different creatures, both great and small, with flat-topped heads that looked more reptilian than human.
A deep rumble carried from the fight with the dragon, and the passage lit up with a blinding white light. The golems paused, shrinking back and raising lumbering arms to shield their hollow eye sockets in an action reminiscent of a past life.
Nathyrra pressed her advantage, throwing a flask at the one closest to her, as I release another arrow.
A shatter of glass and the green liquid was running down its chest, filling the cavity and dripping to the earth below. The bones sizzled on contact with the acid, but all it did was attract it's attention back to us.
A crack of thunder shook the ground. My arrow shot through the air in a blue streak, hitting the other between the ribs and exploding in a flash of sparks.
The golem stood ramrod straight as the electricity coursed through it.
Another flash of light and the lightning jumped from it onto the next.
Nathyrra had cast another invisibility spell, and I was left alone with my bow.
I drew another fire arrow and released it, saving my sparse lightning ones for the inevitable fight with Vix'thra.
I needn't have.
The blue glow from both golems spluttered out and faded before they too crumpled in a heap.
Nathyrra revealed herself at their side, a club in hand and panting.
"Valen really made killing these arseholes look a hell of a lot easier," I gasped out, placing my bow on my back.
Brown fell into my eyes and tickled my nose, and I pushed my sweat-slicked hair back from my face between one pant and the next.
Nathyrra tossed the club to me with an underarm swing and drew her crossbow with steely resolve.
I rushing past their bodies with the club in hand, careful of the dying flames and conscious of how the static electricity in the passage was making my hair stand on end, pulling free of its binding.
Nathyrra left the phylactery to me, disappearing around the corner and into the entrance of the passage we'd chosen to avoid earlier.
Her feet made barely any noise on the thin layer of gold coins beneath her.
I heard the deva cry out and forced myself not to turn at the sound.
The sound of battle drew nearer.
The floor shuddered again as the bone dragon took another massive step. Then another.
It roared and I felt the room's temperature rise with the heat of its breath weapon.
In front of me, the phylactery was a red orb about the size of a melon; the dragolich's confidence clear in the way it stood plain as day on a bone pedestal.
I planted my feet, gripped the club in a two-handed grasp, and swung.
A hollow thud and my arms vibrated from the contact. I didn't let go.
I swung again.
This time a hairline fracture appeared on the surface, a dark line in the red glow.
Hope took hold as I drew my arm back for the final swing, and then —
"Valen!" The deva cried.
I froze.
Spinning, I saw Nathyrra crouching on the ground, with her crossbow aimed at the dragon as she desperately reloaded.
Restless ruby eyes sat high in the creatures narrow skull as it peered down at the ground. Teeth the length of my arms peeked out from it's gaping jaw, giving a preview to the terror within. It's huge neck ran down from its head with the uneven ridging of exposed vertebrae into a narrow body. It stood on all fours, its monstrous wings flapping uselessly — the skin hanging tattered from the frame, glowing with the cinders of a divine spell.
The deva was airborne, her mace in hand and a look of horror on her face.
Nathyrra's bolt fell short, the acid tip fizzling out on the cavern floor.
Valen lay still on the floor, arms outstretched as if he were a doll, battered aside.
Between one breath and the next, the tiefling shifted, pushing up on one arm slowly, disoriented.
The dragon lifted it's great hulking foot, shadowing Valen as it prepared to crush him.
There was no way I could get close enough to resurrect him without facing the same fate.
Apart from losing some of its wings, it didn't look close to destroyed. Only angry.
"Stop!"
I was suddenly holding the glowing red orb in two outstretched hands, my voice carrying through the cavern and surprising even me with it's pitch and desperation.
The club lay at my feet.
The dragon's foot froze, only feet from Valen's body.
The tiefling held a hand above his head in a desperate — but ultimately useless — attempt to soften the blow.
I raised the orb above my head.
"Stop," I repeated.
The whispered command echoed in the unsettling silence.
All eyes turned to me.
THEN
Drogan had killed our asabi captors easily, before returning us to flesh.
I'd been inconsolable. Devastated. Angry.
Mostly angry.
But we still had the immediate issue of the shield guardians.
With multiple missteps — and lots of sneaking that I felt better suited to Dorna than me — we were able to disable the vast majority of the golems without any need to fight.
And on the two occasions that I'd been unable to sneak past and a fight broke out, Drogan and Xanos took up that mantle.
Against golems; my arrows were useless.
Our next task; restoring Undrentide's ark to working order, was harder again.
We were to collect three Winds — yes, Winds; with a capital 'W' — and restore them to their appropriate locations.
Our first stop was the library.
We read a book titled "The Beggar's Love", and were transported into the woods.
I don't think I realised how much I missed the sight of the sky above my head and green instead of grey before we landed on soft grass with trees all around.
But we had no time to appreciate the new locale.
In the woods, William searched for his lost love.
And propped up against a tree, we found her bones.
A hop and a skip — and a new set of armour for me — and we entered a temple.
All the while I checked that Drogan and Xanos were still with me, and ensuring this wasn't all just one giant trip.
We — or more astutely, Drogan — fought through the temple against a band of one-dimensional monks and priestesses, a simple fight of good versus evil.
Done, we looted the corpses, found the pen we were after, and took a breather.
And it was a good thing we did too.
Because the next location on our Contiki through hell, was — quite literally — hell. Or something that had looked an awful lot like it, anyway.
Fire, brimstone, near naked women and all.
We defended a very unhelpful man with his trousers around his ankles named Karsus from some succubae, and — for our efforts — were rewarded with an inkwell.
Through a glowing blue portal and we were back in the library, pen, and inkwell in hand.
I guess the pen really is mightier than the sword.
I was entrusted to rewrite the ending of the book.
So I did, crossing bits out and adding things in.
I considered — only briefly — adding an extra line about a horde of gold, before thinking better of it.
Knowing my luck the book would probably magic in a dragon to protect it.
This time, in the woods, William — reunited with his love — agreed to help us find the Wise Wind.
Later, Karsus, suddenly more helpful — and more clothed — than before, agreed to help also.
A simple book appeared where there had been none before and, upon opening 'The Confessions of Karsus', we were teleported back to the library in a disorienting whoosh.
Sick of the back and forth and ready to move on, I wrote in the book again; a thrilling tale of how we caught the Wise Wind and how I was rewarded with a beautiful bow; 'more powerful than her current bow, by far.'
The book sucked us in as soon as I added a full stop, and Karsus and William helped the three of us fight the Wind.
And what a fight it was.
Teleportations.
Electricity.
Love — True Love. For William anyways.
There was something for everyone.
Exhausted, we defeated the Wind — battered and bruised, and both Karsus and William dead — rewarded with, lo and behold, a beautiful composite longbow.
With the wind stuffed in one of my pockets in a little bag, we returned to the library.
If the first area had felt like one giant trip, the next bit felt like the horrible come down afterward.
We fought our way through a trapped crypt full of undead men, women, and children.
This bit I remembered from the game.
We immediately went about destroying the sarcophagi that were summoning the undead.
But not without a couple of slip-ups.
Disarming traps was — most definitely — not my forte.
Particularly not whilst being lunged at by zombies.
Three out of four I simply disarmed by letting the zombies lumber through the trap after me. The other one? That one I set off myself, completely by accident.
Thankfully there was a fresh — fresh-ish — set of gloves in one of the sarcophagi, to replace my scorched pair.
And we had enough salve, to fix my scorched pair of hands.
The second floor of the crypt, whilst still fucking eerie, was much easier.
Climbing the stairs, we heard men mulling about discussing things in a different language.
Simple?
Upon our entrance they all turned to face us, completely uniform. And completely on fire.
Never simple.
Thankfully, all we had to do was dash out of their reach, pull a lever, and escape into the room beyond.
There'd been chests in the room, but no time to check them.
My thought process was that I'd rather be an uncooked human, than a decked out corpse.
The one item I did have time to grab as I pulled the lever to get us out of there, was a beautiful robe, that seemed to be made of shadows.
Xanos had taken that one.
And he did look very dashing in — what he assured me most definitely was not — a dress.
Another maze of walls — that shifted if you stopped for two long — and we collected the Dead Wind.
Nowhere near as hard as the first to defeat, but I felt just as frustrated as I had before.
Whilst we were two of the three down, it felt like we were going in circles.
I felt like a puppet in a play I already knew the end of, but could do nothing to stop.
We knew we were doomed.
Gruffly, I'd stuffed the Dead Wind into my pocket alongside the other.
Located in the western fragment of Undrentide was the location of the third and final wind; the Arcanist's Tower.
There we found a rat.
A walking. Talking. Rat.
He was named Dagget; because why the hell not, at this point?
Drogan had identified him as a powerful wizard.
Didn't seem it, to look at the furry little creature.
Dagget warned us that the second floor was in shambles and explained we'd have to teleport in and out of the plane of shadows.
Even just hearing it said out loud set my heart aflutter with fear.
All we needed were shadow gems.
And all we needed to do to get them, was kill shadovar.
And so we hopped — back and forth, back and forth — between the two planes. Drogan took the lead on this one, and we found the stairs to the next level without too much blood actually shed on our behalves.
By the time we made it to the top level, it was — as expected — too late.
A lich had absorbed the power of the Dark Wind and vanished through the portal, sealing it behind him.
How fortunate that the single chest in the room held a portable door.
Using it, we created our very own portal to the plane of shadows.
We thinned out the lich's shadow minions one by one, in a wild game of cat and mouse. Then, Drogan and Xanos had kept him occupied with their own magic — like a game of tennis, but instead of a ball; there were fireballs. This back and forth of offensive and defensive spells went on for long enough for me to simply stab him in the back with my knife.
It wasn't showy.
It wasn't even sneaky.
But it got us one step closer to avenging Deekin's killer and getting the fuck out of there.
Dark Wind in hand, we looted everything not bolted down and teleported back to the Temple of the Winds.
I remember being relieved it was almost over. We were at the homestretch.
Counting our potions, I again found myself wishing that Drogan hadn't crushed the asabi slaver to death with his magic, destroying all of his delicate wares — and valuable potions — with him.
Those we had found in Undrentide had been long past expired.
But we had enough.
We'd placed the Winds in the Ark of the Wind, gaining access to the stairs.
The next bit was slow but — blissfully — straight forward; kill anything you crossed paths with.
Battle Horrors.
Helmed Horrors.
Medusa handmaidens.
All dead by our hand, and the vast majority sizzling by Drogan's.
Packs weighed down so much that we had to invoke a one-in-one-out policy, Drogan distracted a giant tentacle beast with rotting meat as Xanos and I flipped the levers that lead us to The Chamber of Mythallar.
And Heurodis.
And what a bitch of a fight that had been.
Ready as we were, we were never all getting out of there alive.
I think Drogan knew that.
And I think — deep down — I knew it too; rushing through to finally finally get it over with.
But it had been Drogan who didn't make it.
And Xanos who had needed to pull my surprised arse through the portal as the city fell around our ears.
Lying in my room at the Yawning Portal now — waiting for the assassin I knew was to come — I thought, not for the first time, that it was the universe's way of putting things back in their place.
Drogan always had to die.
Deekin was punishment for thinking I could make a difference.
I had a part to play.
But that didn't mean I was going to let a mother fucking drow steal all of my hard earned stuff.
I tightened my grip on the blade, waiting in the shadows beneath my bed — my aforementioned hard earned stuff scattered around me.
If it weren't for the telltale flash of the portal — as she teleported away the chest filled with shit from the tavern's stables — I don't think I would have known she was there.
Her steps were silent, the room still, as she approached my bed.
She wasn't so silent when I plunged my dagger through her heel.
It was no surprise when Durnan's daughter came running in to see what the ruckus was. She caught me as I was pulling the leathers from the corpse's legs, looting everything of worth from the drow.
She was definitely surprised.
To me, it was no surprise when I met with the adventurer's in the common room.
It was no surprise when the inn was attacked.
Nothing really surprised me anymore.
But god's did it hurt not seeing Deekin there in the Well Room, ready for another adventure.
That hurt was quickly forgotten in the face of a greater hurt.
Dying.
And dying hurt like a mother.
But I was getting pretty good at it.
NOTEBOOK EXTRACT
This next sheet has been deeply crumpled in the past — scrunched up in a fit of anger, maybe? It looks like Jane has taken time painstakingly smoothing it out, before placing it in her journal.
Dealan,
I hope Tomi remembers to deliver this to you…
I want you to know how sorry I am.
I know it won't make it right. But I needed you to know.
The rakshasa — Dealan, you were there; it was an impossible fight.
When they'd been disguised as men, I thought — I knew — the only way we were all getting out of there alive was bartering with them.
We needed the chain. They needed the stone to teleport to the Yawning Portal. It could have been so simple.
They'd leave and we could have saved you, Linu.
Durnan and White Thesta would have been better equipped to deal with them. I'm sure of it.
I'm sorry the djinni told you of their true nature and put you in that position, Dealan. I didn't want that.
I'm sorry about what I said when you left.
I'm just so sorry.
You were right to take Linu back to the Portal. I see that now.
I…
Jane's handwriting suddenly takes on a hurried scrawl.
No! I needed you.
I needed you.
Why did you have to do it?
You just had to attack those cat-faced arseholes and be a big damn hero, didn't you?
You just had to take her back yourself!
Do you know how many times Tomi and I died getting to Halaster?
Do you?
Because I do.
Six, Dealan. I died six times!
He died more.
Rogue stones don't grow on trees.
…Neither do Resurrection Rods…
We needed you.
But you always were a 'holier than thou' arsehole, weren't you?
It's clear to see why she never gave Tomi her letter to be delivered to Daelan. As to why Jane has kept the letter — a form of punishment? A reminder? — that isn't so clear.