Session 116

What Does it all Mean?

Chapter 1: Dray Elite Patrol

The group pressed onward through the eerily silent streets of the ruined city, their movements hushed and deliberate as they crept toward the merchant quarter. But silence shattered in an instant—the clash of steel and the roar of flames erupted ahead. Screams of terror pierced the air as dray soldiers herded panicked citizens like cattle through the smoke-choked streets. Amid the chaos, the group’s eyes fell upon a familiar face—Mila, the half-elf barkeep from the Sunbathing Inix. Her once-carefree features were twisted in fear as two dray dragged her by the arms, one striking her savagely with the haft of a spear to keep her moving. Her clothes were torn, her skin streaked with blood and dust, yet she fought with the same fiery defiance she once reserved for unruly patrons. The dray only laughed, dragging her toward the southern gate—toward certain slaughter.

With a roar, Shiv drew forth his enchanted maul and charged, the weapon thrumming with psychic energy as he unleashed its Breaker of Minds power upon the dray. One warrior met him head-on, driving an impaler deep into his side as others closed to flank him. Shiv answered with brutal fury, calling on his Fury of the Arena to batter his foes, but the dray pressed their assault—two more impaler strikes found their mark, one plunging dangerously deep.

Zahraan raised a hand to cast darkness, but a dray templar countered the spell with effortless precision. Another templar chanted a cruel incantation, summoning a globe of freezing, whispering blackness around Shiv. Within the sphere, chittering voices clawed at his mind as the cold gnawed at his flesh. From outside, the others heard the maddening whispers echo from within.

Safi vanished in a flash of psionic light, teleporting atop a nearby rooftop with his slingshot ability. From above, he unleashed Toll the Dead on a dray warrior—only for another templar to conjure a second globe of icy shadow around him, filling the air with those same alien whispers. Within that darkness, slimy tendrils lashed at Anvar, who staggered free and turned his psionics upon the enemy. He invoked the Crown of Mental Dominion, attempting to seize control of a templar’s mind, but the dray’s will proved iron-strong. Warriors swarmed him, impalers striking again and again.

From above, Fazanna’s eyes blazed. She upcast Shadow Blade, paired it with her damaged Flame Blade, and took flight on her boots of flying, soaring above the battlefield. Her thrown blade struck true—but a templar raised a shield spell just in time, turning it aside.

Meanwhile, Anvar was surrounded—his skin hardened by his Ablative Hide, deflecting several thrusts as he fought to stay standing. Shank rose into the air beside Fazanna, commanding Cursy to follow. He hurled his axe at the templar’s shield again and again to no avail, then dove into the fray below. Warriors encircled Anvar, their impalers darting like vipers, but Shank descended in a storm of rage, invoking his Fury of the Arena. His axe cleaved through one dray, then another. With a surge of effort, he called upon his Action Surge, slaughtering a second foe before exhaling a cloud of volcanic ash that blanketed the street in choking darkness.

But the dray did not falter. One warrior lunged through the haze, stabbing Shank repeatedly with an impaler. Within his own sphere of blackness, Shiv felt the slimy tendrils claw at him—he burst free, abandoning his maul to draw Bonecrusher, his enchanted mace. With three thunderous blows, he felled a warrior, then crushed two more in succession.

Fazanna swooped to the edge of Shank’s smoldering ash cloud, stabbing blindly within—but struck only air. A templar’s longsword slashed from the smoke, cutting across her arm. Nearby, Zahraan stumbled out of the whispering dark, battered by unseen tendrils, and dove into the ash cloud beside Shank. His fists flashed in a Flurry of Blows, striking a templar before a retaliatory blade opened a deep wound across his abdomen.

Safi, weary of the psychic cold and whispering madness, burst free of the darkness, his boots of speed carrying him across the rooftops toward his allies. Anvar, still surrounded, healed himself with the Blessing of the Tree even as more impalers darted toward him. Cursy whined at the edge of the black sphere, refusing to enter as her master bled.

The battle reached its breaking point. Shank’s axe cleaved through another dray, his cloud of smoke hiding the carnage. Shiv’s mace fell again and again, each blow shattering bone and scale. Fazanna struck one last time, her blade piercing the heart of a retreating warrior.

At last, the dray’s resolve shattered. Their laughter turned to cries of panic as they broke ranks and fled, leaving their dead and dying in the blood-slick street. The heroes stood amid the fading ash and cold, breath ragged, weapons dripping with victory—and vengeance.

Chapter 2: Elite Kalin Patrol

The group pressed onward, ever deeper into the heart of the merchant district, their nerves taut and weapons drawn. Ahead, the heavy thud of scaled feet echoed—mounted dray astride towering kalin lizards emerged from the haze. For a heartbeat, they hesitated, debating whether to flee or to fight. But the decision was made quickly—there would be no retreat this day.

Fazanna’s eyes blazed with arcane focus as she cast Haste upon Shiv, the spell flooding his limbs with impossible speed. Her own voice rose in song as her Bladesong began, the air humming with sharp-edged magic.

Then the world split open. Upon the wall before them, a colossal dragon’s eye appeared—slitted, ancient, and filled with malevolent awareness. It blinked once… and unleashed a cone of thunder that tore through the street. The shockwave shook the earth and hurled dust and debris through the air, knocking several from their feet.

Safi raised his hands in defiance, his divine power flaring. He cast Bless, upcasting the spell to bolster the entire group, and his boots of speed flared to life beneath him. But before he could draw breath, another dragon’s eye materialized on the wall beside him. It opened wide—and spat a chain lightning spell that split the sky, arcing through Safi, Shiv, and Fazanna with blinding fury.

Shiv answered the strike with rage. The boots of flying carried him skyward in a blur of motion—faster still under Fazanna’s haste. He hurtled toward a dray defiler, his Bonecrusher mace swinging with bone-cracking force. Each strike shattered against a cold shield, sending icy shockwaves up his arms, but Shiv pressed on relentlessly. Blow after blow fell until at last the defiler crumpled, lifeless, tumbling from its kalin mount to the stones below.

The victory was short-lived. Another dragon’s eye tore open in the wall, blasting the street once more with a cone of thunder. The sound alone seemed enough to shatter bone.

Anvar, barely standing, raised the group’s wand and countered with his own surge of magic—casting Haste upon Shank. Before the spell’s echo faded, yet another draconic eye opened, its gaze sweeping across them. The thunder came again, a rolling wave of destruction.

Empowered by speed, Shank soared into the air with his boots of flying, closing in on a second defiler. His great axe fell like a storm, each swing precise and deadly—but every strike met the same punishing cold shield, numbing his flesh and freezing his veins. Growling through the pain, Shank exhaled a thick cloud of volcanic ash, cloaking himself and the rooftop in choking darkness.

Out of the gloom, a dray templar urged his kalin up the side of the wall, the beast’s claws digging into the stone as it climbed. It reached Shank in a flurry of claws and teeth, seizing his arm in its jaws. The templar’s longsword flashed in the dim light, carving deep wounds across Shank’s chest.

Then Zahraan appeared—a blur of motion and purpose. He sprinted up the wall with Step of the Wind, reaching the bloodied warrior. His voice, calm and commanding, cut through the din as he convinced Shank to withdraw—to live for a greater battle yet to come. With graceful precision, Zahraan extricated him from the creature’s grasp and carried him to safety.

For a tense moment, the battle hung in silence. The dray suddenly halted, heads twitching, their reptilian eyes distant—as if listening to something none of the heroes could hear. Then, as one, they turned their mounts and began to retreat, galloping back toward the Mastryial Gate.

The group stood battered, bloodied, and breathless amid the shattered stones and fading thunder. Without wasting the reprieve, they turned away from the chaos and slipped through the smoke-veiled streets, making their way back toward the tenuous safety of the noble district—alive, for now, but haunted by the sound of the dragon’s unseen voice.

Chapter 3: Retreat?

They had thought the worst was over. The dray had halted, heads cocked as if straining to hear some distant summons; then, almost as if answering an unseen command, they had swung their kalins about and melted away, their scaled mounts pounding back toward the Mastryial Gate. The sound of retreating hooves receded into the smoky air until only echoes remained. For a few ragged heartbeats the ruined street seemed to exhale.

The group hobbled after one another, bruised and blood-slick, favoring wounded limbs and dragging tired breaths. Each step felt like an accomplishment; each ragged laugh was thin with relief. They kept low, glancing back at the lane the dray had left, waiting for the return of violence that did not come. The noble district’s walls drew closer—safety, at last, or so they believed.

Then Safi collapsed. One instant he had been moving with them; the next his knees buckled and his body folded like a broken reed. His mouth opened in a scream that made no sound, a cavernous, wordless hunger of pain. For a second time the air around them seemed to tilt—only this time the shift was inward, intimate, and horribly empty.

Those nearest him rushed forward. Shiv dropped to his knees and grabbed Safi’s shoulders; Zahraan bent and searched for a wound that never showed. Fazanna hovered, bladesong dimmed, feeling the hair on her arms stand as if charged by static. Anvar pressed his palm to Safi’s chest and felt nothing but a hollow ache where life’s subtle thrumming should have been.

When Safi finally blinked, he looked like a man who had been unstitched and then hastily sewn back together. His voice came out small and raw. “Something… took a piece,” he whispered. “It tore free. I felt the land pull away—Athas stopped answering me.” He swallowed, as if he could taste the rent in his soul. “It wasn’t a curse I knew. It was older than spellcraft. Colder.”

For a long moment none of them spoke. The retreat of the dray suddenly felt less like mercy and more like part of a design—an opening created for whatever had reached down and ripped at Safi’s bond. Cursy whimpered at the circle of onlookers, uneasy and unwilling to step too close to the place where the druid had been hollowed.

They helped Safi to his feet and half-carried him toward the noble district, but every step was shadowed now by the memory of that silent scream. The city itself seemed altered; pavements that had echoed with the dray’s passing now held a new silence, one that suggested something vast and patient turning its attention elsewhere—away from the street and toward them.

Chapter 4: A Night of Rest

The group finally stumbled into the relative safety of the noble district, their bodies battered, their spirits frayed. Word had already spread: Dregoth and his dray had inexplicably withdrawn from the field. Whispers ran through the streets—soldiers, merchants, and terrified citizens alike speculated in hushed tones, wondering why the enemy had abandoned the fight when victory had seemed all but certain. Fear and relief warred in every mind, leaving the city in a fragile, uneasy quiet.

Every inn and public hall was already filled to overflowing, the air thick with the heat, dust, and murmurs of countless displaced souls. With nowhere else to turn, the group did what they could—binding wounds, tending bruises, and patching armor where it had been ripped in battle. They found small spaces among the refugees, sleeping on rough cobblestones or leaning against charred walls, every moment of rest a stolen reprieve.

As night deepened, the city itself seemed to exhale, a fragile stillness settling over the chaos. Exhaustion pressed down on every shoulder; bodies ached, minds reeled with the weight of horrors witnessed, and hearts carried the raw scars of grief, terror, and fleeting relief. In the shadows of the noble district, amid the murmurs of other weary souls, the group finally allowed themselves to surrender to sleep. For one night, at least, the world held its breath, and even the living could rest.

Chapter 5 Herald of the Shadow King

The city of Raam had survived the invasion, but at a staggering cost. The streets were scarred, buildings shattered, and the air still carried the acrid tang of smoke and blood. It was clear to all that the city would never be the same. The sudden and inexplicable retreat of the dray army, abandoning victory when Raam lay broken and beaten, gnawed at the minds of the defenders. How could a force so overwhelmingly powerful, outnumbering the city two to one, simply vanish when triumph was within their grasp?

As if answering that unspoken question, a figure emerged from the dispersing crowd—a woman scantily clad for the desert heat, bearing an agafari staff and the unmistakable headdress of a templar. She moved with measured steps, planting her staff firmly in the sand at the group’s feet. A whisper floated through the air behind them: “Nibenay.”

“I am Arru,” she announced, her voice cold and precise, “High Templar of Nibenay. In the name of the Shadow King I bid you greetings and present you with a summons from my master regarding recent events. My liege has heard of your efforts against the invaders, and warns that, though the army has withdrawn, the future is wrought with peril. Brave ones such as you are needed to save Athas from a power greater than the Dragon ever was.” Her words carried an edge of barely concealed disdain, particularly at the last statement. Without pause, she continued, “The Shadow King has sent me to guide you to his city, where all shall be explained behind the safe walls of the Naggaramakam. Time is short; the sooner we depart, the better.”

Shank’s clumsy attempt at charm was met with sharp disdain. Arru dismissed the group, making it clear that Shank’s antics would not be tolerated, and informed them to meet her at the western gate at sunset. The rest of the day was spent in careful preparation, each member of the group tending to their weapons, supplies, and weary bodies, steeling themselves for the journey ahead into unknown peril.

Page updated

Google Sites

Report abuse