Session 121

Third of Three

Chapter 1: The Dirty Lizard

After a rowdy brawl that left a few bruises and more than a few laughs, the group finally blended in with the rough company around them. Tankards clanged, voices boomed, and the scent of spiced ale filled the air as they pressed for word of the gladiator and his fabled sword.

Their search led them to an old silt pirate named Jaksot Han—a wiry man with weathered skin and eyes like sun-bleached glass. Leaning close, he rasped, “I remember the stories about the ex-gladiator who found a powerful sword. His name was Vorr. My father used to speak of him—of how Vorr wielded a blade that burned with black fire, cutting down slave raiders across the Ivory Triangle. For years he bathed in the blood of templars from Raam and Nibenay alike. The descendants of those he freed still live in Cromlin.”

Jaksot’s voice dropped lower, heavy with the weight of legend. “Then one day, he went to face a band of raiders sent from Nibenay to kill him… and never came back. My father swore Vorr slew a hundred of the Shadow King’s fiercest priestesses before they finally brought him down. That was the last anyone ever saw of him.”

He rubbed his chin, lost in some distant memory. “Though… there was another tale. My elf nanny, Shimmer, told me Vorr met his end at the claws of a nightmare beast. She said the monster dragged his body to its lair, where it devoured him—but even in death, Vorr’s hand would not release his sword. Shimmer claimed she once knew where the beast’s den lay. Last I heard, she was living with Tenpug’s slave tribe to the west. That was ten years ago, and she was already past a hundred then.”

Jaksot leaned back, the flicker of torchlight dancing in his eyes. “If you want to know more, find Tenpug’s people. They trade often in Cromlin. Ask for a man named Gessic in the market—he’ll know where to point you.”

Chapter 2: Meeting Gessic

After a brief round of questions and a few coins slipped into the right hands, the group found Gessic without trouble. The merchant stood amidst a riot of market stalls, his fingers heavy with rings and his smile sharp as a blade. When they explained their intent, his brows rose with amused disbelief.

“So, you wish to meet the old seamstress,” he said with a dry chuckle. “That is easier said than done. Tenpug does not welcome strangers, and his trust is not cheaply won. Still…” His eyes gleamed with calculation. “Perhaps if you bring something of value—something extraordinary—to offer the tribe, I could arrange an introduction. Tenpug adores fine craftsmanship and those with the skill to create beauty amid ruin. Present him with such a gift in my name, and I’ll see that you reach him safely. Do we have a deal?”

In truth, Gessic sought to settle an old debt with Tenpug’s mul-led tribe—merchandise owed and long overdue. Seeing an opportunity, the heroes produced a set of ornate coasters taken from the ruins of Giustenal, their surfaces inlaid with faded but intricate artistry. The merchant’s expression softened, a gleam of satisfaction passing over his face.

“Perfect,” he said at last. “Meet me at the gate of Cromlin at dawn. I’ll take you to Tenpug myself.”

Chapter 3: Meeting Tenpug

At first light, the group found Gessic waiting by the gates of Cromlin, a sly grin curling beneath his travel scarf. Without ceremony, he motioned for them to follow, and together they set out across the endless desert, the rising sun painting the dunes in shades of gold and blood.

The journey west was long and harsh, the wind biting and the sands shifting like restless spirits beneath their feet. Hours passed before the merchant led them to a sprawling encampment nestled among the dunes—Tenpug’s tribe.

The mul chieftain, massive and scarred, regarded the strangers with a wary eye as they approached. When Gessic presented the coasters and spoke their names, Tenpug’s suspicion wavered. He turned the relics over in his hands, their aged artistry catching the sun, and at last he nodded.

“These are worthy,” he rumbled. “You seek the old seamstress, then? Very well.”

Without another word, Tenpug led them onward—over wind-carved ridges and sun-baked dunes—to where the sands swallowed the remnants of an ancient ruin. Half-buried and silent, it waited like a tomb beneath the desert sky.

Chapter 4: Shimmer

Tenpug and his warriors led the group over dune after endless dune, the desert wind howling like ghosts in the distance, until at last they reached the tribe’s hidden refuge. Half-buried beneath mountains of drifting sand lay the ruins that served as their home. When the heavy stone doors creaked open, the sight within was nothing short of astonishing—life and labor thrived amidst the bones of the past.

The air was thick with the sound of hammers striking metal, the hum of spinning looms, and the rhythmic scrape of chisels on stone. Men and women worked tirelessly—shaping clay into pots, weaving cloth, carving jewelry—each creation a testament to survival through artistry.

Tenpug, his one arm strong and steady, guided them through the bustling cavern until they reached a quieter corner adorned with garments of exquisite design. Silks of deep crimson and gold hung beside practical desert robes, each piece marked by the same delicate hand. The mul chieftain stopped and called out, his deep voice echoing through the chamber.

“Old mother, there are people here to see you. They wish to know about Vorr.”

From the dim shadows emerged a frail elf, ancient beyond reckoning. Her skin was creased like weathered parchment, her hands twisted like the roots of an agafari tree. She paused in her sewing, her faded eyes narrowing to slits as she studied the strangers before her.

“Vorr…” she rasped, breaking into a dry cough. “That is a name I have not heard in an age. Why do you wish to know about Vorr?” Her voice suddenly hardened, cutting through the silence. “Speak the truth, for these old ears know a lie when they hear one.”

The group told her everything—their purpose, their desperate need for the sword to stop Dregoth.

“The foolish master trader cast me out years ago,” Shimmer said bitterly, her voice trembling with old anger. “He called me mad for speaking of Vorr. Perhaps it was easier for him to believe the gladiator dead, since Vorr’s sword had ruined his trade with Nibenay by slaying his slavers. It has been a long time since those days… more than a King’s Age. You do not seek Vorr the man, but the weapon that made him unstoppable. They said he killed a thousand slavers, but I tell you it was closer to a hundred—and yet it matters little. Soon none will remember his name.”

Her eyes grew distant as she spoke, her voice fading to a whisper. “I watched him fall to a nightmare beast. For a time, I thought he might triumph, but the creature was stronger. It dragged his body to its den—a cave on the eastern face of a mountain—and neither he nor the beast was ever seen again. That was long ago. If you seek the sword, that is where you must go.”

She paused to drink from the cup Tenpug offered, her breath shallow but steady. “The mountain you seek lies at the northernmost peak of the Black Spines, in the northwest of the Valley of Trevain. Unless the creature carried it elsewhere, the blade still lies there.”

Her gaze turned sharp once more as she added, “One last warning before you go. I knew Vorr before and after he drew that sword from the belly of a silt horror. I swear by Ral, the blade carries a curse. It changed him—broke something inside him. When you are done with it, cast it back into the Silt Sea, or it will destroy you as surely as it did him.”

As the conversation faded, Tenpug stepped forward, his tone softer than before. “Rest here tonight. You have earned the shelter of our home. At dawn, my warriors will guide you to the Valley of Trevain.”

And so, surrounded by the warmth and quiet hum of the hidden artisans, the group prepared for what awaited them beyond the dunes—toward the cursed sword of Vorr, and the mountain where death still lingered.

Chapter 5: The Valley of Trevain

At dawn, the tribe stirred with the quiet purpose of departure. The group gathered their gear, their breath misting faintly in the cool morning air as Tenpug’s warriors stood ready. With a few parting words and solemn nods, they set out across the wasteland toward the Valley of Trevain, the rising sun spilling fire across the dunes behind them.

The journey was harsh and unrelenting. Shimmer’s directions had led them true, but the wilderness demanded its due—razor-edged stones tore at their boots, the wind whipped sand into their faces, and each step across the uneven ground felt heavier than the last. Hours passed before the guides finally stopped at the crest of a ridge, pointing toward the horizon.

“There,” one of them grunted, shading his eyes. “The valley.”

And beyond it—jagged, grim, and ancient—rose the mountain Shimmer had described. With a few parting words, Tenpug’s warriors turned back toward the desert, leaving the adventurers alone beneath the shadow of the Black Spines.

The terrain grew crueler as they pressed on, every incline a battle, every breath drawn against the choking dust of stone and ash. Yet soon, the entrance to the lair came into view—a dark maw cut into the mountainside, half-hidden by the jagged slope.

But between them and that goal lay danger. A handful of creatures sprawled at the base of the incline, their hulking forms scattered like broken boulders. The air trembled with a deep, rhythmic sound—snoring. As they crept closer, the truth became clear: the beasts slept, their sides rising and falling in slow, thunderous rhythm. The only way forward was directly through the slumbering monsters.

Crouching low, Zahraan extended his hand, a faint shimmer of energy coalescing into a ghostly orb of perception. His Arcane Eye drifted silently up the slope, slipping through the darkness of the cave beyond.

Through the eye’s vision, he saw movement—two so-ut, great hulking brutes, gnawing on fresh kills within the cavern’s depths. Their guttural snarls echoed faintly through the rock.

The group withdrew to the shadows, the desert wind hissing softly around them as they whispered their plan. Whatever they decided next would determine whether they caught the beasts sleeping—or died waking them.

Chapter 6:The Battle Within

The air inside the cave trembled with tension as Karnos prepared, his psionics reaching out with Prescient Warning and Soothing Impulse before unleashing Mystic Nomad, transporting the entire group into the maw of the cavern. Acting first, Karnos surged forward, pressing the weight of his mind upon the hulking beasts, and with a jolt one of them collapsed, incapacitated by his psychic might.

The remaining rampager roared, charging Shank with terrifying speed. Its massive claw tore through armor and flesh alike, damaging both Shank and one of his greatswords, before its jaws clamped down on his hands, crushing his gauntlets. Shiv’s fury flared as he activated his Fury of the Arena, his muscles coiling with raw power. With a roar, he switched places with Shank, striking relentlessly with his Bonecrusher Mace, his Action Surge allowing him to hammer blow after blow against the monstrous hide, chipping away at it despite its resilience.

Safi, ever fluid in movement, used his psionic Nomadic Shift to slip behind the creature, then wild-shaped into a sleek six-legged kirre. His tail, claws, and bite lashed out, but the beast shrugged off his attacks like thorns on stone. Zahraan, shifting his augment to Giant Growth, extended his reach and struck with his dagger, though the blow failed, forcing him to try again with an unarmed strike, equally futile.

Anvar, ever analytical, assessed the creature with his diagnostic skills. The so-ut were impervious to psychic assault and natural attacks. Swiftly, he coated a throwing dagger with potent poison, preparing for another strike. Shank roared into the fray, swinging his great axe with deadly precision, his Action Surge landing blow after crushing blow, until the beast finally fell.

Zahraan seized Shiv with Step of the Wind, flanking the second rampager alongside him, both struggling to steady their hearts against its monstrous presence. The so-ut shook off Karnos’ psychic pressure, swiping with claw and fangs—its bite tearing into Shiv’s torso. Karnos struck again with Mind Seize, but the creature resisted, unyielding.

Fear gripped Shank and his coal drake companion, Cursy, momentarily freezing them in place. Anvar hurled his poisoned dagger, and Karnos followed with Psychic Daze, incapacitating the beast at last. Safi tried a guiding bolt, which glanced harmlessly off the thick hide. Shiv hammered relentlessly with Bonecrusher Mace, Zahraan jabbed with his dagger, and Anvar conjured a flickering Bonfire, scorching the monster’s flesh.

Finally, with a combination of rage, precision, and sheer determination, Shiv’s relentless strikes, bolstered by Menace, brought the rampager down. The cavern fell silent save for the labored breaths of the victorious adventurers, the echo of monstrous roars fading into the shadowed recesses of the cave.

Chapter 7: The Scorcher

The cave fell silent after the battle, its shadows heavy with the scent of scorched earth and blood. The group cautiously searched the cavern, their eyes tracing every crevice and shadow. At the bottom of a steep drop-off, they found the remains of the fallen rampager, its massive form twisted in death. In its blackened jaws, still scorched and smoking, lay the legendary weapon—the Scorcher—its dark heat radiating even in stillness.

Scattered around the cavern were remnants of other treasures, though most of the gear had not fared so well. Broken weapons, shattered armor, and tattered supplies bore the marks of the so-ut’s savage feasting, reminders of the monsters’ ferocity. Still, among the ruins, a few items had survived, glinting faintly in the dim light, treasures waiting for careful hands to claim them. The cave, though grim and ravaged, had yielded its secrets at last.

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