Session 108

The Order Closes In

Chapter 1: Jala the Herdsman

The thorny brambles loomed larger now, and at last the companions could make out the grim details hidden within. A narrow passage had been hacked through the twisted thicket, leading into a hollowed center where a black tent sagged in disrepair. Its sides were torn, one corner nearly collapsed, and from a crude firepit a thin curl of smoke twisted into the sky. Around it lay a chaos of ruin—broken weapons, shredded waterskins, rags, and a pile of discarded gear. Hung grotesquely from the camp's banner pole, a half-butchered erdlu swung lifelessly, the smell of death thick in the air.

It was a camp, clearly—and recently used—but no figures stirred. Then, one of them looked up at the banner fluttering in the desert wind, and recognition struck like a thunderclap: the scowling face of King Hamanu, emblazoned over a field of roaring flames. This had been a Urikite encampment.

From within the tent, something moved.

Safi crept forward with the grace of a stalking predator, her every step soundless. Shank, in contrast, broke the tense silence, dropping his barrel of scented oil and shouting into the camp, “Come out, you are surrounded!” Meanwhile, Karnos investigated a low mound of rocks fifty feet from the thorn ring. It was no cairn—it was a violated grave. Something had clawed away part of the stones, exposing a gnawed human corpse wrapped in a plain white cloak. A golden-glazed pottery bowl, placed upside-down upon the man’s face, bore a ceremonial air. Enough of the features were visible to see a once-proud visage: square-cut hair, neatly curled beard, sandals, and a striped linen tunic, now soaked with dried blood. He had not been dead long—perhaps a day.

Zahraan seized both Shiv and Shank and, invoking the winds with his Step, carried them closer to the camp in a blur of motion. Shiv slipped through the bramble-ring and crept up to the tent—only for the silence to erupt as an erdlu burst from inside with a panicked squawk. A thong around its neck tugged taut and dragged something else from the tent: a wide-eyed elf, coughing in the dust.

His name was Jala, and madness danced behind his eyes. “Keep the kreen out!” he hissed, wild and urgent. He offered the group a trade: rike, an herb that repelled thri-kreen when burned, and a bone tube of uncertain contents. Shank stepped forward, threats heavy on his tongue, but Zahraan pulled him back before blood could be spilled.

Safi took the deal, exchanging supplies for the tube, the rike, and the remains of the erdlu. Within the tube they found four magical scrolls and a parchment of great importance.

It was a royal decree, written in the unmistakable hand of Hamanu himself:

“I, Hamanu, king of the world, king of the mountains and the plains, king of Urik, for whom all the howling winds and the burning sun have decreed a destiny of heroism… do declare this templar Kashtor to be my lawful servant. I bestow upon him the right and duty to claim the Hinterlands for Urik. Give to him every assistance. Return to me, intact and in fine working order, any Devices, Magics, or Artifacts you find. This is my solemn command. May the Dragon devour you, and may my wrath fall heavily upon you, should you fail.”

The wind picked up again, rustling the bloodstained linen of the corpse and lifting the edges of the decree like ghostly fingers.

With their grim business concluded, the companions turned from the haunted ruins of the Urikite camp and pressed on toward the Circle, shadows lengthening at their heels.

Chapter 2: Journey with no Rest

The group pressed on through the brutal, unforgiving terrain, trudging day and night without pause, their bodies aching but their resolve unbroken. The burning winds scraped their skin, the cracked earth tore at their feet, and still they did not stop. Sleep was cast aside, a forgotten luxury. They moved as though possessed by some unspoken determination. The thri-kreen, tireless and inscrutable, observed this with a growing sense of respect. These soft-skinned allies, for all their weakness, bore the heat and hardship with unflinching endurance. The insect warriors chittered approvingly among themselves—these travelers might yet prove worthy.

Twice during their relentless march, the sky behind them changed.

It began with a subtle darkening, a distortion in the pale firmament. Then, rising like a blade drawn across the heavens, came a great triangular silhouette—colossal and silent, cutting through the upper air with unnatural grace. The shape never descended, never approached. It simply drifted far above, distant yet undeniable. Once at dusk, when the sun bled into the horizon and shadows stretched long across the plains; once again in the deepest hours before dawn, when only the stars bore witness.

Whispers passed among the group. Some said it was a silt skimmer born of the ancients, others claimed it was no craft at all, but a creature from beyond the Dragon's reach. The thri-kreen made no comment, though their antennae twitched nervously each time it appeared. Whatever it was, it moved with purpose, and it followed them.

Despite the gnawing fatigue, the silent pursuit, and the ever-present threat of the wasteland itself, the group pressed forward toward the Circle—toward whatever destiny waited for them in the thorn-choked plains beyond.

Chapter 3: A Storm

As the group glimpsed the distant, ominous triangle once more on the horizon, the desert turned against them.

From the northwest, a sandstorm rose with terrifying speed — a wall of dust and wind that screamed across the scrub plains like a wrathful god. The gale howled with such force that the sky vanished behind a veil of choking sand. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the storm shifted. The wind turned from the southwest without warning, hurling Shiv and Karnos off their feet. Blinded and battered, the group might have been lost — if not for Shank.

Summoning the power within him, Shank unleashed his Calm the Storm ability. The maelstrom faltered just long enough for the group to scramble into the shelter of a towering dune. Sand streamed from the crest fifty feet above, and the wind roared like a beast, so loud that words were swallowed whole. Darkness fell, unnatural and thick, reducing sight to a few faltering paces.

Then came the lights.

From the murky swirl to the southwest, violet beams twisted and danced, a spectral display cutting through the blackened air. They spun like signals from another world — and just as abruptly as they had appeared, they vanished, leaving only the howling storm behind.

The group huddled together in the shadow of the dune and endured. For eight long hours, the storm raged on — a fury of wind and sand and dread — before at last it passed, leaving behind silence, and the weight of what they had seen.

Chapter 4: Disco Time?

The storm finally spent its fury, the winds dying to a whisper, and the world settled into an uneasy calm. As the swirling dust began to settle, the group’s eyes were drawn to an astonishing sight looming ahead—a colossal stone face, carved with exquisite detail into the shape of a thri-kreen’s head. The weathered statue, its surface bleached white against the desert’s muted earth tones, spanned nearly fifty feet across. Half-buried in shifting sands, the rear of the head remained hidden beneath a towering dune, as if the desert itself sought to reclaim this ancient relic.

The thri-kreen among the group stiffened, their mandibles clicking rapidly in urgent conversation. Then, with a solemn grace, they lowered their heads close to the ground and crept forward. Antennae quivering, they lightly touched the stone face, a clear gesture of reverence and respect. This was no mere monument—it was a holy image of the Great O, sacred beyond words. Yet, even they lacked knowledge of its origins or the means by which it functioned. To them, it was a relic of profound age and holiness, a testament to a forgotten past.

The white stone, unlike any rock native to this harsh region, hinted at a long journey—hauling such a massive sculpture across barren wastelands was no small feat. Curiosity overcame caution as Shiv and Shank each stepped carefully onto the raised dais before the statue. The moment weight touched the platform, the statue’s eyes ignited, unleashing powerful beams of vibrant purple light. The rays swept through the sky like massive searchlights, piercing the dust-laden air and stretching for hundreds of feet. Though intimidating in their brilliance, the beams were harmless, a silent spectacle of ancient power.

As the group experimented, the eerie light show continued—until movement stirred just beyond the dune behind the colossal head. Something approached, drawn by the light, its presence heralding a new mystery in the desert’s vast, timeless expanse.

Chapter 5: The Order Strikes

Just as the last howls of the storm faded into the wasteland’s silence, the ancient dais flared to life. Twin beams of purple light erupted from the eyes of the buried Thri-Kreen statue, slicing through the sky like divine searchlights. The lights roamed the heavens, sweeping in long arcs—and then they stopped, fixed on a shape in the distance.

From beyond the dunes, something vast stirred.

The clouds trembled. The sands seemed to hold their breath. And then, like a god descending, a colossal cloud ray broke through the storm-torn skies, drawn by the lights like a moth to flame. Its massive triangular body blotted out the stars, wings rippling with static charge. Upon its back rode a half-elf draped in flowing cloth and radiant energy. She called herself Shammu, a psionicist of great and terrible power.

Shank didn’t hesitate. His boots of flying activated with a blast of air, and he soared toward the monster, axe in hand. The ray lunged and bit down, nearly ending him then and there—but he twisted free and struck hard, blow after blow ringing against its flesh. As ash bloomed from his pyrotechnic magic, the sky filled with smoke—but when the haze cleared, the ray’s wounds were gone, wiped away by the will of its rider.

Then the group felt her—Shammu’s mind creeping into theirs, pressing with invisible fingers. They resisted, straining against the psionic grip. She hurled a net toward Shank, but he dodged, ducking and weaving through the stormlit sky. Safi called down primal fury, summoning four savage goraks atop the ray. They tore into her as the ray reeled and bucked.

With cold precision, Shammu unleashed a psychic crush, and Zahraan, Karnos, and Safi staggered under the weight of her will. Shank charged her, axe raised—he missed once, struck true the second time, but the pain landed not on her—on him.

Shank grabbed at her—but her body turned to mist. Insustantial, untouchable.

The ray twisted in the air, tail lashing out at Safi before lunging and swallowing him whole. But Safi was ready. Inside the belly of the beast, he ignited his fated-by-fire, unleashing a brutal explosion that rocked the ray midair.

Karnos raised his Intellect Fortress, shielding minds from further invasion. Zahraan grew to giant size, waiting below with his glaive ready. Shiv switched places with Zahraan and entered a furious rage, eyes burning with purpose.

Inside the ray, Safi reformed, eyes blazing. He cast sunbeam, unleashing holy fire from within. The beast screeched and dove—Zahraan caught its tail and smashed into it with a thunderous blow, even as its jaws closed on him.

Shiv rocketed upward, mace raised, and battered the cloud ray with unrelenting fury. With a final crashing strike, the beast vomited Safi back into the air, scorched but alive.

Seeing her guardian falter, Shammu narrowed her eyes. With a surge of psionic power, she vanished—fleeing the field, her mind slipping beyond their reach.

The lights faded. The storm was over. But the memory of that battle, born from the statue’s glowing gaze, would linger like thunder in their bones.

Chapter 6: The Head and its Treasures

After the battle’s echoes faded into the sand and silence returned to the broken wastes, Safi approached the ancient dais, its surface still warm from the energies that had summoned the storm. Intrigued by the structure’s strangeness, he called Shiv over to examine the strange slash-like markings that encircled the base.

Shiv's eyes widened as he deciphered the strange script—a lost Thri-Kreen dialect, long thought erased by time. The message it carried was simple yet haunting:
“When the age of the Great One is come, make ye a joyous light.”

Curious, Shank began digging at the back of the massive insectoid head that crowned the dais. Sand fell away to reveal a startling truth—the head was not part of a greater statue, but a complete form, standing alone. Behind it, only a line of stone pillars jutted from the sand like the vertebrae of a dead god.

But then came the true shock.

As the rear of the head was uncovered, the group discovered that its back was not insectoid at all. Instead, it had been carefully carved into the serene, regal face of a human woman, her expression calm, her eyes rendered in golden stone. The face bore an uncanny resemblance to Mahlanda—a figure many among them knew too well.

While the group exchanged tense glances, Karnos inspected the statue more closely, noticing that its antennae were not fixed in stone, but movable. As they pulled on them, the great faceted eyes of the statue opened like shutters, revealing hidden compartments.

Inside were the spoils of forgotten ages—several potion-fruits, glistening with power, and two magical items, untouched by time, waiting for those bold enough to claim them.

The wind stirred the sand again, as if the desert itself had drawn a breath.

Chapter 7: The Wild Critics

Drawn by the promise of shade and the faint whisper of moisture on the air, Shank approached the yawning sinkhole nestled at the base of a sandstone ridge. As he peered over the edge, a swarm of wild crits—snarling, multi-legged desert scavengers—screeched up at him from the shadows below, their beady eyes gleaming with hunger.

Without hesitation, Shank raised his hands, flames erupting from his fingers as he cast Burning Hands. The fiery wave surged downward, engulfing the creatures in a crackling inferno. Their shrieks were short-lived.

With the nest purged, Shank descended into the now-still pit, where he discovered a hidden spring—the sweetest, coolest water he had ever tasted, clear as glass and cold as mountain air.

He called to the others, and soon the group was gathered, drinking deeply and filling their waterskins, grateful for this unexpected blessing in the unforgiving wasteland. Refreshed and renewed, they turned once more to the horizon and pressed onward into the unknown.

Page updated

Google Sites

Report abuse