Pre-chapter warning: mention of blood sacrifice and premeditated murder.
Chapter Nine
The Enemy of My Enemy
1485 DR / Day 8
Somewhere in the Northdark
Within an hour of their encounter with the spectator, the travelers found themselves saying goodbye to both the Silken Paths and their goblin guides. It was a parting filled with little emotion. The goblins had merely performed a job. And once the escaped prisoners, Fargas, and his ranger companion were shown a narrow tunnel that the goblins claimed led to the shores of the Darklake, Yuk Yuk and Spiderbait slipped back into shadow, never to be seen or heard from by the travelers again.
"I do hope Tymora's eye remains on them," Kazimir murmured to himself as he watched the pair surf off into the webbed expanse. "Where I come from, people would pay good money to watch them perform stunts as they did for us."
Eldeth overheard the whisper and assured the wizard, "They've survived this long. No doubt they'll be fine. But I'm sure yer concern is appreciated."
Kazimir nodded absently. He'd already become distracted by the strange feeling of treading solid ground after hours of traversing terrain that rocked and rolled with his every step. It was almost as though he'd acquired sea legs. Even now that he stood upon an unmalleable surface, the swaying sensation of walking the web was still there. Land sickness, sailors called it. And it took some time to pass. In fact, it wasn't until the party settled down to make camp that the shaking in the tiefling's legs finally cease.
Scouting somewhat ahead of the rest of their large group, Fraeya found a narrow fissure that led to a lesser, enclosed cavern. It would be a tight fit for thirteen individuals, but doable. After checking for hidden traps or the presence of other creatures—the last thing they needed was to make camp in the den of something—the weary party crawled through the fissure and began removing their packs, tugging off unnecessary armor, and set to work preparing a meal. These tasks were performed mostly in silence, such was their exhaustion. The smallest of fires was lit by conjured flame. Jimjar and Eldeth took turns roasting the last of their watery barrelstalk and nutty ripplebark reserves. They would need to forage more, soon. Meanwhile, Fargas and his ranger companion pulled wrapped rations from their packs. The escaped prisoners eyed the rations with jealousy. But nothing was said. Each quietly ate what was available to them. And once everyone had gotten their fill, the fire was doused.
One by one, the group began to nod off. Prince Derendil, Stool, Jimjar, Eldeth, and Buppido almost immediately found themselves lost to slumber. Shuushar and Balasar spoke in hissed whispers near the smoldering embers of the fire. But judging by the dragonborn's strained gesticulations, the conversation was not going well. Sarith remained awake for some time. The drow warrior meticulously sharpened his short swords and took inventory of his remaining bolts—anything to distract him from the vexing feminine whispers in his head.
Fraeya, meanwhile, sat with her ear to the fissure's opening, attempting to rest but knowing it was futile. The rogue drifted in and out of reverie. She did not trust to hope that they were far ahead of Ilvara and her scouts. They had run into far too many obstacles. At least one person among their party needed to stay up on watch. And Fraeya was not about to trust the eye and ear of anyone but her own. It was that kind of vigilance that had kept her alive thus far. Perhaps once they reached Sloobludop and hid amongst the kuo-toa for a few days, she would finally know a moment's peace.
On the other side of the fissure, Fargas's ranger companion likewise listened with a careful ear. Though often, the half-elf found herself casting a suspicious eye over the peculiar group of traveling companions. Underdark and surface dwellers working together for convivence—or so they claimed. Something didn't add up. Surely, there was more to the story, the half-elf reasoned. She did not agree with Fargas's decision to remain with the others, even if just for the night. And yet, it was not her place to question the motives of the one paying her for her services.
Soon, they would part ways. The strange group would make for Sloobludop while she and Fargas continued their search for the lost tomb. Once Fargas had what he needed, they would deliver the goods to Mantol-Derith as promised. And when she was free to go about her own business, the ranger would stop at nothing to track down the wretched companions who had betrayed her and Fargas in the Paths.
Lastly, at the far back of the cavern, Zelyra and Kazimir were deep in their respective versions of study. Zelyra sat cross-legged with her hands pressed against the stone floor, her eyes closed, and her breath steady. The rhythmic sound of Kazimir's quill scratching against the pages of his spellbook helped lull her into a surprisingly deep meditation. The wizard reclined beside her; his knees elevated to balance his book upon them as he worked. The quiet companionship was comforting to both spellcasters.
"What are you doing?" a voice whispered.
The meditating druid peaked open a single eye and found the halfling explorer, Fargas, awake and mimicking her cross-legged position, his face alit with childlike curiosity. Zelyra sighed. Already, she felt her concentration leaving her. "I'm meditating," she replied.
Fargas rested his chin on an open hand. "Why?"
Zelyra faltered. Wasn't it obvious? Eventually, she sputtered, "Well, unlike Kazimir here who learns spells from a book, I learn from the teachings of my Circle's masters. Since they're not here at present to guide me, I must continue my studies in another way—meditation and prayer to the gods and goddess of the nature pantheon."
"Reading from a book sounds much simpler," the halfling calmly remarked. Without looking up from the page he was working on, Kazimir nodded his head in agreement. Fargas continued, invested now, "How do your gods help you? Do they speak to you?"
"Well, no. Not directly, anyhow. I'm no one special," Zelyra replied, a slight blush rising to her freckled cheeks. "But sometimes when I dream…" she cut herself off. The druid had never shared the next bit with anyone, not even Laucian.
"When you dream…?" Fargas stretched. "What happens?"
The druid squirmed. "Sometimes I find myself in a dreamscape of sorts. Always the same setting. A giant tree on a hill full of wildflowers with a vivid, sunset sky above me that never wanes or waxes. And as I sit and meditate amongst the sprawling roots of this tree, a voice whispers the gifts of First Circle upon a gentle breeze. Then when I wake, I practice what was conveyed to me through the dream." But the voice was not a true 'voice' in the typical sense. It was feeling, impression, memory…
And what Zelyra also did not share was she knew very well the setting of the dreamscape, though it took on a different appearance in real life. A closely guarded secret of her people, a great tree residing in their village marked the resting place of a champion of Melora, the Wildmother, whose true name had been lost to the centuries. According to the legends of her people, the tree was the goddess's final gift to her beloved champion. The Circle of Swords had sworn long ago that it remained unspoiled and protected. Zelyra had no idea what its presence, a vivid reflection though it might be, in her reoccurring dreamscape could mean. [1]
Stranger still was since she'd come to the Underdark, Zelyra found herself in that dreamscape every single night—when she wasn't plagued by awful nightmares, of course. The druid could only attribute it to the chaotic atmosphere of the Underdark itself or perhaps, even the faerzress.
As Zelyra was lost to those musings, Kazimir's head rose in surprise. His spellbook slipped from his lap and fell open on the stone floor, the latest page displayed freely for Zelyra and Fargas to see. But the wizard paid no mind to that as he looked at Zelyra in a slightly different light. Perhaps they had more in common when it came to magic than he initially thought. While Kazimir did indeed learn from the notes and research of other wizards, he was also guided through dreams. But before the intrigued wizard could question Zelyra further, the conversation took an unexpected turn.
"Wait just a minute, is that a doodle of me?" Fargas asked as he pointed to Kazimir's spellbook with an artful grin.
Sure enough, scattered amongst the wizard's sprawling handwritten notes were a series of caricature-like doodles. And featured centrally on the open page was a drawing of Fargas with his oversized longsword and the nameless archer—with a lemon for a head.
"And is that…supposed to be the ranger?" Zelyra wondered, leaning forward to examine the doodle with a closer eye.
Fargas sniggered quietly under his breath, "You gave her a lemon face!"
Kazimir abruptly slammed the book shut, his shadowy skin darkening with embarrassment. "Hey, that's private!" he objected.
"Do you have drawings of the rest of us?" Zelyra pressed, overlooking Kazimir's discomfort. Eagerly, she pulled Peanut out of his hiding place within her braid and requested, "Oh! Oh! Would you please draw Peanut for me?" The fey mouse squealed and squirmed in the druid's hands, very much peeved at being woken up from his nap.
Kazimir stared at her with open-mouthed surprise. "You—you don't think they're silly?" he asked, mortified that his drawings had been discovered at all.
Fargas snatched the book back from Kazimir's hands and began flipping through the pages. After a moment he whistled, "Not at all. These are very well done. Some are very lifelike. I particularly enjoy this one of your drow friend. You've captured her essence perfectly—" Fargas spun the book around then, pointing to a drawing of Fraeya showcasing her distinctive Fraeya glare. As Kazimir shrunk sheepishly in his robes, the halfling continued, "As far as I can tell, you're all in here. Even you, Zelyra. Though, I must say this one is not a particularly flattering likeness."
This time when Fargas flipped the book around, it was open to a page with Zelyra's half-elven features contorted with primal savagery. The druid snorted, "Is that truly what the transformation looks like? I've never really known."
"It's quite scary." Kazimir swallowed thickly and asked, "Do you want me to draw your mouse?" Zelyra nodded. Peanut had already fallen back asleep in her hands, giving the tiefling a decent angle for a portrait.
Fargas excused himself to snuggle in his warm bedroll—yet another item that the escaped prisoners had eyed with envy when the halfling had laid it out earlier in the evening. Within moments of him lying down, Fargas's mouth was wide open, and loud, gods' awful snores burst forth from it. Zelyra and Kazimir sighed and shook their heads. Another snorer among them. Lovely.
"I've always wondered, what exactly happens to Peanut when you shapeshift?" the wizard inquired as he dipped his quill into a vial of fresh ink. He set to work then, his silver brow drawn in concentration and tongue slightly poking out of his mouth as the ink slid fluidly across the page.
"You're either going to laugh or simply not believe me," Zelyra replied. She leaned forward slightly, mindful of both her sleeping pet and companions. As far as the druid could tell, only she and Kazimir remained awake now. "But Peanut shapeshifts with me, along with everything else I am wearing and carrying. Weird, huh?"
Kazimir shook his head, "I've said it before, and I'll say it again—your magic is very strange. Strange but…kind of cool."
By the time Kazimir finished the sketch, Zelyra was fighting the urge to nod off. After a moment of consideration, the wizard tore the page out of his spellbook and presented it to his druid companion. Zelyra reviewed it with a smile and whispered her thanks. It was perfect.
Months later, that same drawing of Peanut would remain folded up with care and tucked safely within a Bag of Holding. Zelyra would look back upon the conversation that she, Kazimir, and Fargas had shared that night with a smile. It would serve as a reminder of simpler times, more fortunate times. For though they thought themselves in desperate conditions now, they had no idea the dark path that fate was destined to lead them down. The Grey Warriors had such a long, long way to go.
—
When the group began to rouse the following morning, Fargas Rumblefoot stood at the mouth of the small cave with his sword out. And the striking adamantine blade was glowing bright blue.
"Hey Fargas," Kazimir called out warily. "What are you doing?"
"Shhh," the halfling waved him off. The strange light that the sword emitted refracted off the lenses of his thick goggles. And though they could not see his eyes, it appeared that Fargas was just as surprised by the glowing sword as the rest of the party. He took an experimental step forward and then another, before exiting through the fissure completely.
Jimjar sidled up to Fraeya and poked the rogue on the thigh. "Bet you that he won't get twenty paces before something terrible happens," the svirfneblin wagered.
A shrewd smile parted the drow's lips. "But what if I wish to make the same wager?"
"Well, that's a change," Jimjar whistled. "Perhaps we just wait and see what happens."
All but Sarith and the nameless ranger crowded around the fissure's opening, interested as to what would happen. Fargas only made it a few steps down the tunnel before the sword's light mysteriously blinked out. The halfling shook the weapon and muttered a few words under his breath. But it did not light up again. Fargas gave a silent shrug. He then slipped the blade back in its sheath and made his way back to the others.
Jimjar looked to Fraeya. "I guess we were both wrong," he muttered disappointedly.
"Another time," the drow reassured him. "You are the only one with coin, anyhow."
"You and I both know it is never really about that," the gnome replied.
Fraeya gave a slight tilt of her head. Yes, she did indeed know that.
Though the group rigorously pressed him about the meaning of the glowing sword, Fargas maintained his claim that he had no idea what it meant. This was the first time it had ever happened. And as Kazimir insightfully eyed the halfling, he found that Fargas was telling the truth, or at least what he believed to be the truth. That was the fickle thing with guile. It was all in the wording. If one was cunning enough, there was always an angle to be played.
After the group gathered their belongings and cleared all signs of their makeshift camp, another day of travel began. But at least on this day, the escaped prisoners had the promise of Sloobludop. Shuushar estimated that they would reach the Darklake within a few short hours. His home village was just beyond that. Upon reaching the Darklake, Fargas and his companion would go their own way. For despite the halfling's most persuasive efforts, the escaped prisoners were not about to change their course on a whim. Too much was at stake with Ilvara on their heels—not that Fargas and the ranger were aware of their drow pursuit. That grisly detail, the escaped prisoners kept to themselves.
While the others viewed the swift approach of Sloobludop with optimism, Balasar remained overwhelmingly uneasy. To the point where the dragonborn felt physically felt sick to his stomach. The worry brewing in his gut had only increased tenfold after their encounter with the terrifying eye stalk creature. Zelyra had been able to communicate with the aberrant being but never relayed precisely what it said to her. Thus, all Balasar had was a name.
Leemooggoogoon.
Balasar had futilely broached the subject with Shuushar the night before. Yet again, Shuushar rebuffed the dragonborn's concern. Balasar regrettably felt any trust and respect he had in Shuushar slowly crumbling away. It was no matter if Shuushar had once saved his life. How could they be friends, or at the very least allies, if both parties could not listen to reason and respect the other's opinion? Balasar's hand unconsciously dropped to the hilt of his longsword. If it came down to it, at least he could trust in a sharp blade.
True to Shuushar's promise, stifling tunnels opened to a seemingly endless chamber not an hour later. The soft lap of water against rock overtook the previous hushed atmosphere. Zelyra eyed the large basin before her with longing as she tossed her messy braid over her shoulder. She did not look forward to the pain of unraveling her hair. How long had it been since she bathed? Too long, the half-elf decided.
"Is there time to stop?" she asked through Stool's rapport spores. "Is the water safe?"
"For what?" Jimjar responded. "Drinking? Of course! How else do you imagine we obtain water around here?"
"Filling our waterskins might not be a bad idea. But I had bathing in mind."
"My people have basins," Shuushar assured the druid. "It will be no trouble."
Eldeth pinched Balasar warningly when he made a noise of protest.
"See? Wait just a bit longer," Fraeya urged, not wishing to waste any more time. "Then we can all wash the filth from our bodies."
"Those are going to be some dirty tubs," Kazimir quipped, looking down at his soiled robes with a frown. The wizard made a mental note to investigate minor cleaning magics if given the opportunity.
Fargas started towards the shoreline. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm not about to miss the opportunity to fill my 'skin."
The others shrugged and followed after him. It was not a bad idea. But as the halfling knelt by the edge of the water, a ripple along the surface—some thirty feet back—caught Fraeya's attention. The rogue squinted out at the reflective expanse. It could have been anything. Perhaps nothing more than a quipper breaching the surface. But the drow knew better than to assume. Another ripple came, this one accompanied by a small burst of bubbles. Fraeya unslung her shortbow.
Before the rogue could warn the others, a humanoid grey scaled head and two round eyes surfaced. Fraeya recognized it at once as a kuo-toa. The creature swiftly brought a small contraption to its lips and blew. A tiny dart shot out, aimed at Fargas as he knelt along the shore. The dart met its mark in a vulnerable place that his leathers did not cover. The halfling released an exasperated sigh. "Damn. Not again," he groaned and promptly slumped to the ground, conscious but paralyzed.
Both Zelyra and Fargas's ranger companion ran for him. But the ranger found herself similarly struck by a dart, fired by a second kuo-toa that rose from the frigid depths. A cold, numbing sensation washed over her and she suddenly found that she could not move her legs. The numbing effect, combined with the ranger's previous momentum, sent her careening face-first into the ground. Zelyra reached Fargas not a moment later. As she laid a healing hand on the halfling's arm, a third kuo-toa appeared. This one brandished a gnarly pincer staff that the kuo-toa appropriately called, 'man-catchers'.
"Zelyra! Look out!" Jimjar cried in warning.
But it was too late. The kuo-toa hooked their staff around the startled druid's waist and forcefully yanked her into the shallow waters. They then pounced, wrapping a thick cording of gut around Zelyra's hands to bind them before she had a chance to fight back.
It was the perfect ambush. A fourth kuo-toa appeared, then a fifth, a sixth—until nine kuo-toa in total surrounded the traveling party. They swiftly threw nets, blew darts, and whipped the travelers into reluctant submission. As with Zelyra, the others were caught similarly unawares. When one fell, their hands were bound behind their back with the same corded gut. There was no fighting or talking their way out of this one. When Shuushar tried to placidly reason with the kuo-toa wielding the pincer staff in their native tongue, he found himself viciously beaten to the ground.
"Sacrifices to the Deep Father!" the staff bearing kuo-toa gargled in Undercommon.
As one, the other kuo-toa chorused, "All praise Leemooggoogoon!"
From his compromised position with his snout crushed unceremoniously on the chasm floor by a kuo-toa's webbed foot as his hands were tightly bound behind his back, Balasar shot Shuushar an accusatory glare. Worry not, the pacifist had assured him the night before. My people bicker amongst one another. Harm travelers, they would not. What a load of steaming bull—
The genius of the darts the kuo-toa carried was that the paralysis only lasted for a few minutes. Just long enough to incapacitate and capture a foe. Having gained the feeling back in her limbs, the ranger uselessly tugged at her bonds. The gut chording was far stronger than it looked. Their captures took extra precaution. Muscled individuals like Prince Derendil, Eldeth, and Balasar had been triple bound. Stool's tiny myconid legs were hogtied. Kazimir was mildly offended that only one layer of gut was used on his wrists.
As the gargling kuo-toa started gathering the travelers in a line by poking and prodding them with metal hooks and spears, Zelyra hissed in Elvish to Fraeya in front of her, "What's happening? Why are they capturing us?"
The drow looked back at her companion in bewilderment, "How should I know? You think just because I am drow that I know everything?"
"Oh, for the love of—that's not what I meant at all," the druid shot back. "I can't understand them!"
Sarith fought the urge to rub his temples. Unfortunate, considering he couldn't move his arms. "Shut up, Fraeya," the warrior tested under his breath, uncaring of the consequence. He had seen enough of Fraeya to realize she was nothing like the cruel matron mothers of Menzoberranzan. Infuriating, yes. Blunt, yes. But nothing about her inspired fear and subservience. Not once had she ever looked down on him, degraded him, expected anything of him. Sarith wondered if Fraeya knew how unusual that was.
"What was that?" Fraeya growled, breaking the warrior from his reflection.
Sarith narrowed his crimson-colored eyes. "You heard me."
"I will gut you in your sleep," the rogue returned, though both knew it was an empty threat.
The kuo-toa forcibly marched their prisoners down a winding trail that followed the shores of the Dark Lake, all the while garbling in Undercommon about 'appeasement' and 'the Deep Father' and 'Leemooggoogoon'. Jimjar shakily translated to the surface dwellers that the kuo-toa were escorting them to Sloobludop, the very place they had hoped to be welcomed into, where they were to be appropriately groomed and given up as live sacrifices.
The escaped prisoners had fled the lion's den of Velkynvelve, only to find themselves thrown to the wolves of Shuushar's people—and they had drug Fargas and his ranger companion down with them. The halfling and auburn-haired half-elf were paraded right alongside them, their scheme of finding the lost tomb foiled. Fargas took special care to express his displeasure over that fact to those around him.
Balasar shook his head in stunned disbelief. How had conditions deteriorated so considerably in the village he had been in not tendays before? The kuo-toa had not approved of the dragonborn's presence but no one had tried to sacrifice him. He'd witnessed the offerings left on the shrine of the Sea Mother, Blibdoolpoolp, during his short stay—crustaceans, fish, minor beasts captured from the Darklake—never humanoids. Whoever this new rival god was…was…
The dragonborn did not have the words to appropriately delineate it.
Zelyra noticeably trembled and whispered prayers under her breath in Druidic. Walking directly behind her, Prince Derendil wanted nothing more than to do something to reassure her. And yet, he knew there was nothing he could say that might comfort the young druid. Deep down, he was just as terrified as she. His sheltered life among the royal court of Nelrindenvane had not prepared him for anything so tragic.
An hour of travel passed at a crawl as the group knew that this was a death march. But as they crested a rise in the path and their eyes were treated to what appeared to be a massive tangle of reed-like structures rising from the depths in the distance, the prisoners' luck turned. A dart, similar to the ones used to subdue them, struck the staff-wielding kuo-toa in the throat. They floundered, choking, and gasping desperately before all breath left them. The kuo-toa slumped to the ground, having succumbed to deadly drow poison.
The prisoners wildly looked to the Darklake and found more kuo-toa rising from the water, brandishing knives, pikes, and spears. The opposing group outnumbered the other by three. It made all the difference. Two of the new arrivals wielded pincer staves while a third looked to be someone of importance. A priest, perhaps. They wore an elaborate necklace of colorful shells and gems and carried a traditional staff with a clawed crustation crudely affixed to its top. The ambushing kuo-toa charged the procession and began viciously battling their own. A couple stopped to cut the bonds of the travelers. But this fight was not a capture mission—it was a slaughter.
The leader of the new group raised his crustation staff and looked out at his enemies with ire. "No mercy comes to heretics of the Sea Mother," he gurgled in Undercommon. Spellfire erupted from his staff and struck the leader of the opposing group. The staff bearing kuo-toa who had hooked Zelyra into the Darklake suddenly found themselves rooted to the spot, unable to do a thing as the point of a spear tore through their chest.
Such a distraction allowed the travelers to take a step back and free themselves. They let the kuo-toa fight amongst themselves, all except Buppido, who hopped into the fray and began viciously slicing at the heels of both parties. Derro were not known to control their impulses, after all. He returned to his fellow travelers covered in kuo-toa blood. Several recoiled from him.
When all the followers of the Deep Father lay dead, the lead kuo-toa turned his attention to the group that his loyal followers had freed. He slammed his staff against the stone floor and when he next opened his mouth to speak, the travelers, regardless of whether they knew Undercommon, found that they understood him.
"I am called Ploopploopeen, archpriest of the Sea Mother Blibdoolpoolp," the kuo-toa began in introduction. He smiled a gummy smile that somehow seemed so wrong after the brutish slaughter of his kin. "Our goddess has answered our dire call by delivering you to us in our hour of need. Help us, and you will be compensated for your brave service." While his speech pattern was more articulate than Shuushar's, some words were still difficult to grasp through the blubbering and garbling. It was almost as if he spoke with a mouthful of water.
"Why should we help you?" Fraeya snarled.
The archpriest appraised the drow female by walking a circle around her. Not once did he blink. It was…unnerving. After a moment he replied, "If it were not for me and those loyal to me, you would be bleeding out on an altar in a few short hours."
"He has a fair point," Fargas muttered to no one in particular.
"Your enemies are not the first to have made such a threat against us," Fraeya countered boldly. "And yet, here we are."
"Why is she the one doing the negotiating?" Kazimir hissed to Jimjar.
The svirfneblin sniggered and shrugged his shoulders.
"Perhaps a more levelheaded individual should handle the talking," Fargas interjected, flashing Fraeya a wry grin. "No offense intended, of course. I've known you all of a day, but I get the sense that your mouth often lands you into trouble."
"I don't like you," the rogue shot back but took a step back regardless.
"What would you require of us?" Balasar asked. Subconsciously, his clawed hand drifted to the hilt of his sword.
"Come with us and I will explain," Ploopploopeen offered.
Kazimir shook his head. "No, I think an explanation should be offered outright."
"Weren't you all headed to this village in the first place?" Fargas asked. The halfling then muttered under his breath, "I can't imagine why…seems like a dreadful place."
"I'm not sure I wish to go anymore," Zelyra admitted quietly. Near her, Balasar breathed a sigh of relief. At least someone saw sense.
Fargas's ranger companion crossed her arms over her chest and proposed, "Seems like a trap to me."
Ploopploopeen made an appeasing gesture and promised, "No trap. At least not for you." He then went on to explain that the inhabitants of Sloobludop had served the Sea Mother for generations. There were occasional dreamers—at this, the archpriest cast an accusatory scowl at Shuushar—though none of grave concern. But then Bloppblippodd, Ploopploopeen's own daughter, experienced a powerful vision of a being whom she called, Leemooggoogoon, the Deep Father. Bloppblippodd proclaimed Leemooggoogoon to be the new god of their village. She backed up that claim with a sudden influx of magical power, different than what was offered by the Sea Mother. One by one the people of Sloobludop diverted to her. Only a few now remained in the Sea Mother's service. More alarming still was the change in behavior by those swayed by Bloppblippod's zealous sermons. As Balasar had similarly noted, blood sacrifice had never been practiced in Sloobludop. And yet, the Deep Father demanded it.
"So, what do you want us to do about it?" Fraeya asked her tone calmer now.
"I wish to lay a trap," Ploopploopeen revealed conspiratorially. "I will offer Bloppblippodd the blood sacrifices she seeks but truly, we will use the opportunity to cut the head off her cult."
"You plan to murder your own daughter?" Kazimir inquired warily, hoping he had misunderstood Ploopploopeen's meaning.
But the archpriest nodded grimly. "I understand your hesitance, but it is one life in the exchange of many. These are heinous deeds. My daughter can no longer be reasoned with. I will not allow her and her mad followers to destroy what we have spent generations building. They will be the death of Sloobludop." When the group still did not appear convinced, Ploopploopeen garbled, "You will not go in unarmed or even in binds. We will present you as a peace offering and willing sacrifices convinced of the cause. And should we succeed, you also will not walk away empty-handed. I have much I can offer you—gold, gems, potions, spell scrolls."
Kazimir perked at the mention of spell scrolls. "We would ask to see this reward to confirm its validity before we agree to such terms," the wizard bartered.
"We also need supplies, food," Eldeth added.
Ploopploopeen considered their amendments for a moment before relenting, "Both can be arranged. Tonight, you will rest in my own home to convince my daughter that we have had time to have you properly prepared, and tomorrow, we will present you to her at the Deep Father shrine." No one asked how the blood sacrifices given to the Deep Father were prepared. It was better left unsaid.
"We are to assassinate your daughter ourselves?" Zelyra probed. "Is that what you are asking of us?"
The kuo-toa shook his head. "That is not at all what I ask. Defend yourselves in the ensuing fight if you wish, but all I require of you is to play the part. Rest assured you will be well protected. I will be present for the ritual and loyal followers of my priesthood will be hiding amongst the audience—these sacrifices are often public."
"What do we have to lose?" Buppido cackled eagerly.
"Our heads," Balasar muttered. "If it all goes horribly wrong."
But no one could argue that they were in desperate need of supplies and food. It was a long way to Gracklestugh. They would lie dead long before they reached the duergar city if not at least somewhat outfitted. Stolen armor and weapons, barrelstalk, and ripplebark could only get them so far. The promise of coin also was not a bad idea. It could be traded to the duergar for even better equipment. And at least Ploopploopeen's reward was tangible—unlike Fargas's lost tomb.
"It seems we have no choice," Fraeya conceded.
Zelyra exchanged a worried glance with Balasar but neither voiced their concerns. Perhaps it was as Ploopploopeen said, one life in the exchange of many. But at whose expense? Eldeth observed their silent debate and gave them both a reassuring pat on the arm. Ploopploopeen began to lead the group towards the village then. They quietly fell in line behind. Never in their wildest dreams would they have imagined being roped into such a thick plot, or the devastation it would lead to.
[1] For the direction I wanted to take Zelyra's character during the game, the ideals of Exandria's Melora/Wildmother fell more in line with what I imagined than Forgotten Realms' Melora. The names are the same so wanted to make the distinction.
Sound was a very important aspect of our games. Different songs signaled specific cues. For example, if "Fear God" by Lovett from The Ritual soundtrack started playing, we were being ambushed. And when a BBGE started 'looking really rough' near the end of a disastrous combat session, "Heart of Courage" or "Empire of Angels" by Thomas Bergersen would start blaring on the Bluetooth speaker. Cities had their own themes—characters too, especially the BBGE's. The sound of Sloobludop was "The Ruins of Dale" by Howard Shore from The Hobbit soundtrack.
For those curious about game semantics, the characters are officially level 4 as they enter Sloobludop.
Fraeya – Rogue, Thief
Kazimir – Wizard, School of Divination
Zelyra – (multiclass) Druid, Circle of Dreams/Cleric, Grave Domain
Balasar – Fighter, Champion
"Nameless" – Ranger (obviously), Hunter
The release of Tasha's Cauldron of Everything shook up our game. Particularly, the new rule about changing subclasses. Three of us wanted to switch. Why? When we initially built our characters, we were first-time D players who only had access to the Players Handbook. Two years later, D Beyond exploded and suddenly we had tons of new source material. DM/husband was merciful. Kazimir was previously School of Conjuration, Zelyra was Circle of the Land (forest), and Fraeya had the Thief archetype but wanted to switch to Assassin. For narrative purposes, I don't want to come up with reasons as to why those characters suddenly have completely different abilities 30 chapters from now. The original Thief archetype works better with Fraeya's backstory in my opinion, but Circle of Dreams and School of Divination better fit Zelyra and Kazimir's character arcs. Thus, those are what I'm going with.
Writing a divination wizard is so much harder than I thought it would be. How does one fit the portent ability into a story? I tried subtly introducing it with the carrion crawler fight…I don't think it came across as intended.
The nameless ranger will not remain nameless forever but it's going to be a couple more chapters. She's very stubborn. I look forward to not having to write "nameless ranger" or "Fargas's companion" anymore.
Not going to lie, I was inspired by the release of "The Legend of Vox Machina" last night. DM/husband and I jumped at the chance to watch it. It was everything we've been waiting for.
I've told myself I need to stop writing such long author notes but then this happens…