Session 122

Back to Giustenal

Chapter 1: First to Cromlin

After salvaging what they could from the cave of the so-uts, Fazanna gathered her companions and, with a surge of arcane power, teleported them all to Cromlin—materializing just outside the raucous tavern known as the Dirty Lizard. Her spell carried them swiftly, yet their minds were far from calm. Restless and burning with purpose, they longed to reach New Giustenal, to face Dregoth himself, and to halt the completion of his apocalyptic spell.

But fate proved uncooperative. The piers stood eerily empty, the silt ships gone. Locals spoke vaguely of vessels returning “in a few days,” though none could promise when. The group scoured the town, questioning sailors and merchants alike, but found no passage across the endless Silt Sea. Exhausted and grim, they secured rooms at Cromlin’s only fine inn, posted watches, and tried to rest.

It was deep into the last watch when it happened—Shank’s watch. A sudden scream tore through the stillness: Safi’s voice, sharp with agony. Half-awake and suspicious of more intimate noises from Safi and his wife Fazanna, Shank dismissed it with a weary sigh. But by dawn, the truth had clawed its way into the light—Safi had once again been ripped from the primal essence of the lower planes. Somewhere, far beyond their reach, Dregoth had advanced his terrible work.

Chapter 2: Another Day, Another Spell

They spent the day scouring Cromlin, chasing every whisper and rumor that might lead them to passage across the Silt Sea. Old contacts were called upon, bribes exchanged, and promises made—but none bore fruit. Every lead turned to dust beneath the desert sun.

As the day waned and frustration thickened like the evening heat, the search was drawing to a weary close when Safi suddenly collapsed. The ground trembled faintly beneath him as his body convulsed, the air shimmering with a fading trace of primal energy. In that dreadful moment, they knew—the lifeline that bound him to the lower planes had weakened again. Dregoth had completed yet another step in his dark ritual, and time was slipping away faster than the silt through an hourglass. Urgency gripped the group like a vice; they could delay no longer.

Chapter 3: A Ship Finally

The next two days dragged on in Cromlin with the same grim futility. No ship appeared, and every lead to passage across the Silt Sea dissolved into frustration. Safi, wearied and desperate, began to contemplate the impossible—constructing their own vessel. They also toyed with magical alternatives, but each spell and ritual promised dangers too great to risk. Twice more, Safi was struck down as Dregoth’s dark designs advanced, each strike sapping his primal power and spurring the group toward desperation.

Then, late one afternoon, just as the sun began its slow descent, salvation arrived. A ship glided into the harbor: Shiv’s Revenge, with the indomitable Captain Davn at the helm. Relief and hope surged through the group as she approached, her presence a promise of aid. She was welcomed warmly, and after a brief exchange, she withdrew to the inn with Shiv. Later, she returned with news for Shank alone—two members of her crew who might pique his interest: a female dwarf and an older human woman. Without hesitation, they took Shank in their arms, guiding him below deck as the evening shadows lengthened. The group, hearts both heavy and hopeful, prepared to depart at dawn.

Chapter 4: Off to Giustenal

They left just before dawn, pushing themselves to make the tar pits before nightfall. The journey was long and mostly uneventful, the silt stretching endlessly around them, but a heavy tension hung over the group. At last, Shank spoke of the change that had come over him the night before. In his blunt, simple way, he tried to put it into words.

He explained that the fire he had always felt inside—his anger, his primal strength, the burning pulse that had driven him through countless battles—had shifted. Something vital had been ripped away by Dregoth’s spell. The Inner Planes, the source of that raw, molten power, were gone. The fire had not vanished, but it was no longer the bright, untamed blaze he had known. Now it was dark, stubborn, and tied directly to Athas itself, as if the world’s own fury and pain had lodged in his chest.

Shank described how it manifested: when he breathed, black smoke curled from his mouth, carrying the scent of ash and heat; when he clenched his fists, dull crimson cracks spread across his skin like dying embers pressed into flesh. It was painful, unnerving, and yet somehow empowering. He spoke without fear, almost without surprise, as if this was simply the next step of who he had become. His rage had not been lost—it had changed purpose. It was no longer only for battle or destruction. He was now a living ember of Athas’ molten soul, carrying the last spark of the world’s fire, its fury, and its resilience.

The group listened in silence, the weight of his words pressing down like the heat of the sun above the silt. They realized that Shank had been transformed into something more than a barbarian; he was now a symbol of Athas itself, a survivor of the devastation Dregoth wrought. Each step forward carried the sense that the stakes had grown higher, the land darker, and the enemy closer. As they rode onward, the shadow of Dregoth’s spell stretched before them, and the ember within Shank glowed as both warning and hope—a small, stubborn blaze in a world on the brink of silence.

Chapter 5: The Tar Pits

Shiv’s Revenge creaked and groaned as it pressed through the silt-choked waters, carrying the group as far as the tar pits that choked the outskirts of Giustenal. Beyond that black, bubbling death, the ship could go no further. At the edge of the infernal expanse, Captain Davn’s stern gaze met theirs, his farewell heavy with unspoken respect, his promise to await their return echoing like a lifeline. Hearts steeled, the group descended into the treacherous expanse.

Fazanna moved with the poise of a dancer on a knife’s edge, her balance the only thing keeping her from being swallowed by the quaking tar. Zahraan’s sharp eyes hunted for weak patches in the crust, warning the others of invisible death beneath their feet. Shiv, imposing and unyielding, let no fear linger, rallying their flagging hearts with sheer presence. Safi, attuned to the land itself, traced the heat of the tar, sensing where the ground might erupt or collapse like a dying beast.

Yet the tar was merciless. Zahraan misjudged the fumes, a toxic haze curling like serpents in the air, and Fazanna was yanked screaming into a hidden pit, her limbs flailing as she was hauled back from the brink of death. Shank tried to command the heat itself, to bend the searing danger to his will, but his lack of mastery unleashed no control—only choking, black smoke that clung to their lungs and eyes. Shiv pressed on, unbowed, lifting burdens and spirits alike, a bastion of determination amid the chaos.

Step by agonizing step, Zahraan’s vigilance turned the tide. He spotted the subtle signs of peril before the tar could claim them, and slowly, painfully, they clawed their way across the molten mire. At last, scorched, battered, and hearts pounding like war drums, they emerged onto firmer ground. Before them rose the ruined gates of Giustenal, jagged and dark against the horizon, the tar pits behind them hissing and bubbling like a wound that refused to heal. The city awaited, and with it, the shadow of Dregoth loomed, heavy and inexorable.

Chapter 6: The Gates of Giustenal

At last, they stood before the gates of Giustenal, monumental dragon statues looming on either side like silent sentinels of a forgotten age. The city itself had changed—no longer buried beneath silt and crawling with foul creatures, its streets were eerily clean, swept as if by unseen hands. Though the ruins still reeked of decay, it was unmistakably clear: someone—or something—was here.

As they approached the gate, a sudden pulse of danger rippled through the air. Fazanna reacted instantly, dashing forward with deadly precision, activating her bladesong and igniting her flame blade in a blaze of fiery steel. Safi readied himself, hands alight with sacred flame, poised to strike any foe that dared emerge. Zahraan drew his magical widow’s blade, seized Shiv, and pulled him toward the gate—but Shiv shook free, activating his boots of flying and soaring over the forty-foot wall. From above, he glimpsed the ruins teeming with dray patrols, a stark warning of the perils that awaited, before descending out of sight.

Then the assault began. Four Dray templars emerged from the ruined gatehouse, weaving dark spells that struck Fazanna with a phantasmal killer, turning her deepest nightmares into searing, tangible terror. Eight dray warriors followed, surrounding those near the gate, their long impalers striking viciously, tearing at flesh and morale alike. Fazanna, reeling from the hallucinations, drew another shortsword, her resolve unbroken, and cast dimension door, vanishing to Taraskir’s Tomb far beyond the gate, into the heart of the city. Shadows swallowed her as she entered the tomb, leaving the rest to face the deadly streets of Giustenal and the dray that now claimed them.

Chapter 7: Taraskir's Tomb

Fazanna stepped into Taraskir’s Tomb and immediately saw the high priest Absalom, flanked by numerous dray, their eyes cold and merciless. She reacted without hesitation, casting gaseous form to slip from their grasp. But the high priest was no ordinary foe. With a shout of “Get over here!” he used telekinetic crush, wounding her and dragging her closer. Before she could recover, a psionic beam lashed at her, searing her mind with unbearable force.

Her companions arrived then, fleeing from the swarm of dray outside. “Kill them all!” Absalom roared, his command igniting a sinister glow in the dray’s eyes, an eerie blue light that promised death. Zahraan activated his cloak of shadows, melting into a living shadow to strike at the priest—but his path was barred by a shimmering wall of force. Shiv charged the dray, unleashing his fury of the arena, swinging his mace with deadly precision. Two dray fell, but each strike carved identical wounds into Shiv’s own flesh. Unfazed, he pressed on toward a third.

Shank called on Cursy, his coal drake, to engage, then swapped places with Shiv. The greatsword in Shank’s hands felled two more dray, yet each blow mirrored the self-inflicted wounds that plagued his brother. Safi, desperate, shifted into a kirre, slashing with tail, claw, and bite to kill one dray, though the strain forced him back into his mortal form.

Fazanna shed her gaseous form, solid and fierce, and cast disintegrate at the wall of force, only to be countered. Undeterred, she action surged and struck again, shattering the barrier, and moved to confront Absalom alone in the back chamber, rage burning in every movement. Meanwhile, Cursy tore into a dray with fangs and claws, finally claiming his first kill despite receiving the same mirrored wounds in return.

Karnos unleashed a psychic crystal, invoking pandemonium, but the dray were mindless puppets, immune to his power. Absalom retaliated, using telekinetic push to slam Fazanna back toward the group before erecting his wall of force anew. The blue-eyed dray lashed out, impalers striking with lethal precision, cutting through armor and flesh alike.

The group, battered and bloodied, understood the terrible truth: the high priest had to fall. Behind them, more blue-eyed dray poured into the tomb, closing the walls of the chamber into a gauntlet of death. They had no choice—Absalom had to be stopped, or none would leave the tomb alive.

Chapter: Mon Adderath

Time seemed to stretch and slow, warping the very air around them. The dray and even the high priest froze mid-motion, sluggish and heavy, yet still aware, their senses straining against the unnatural suspension. Then, as if stepping from shadow itself, a figure appeared before the group.

“I am Mon Adderath,” the figure intoned, voice cold and commanding, “High Templar of Dregoth and regent of New Giustenal at this time. Before any further action is taken, I desire a discourse. Why are you here? What is it you seek? Do you consent to speak—or must I put you to death?”

The group agreed to parley, the tension coiling tightly around them. Mon Adderath’s eyes glinted with knowledge and menace. “I know why you’ve come,” he whispered, “but you are too late. Dregoth has already departed New Giustenal to complete his spell elsewhere. I offer a bargain—accept it, and you may yet survive. Refuse, and death is certain. Betray me, and death is your only reward. The choice is yours.

“Since you plot with the Assassins to slay my master, the Dread Lord, you must understand—he is in the final stages of casting a spell he believes will make him supreme. I, however, have studied his work, and all signs point to failure. I wish to aid you in preventing this calamity.”

His tone shifted suddenly, sharp and venomous. “Take care, mortals. Should you kill my lord and master, the dray nation will descend upon you with relentless fury. It is unlikely you could strike down Lord Dregoth outright—but you need not. You only need to prevent the completion of his spell. Afterward, flee for your lives. I alone know some of the workings of this spell. Convey this to the traitorous Champions: the spell can never again be attempted. Stop it now, and the danger ends forever.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle like stone. “Only I know where Dregoth has gone. None of his other templars, not even Absalom, have his trail. Even if you discovered it, I would see you destroyed unless you honor this concession. Choose wisely.”

The group exchanged a quick, silent glance, confirming their decision in mere seconds. Mon Adderath’s eyes gleamed. “You have chosen wisely. I will hold you to this bargain. Dregoth has gone to the Pristine Tower, where only the powers embedded by the Blue Age and the First Sorcerer can amplify his energies to their full terrible scope. To avoid suspicion from Absalom, and to conceal your escape, I shall feign your destruction with a spell—but instead, you will be transported beyond the tar pits surrounding Giustenal. Fail this agreement, and we shall meet again under far deadlier circumstances.”

With a menacing point, he unleashed a brilliant flash of light. The group’s surroundings blurred and twisted until, in a heartbeat, they found themselves standing in the hills south of Giustenal. Before them loomed the distant Pristine Tower. The dread of what awaited—the confrontation with the Undead Dragon King—settled over them like a shadow, sharp and unrelenting.

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