Chapter Sixteen
Those Who Remain
1485 DR / Day 21
The Lost Tomb of Khaem
When the rest of the group caught up to him, Fargas knelt upon the precarious ledge of a steep cliff. Nine, Kazimir, Balasar, and Eldeth came barreling through the narrow fissure that was the tunnel's exit with such gusto that the halfling scarcely had time to signal for them to stop!
Glimmer was tucked away, but the enchanted sword produced just enough ambient light to create a slight dome around Fargas's hunched form. Nine skidded to a halt and planted her feet. When Kazimir ultimately crashed into her from behind, the impact barely forced her forward an inch. Balasar also saw the halfling and the cliff's edge. But Eldeth did not. The shield dwarf charged through and would have gone straight over—taking poor Fargas with her—if not for Balasar's quick action. He grasped the back of Eldeth's ill-fitting chainmail shirt and yanked her back towards him. The conflicting forces of momentum sent the pair sprawling to the ground, clear of the edge and Fargas. Prince Derendil, Stool, Fraeya, Zelyra, and Sarith caught up shortly after.
"Thank ye for that," Eldeth muttered as she righted herself. Balasar numbly patted her shoulder. The alternative, watching the pair fall to their deaths, was unimaginable.
While the shield dwarf and dragonborn caught their breath, the others took stock of their surroundings and found them uncannily accurate to their shared vision. A gushing waterfall rained down from a cathedral-like ceiling of immeasurable height and fed into a series of smaller ones. The source of the main waterfall was unclear. Perhaps it stemmed from a portion of the Darklake far above them. The tight tunnel they'd sprinted through had wound down, down, down. The open chamber they stood in now was not only bathed in an eerie dim green light but also echoing, loud, and refreshingly cool, an effect of the thunderous falls and their spraying silver mists.
Amidst the calm waters that pooled at the bottom of the chasm stood a lone, toppled structure, the remains of Brysis Khaem's floating tomb. A millennia ago, at the height of the Netheril Empire, the floating fortress would have been considered a pinnacle work of art soaring amongst the clouds. How the mighty sorceress must be rolling in her grave to know what had become of it! A broken mass of stone. Lost to memory and time. Her legacy would have remained lost to the deep dark if not for one halfling's determination—and the greed of his surreptitious employer.
"By the Gods," Kazimir muttered beneath his breath. And then, louder for everyone's benefit, he said, "You were right, Fargas! The tomb exists!"
Fargas began to laugh. And not just a simple chuckle, but full bellyaching laughter that was infectious and endearing. Many of his companions joined in with him or, at the very least, smiled or nodded in approval. It felt good to know that they had not been following a magical artifact and the word of an eccentric halfling for nothing.
"This means that you owe me a hat," Fargas reminded the wizard.
Kazimir considered that. Then, with a flick of his wrist, a shimmering illusion of a wide-brimmed explorer's hat with a short drawstring chin strap appeared on the halfling's head. Kazimir went on to apologize that the conjuration would only last for an hour. But Fargas did not care if one were to judge by the ear-splitting grin he sported. It was the principle of the matter, not the hat itself. [1]
When their laughter died away, Eldeth noted that various items from the halfling's pack were strewn around him. Before the adventurers had found him, he had been fumbling with a child-sized harness and a coiled length of rope.
"I suppose we'll be climbing down," the dwarf surmised. "Ye got a set of gear there for yerself, Fargas. But that wee thing won't fit everyone."
"Well, you've got a trim form for a dwarf! We could share," the halfling said with a flirty wink that was lost behind his dark goggles. When Eldeth folded her arms across her chest and fixed Fargas with an unimpressed scowl, he amended with, "Or not? Ahem! Our dear ranger should have an extra set or two that can be adjusted to fit the larger folk. And the druid likely has her own way down…."
"Not today, I don't," Zelyra admitted.
"You can't just morph into a spider again?" Fargas asked.
The druid shook her head. "I summoned Peanut earlier—"
"You mean to tell us that you wasted a useful spell on a pet?" Nine interrupted.
Zelyra's face turned a bright shade of red. "It wasn't wasteful! Peanut has his uses!" she argued.
"None that I've seen," the half-elven ranger bit back.
The denunciation felt like a slap to the face. Zelyra shrunk back as a wave of shame washed over her. Perhaps the ranger was right. Maybe it had been unwise to sacrifice her shapeshifting ability that day to summon her familiar. But she was only human, so to speak, and prone to misjudgment. Peanut, however, scurried out onto the druid's shoulder and began emitting a series of shrill, angry squeals. The fey mouse, it seemed, disagreed.
Nine scowled. Why was she expected to make up for what the others lacked? The rag-tag group that Fargas had inexplicably convinced to join his cause were far too ill-equipped for her liking, but even so, the ranger was not about to enter the tomb without them. Their added reinforcement could prove invaluable. By some miracle, the tunnel had not been trapped. The tomb undoubtedly would be.
"You're lucky that one of us had the sense to come prepared," Nine grumbled to Fargas as she fumbled through her pack. "You would have waltzed off from Mantol-Derith with nothing but the clothes on your back and that blasted sword if not for me!"
To the surface dwellers, the name Mantol-Derith meant nothing. And so too was the case for Balasar. He'd been confined to the fighting pits of Gracklestugh and knew little else of the Underdark. But to the drow, the name of the infamous black market was all too familiar.
"Mantol-Derith?" Fraeya exclaimed. "What were you doing there?"
"That is not of your concern," Nine maintained. It was the same response the ranger had given every time someone in the group pressed her origins—she'd left that life behind and had no want to remember it.
"I see," said the rogue. "It was only a question. No need to get heated."
"What's Mantol-Derith?" asked Balasar.
"Does it matter? I'll tell ye what matters: the harnesses! Does the ranger have them or not?" Eldeth complained to no one in particular. "We'll be old and grey before we even make it to the tomb if she doesn't stop her pissing contests!"
It did not go unnoticed that Nine unexpectedly colored at the reverse criticism. Deep down, the ranger knew that her dourness often spoiled any laughter and frivolity that Fargas could so quickly incite. But her overbearing behavior was, in the end, well-intended. Even if it didn't come across that way. At all.
"I have two harnesses. We can scale down in pairs," Nine told the dwarf. And before Eldeth could ask, the ranger firmly added, "And yes, they can be adjusted to fit Balasar and Prince Derendil."
As Nine and Eldeth exchanged sour glances, Kazimir casually elbowed Balasar beside him and said, "I once heard an old wives' tale that their times of bleeding can synchronize—"
"Finish that statement, Kazimir! I dare you!" the ranger hissed without looking away from Eldeth.
"You really don't know when to stop talking, do you?" Fraeya immediately added.
"See? Case in point," the wizard muttered.
As the three females groaned at the poor attempt at a joke, Kazimir and Balasar hid their boyish smiles behind their hands.
…
Once the harnesses were adjusted, Nine tied off three lengths of rope to a large stalagmite. And with that, the first wave was ready to go. Fargas went first, followed closely by Fraeya and the ranger. It was slow going, but all three were skilled climbers and found easy footholds for those less experienced to follow. When they reached the bottom, the harnesses were pulled back up and adjusted for Kazimir and Balasar. Once they were down, the process was repeated for Eldeth and Sarith.
At last, Zelyra and Prince Derendil remained at the top with Stool. The myconid sprout was secured into Fargas's small harness and carefully lowered. Kazimir caught them safely at the bottom. But when the wizard motioned for the prince and the druid to follow, Zelyra waved him on ahead. Kazimir shrugged and joined the others at the edge of the lake. Stool hurriedly trotted along behind him.
Derendil looked at Zelyra in confusion and asked, "Why did you tell them to go on without us?"
Zelyra did not answer. She was too busy chewing on her lip and eyeing the harness and rope as if they were a death sentence. Now that Derendil thought on it, she'd been strangely quiet. It made him wonder…
"Are you scared of heights?" the prince inquired, mostly in jest. "Surely the Silken Paths were more terrifying than this."
The druid shook her head. "No, it's not that."
"Are you bothered by what the ranger said earlier?"
Again, Zelyra shook her head.
Derendil was at a loss.
"Then what troubles you?" he pressed.
Zelyra considered her feelings and realized her disquiet stemmed from the strange visions the party had shared. Her companions had brushed the phenomena aside, but the druid knew better. There had been flashes, hazy shadows in her version of the vision that the others did not see. Again, she felt that guiding tendril of wind at her back. But this time, it was the unmistakable bite of winter, urgent and merciless in contrast to its typical warmth and comfort. It whispered to her that the tomb was ripe with anger and devoid of all that was good. The wind bid her forward, and yet, she could not.
"Something is off," the druid muttered, more to herself than the prince.
"All the more reason for us to go with them!" said Derendil.
"We saved the treasure from Sloobludop. My share alone is more gold than I have possessed in my entire lifetime! Why are we searching for more?" Zelyra argued.
"Like Fargas said, it's the thrill of the chase! It's not about gold. It's about discovery. Think of how many lost secrets might be sealed inside. The sorceress has been dead for nearly two millennia—" the prince began.
"Does it matter? Is there a set time limit in which one's remains are deserving of respect, never to be unearthed or disturbed?" the druid challenged. "Because if that is the case, my people do not yield to such thinking. We have honored those who have fallen in service to our Circle since the fledgling days of the Wood. There is no expiration as to how long we will guard them!"
Derendil regarded her for a moment, appearing both inquisitive and sympathetic. "Do you wish to remain here?" he then asked.
After a length, Zelyra nodded. "I think so. I can't explain it—I'm sorry. Something just doesn't feel right." How could she justify her hesitance aside from what she'd already expressed? Would Derendil believe her if she said that a cold wind signified a bad omen? But the druid found that she had no need to fear. The prince accepted her word as it was.
"Then I will remain with you," Derendil decided. "I must admit, I was intrigued by the idea of uncovering long-forgotten secrets, and I also feel a sense of duty to aid our companions…." He averted his gaze and then said, "But you are my priority."
Zelyra colored and gaped up at him, seeking clarification, but Derendil would not—could not—look at her. The rocks beneath his feet seemed far more interesting.
The druid's gut reaction was, 'Why?!' What had she done to warrant such loyalty? They hardly knew one another. But since meeting him, Derendil had been at her side as both a friendly conversationalist and a fierce protector. After all, was it not Derendil who pulled her from the carrion crawler's maw? Was it not Derendil who first came to her aid when she fought against the giant spiders in the Silken Paths alone?
Moreover, minor occurrences, things that Zelyra had not thought much of at the time, suddenly pushed to the forefront of her mind. Derendil had asked for her opinion on many matters since they escaped Velkynvelve. He put value in her voice and her decisions. And for that, she was grateful. It was nice to know that at least one in their party saw value in her—more than just 'the necessary healer.' Zelyra could not fathom how she'd managed to earn the favor of a prince, someone who undoubtedly was used to making their own decisions, but she was determined to return the respect he showed her in kind.
"What is your opinion? Do you believe it's best to go with them?" the druid asked.
Derendil was glad to turn his gaze down below to their menagerie of companions as they cautiously waded through the lake's shallow waters. The prince had thought he'd already made his thoughts known but clarified for Zelyra's sake. "We do not know what trouble might await them in the tomb. You said that something was off. It would be wise not to split up, as they have no way to contact us for reinforcement if all goes ill," he reasoned.
Zelyra followed his line of sight. And as she looked down upon her unlikely acquaintances, she knew that the prince spoke sense. Inexplicably, her heart burned. The right path was not always the easiest. They'd come this far. Together, as a team. Who was she to abandon her companions now? Serve and protect. That was what the Circle had taught her; what Laucian and Varan had both taught her.
"Then we should go," the druid said. As she voiced the decision, a wave of warmth washed over her to combat the chill in her bones.
"Wait—what? Why?"
Prince Derendil was terribly confused.
Had she not just argued against going forward?
"Someone has to ensure that Fargas doesn't unwittingly unleash a curse!" Zelyra said with a grin.
As the druid fastened a harness around her waist, Derendil could only stand by and shake his head in wonderment. Either Kazimir's wives' tale was accurate, or they were all going a bit mad…
…
Below, the rest of the companions safely treaded the shallow lake and gathered upon the marbled stairs that emerged from the water. Unsurprisingly, Fargas and Kazimir were at the front. An enormous bronze door, now green and oxidized with age, loomed before them. Its height was fifteen feet or more, and the image of a beautiful elven female swathed in grandiose robes stood out in relief.
A series of strange sigils formed a circle around the elf's head like a halo. Kazimir considered the markings carefully. They did not resemble anything he had ever seen before, and the wizard was well versed in many unusual languages. "I wonder what they say," he muttered under his breath.
Beside him, Fargas let out a low whistle. "Brysis sure was a looker!" he sniggered.
"How do you know that is Brysis and not a depiction of Mystra?" Kazimir asked.
The halfling considered that for a moment before admitting, "I don't. But one can only assume."
"I'm teasing you, Fargas. Mystra's avatar was said to be human, not an elf."
"Well, I learned something new today," Fargas quipped.
"Are we going to stand around all day looking at the door or actually go inside?" Fraeya drawled from the back of the line. The rogue pressed one hand to her temple and impatiently tapped her foot against the stone step for emphasis.
"It's a big door! And I am a small individual!" Fargas replied.
Kazimir confidently rubbed his hands down the length of his horns. "Don't worry, guys. I got this!" he declared.
"If you manage to open that, I will forfeit my share of the treasure," said Fraeya.
Undeterred by the rogue's taunt, Kazimir placed his hands on the door and pushed on the center with all his might. But when the door did not so much as budge an inch, the wizard barked out a nervous laugh.
"You are so weak," the drow said.
"Ye of so little faith!" Kazimir mocked.
The tiefling dug in his heels, closed his eyes, and tried again. Finally, to his surprise and delight, the effort paid off. The low rumble of stone grinding against stone sounded as the door rotated on a central axis to reveal twin narrow openings on either side. Kazimir looked back at Fraeya and shot her a triumphal grin. But the celebration was short-lived. The wizard saw then that Balasar and Sarith had snuck up behind and pushed on the left side of the door to turn it.
"It pivots," Sarith told the tiefling with an unapologetic shrug.
Just as Kazimir was about to protest, a low moan sounded from deep within the tomb. The wizard's attention swiveled from Sarith to the door. Were they not alone? Or was the sound nothing more than the stone settling? The room beyond the doorway was black as pitch. And the air which stirred there was dank, stale, and cold.
Fargas pushed his magical goggles above his head, revealing his hazel-colored eyes, and said, "Torches and conjured light now if you please. I wish to experience this by my own vision."
Unsurprisingly, the halfling explorer was the first to enter the tomb with Glimmer drawn and glowing. Kazimir immediately followed, activating his dancing lights, and Balasar and Eldeth lit two additional torches as they fell in line behind the wizard. The sudden onslaught of light had Fraeya and Sarith seeking the familiar comfort of shadow. But once their sensitive eyes adjusted, they too were treated to the entrance chamber of Brysis's tomb.
To the right of the entry door was a fresco depicting Brysis Khaem at the height of power with an abundance of retainers, slaves, and friends at her back. Mirroring that on the left was a second mural featuring a myriad of floating enclaves—High Netheril, before its fall. There was little else of note aside from the artwork. Two empty stone sconces flanked either side of the only visible way forward. A marble staircase led to an unassuming landing before continuing upwards into darkness. [2]
While his companions marveled at the frescoes, Kazimir approached the staircase. As his dancing lights chased away the shadows obscuring the landing, the wizard saw that a large, circular calendar stone was set into the back wall. He could have spent days staring at the strange markings and symbols of the stone but settled for making a quick but high detailed sketch in his spellbook. Only one of the symbols stood out to him. At the center was a four-pointed star, the original symbol for the church of Mystryl.
"What's this?" Fargas asked as he approached the contemplative wizard.
"Some sort of calendar stone," Kazimir answered. "It might tell the history of the Netherese people…or it could be an interpretation of the birth of magic. I'm not entirely sure. It might take days to sort out the meaning of these glyphs."
"I hope you made a good sketch then," the halfling replied. "That could be a fun project for you later."
"Indeed," the tiefling agreed.
The pair moved on shortly after. The staircase continued upwards for more than one hundred feet, split between three more landings. The third opened into a dusty chamber twice the size of the entrance hall. Fargas and Kazimir stopped short in the doorway. An altar of pale grey marble lay broken and cracked against the wall to the right. Shredded tapestries littered the ground, and the beautiful frescoes which decorated the walls in a 360-degree pattern were defaced by deep gouges. Strangely, the damage appeared to be recent—one tall vase in the corner of the room ominously swayed back and forth—but whoever, or whatever, had torn through the space left no tracks upon the dusty floor.
"What in the name of the blessed sisters happened here?" the halfling muttered.
Kazimir shook his head in disbelief. He began to step into the room to examine the damage more closely, but Fargas held out a panicked hand to stop him. "Wait! Do you think that whatever did this is still in here?" the explorer asked fearfully.
"It's a high possibility," Kazimir whispered back, remembering the moan they'd heard when the door to the tomb opened. He then added, "But I think the better question is what could do something like this without leaving any tracks."
"Something that can fly?"
"Many monstrosities can fly."
"Great," Fargas moaned.
Kazimir swallowed nervously and said, "Let's just proceed with caution. We didn't come all this way to turn around before finding anything."
A few minutes later, multiple sets of footsteps on the stairs signaled the arrival of the rest of the group. Prince Derendil and Zelyra were now among them, and it was clear that the others had waited around in the entrance chamber for the prince and druid to catch up while Fargas and Kazimir explored ahead.
A closer examination of the damage to the room revealed nothing about what had caused it. Fargas and Kazimir now stood before the altar, debating back in forth about what the inscription on the bottom of the statue might mean. It was written in a language that neither were familiar with. That was quite an impressive feat—between them, the pair knew more than seven different languages.
"I knew I should have taken that Ancient Netherese class," the wizard could be heard grumbling to Fargas. "But no, I had to take Advanced Abyssal instead."
"All that beautiful artwork…ruined," Prince Derendil lamented as he entered the room and saw the ruined frescoes. He'd spent several minutes admiring the murals downstairs and likely would have continued to do so for much longer if the group hadn't started up the stairs.
"I didn't know you were a fan of art, prince!" Kazimir exclaimed.
The cursed elf shrugged and said, "We had many frescoes like this in the palace. My father's favorite artist was a young bard that sang while she worked. The mural she did in our formal dining hall took almost two years to complete."
"That's a long time to spend on a single piece of art," Fargas said.
"It is a fascinating process. The artist takes pigments and applies them to wet plaster so that when they dry, the pigments become fixed to…." Derendil abruptly trailed off when he realized that the halfling had turned away and was no longer listening. But many of the rest of the group were.
"What does the painting in your dining hall look like?" Zelyra asked.
The prince's mouth opened and then quickly shut. A puzzled expression swept across his monstrous face. "I—I can't remember," he admitted.
"Should we carry on to the next room?" Fargas interrupted. He was itching to discover something of note. The calendar stone and the broken altar were good finds, but so far, they had found nothing else of what was rumored to be sequestered in Brysis's tomb.
"There are two doors," said Nine. "Which way forward?"
Indeed, there were two ways that the group could proceed. One door loomed directly ahead on the far wall. The other was positioned slightly off center to the left of the entrance. Neither door was more decorated or distinguishable from the other. Both were solid sheets of pale marble. The choice was ultimately a gamble.
Fargas considered the two doors carefully. "I say, the one directly in front of the stairs. It's the first thing you see when entering the room," the halfling reasoned. He then added, "Plus, it's centered."
"Do you have something against things that are off-centered?" Kazimir joked.
"Do you prefer the door on the left?" Fargas quickly countered.
The wizard held up his hands and said, "This is your expedition, buddy. We're just along for the ride."
"Just pick a damn door!" Fraeya hissed. Again, she dug her fingers against her temple as if fighting a headache. It struck Kazimir as odd.
"Are you okay?" the wizard asked.
"I'm fine," the rogue snapped.
"You don't look fine," Kazimir pressed.
Fraeya scowled and stormed past the irritating wizard towards the 'centered' door on the far wall. But as she threw her shoulder against the lefthand side and pushed as Balasar and Sarith had done at the main entrance, it did not budge.
"Not as easy as it looks, huh?" Kazimir said as he walked up to assist her.
"You are the most infuriating person I have ever met!" the rogue exploded.
Fargas nudged Nine as she stood beside him and said, "They argue like a pair of bitter old spouses! Kind of like you and me, eh?"
"We are not, nor will we ever be romantically involved, Fargas," his companion replied with a roll of her eyes. "I am your guide and nothing more."
"Oh! How you wound me, my dear ranger!" the halfling cried dramatically.
Kazimir chuckled at their teasing banter as he pushed against the door alongside Fraeya. But even their combined effort was not enough. Ultimately, Balasar was forced to lend his strength as well. With the dragonborn doing most of the work, the stone door opened quickly. [3] Immediately, they were hit with the stench of stale air. But that did not deter them. Their trio entered the new chamber, with the rest of the party falling into step behind them.
Zelyra made a conscious effort to be the last one to file in. For the very moment that the druid set foot inside, it felt as though a shadow befell her mind. A shiver ran down her spine. The guiding tendril of wind at her back returned with a vengeance, piercing her straight to the core. Zelyra froze and looked about the torchlit space in fear. But there was nothing there of note, save four ornamented sarcophagi.
The druid reached out and frantically tugged on Derendil's sleeve. Then, when the prince turned to look back at her, she said, "Something is not right about this room!"
"What about it?" he asked. "What do you see that I cannot?"
"I don't see anything! That's the problem. All I know is that there is unnatural evil here," the druid said miserably.
As the pair were having that discussion, Fargas eagerly approached the sarcophagus tucked in the room's northeast corner. This was more like what he was searching for! Undoubtedly, the coffins of Brysis's loyal retainers held ancient treasures no longer seen in their modern world. The halfling hopped up and down several times, attempting to get a better look at the raised sculpture on the lid, to no avail. He was too short. At last, Fargas decided to climb up onto the receptacle itself. But no sooner did he touch the lid did a black, shadowy mass emerge from within!
A cold breeze swept through the room, nipping at the adventurers' heels and clawing at their spines. Abruptly, the bright flames of Balasar and Eldeth's torches were snuffed out. The room plunged into darkness. But to those with keen darkvision, the source of Zelyra's unease and shadow of thought was thus revealed. An abomination and threat against the natural order of the world, this creature was. It hungered for the living. The specter howled with unholy fury and unleashed itself upon the poor halfling. [4]
—
[1] Minor illusion does not last for an hour, but a conjuration wizard's 'minor conjuration' does. I mentioned in a previous author's note that Kazimir was a conjuration wizard who later switched to divination. For this rendition, I've been depicting him as straight divination. But then there are moments like this where I feel his previous class offers some neat abilities that add to the storyline. So. I'm exercising some creative license.
The same dilemma will arise with Zelyra. Her multiclass features might show up in ways that contradict RAW gameplay rules/leveling. Specifically, I introduced her Eyes of the Grave attribute from the cleric grave domain subclass in this chapter. This wasn't something that I had access to during our actual playthrough. But that is the nice thing about the campaign being done and over. All the significant outcomes have already been decided. At this point, character sheets are just a reference. Everything else is just flavor. :)
[2] I reversed the layout of the tomb. In the previous chapter, I described a tiered structure, flipped on its side, rising from a shallow lake (and that goes back to our gameplay because I recall our characters having to 'swim' to reach it). But now, comparing the previous description to the module, neither that nor a series of descending rooms makes sense. I debated various scenarios where Reverse Gravity might come into play, but that would have consequences that don't coincide with gameplay. And then I started overthinking that if the tomb was below the surface level of the lake, then it would likely be flooded, and the party would have to swim through it, which also doesn't coincide with our gameplay. So, I settled for a tower. The Netherese arcanists were all about living in the clouds anyhow. Perhaps it would be fitting to treat their dead in the same fashion of elevating them rather than burying them.
[3] I realize that the stone doors in the tomb only require a DC 15 Strength (Athletics) check to open, but Kazimir and Fraeya both have negative modifiers to strength, so…
[4] In our original gameplay, I think Fargas merely bumped into the sarcophagus and triggered the specters to emerge. But the thought of having him climb on top of it was funnier. Doing something like that is immensely disrespectful, but Fargas is an eager little fellow. I know it seems like I'm always picking on him! The luck feat skipped Fargas's generation :D