52 – Accidental Heroes
"The great mechanical dragon plunged into the sea, but I managed to escape thanks to a featherfall spell. Once I reached the island, tugging the giant crystal along and huffing all the way, the natives informed me that I had apparently saved their entire world. And here I thought I was just retrieving a new decoration for Duke Darkwood's mantle." –Artus Whitesun, Journal of a Planewalker
"The mistress! She will…will…uh…."
The man's eyes and voice lost focus, and for a moment he just stuttered and let out sharp, deep breaths. Then he shook himself and the red droplets that had been trailing down his dusty cheeks fell away, the painted runes on his face now smeared and illegible. Eventually the man's eyes flicked up to Garrick, halfway focusing. "The…what is…what's happening?" He pulled a bit at the rope that had been used to bind his wrists together. "Where am I? Wh-who am I?" His accent was thick and definitely foreign. Sembian was Garrick's best guess.
"I don't know, friend," the bard replied in as soothing a voice as he could manage; the same tone he used to calm the horses. "Sorry. I just know that you were under some sort of dire charm."
Earlier, Garrick had tried every bit of mesmerizing magic he knew in an attempt to break the enchantment, but nothing had worked. Then a more mundane idea had struck him: dabbing a little water from his canteen onto a cloth and rubbing vigorously against the runes that marked the man's forehead. It took a lot of scrubbing, but once the ochre had begun to smear the daze had apparently lifted.
"A charm…" the stranger muttered. "I…yes. There was a woman with white hair, walking by the river. And she had the strangest eyes." He peered off at nothing, then something inside him seemed to click into place and he violently shook his head. "Mercy of the Triad! I remember! The woman. Her…commands. And those skeletal…things. That explosion of blood! The drained man!" He continued to turn his head one way, then the other, as if trying to dislodge the memories. Eventually he stopped, panting. "I came very close to becoming one of them didn't I? A husk or an abomination. Thank you for my rescue, Sir..?"
"Garrick." A chuckle. "Well, not 'Sir Garrick.' Just Garrick." Wow. I saved a life. Who would have thought?
"Hagar," the man replied. "My name is Earl Hagar Esclare, of Pros. I'd offer you my hand but…"
With a nod Garrick reached behind Hagar and undid the bindings. Then their hands met, clasped and shook. Saved a life, and someone important too. Garrick glanced around. Of course, keeping them both alive would be a different matter.
"So…uhm. We may need to fight our way out of here," Garrick explained, giving the nobleman a look. Perhaps this was the sort who had been castle-trained since he could walk by skilled men-at-arms. A great warrior sworn to defend his family name. A mighty warlord in training!
But Hagar just blanched and made a face. Hrm. And the earl was a bit on the lumpy side. Not fat, but definitely not in peak physical condition. Garrick gestured with his head towards the dead kobold, but he just got a blank stare. Eventually the young bard bent down and pulled the crude little dagger off the dead lizard's belt, handing it to Hagar, who took the weapon with an unsteady hand.
"Alrighty then." Garrick tried to put as much cheer in his voice as he could, lifting his crossbow and locked a bolt into place. There was a trail of blood leading down the hall where Kryll had fled. Probably best to go the opposite direction.
"Follow me," Garrick stated cheerfully, turning and beginning down the passageway. Now those were some words he'd never dreamed he would tell anyone. What in the Abyss have I gotten myself into?
But this was all part of the job. Walking down the corridor as he kept his flatbow straight and his eyes constantly swishing, Garrick tried to focus on that. Focus on the task at hand. That's what Ashura would say.
Still, for some reason a very ironic ballad about 'Brave Sir Garrick' had started composing itself in his head, unbidden.
Racing ahead of the others, Ashura plunged past a pair of scuffed-up pilasters and into a long, narrow hall, honeycombed with side passages and bustling with movement. Hissing little lizards were everywhere, bristling with spear and arrows, and at the far end of the passageway there was a great vaulted chamber, lit by ambient sunlight and occupied by a tall, imposing figure.
With a lurch to the side Ashura narrowly avoided a spear-thrust from a kobold that had been lurking behind one of the pillars. It jabbed again, and she managed to counter by gripping the haft of the spear with her right hand, her sword pressed up against the shaft. She yanked and the creature stumbled forward, falling right onto her lefthand blade. A sense that something was moving behind her, and she spun in time to dance away from a second kobold's spear.
Dorn came roaring through the passageway then, hacking the little reptile open as he barreled by. The swing barely slowed him, and he turned and continued to march down the hall. More kobolds lurked in the side-passages, using the pillars there for cover as they readied arrows, and the trail of blood they had been following speckled the main path all the way to the kneeling figure of Kryll. She was propped up on one hand while the other pressed to her ragged robe and wounded chest.
Just beyond the witch stood a creature straight out of a storybook, its silhouette filling the doorway. Its bulk and its features were like that of an ogre; nine feet of broad, hulking muscle, with a bald pate, pointed ears and tusks glinting beneath sneering lips. But unlike the lumbering beasts in uncured hides that Ashura had faced before, this creature carried himself with assurance and control. His sea-blue skin was smooth and unblemished, his clothing well cut and immaculately kept, and atop his head curled two pointed horns.
An oni, kin to giants and far more cunning and powerful than its ogre cousins. Just as Kryll had said. The creature was unarmored, but an oversized falcon rested against its shoulder; a thick, cleaver-like weapon that it casually held in one hand.
In the oni's shadow another human lounged: a gaunt man dressed in rags, with a crazed look in his eyes and bits of bone bound to his wrists, ankles, neck, and the filthy locks of his hair. Another necromancer? A madman? Likely both.
Kryll turned her head slightly, face half-covered by unkempt hair and tight with pain, and through barred teeth she managed to hiss: "See…mighty Kreshok? I bring a fine offering for us to feast upon!"
The oni's voice rumbled, loud and deep. "You presume much, wounded dog. To come into my parlor and say who shall eat and who shall be eaten? I think not." The curved sword rolled off his shoulder and he took a menacing step forward.
"No!" Dorn roared, ignoring the kobolds that were pouring out of the countless passageways, the edge of his sword aimed at Kryll alone. "She is mine! You will not steal my vengeance." As the half-orc charged the air about him seemed to boil, wisps of grey and black curling and congealing at the edges of his armor. Ashura felt an odd downward pressure in the air, and once again she smelled the furnace; burning slag and soot and nostril-scorching heat.
The kobolds felt it too, their footsteps faltering and their weapons sinking, heavy in their hands. But the oni of Firewine Bridge just looked mildly amused, and the man in rags and bones stepped forward and between Dorn and his target, a shard of glass in his hand as he chanted something in a soft voice.
Ashura had slowed to a cautious march behind Dorn, and recognizing one of the man's whispered words she stooped and stepped aside. I think that's-
The hair rising on the back of her neck and the crackling burst of light that appeared as the glass shattered confirmed her guess, and she covered her face and turned aside as the lance of electricity streaked down the hall. She knew little of how magic was worked, but enough lightning bolts had been hurled at her for her to recognize the warning signs.
Dorn always acted like nothing could stand before his fury, but the lightning blast certainly seemed to stop him for the moment, turning his body and doubling him over as curls of smoke rose from fresh holes in his armor. He had taken the brunt of the spell while the others had parted and wisely hugged the walls. What's that term you often hear? 'Meatshield?'
Behind Ashura it sounded like all Nine Hells were breaking loose. Imoen's bowstring was thumping, Viconia and Xan's voices were chanting, countless kobolds were letting out high-pitched 'screees,' and some sort of larger-sounding creature was bellowing a war cry.
But she didn't have the luxury of glancing back at the moment. Instead she charged in from Dorn's flank as he knelt and gripped his smoking wounds, eager to plant her swords in the raggedy mage before he got a chance to unleash another spell.
Before she could close the distance another blast of energy streaked down the hall, this one black as ink and sailing over the rag-man's head. When it reached Ashura she felt no force; just an icy chill followed by an ache in her bones. Her shoulders slumped and the armored guards that protected her legs suddenly felt heavy as anvils, slowing her stride.
A rumbling snicker echoed off the ceiling. The damned oni!
She took in a long, harsh breath and pushed forward, drawing on every ounce of fury and frustration that she could as she fought the weight of her arms and armor. The kobolds had started to take aim with their bows, uncertainty still in their eyes, but when Ashura straightened and lunged down the hall arrows began to drop to the floor and spears started pointing uselessly at the ceiling. The waves of roiling fear that radiated from her now sent the creatures scurrying in every direction, falling over themselves and each other.
As she passed by the side-tunnels bulkier creatures loomed close: tall, vaguely female and thickly muscled. A pair of lesser ogresses, armed with maces, but they blanched and reeled back just like the kobolds when Ashura stomped by.
Even the mage in rags and bones took several stumbling steps back as she rushed in, his mouth falling open as he struggled to speak. But the great horned ogre just sniffed the air and cocked his head. "We have two servants of Perdition among us? Interesting."
In the span of a breath the oni became a smoky white blur, and then he was solid and towering nearly twice as tall as Ashura and a mere pace away, interposed between her and the ragged mage. The oni's massive sword was raised high as he materialized, and then it rushed down, aiming for her skull.
Ashura's swords crossed and caught the edge of the oni's blade, and with a furious twist she redirected the blow to the side, dancing away from the explosion of stone and mortar where it struck the ground. With an amused grunt the oni turned and yanked his sword from the furrow he had just made, and Ashura had to fling herself to the floor to avoid the sidelong slash that followed, her back striking the stone.
Quick as she could, she rolled and then shoved herself to her feet. The oni was following, and another slash whistled over her head as she ducked. She sprang from there, lashing out at one of his treetrunk-legs, but the oni's body wavered before her and her blade met no resistance; simply passing through the fog.
For a moment the billowing cloud that was shaped roughly like the monster floated before Ashura, and through it she caught a glimpse of the mage in rags and bones, eyeing the field of battle and chanting another spell. Before he or Ashura could do anything further a disheveled shock of white hair rose up behind the rag-man, and glowing hands locked around his throat.
Kryll squeezed with all her strength, and the man's head flew back in pain, the ghostfire on the witch's fingers seeming to seep into his pours, escaping in wisps from the corners of his eyes and mouth. Within an instant his cheeks grew sallow, his skin rough and dry as parchment, and behind him the necromancer seemed to swell with renewed vigor.
As Kryll squeezed the life from her victim, the oni-shaped cloud undulated and zipped to Ashura's left, solidifying before she had fully turned and followed. Already the creature's sword was in motion, swinging as mist and wind became flesh and steel, and all Ashura could do was hop back and try to twist away as the blow sailed in, resounding off the armored guard at her bicep and denting the steel into the padding and flesh beneath.
A flash of pain, and then her left arm went numb, hanging useless at her side as she scurried back from another sweep of the oni's blade. He paused before launching his next attack, his sharp little eyes glaring beyond Ashura, to Kryll and the husk the witch had just drained. An arrow whistled in and bit into the monster's shoulder, but he barely seemed to notice.
"Thief!" the oni bellowed. "I'll have your- Argh!" He took a stuttering step forward, wobbling and struggling to stay upright as Dorn's greatsword bit deep into the back of his leg.
"You are the thief!" Dorn shouted right back, hefting his blade and blocking as the oni spun and countered. "I told you she is mine!"
Ashura took a long, deep breath as she glanced from half-orc to oni to witch, her left arm starting to throb a bit. Three idiots arguing over who gets to devour whose soul. As far as she was concerned they could all eat each other. The oni was raining blows down on Dorn one-handed, the palm of his offhand smoldering with some sort of dark energy, and Kryll had begun chanting.
Two dangerous casters. Ashura forced her left hand to grip her sword tightly, pushing the pain down. Right blade forward, knees bent; she prepared to spring.
Then an idea struck her. "Viconia!" she shouted before she charged.
"Allur?" The drow sounded close by. Good.
"It's too loud in here!" She hoped Viconia got the message, but she didn't wait to find out. Focusing her rage and aiming her steel, she rushed for the oni's flank as Dorn stumbled back and the dark flame in the creature's hand grew.
One moment Ashura's righthand sword was cutting through the air before her, whistling, and yelps and hisses from the terrified kobolds were competing with Kryll's droning chant, the oni's growling syllables, and Dorn's grunts of rage and pain. Then in an instant it was all cut off, and Ashura felt like she was drifting through and eerily silent vault.
Viconia had indeed caught on, and acted fast, Shar bless her.
One more vaulted stride forward and Ashura drove her sword deep into the back of the oni's thigh. She had started to twist the blade when the pillar of muscle shifted into wavering mist once again, listless drifting off of her weapon and towards the back of the chamber.
Damn! He can do that trick even in silence. The cloud floated beneath the high arch that separated the hall from the larger room beyond, and in silenced Dorn rushed by, ignoring Ashura and the cloud as he took a direct path for Kryll. The witch was backing away, flustered and uselessly mouthing something as the lights on her fluttering fingers winked out.
The larger chamber the oni had floated into was dominated by a great altar of basalt lined with tiny humanoid skulls, and more skulls decorated the walls at regular intervals above strings of bone. When the monster reformed it was beside that altar, and he seemed to falter a bit, propping himself against the slab. Good. Ashura's boots silently stamped the stone as she approached the oni at a quick march. He's hurt worse than I thought.
Another step and her heart lurched. The monster had raised a hand and began to mouth words she could not hear, black fire blooming on his outstretched palm.
Ashura's head pitched forward and she was racing now. He must have drifted out of the zone of silence! A breath later and she broke through as well, and all the screams of kobolds and grinding metal sounds rushed back, along with the oni's deep, droning voice. A hail of three arrows sailed in from the right and struck the creature's arm and side, but he didn't seem to notice, let alone waver. Whatever black energy he was calling up was about to blast Ashura in the face.
No matter. She'd at least make him pay!
Sword forward, legs pumping, she leaned in and readied to leap, but as the bubbling darkness leapt from the oni's fingers a spark of blazing white flew in and collided with it. There was an ear-splitting pop followed by a long sizzle as countless sparks burst before Ashura's eyes and burned an afterimage into her vision, then she charged right through the cloud and jumped, righthand sword arcing over her head. The blade plunged deep into the monster's torso, then opened a long swath through shirt and belly as Ashura slid down, desperately trying to hold onto the hilt as slick blood washed over her hand and arm.
The sword slipped out of her hand anyway and her feet smacked the floor. A toss and a snatch and she had her second sword in her right hand though, ready for another stab.
The oni was howling now, gripping at his wound but still hefting his falchion, but before he could act there was a flicker just behind his head. Red hair, a violet cloak, a gleaming blade; Imoen clung to the monster's shirt at his shoulder, her other hand driving her dagger into the side of his meaty neck. She dug in and pulled the blade with all her strength, releasing a tide of red and black.
As the monster thrashed and struggled, clawing at his neck, Imoen let go and pushed off, landing atop the altar. The oni's sword dropped and clanged against the stones now, as he took a lurching step forward, both hands at his wounds.
Ashura planted her feet firm and pointed her sword high, readying another stab. As many as it takes! The oni was wobbling just above the blade. Yeah! Fall! Fall you fucker!
Another lurch, then the oni lost his balance, limbs loose and feet slipping in his own blood. Ashura stabbed upwards into the creature's chest as he collapsed, and a deafening howl rang out, spittle flying from the oni's mouth.
Good! Good! Wait! Oh shit!
Too late now. Her arm bent back, her own feet slipped out from under her, and the full weight of a nine-foot-tall mass of limp muscle, sinew and bone struck the wind from Ashura's lungs. After that she barely registered the impact when she hit the floor, crushed beneath the creature's bulk, and the back of her head smacked against stone, filling her eyes with flashes of light that competed with the afterimages of Xan's spell.
Skie awakened to singing; a lilting tenor that seemed to lazily traipse through the air above her. Her first thought was one of Eldoth's serenades, but no. This voice didn't have that resonant depth; that oh-so-self-assured drawl. And much as she would have loved it, Eldoth had never serenaded her in her sleep. Perhaps he would sometime. She'd have to suggest it.
But hadn't Eldoth..?
No! No no no. Surely that had just been a dream.
Groggy and numb, Skie attempted to open her eyes, and found that her lids were heavier than she ever remembered them being. With a deep breath and some struggling she managed to part them a bit, but the world beyond was just a swimming, formless blur.
And…hrm? She was laying on her stomach. Not a position she ever slept in normally. Not to mention that she never slept on a cold stone floor either. Yowch! She was stiff.
With a little more effort she managed to shift onto her side, prying her stinging eyes open enough to get a look at the singer who continued to hum above her. His song trailed off, and though he was just a brown blur, Skie realized that his hand was resting on her back. She blinked a few more times, cringing at the ache in her head and the realization that her tongue was as dry as the Anauroch. It tasted funny too. Like metal. And the back of her throat felt icky.
"Can…" Gods! Her voice was painfully croaky. "Can I have some..?"
"Oh!" the singer exclaimed, his voice chirping and boyish. "Water! Here." He handed her a canteen and she pressed it to her mouth and drank greedily.
Eventually she finished and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Yuck! There was something crusty at the edge of her mouth. With a few more blinks the singer's face resolved in her swimming vision.
Oh! Should have recognized that voice. It was Garrick, and he seemed to be giving her a pensive look. Then, when she sat up a bit more, his eyes widened and he hastened to turn away, blushing.
It took Skie a few long moments of waking up, glancing around, and then looking down to find the source of Garrick's discomfort. She was on top of a hastily laid-out bedroll, still wearing her trousers and boots, but her leather coat, padded vest and undershirt were gone, and the only thing covering her breasts were a few strips of white cloth tied around her chest and back. Bandages, she realized, reaching back and scrunching her face up in pain as she felt a little stab from the wounds between her shoulder blades. Some gentle probing there, then her finger came away lightly smeared with blood.
Two wounds.
From twin stabs. From Eldoth's cutlass.
It wasn't a dream. Gods! It wasn't a dream.
As her eyes cleared it sunk in even more. There, on the other side of the room, she caught a glimpse of familiar brown leathers before turning away and scrunching her eyes up tight. Eldoth's crumpled body. It had all really happened: the betrayal, the cold words, the desperate gulps of the healing potion.
And the furious strike of her sword that had followed.
Skie's mouth fell open wide, then her hand rushed up to cover it. "I can't believe he's dead," she found herself squeaking.
"I can believe it," a deep female voice rumbled, somewhere above and nearby. "It's what happens when you drive a sword clean through a man's heart. You shouldn't be surprised." Skie felt a hand gently pat her shoulder. "Nice stabbing by the way. The swine had it coming."
Skie just shook her head and clenched her mouth and eyes tightly shut. Tears quickly flicked from her lashes, falling to the floor and streaming down her cheeks, hot and salty.
"Fucking Abyss," Shar-Teel grumbled. "You're not actually going to mourn him are you?"
Her only answer was a pained sob, head still shaking. Mourn. Of course she was going to mourn! She had so very much to mourn; her whole life had been tossed to the ground and shattered into a million pieces. She wanted to turn and shout that at the stupid, insensitive cow, but all that came out were wracking sobs.
Skie felt a close presence, and something soft enveloped her. It was her cloak, she realized, as she curled up and buried her face against Garrick's stiff shoulder. He softened after a moment, wrapping his arms around her and holding on while the tears ran their course. The fact that each sob worried her wounds and sent jolts of pain through her just made things worse.
After a time the sobs did subside and Skie managed to take in some long, deep breaths, her head still shaking from side to side. As if shaking your head enough and denying it all will change things. She let out a mix of a sigh and a sniffle, sitting back and wiping her eyes with the edge of her cloak.
Garrick wriggled away a little too, reaching over and picking up Skie's leather vest and jacket. "We uh…kind of tore your undershirt up getting to the wounds and staunching them," he admitted bashfully. "Sorry about that."
A shrug and her cloak fell away. She reached out and took her leathers. "That's fine," she whispered. "Thanks for healing me."
He gave her a tentative nod, then looked away again. "I'm all out of healing magic now. So uh…don't strain yourself. When we found you the wounds had closed, but you were coughing up blood. Probably a pierced lung. I think my songs mended that, but we definitely should get you to a real cleric as soon as possible."
"Is Viconia..?" She glanced around and her voice trailed off. Shar-Teel loomed nearby, armored and arms crossed, and there was a stranger with a pensive and uncomfortable look on his face siting nearby, dressed in frayed but well-tailored clothes. "Where are the others?"
"We all got separated by those damn shifting walls," Garrick explained, frowning. "When we can we uh…probably ought to get moving. To find them."
Nodding slightly, Skie gave the still body nearby a pained glance. Fresh tears welled up and she turned away, forcing herself to slip her vest on, then her jacket. Garrick was right. Best to get away from here fast.
Frantically struggling to breathe, Ashura tilted her head, her chest only rising by a fraction beneath the immense weight that held her. At least her mouth and nostrils were free to the air though. She wheezed and gasped, finding a light-headed rhythm after a few moments.
A few moments, a few more stolen breaths, and then the rage seeped out and the pain set in. Her whole body seemed to be one immense, flattened ache, and each wheeze that came rattling in brought more and more spikes of agony. Ribs, her right hip, her battered left arm; the pain seemed worst there. There had to be broken bones. Fractures at the least.
All she saw was a blur through the tears, and each breath remained a struggle, but they came one after the other. Through the haze and the dancing stars she realized that there was shouting nearby. "Shura! Shura!" A croaked gasp was her only response, and then the great bulk of the oni atop her was wobbling; shifting from side to side. Eventually some of the weight tilted off her screaming ribs, and she managed a much deeper gasp.
"Come on!" the voice near her ear shouted, and after a helpful tug Ashura managed to wriggle like a worm out from under the oni, rolling onto her stomach to pant and cough, every twitch still agony.
"Viconia?" Imoen hissed, kneeling there beside Ashura. "A little help?"
Turning her head slightly (Good! I can still do that,) Ashura's eyes followed Imoen's. Viconia was nearby, standing behind an orderly little line of kobolds with her warhammer high and gripped in both hands. The three short reptiles seemed to be standing at attention, weapons held loosely and a glazed look in their eyes.
"One moment," the drow hissed right back, then she brought her hammer down unceremoniously, crushing the skull of a kobold and dropping it like a sack before it could even manage a squeak. The other two creatures just stared blankly ahead. "We must be rid of these pests before the enchantment wears off." Taking a step to the side, she hefted her hammer again and brought it down, braining a second kobold. "Then we can concern ourselves with injuries."
Imoen sighed, pouted and waited as Viconia stepped behind the last ensorcelled creature, and all Ashura could do was lay there as the drow finished her grisly chore. In addition to the pain, her limbs felt heavy as lead, a profound exhaustion pressing her down. She guessed it was the effect of the strength-draining spell the oni had thrown at her. She had pushed past it in her fury, but now there was nothing left to push with. Weak as a damn kitten.
There was one more intense bout of agony when Viconia and Imoen set Ashura's broken left arm, but once the healing prayers had been invoked the pain eased a bit and she managed to sit up, bleary and still feeling sharp pins and dull aches everywhere.
To Ashura's surprise it seemed that Kryll was still alive. Though perhaps that was a charitable word to use.
The necromancer was even more of a mess than before; a pitiful sight really. She was slumped against a far wall, her arms splayed out and fingers bent and twisted in unnatural directions, covered in growing purple spots. They had obviously been shattered and broken so that she couldn't make spellcasting gestures. Dorn knelt in front of her, his rage replaced now by a cold glare, and his hands rested lightly on the hilt of his greatsword, which had been rammed through Kryll's stomach and apparently into the wall behind her.
It was amazing that the necromancer was alive at all, her head listlessly tilting from one side and then to the other. Perhaps she was just subsisting on the lifeforce she had recently stolen.
And Dorn was taking advantage. With the slightest effort he worried his sword a bit, and Kryll's head banged against the wall behind her, a pained breath escaping her lips. "Where?" the half-orc growled.
Behind him Xan was walking forward, his arms crossed and his posture tense. The Greycloak seemed to be trying to look stern, but he was obviously uncomfortable. Ashura could hardly blame him. His interrogation methods had always been so much more elegant than this. A little late for him to step in now though.
Kryll's lips curled, then with a cough she managed to rasp: "Likely he's at the…" Another cough. "At the spot where he asked me to meet him, in the damned letter he sent. It's in the satchel in the right pocket of my cloak. There may be…" A pained laugh. "…a little blood on it though."
"She speaks the truth," Xan noted emotionlessly.
Dorn cocked his head, reaching to pull the cloak back and search. "Simmeon asked you to meet with him?"
"After he learned that Senjak and Dorotea were dead," Kryll rasped. "'We need to gather our strength and prepare for Dorn.' So naturally I…hrk…I ran as fast as I could in the other direction."
"Why?"
"Was hoping you'd find him first. And I had no desire to get between fools who truck with daemons. I prefer to do the devouring. Not to…to have my soul devoured." A weak chuckle, that soon became another cough. "Guess it's too late for that now."
"Indeed," was all Dorn said as he gripped Kryll's shoulder and yanked his sword free. In a blur of blood and steel he stabbed again, piercing her chest and running her through. The back of the witch's head slammed against the wall once more and her mouth opened in silent agony, the air around her and the sword and its wielder shimmering all at once with the same ghostly light.
Once again the heat of The Fourfold Furnaces stuck Ashura's face, and once again ghostly silhouettes danced above Dorn and his sword and its victim.
Wings unfolded, sharp teeth made of shadow stretched in an ever-expanding maw, a woman's form writhed, and flames danced. Then in a wink it was gone, though Dorn seemed to straighten up taller, the wounds from the lightning bolt and the oni leaving nothing but a few dents and holes his armor. He isn't just killing the people on his list, Ashura realized. He's doing something with their souls. Devouring them? Feeding them to the daemon he serves? That's why he's so obsessed with doing the killing himself, with that sword of his. There's a lot more to this.
She'd have to question him soon. For now there were other concerns though.
Once everyone had recovered a bit and retrieved all their gear, they cautiously searched the chamber and the branching passages beyond, exploring the oni's lair and the kobold nests. Thankfully nothing stirred; if any kobolds had survived they had fled long ago, and a pair of female ogrillons (now dead,) seemed to have been the only other occupants of the lair. After poking through branching rooms that seemed to serve as arcane laboratories, a kitchen, a blanketed and carpeted sleeping chamber, a foul-smelling privy, and a scullery, they eventually doubled back to the great vault with the altar. There was a short flight of steps here, leading up to a sealed stone door.
"Some sort of treasure vault maybe?" Ashura asked as Imoen bent down and examined the stairs for traps. When there was no answer she turned back and her eyes swept down the hall. Doubtful that Garrick was on the other side, regardless of where the door might lead. If he were alive he was probably somewhere in the damn labyrinth. Ugh. Where are you?
With a click and an echoing creak the door slid open and Ashura turned towards it. Rather than being greeted by piles of gleaming gold, however, they caught a whiff of tobacco mingled with the scent of a crackling cookfire. Odd. Beyond the thick, fortified door stood…overstuffed furniture and wall tapestries?
Frowning, Ashura took the lead and marched over the threshold, sweeping the strangely homely sitting-room with her eyes as she gripped her swords tight, the others fanning out behind her. A flustered-looking halfling man was leaning forward in a chair that looked far too big for him, a curved pipe hanging limp from his fat lips. As the mercenaries approached and Dorn attempted to stand up, bending forward beneath the room's low roof, the pipe dropped to the arm of the chair, and then to the rug, smoking and forgotten.
"You're not…" the halfling stammered. "Not due for another…urm…" Then he summoned up some indignation. "What in the hells are you doing storming into my living room?!"
"Exploring," Ashura growled.
"Exploring the layer of an oni," Viconia added with a smirk. "One who seemed to be in the business of sacrificing halflings. Odd."
"Oh," the little man stammered. "Well, now…you see…" Then with a flutter and surprising agility he slipped up into a standing position on the chair, vaulted over its back, and took off, running up a nearby flight of stairs at full speed.
Viconia chuckled as the little man vanished through a doorway. "An easy enough story to piece together."
Ashura gave her an exhausted shrug and they followed the path the halfling had taken. The little bugger could run wherever he wanted for all she cared. It was a welcome change, finally bumping into something in this dungeon that wasn't trying to kill them.
Though, as she climbed the steps and waked into another cozy room, it occurred to her that 'dungeon' might be the wrong word. A large round door stood ajar nearby, faint sunlight shining through the opening. Passing through the doorway, they found themselves on packed dirt beneath the open sky, in the middle of what looked like a village made of low, dome-shaped huts.
Within moments there were shouts of surprise and excitement all around them. Round little doors flew open. Small, pudgy-faced people poured out, and soon there was a crowd gathering all around, the halflings asking countless questions that the dumbfounded group was too shocked to answer.
And that was how the bedraggled, mismatched little team of mercenaries –half-orc, drow, Greycloak and all- became the Heroes of Gullykin.
"H-here. I guess," Garrick stammered as he awkwardly held out the ancient collection of tarnished plates that had once been a scalemail coat.
There was a long, awkward pause as the blurry phantoms that stood before him just stared blankly. Or at least that was what they seemed to be doing. Since their entire, semi-transparent, glowing forms were constantly shifting in and out of focus it was hard to tell what they were looking at. When they had first stumbled down this hallway and encountered the ghosts it had been a shock, but rather than attacking, the knights had simply spoken in bits of broken and meandering elven that seemed to tell a story.
Apparently they had made some sort of vow, and one of the knights had betrayed it somehow. He had become an undead creature, forever walking through this section of the Firewine labyrinth, unable to rest and apparently keeping these ghosts from finding peace as well. And these ghosts stood in front of what looked like a particularly important hall; one that Garrick hoped would lead out of here.
Of course they could have just walked through. It wasn't entirely clear if the ghosts even cared, but there were so many stories about the nasty effects that physical contact with spectral undead could have that Garrick and the others had no desire to risk it. So they had taken what Garrick proudly called the 'Heroic Option:' seek out the undead knight, smash it to bits and put the ghosts to rest.
Garrick coughed. "Ahem. So you see, this coat belonged to…well I don't know his name but I think he was a knight like you folks. Walking bones, muttering about how 'All must fall together, as was our vow.' Just like you were doing. So! Now he's…fallen. Or um…we made him fall at least. With swords and such. Put him to rest, and this armor's the proof."
Shar-Teel had her palm pressed to her face, head shaking slowly from side to side. He couldn't really blame her. Nice performance, eh Garrick? Aren't you supposed to be an actor? Of course he couldn't think of a worse crowd to perform for than a group of eerily silent elven ghosts. Maybe that clan of extremely rowdy dwarves that one time up by Tentowns…
Taking a deep breath and standing up as straight as he could, Garrick made his best effort at elven. Not a language he had ever mastered, and he also worried that elven may have changed a bit over the millennia that the ghosts had been haunting this passageway. It would be a shame to complete the task meant to put the ghosts to rest, then get attacked by them because he conjugated a verb the wrong way.
"What I mean to say," Garrick stated in elven (or at least he hoped that was what he stated,) "is that we have laid your fellow knight to rest, and here we hold the proof of the deed: his tattered armor."
Misty, angular faces turned, looking one to another, as whispered words were exchanged. "As one we have fallen?"
"So it is…"
"So it was…"
"Together enter…together fall…"
Garrick thought he saw a hint of a smile on the face of the nearest ghost, then with a rush of warmth all six figures unceremoniously vanished.
"Whew," Garrick breathed out, dropping the armor. He was especially glad that they hadn't tried to physically take it. Touching a ghost…some stories said that could prematurely age you, or at least drain some your lifeforce.
"I can't believe that worked," Skie murmured.
"Well, it was easy enough to deduce what the ghosts wanted," Garrick said over his shoulder, a proud smile growing on his face.
"No. What I mean is that I've never heard someone mangle elven so badly. I think you told them something like: 'Then I means to be says we laid on your companion honor, have proving deed her ugly buckler.'"
Garrick's mouth fell open and then he smacked his forehead. "You…you speak…why didn't you..?! And I didn't even get the gender pronoun right? Argh!"
"'Ho' means 'him.' Not 'He,'" Skie pointed out. "It might be confusing because both words sound masculine to Chondathan speakers?"
Garrick shook his head, then went right back to smiling, gingerly stepping over the rusty armor, which is apparently a very similar word to 'buckler' in elven. "Well, all's well that ends well!"
Skie gave him a forlorn look and he found himself turning away, heat rising in his cheeks. Woops. Guess this hasn't ended well for her.
Behind them Shar-Teel snorted as they started down the hall, Hagar following cautiously at the rear. "I guess," the warrior-woman muttered. "Provided this actually ends."
After a few uneventful twists down the tunnel they came upon a heavy stone door on rusted hinges, and with a little effort Garrick and Shar-Teel managed to pry it open. Light flooded the passage as the hinges groaned; the chamber beyond brightly lit by large glass lamps. It also seemed very out of place: a cellar with walls made from wood rather than stone, and lined with countless wooden racks where…bottles rested?
With a puzzled look and a furrowed brow Garrick walked between the rows upon rows, peering close. Was this some sort of apothecary? Where these all potions? And if so, what sort?
"Ha!" Shar-Teel just let out one of her enthusiastic barks. "Now this is a fine way to end a fucking dungeon-crawl!" With a cheerful (if dangerous-looking,) grin, she snatched one of the bottles at random and took her dueling-dagger to the wax that sealed it. A little more work with her blade and she managed to pull the cork out, and without pause she threw the bottle back and downed a long gulp, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Umm…" Garrick stammered.
"What, you moron? Don't you recognize a wine cellar when you see one?"
Author's Note: It's probably breaking a few D&D rules, but I couldn't help but imagine the oni/ogre mage using gaseous form the way Kain does in the game Legacy of Kain: Defiance: zipping and strafing around as he shifts from mist to solid again and again.
Recently I was listening to the BG1 sound files on YouTube to get a better feel for certain characters and see if I was getting certain lines right, and I was surprised to learn that Skie's name is actually pronounced like 'Ski' (the winter sport,) and not like 'Sky,' the way I had been pronouncing it in my head. Bah. I'm still going to think of her as 'Sky.'