Chapter Seventeen
The Price of Selfishness
1485 DR / Day 21
The Lost Tomb of Khaem
Fargas let out a girlish shriek as the specter passed through him. It was over in less than a few seconds, but its draining effect lingered. He felt cold and feverish all at once. It was like waking up with a dagger lodged in his chest all over again. No, actually, this was far worse. It felt as if the strength had been sucked dry from his bones. He could not think or breathe. Glimmer clattered to the ground beside him. Fargas could do nothing but huddle in on himself and pray that the life-stealing nightmare would disappear.
As soon as she saw the undead, it was as if a switch flipped in Zelyra's head. She now understood the reason for her premonitions. Creatures like this defied the natural order by ignoring death's due. The destruction of such mockeries of nature was a dogma of the First Circle! The druid threw up her shield and dashed in Fargas's direction, prepared to protect him if necessary. But she did not get far. Three more wailing specters rose from their graves. Soon, the cramped room, which was no more than fifteen by fifteen feet at best, erupted into pure chaos.
The specters resembled nothing of what they had been in life. There was no distinction of race or sex, nothing. Their souls were lost. All that remained was a vague form of dark cloud and a gaping maw which produced spine-chilling shrieks. They had no conscious thought but their want to consume. For the specters saw the world around them in shades of grey. Their purview was exclusively devoid of color. But the living, they were different. They were shiny and bright. And the specters despised them for it.
The party fought valiantly against the undead. But there was only so much they could do. Their swords and arrows passed straight through the wispy beings without lasting consequence. And the deadly poison, which often coated Sarith's twin swords, had no effect on them whatsoever. This only served to anger the specters more as it was an unjust reminder of their half-life.
Even Kazimir's conjured bolts of flame seemed to not deal as much damage as they should have. But the room was cramped, and his list of spells that did not run the risk of friendly fire was short. The wizard very much doubted that he could put a ghost to sleep or charm it. Thus, all he could hope to do was maintain his warding armor, keep hurling flame, and hope that Zelyra might have a different sort of magic to combat the spectral beings.
By the time Zelyra reached Fargas, his face was white as a sheet, and he was barely breathing. As she hopelessly rammed her shield into the specter floating around them, Peanut scurried down the druid's leather breastplate and skirt. The fey mouse leaped and landed neatly on the injured halfling's stomach. Zelyra's healing magic activated then by proxy. Tiny spectral vines reached out to heal but then withered and died away without effect. [1]
Peanut squeaked up at Zelyra worriedly, bringing attention to the failed spell. The druid panicked. Fargas was still recovering from the knife wound, and now this to add to injury! Looking around, their other companions fared no better. Fraeya dropped to one knee across from the druid. Not long after, Kazimir collapsed to the floor near her. Sarith was slumped against the southwestern sarcophagus, clutching at his head. The drow warrior's crossbow lay forgotten beside him. And then there was valiant Prince Derendil, who used his massive body to shield young Stool and sacrificed his own lifeforce to do so.
"No, no, no, no! There must be something that hurts these things," the druid muttered to herself. "Think, Zelyra! Think!"
And then it came to her. It was something that Ansron, the Circle's Lorekeeper and Master of Spells, had once said. The opposition to beings that defy the natural order of death is light. The undead cannot tolerate it. She needed light. Different than flame, brighter than that. Moonfire. Laucian had once shown her such a spell, but the druid had not been strong enough at the time to cast it. This time, she had no choice. The survival of her companions depended on it.
Again, Zelyra called forth her magic. An inconspicuous beam of pale light, no brighter than Glimmer, appeared in the center of the room. But when one of the specters tried to pass through it, it began to writhe and moan as ghostly flames of pure radiance threatened to consume it. In a matter of moments, the restless spirit lost its battle with the light. And in that final moment before it faded into nothingness, the druid could have sworn she saw a human face looking back at her.
"That's good!" Fraeya praised. "Can you toast the other three now so we can move on from this godforsaken room? I will never, ever let Fargas live this down! Check out this tomb with me, he said. There will be treasure, he said. No wonder no one has been here before! It's obviously haunted!"
The druid ignored the rogue's angry rant. Her hands shook as she fought to maintain control over the moonfire despite her injuries and rising fear. Zelyra shifted the direction of the beam and centered it on the specter attacking Balasar. The apparition was burned away by the light after only a split second of enduring it. But to be fair, the dragonborn had been hacking at it for a while.
Two specters remained. Nine managed to dispatch one all by herself, and the other was overtaken by the radiant beam shortly after. Then, at last, the room was quiet. And with the absence of the undead, Balasar and Eldeth's torches inexplicably flared back to life.
"Well, that was weird," the dwarf said as she stared at her torch in surprise.
Balasar shook his head. "This place is strange," was all he said.
Kazimir clamored to his feet and hurried over to Fargas. As he knelt next to the injured halfling, he asked, "Do you need help getting up, buddy?"
Fargas was too exhausted to argue or do anything else other than nod. The wizard swung an arm over the halfling's shoulder and helped him stand. But the action didn't quite work out the way that Kazimir intended, considering their stark difference in height. Fargas ended up clutching the tiefling's leg for support instead. More than a moment or two passed before he could stand on his own.
"If only someone had a health potion they could spare for this poor guy!" Kazimir said as he stared pointedly in Fraeya's direction, for the wizard recalled there had been one such potion in Ploopploopeen's horde.
But before the rogue could respond, Zelyra interrupted, "Don't waste it. A potion won't work if my healing magic could not touch him. He needs rest." Inwardly, Fraeya thought that worked out well as she'd had no intention of giving up the potion—not even for Fargas. She had to look out for herself.
"We can set up a camp on the shores of the lake," the tiefling suggested.
"Wait? We're leaving? But we haven't found anything yet!" Fargas protested weakly.
Eldeth stared at the halfling in alarm. "Yer white as a sheet and barely clinging to life, and yet yer primary concern is still the treasure?!" the dwarf exclaimed.
"I am inclined to agree with that sentiment," Nine agreed. "There's no use dying over gold, Fargas."
"We'll be fine! The specters are destroyed," the halfling continued to argue.
"And what if there are more in the other chamber?" the ranger asked.
"Then I'll hide behind the prince with Stool!" said Fargas.
Prince Derendil barked out a weak laugh at that.
The halfling then lost all mirth as he added, "Besides, you and I are under contract. We cannot go back empty-handed. We are expected to bring her artifacts."
The soured expression on Nine's face reached a new extreme at that reminder. But she knew that Fargas was right. The ranger promptly crossed the room and prepared to open the lid to the northwest sarcophagus.
"Wait!" Zelyra suddenly cried.
Nine stilled her hand. "What now?"
"Don't tell me you're going to disturb that person's remains! That's just…" the druid trailed off and looked away, biting her lip.
"I'm just going to take a peek inside," the ranger replied.
To Zelyra's horror, Nine was not the only one with such intentions. The others were preparing to do the same with the other three sarcophagi. The druid shook her head and said, "I can't be a part of this."
"Then stare at that urn over there in the corner if that makes you feel any better," was Nine's callous reply. "Or you can go wait outside."
Zelyra's face burned hot with anger, and she would have bit back a scathing remark of her own if Prince Derendil had not placed a calming hand on her forearm. "Don't. It's not worth it," he said sadly. "I know you have reservations. I will leave with you if you'd like."
The druid crossed her arms across her chest and stubbornly said, "No. I'm not going anywhere. If they wish to invoke the wrath of Kelemvor, that's on them."
Nine ignored the threat of angering the God of Death. The ranger unceremoniously threw open the lid to the northwest sarcophagus then and nearly lost her stomach. Just as she had privately theorized, nothing remained inside. The body was gone, having been destroyed alongside the specter. But the stench of death remained. Nine buried her face in her elbow to curb the awful smell. "The box is empty," she said. "We destroyed the specters, so…." [2]
This time, Zelyra's face colored with mortification, not anger. "To be fair, I also thought there would be remains inside," Prince Derendil comforted her. "But I do suppose that once the creature is destroyed, the energy trapping it on this plane would cause the remains to turn to dust."
"Dust or mummified remains, it doesn't matter. This makes me uncomfortable," Zelyra insisted as she gestured to the sarcophagi around them.
"We're just doing business, Zelyra," Fargas told her.
"That still doesn't make it right," said the druid.
Nine rolled her eyes and turned back to the sarcophagus. They would have to agree to disagree on the morality of their task. The receptacle was lined with rotting velvet fabric, and an onyx ring lay inconspicuously where a hand might once have been. Nine promptly handed the piece of jewelry over to Fargas, who slipped it into his pack. The ranger then delved back in for a small leather bag tucked in the bottom corner. It was full of tiny gemstones. Azurite and carnelian, to be precise. Both would fetch reasonable prices on the black market.
The other sarcophagi contained similar treasures. Kazimir and Balasar presently leaned over the one in the northeast corner. The wizard let out a low whistle when he saw the ceremonial wand of chiseled ivory that lay inside.
"That's a nice wand," Kazimir said. "But I'm not putting my hand in there."
Balasar impishly nudged him. "You scared?"
The wizard shook his head. "No, it's just gross."
"Why? Like the ranger said, the body is gone," the dragonborn said. "It's just an empty box."
"Still, said empty box contained a dead person for an untold number of years…."
Fraeya snorted at that as she leaned over the southwest sarcophagus alongside Sarith. "It's too bad that you feel that way. There's a walking stick in this one that is right up your alley!" she said.
"No thanks. I've already got one of those," the wizard replied as he patted his crystalline staff.
"But this one has a golden handle shaped like a serpent!" the rogue further incentivized.
Kazimir forgot all about the ivory wand. "Hold on! Let me look at that…."
"Maybe it will turn into a real one and bite you," Sarith said as the wizard came to stand beside them.
"Did you just make a joke?" the wizard asked.
The drow warrior then muttered, "It wasn't a joke. I'm hoping for it."
Meanwhile, Eldeth joined Balasar at the northeast sarcophagus. The dragonborn quietly collected the two gold bracelets and the ivory wand. He reasoned that Kazimir might change his mind later. If not, they could always sell it all to buy more supplies. Privately, Balasar agreed with Zelyra's aversion to stealing items out of the funeral boxes. But this was not about greed. In the Underdark, one did whatever it took to survive. It would be a long road to get back to the surface. If they even made it there at all…
"What's that?" the dwarf suddenly said.
Balasar followed Eldeth's line of sight and saw then what had captured her attention. The northeast sarcophagus was different from the other three. It sat higher, and there was a slight gap between the bottom and the floor. The pair crouched down to examine it and found stone rollers concealed beneath the box.
"It was made to move!" the dragonborn observed. "Something must be below."
Not needing any more convincing, Eldeth helped Balasar roll the sarcophagus aside to reveal a small pressure plate hidden beneath it. Etched into that square and that square only was a four-pointed star, the original symbol of the church of Mystryl. Eldeth excitedly called everyone over.
"What if activating the plate triggers a trap?" Nine warned.
"Then we're all dead," Fraeya deadpanned.
Fargas rubbed his hands together and suggested, "Or it could reveal a hidden door."
"No more doors," Kazimir groaned. "I think I've had my fill for one day."
"Fargas might be on to something. There's something above this room," said Fraeya.
"Above? Not below?" asked Balasar.
"Definitely above," the rogue insisted.
Fargas considered that before saying, "Perhaps we can explore the room next door and then come back." But as soon as the halfling mentioned leaving the chamber, a panicked, telepathic voice called out to them.
"No, please! Don't go! I'm here, above!"
"It's that voice again!" Fargas exclaimed.
"You're just now hearing it?" Fraeya asked with a groan. The drow rubbed her temples and said, "The voice hasn't shut up for more than an hour. It's starting to give me an awful headache."
The telepathic voice then repeated its prior plea.
"Please, set me free. I beg you! I am the burning harbinger of dawn, not the cursed night."
"Harbinger of dawn! I do like the sound of that," said Fargas. And without further ado, the halfling stepped onto the pressure plate. It activated, creating a low grind that echoed throughout the room. At the same time, the tall urn in the corner tipped over and shattered. The adventurers jumped at the sudden barrage of sound. But as Fargas had theorized, a hidden stone door was soon revealed near the chamber entrance. There was no way to know if it and the urn were connected, but the amphora-like vase now lay broken on the ground. Clumps of dark ash seeped out of it.
As Balasar stepped forward and shined his torch into the secret passageway, he saw not a tunnel but a dusty staircase that rose upwards at a sharp incline. The narrow steps led to a small landing at the top. What lay beyond that was a mystery. The dragonborn glanced down at his large feet and then at the tiny steps. It would be a challenging climb for him and Derendil, but Fargas would have no trouble.
"If Brysis were afraid of someone stealing her treasures, a hidden room would be a good deterrent," the prince said lightly.
"I assume the rest of us are going up, but perhaps you should sit this one out," Zelyra suggested to Fargas.
"Not a chance," the halfling replied and started limping towards the stairs. His face was still an alarming shade of white, and he admittedly felt weak, but Fargas had every intention of carrying on anyway. After all, this was hisexpedition.
"Stubborn halfling," the druid muttered under her breath.
"How do you suppose I feel most days? Once he's set his mind to something, there's no stopping it. No matter how nonsensical," Nine said as she trailed after Fargas.
"I just nearly died, and you see fit to mock me?" the halfling's objection could be heard carrying down the secret passageway.
The party was forced to walk in a single-file line up the narrow staircase. Again, Zelyra chose to bring up the rear directly behind Sarith. As they ascended, the chill in the druid's bones returned. The timing was strange, for the cold sensation came just as Sarith turned to look behind him and met Zelyra's gaze. She wasn't sure what to make of that. Was the cold wind warning her of something still lurking in the tomb? Or Sarith?
But that soon became the least of her concerns. Zelyra abruptly stopped halfway up the stairs, having noticed something peculiar. The walls of the secret passageway had fine, spidering cracks. And growing within those cracks was a frighteningly familiar substance. If one looked very, very closely, it pulsed with just the slightest hint of light, akin to cooling embers.
"Faerzress," the druid said worriedly.
Unbeknownst to Zelyra, the drow warrior walking ahead heard the warning.
Their party had encountered faerzress before, which did not bode well for them. Fraeya had once explained that faerzress was not a physical thing but wonderous arcane energy that had latched onto their typography and pervaded most of the Underdark. But after the horrible incident in the faerzress-infused tunnels, Zelyra and Kazimir formed their own theory. Just as the sun cultivated life on the surface world above, so too did faerzress nurture the darkness of the lands below. [2]
The short landing at the top of the stairs opened to a much larger chamber than the one below it, and it was clear to the adventurers from the moment they stepped inside that this was Brysis of Khaem's true tomb. A gold-plated sarcophagus sat upon a raised dais on the west wall. Richly pigmented murals decorated the walls. But, unlike the frescoes below, these were unmarred and stood untouched to the test of time. Even the domed ceiling above was painted. It featured a sea of stars that proved just how much Faerûn had changed since the time of Brysis. The stars glowed! Prince Derendil stared up at them in awe. He knew well the constellations of the world above, and these were not them. How the skies had changed! And what beautiful ancient magic this was to create such an effect.
Kazimir was the last to enter, for Sarith had paused at the top of the landing, and Zelyra was still examining the cracks in the wall halfway down the stairs. A torrent of icy wind suddenly ripped through the secret chamber. Simultaneously below, Zelyra let out a startled shriek. The faerzress flared, now appearing as burning, living flames. Both doors abruptly slammed shut, trapping the druid and Sarith inside the secret passage.
Those inside the hidden room fared no better. The icy torrent ripping through the space did not cease. If anything, it grew colder. Then came the laughter, which started soft but steadily rose in pitch and intensity until it bounced and echoed off every wall. The adventurers covered their ears to curb the unnatural sound.
"I told you it was a trap!" Nine shouted at Fargas. But the halfling could not reply, for his voice was stolen from him. He could only look on, open-mouthed and terrified, as another nightmare rose from Brysis's funeral box.
In some ways, it resembled the specters they had faced in the chamber below. But whereas those shades had appeared as wisps of dark clouds, this creature had a distinct gaunt face, skeletal hands, and an upper torso that tapered off into shadow below. This was death incarnate—a wraith. Tendrils of smoke seemed to reach out, to whip and writhe away from its form. And its red eyes…they burned in tandem with the pulsing faerzress, for the stars on the painted ceiling above were not stars at all. Faerzress had fused with the forgotten magics preserving the ancient tomb to ultimately corrupt everything within.
"Life," Brysis hissed. "Foolish mortals, your greed has led to your doom! Forever your souls will be bound to me!"
The wraith reached for the first living creature it saw, poor Fargas. But Nine got there first. The ranger shoved Fargas behind her, drew her longbow, and fired an arrow straight into Brysis's life-draining maw at short range. In retribution, the wraith shrieked and raked its skeletal claws across Nine's torso. The nails might have passed directly through her, but their consequence was staggering. Nine felt the frigid touch of death. The icy fingers seemed to close around her heart, core, and soul. And when they released her, moving on to the next unfortunate victim, the ranger was weaker for it.
If the adventurers thought that the life-draining effect of the specters had been dreadful, the wraith's touch was ten times that. Brysis tore through the room, having the full advantage over the ill-prepared group. No one was excused from her wrath, though Fargas and Stool were notably shielded by one or more individuals.
"Kazimir, please tell me that you can do something!" Fraeya begged.
The rogue had already worked out the connection between the wraith and the specters they had faced downstairs. Swords and arrows were of little use here. Like the specters, the wraith lived a half-life, torn between the tangibility of the material plane and the ghostly shadows of the ethereal plane. Only Zelyra's newly discovered moonfire could truly touch such a creature, but the druid was presently trapped outside the chamber.
Kazimir ignored his surprise that Fraeya was looking to him, of all people, for a solution and waved his crystalline staff. A familiar four-inch sphere of hellfire burned into existence and arced across the room, colliding with Brysis's corrupted form. The infernal flames engulfed her but did not last long. They fizzled and died away as tendrils of darkness lashed out to consume them.
"I'm sorry! That's all I've got," the tiefling cried.
Fraeya cursed beneath her breath. "Keep trying!"
The wizard tried again, this time infusing his spell with lightning. But, again, the wraith consumed it. Finally, Kazimir turned to Fraeya and shook his head in defeat. He would waste no more magic. Acid, cold, fire, lightning, poison, thunder; it would not matter. Nothing could truly touch the wraith. They needed light!
"Please! Let my light burn away her shadow!" the pleading telepathic voice once again called out to the adventurers. "Here! In the sarcophagus! Wield me, and I can help!"
Balasar did not stop to think twice. The dragonborn rushed over to the gilded receptacle and pushed on the lid. But the stone tablet held firmly in place. Fortunately, Prince Derendil also answered the call. With their combined strength, the top inched aside just enough for them to see what was inside. Unlike the sarcophagi downstairs, this box still held the withered and mummified remains of Brysis of Khaem. The putrid smell alone almost forced the prince and Balasar back, but then they saw the golden item which lay upon the breast of the corpse—an ancient sun blade.
"Take it," Balasar immediately prompted the prince.
Derendil's expression was one of alarm. "Me?"
The dragonborn nodded.
"I am no fighter," the prince insisted. "Such a blade would be useless in my hand!"
"You have no weapon," Balasar sternly reminded him. "Take it!"
Derendil backed away from the sarcophagus, repeating, "I cannot."
Balasar shook his head. Someone else had to step up if the prince would not take up the blade. There was no time to waste. The lives of his companions depended on it. And so, the dragonborn swallowed thickly as he sheathed his trusted longsword, the sword which had been with him through so many battles, and dove into Brysis's coffin for the ancient sun blade. The moment his claws closed around the hilt, Balasar knew the sword's name. Dawnbringer. So too did the sword impart to him some foresight. He saw flashes of dragon fire. Everything was burning. A sense of dread and grave emotion washed over him, for he knew then that his time as Dawnbringer's bearer was only temporary.
As the terrible vision faded from his thoughts, the room erupted with blinding, golden light—pure sunlight. And in his head, the dragonborn alone heard a sentient voice that was both wizened and kind say, "Take heart, Balasar. I will serve you well. Now, let us destroy this great evil together."
…
Zelyra threw her shoulder against the stone door that blocked her and Sarith from the hidden chamber for what felt like the thousandth time. No matter how hard she tried, it would not yield. The drow warrior casually leaned against the wall at the top of the stairs, some ten feet behind her. He made no effort to assist the druid and instead contemplated just how long she would continue to uselessly throw her frail body at the stone before giving up.
The answer came not a moment later when Zelyra reached the end of her patience and rounded on him, shouting in Elvish, "How can you stand there and do nothing?!" It seemingly did not matter that these daring words were spoken to a supposed murderer. In her desperation, that crucial detail did not even cross Zelyra's mind.
Foolish! Sarith could live up to their suspicions of his character. It would be so easy to sink a knife into the druid's back right now. Or he could simply push her down the stairs. There was no one to stop him, for it was just the two of them trapped inside the cramped passageway. The drow knew he would win if it came down to a fight. He'd seen her swordplay. It was beginner-level at best. And neither did the others fare well against whatever trap they'd triggered if one were to judge the sounds coming from the next chamber. He could let it all play out and be rid of all the iblithen in one blow. But none of those were viable options. He needed them, all of them, whether he wanted to admit it or not.
"You want my help?" he asked instead.
"Yes!" the druid cried.
Sarith pushed off the wall and said, "All you had to do was ask."
And yet, even with the drow's assistance, it was not enough. Zelyra examined the door then and found not even the slightest gap. Neither was there an overriding mechanism that she could see. A force greater than them had sealed it.
"Even if we had something to use as leverage, the seal is solid," the druid said as she dropped to the stone floor in defeat.
Sarith remained standing. His crimson gaze quietly darted between the door and the cracks in the wall, then fell to the druid seated below him. Then, after a length, he said, "Use your magic."
"To do what, exactly?" Zelyra asked.
"Blast it."
The druid shook her head, not comprehending.
"Do what you did in the Silken Paths—blast it. The faerzress will strengthen your spell, though there might be an unintended backlash to that," the drow said.
It took Zelyra a moment to realize what he was referring to. When it finally came to her, the druid jumped to her feet. Even she had to admit it was brilliant.
As the giant spiders closed in, a joint prayer to Silvanus, the Oak Father, and Talos, the Stormlord, cultivators of the punishing side of nature, rose from the druid's lips. She then spiraled down into her connection with the earth, calling to mind a vengeful storm and the bone-shattering might of thunder. A burst of deafening energy erupted from Zelyra's free hand and struck both giant spiders with a cacophonous boom which rocked the chasm and gave away any thought of stealth the party had. But the sheer force of the spell sent both spiders flying ten feet straight into the air, into the perfect aim of Fraeya, Sarith, and the goblins' ranged weaponry.
Zelyra threw out her hands and called forth the spell. The faerzress within the cracks stirred, only to be violently drawn outward at her summons. It swirled around the druid's hands in a rare display of physical manifestation. And even Sarith, who despised mages, could not deny that the sight was mesmerizing. Then, all fell to quiet in the passageway as the faerzress fed.
The thunder began as a low rumble that shook the stone. Louder and louder, the sound built. Sarith threw his hands up to cover his arched ears. And then… the door blew away. Bits of rock showered into Brysis's tomb as the thunderous energy struck it. A jagged hole remained, just big enough for the half-elf and the drow to climb through. But when Sarith looked to Zelyra beside him, a potted plant now sat in her place.
The drow almost smiled.
Almost.
[4]
…
The adventurers' attention spun to the door as the blast of thunder, strengthened by the faerzress, hit. Those near the entrance dove for cover as rock bombarded them like pieces of shrapnel. When the dust settled, Sarith climbed through the gaping hole. Alone. Zelyra, who should have been with him, was nowhere to be seen. It was not hard for his companions to jump to conclusions, to assume the worst. One or more of them would have done something about that had the threat of Brysis not taken priority. The wraith was not deterred by the breaking of the door nor the arrival of one lone drow. Her attention was locked firmly on Balasar and the sunlit blade he now wielded.
Brysis remembered so little of her life before being raised as a wraith. What she retained was fragmented, nothing more than flashes that felt like a half-forgotten dream. But the sight of the sword gave her pause. Brysis remembered it.
"Dawnbringer is mine!" the wraith screeched. "You, dragonborn, are not worthy!"
"I belong to no one," the sentient sun blade thundered in reply. "Certainly not you, Brysis. You betrayed me! You stole me away and buried me in the dark."
The wraith hurtled for Balasar with skeletal hands outstretched in preparation to steal back her sword. But as with everything else in Brysis's cursed existence, her touch could not find purchase. Dawnbringer flared again, and Brysis was burning. Still, she fought. Every blow that would have drawn crimson blood if Brysis were mortal passed straight through the dragonborn to instead consume. Balasar's vision swam. An inky, viscous substance leaked from his nostrils and bubbled in his mouth. He staggered back, coughing violently.
Brysis saw Balasar nearing the brink and prepared to close in. If she could not take back her sword, the dragonborn's soul would forever be hers to compromise. But a pale beam of light illuminated the wraith then. As its radiance engulfed her, Brysis made the crucial mistake of turning her back on Balasar. She instead looked to the doorway to find Zelyra—no longer a potted plant—weaving her moonfire spell.
The dragonborn gathered his last bit of strength and swung Dawnbringer in a glittering arc, straight into the moonfire. The ghostly flames ate away at his bronze scales but had no such effect on Dawnbringer. Instead, the ancient sun blade sliced clean through the shadowy heart of her former bearer.
The most horrid sounds tore through Brysis's maw, something between a wail and a scream. Unlike the specters, the adventurers were not treated to a final look of the sorceress's original form as her soul was released. Brysis simply burned. The tendrils of shadow twisted and contorted until, at last, even the faerzress could no longer hold her. All in the room were knocked off their feet in a backlash of negative energy. In the wake of it, how very peaceful the chamber then seemed.
Fargas pushed himself up onto one elbow and bowed his head. His companions similarly caught their breath and tried vainly to calm the beating of their frantic hearts. Balasar quietly cradled his burnt hand. For many moments, no one spoke. Then, the halfling finally broke the silence and said, "I owe you an apology, my friends. My foolish ambition nearly got us killed not just once but twice now."
None of his companions acknowledged the apology. Not because they did not accept it. Instead, it seemed no one knew exactly what to say in response. The blame did not lay solely on Fargas. They all shared his guilt, for every single one of them had followed him willingly. Had they not learned their lesson in fighting the specters? Why had they carried on so blindly? Curiosity? Gluttony? Both were poor excuses.
It was Dawnbringer who ultimately responded to the halfling's apology. Her voice, strong and resolute yet altogether otherworldly, crept into their minds and said, "Let this stand as a testament to you all. Do not place greed before the safety of your friends. Instead, learn from what you saw of Brysis. That is the price of selfishness."
Not even the drow elves could challenge that.
[1] There was a call for blood after Nine criticized the usefulness of Peanut last chapter. I had to let the fey mouse redeem himself. The 'cast a spell' reaction of find familiar is clutch! It's not something I had access to in our game until much later due to Tasha's Caldron of Everything not coming out until we were…level 10 or so. But I didn't see much difference between Zelyra physically casting Cure Wounds on Fargas (as I did in game) vs. through her familiar.
[2] Admittedly, I have no idea if this is accurate. I looked at almost every rule book and source guide I could find about what happens to the body after a specter/wight/wraith is destroyed. Does the body go 'poof' and turn to dust? I have no idea. I finally just rolled with this because I'd written the entire scene before the thought occurred. (I had my own Zelyra moment, lol) If anyone has input, I'm open to it!
[3] This is a paraphrased line from Archmage by RA Salvatore. I wish I could take credit! I thought it was the most compelling explanation of faerzress I've seen.
[4] In RAW, Thunderwave would not be capable of breaking down a stone door. DM/husband and I had this argument waaay back in the day. But…I wanted to work the faerzress into the narrative in more than just a roll on the wild magic table when a spell is cast capacity. And I also like coming up with creative ways to describe what magic looks like. :) So, again, I'm utilizing a creative license.
We had a different solution for opening the door in our gameplay. There were four people trapped outside the chamber! That combination of strength was enough to push the heavy door open. But two of those characters are ones I have not included in the tomb chapters (I have something else planned for them), so the narrative had to change to fit that. Like Kazimir and Fraeya, Zelyra also has a negative modifier to strength. Sarith is…not much better. There is no way they could've opened that door with anything less than a natural 19 or 20.
We typically ignored the faerzress/wild magic effect in our game unless it coincided with a significant event (madness checks were treated similarly). I assume that DM/husband didn't want to deal with all the rolls. I did not perform a roll for Kazimir's Chromatic Orb or Zelyra's Moonbeam. But purposely reaching out to the faerzress to amplify Thunderwave? I think that constitutes a wild magic surge. Thus, I rolled. And…turned my character into a potted plant for one round. I laughed so hard! I hope you all found some enjoyment as well.
Phew. That was a lot. I had so much fun writing this chapter! The words just poured out of me, to the point I pumped this out two or three days after the last posting. Aaaand I already have a decent start on the next. It's nice to be ahead for a change.
For those familiar with the module, our party never made it to the false tomb. We fought the specters, found the passageway to the true tomb and Brysis's trap, collected our treasure, and were out. After the near-deadly encounter with Brysis, we weren't risking going into that other room.
Last note! AJ Pickett has an excellent video about wraiths on YouTube that covers their evolution over all five editions of Dungeons and Dragons. You might notice many similarities between my description of Brysis and the Ringwraiths in Lord of the Rings. AJ Pickett makes a fantastic comparison in the beforementioned video. If you haven't listened to anything from AJ Pickett's channel yet, I highly recommend it. I pulled so much of the fun Netherese lore from his videos!