Session 94

Depart Bitter Well

Chapter 1: Finding Rest

The weary travelers handed over five silver pieces each to enter the parched settlement of Bitter Well, a dwarven outpost named for the only source of water for miles. Seeking comfort, they made their way to the Orb, an inn in the wealthier northern quarter, only to find it fully booked—its rooms claimed mostly by the Urikite soldiers they had traveled with. With no other option, they turned southward, toward the seedier heart of the settlement, where they found refuge in a dimly lit tavern known as The Dragon.

As they ate and drank, they listened to the whispers of the desperate and the damned.

A Defiler’s Ghost – The sandstorms beyond the well were no mere act of nature. A reckless defiler had once tried to tap into something deep beneath the sands. Whatever he found had consumed him, leaving nothing but ash. Now, the winds carried his tormented spirit, screaming through the storm, searching for a new body to claim.

The Slave Market’s Secret – The trade in flesh had taken a darker turn. Slavers no longer dealt only in bodies but in minds. Someone in Bitter Well was paying top ceramic for those with wild talents—hidden psionics, untapped power. Those sold never returned.

The Sunken King – Three nights prior, a yawning pit had opened in the salt flats. A trader, unfortunate enough to stumble in, swore he glimpsed a black stone palace in the abyss. Worse still, he claimed something in the darkness had seen him, had recognized him—had called him by name.

The Murdering Earth – North of the well, where the burial mounds lay, people were vanishing. No footprints, no bodies—just an unsettling shift in the sand, as if the earth itself had swallowed them whole.

Troll’s Blood – Tyr’s alchemists were offering fortunes for a strange, black ichor unearthed near the canyon—said to heal wounds as a troll’s flesh did. But the last three men who had found it could no longer be called men. They were changing, their flesh twisting into something unnatural.

The Dragon’s Whisper – A passing trader arrived in Bitter Well with madness in his eyes. He claimed that in his sleep, a voice had slithered into his mind—Dregoth’s voice. He could not recall words, only the promise of power. When he awoke, his skin bore the faintest trace of scales. He had not slept since, and his eyes had begun to darken into abyssal black.

The Dragon’s common room buzzed with fear and unease, but beyond the walls, the desert remained silent, waiting.

Chapter 2: Poisoned

Shortly after Safi began eating, a wave of nausea overtook him. His face paled, and he clutched his stomach, his breath coming in sharp gasps. Zahraan, suspicious of poison, scoffed at the idea and boldly took a bite from Safi’s plate to prove a point. Moments later, his confidence shattered—his limbs went weak, his vision blurred, and he collapsed, unconscious.

Karnos, distracted and unconcerned, absentmindedly picked at Safi’s meal, barely noticing the growing commotion. Then, the sickness struck him like a sledgehammer. His throat tightened, sweat beaded on his forehead, and the world spun around him.

With two unconscious and another reeling, the group wasted no time. They hauled Karnos, Safi, and Zahraan to their rooms, the heavy weight of suspicion settling over them. Someone had poisoned their food—and that meant someone wanted them vulnerable.

Chapter 3: A Night to Remember

Shank was captivated by the beauty of one of the women, her eyes flashing with intrigue as they exchanged flirtatious words. With a smirk and a whispered promise, they agreed on a price, and soon he and Shiv found themselves following the two women to their room—a night of indulgence awaiting them. The four disappeared into the dark, laughter trailing behind them.

Near dawn, Fazanna’s link with the brothers flared with a sudden, dire warning. The sensation sent a chill through her, but she brushed it off, taking her time dressing and rousing the others. By the time they reached the room, the sight before them sent ice through their veins—Shiv and Shank lay sprawled on the bed, their throats slit, the women straddling their lifeless forms with obsidian daggers dripping black in the dim light.

At the intrusion, the women spun, their expressions unreadable, then bolted for the door. Karnos, voice thick with certainty, muttered that they had been possessed. Fazanna cast dispel magic, but the spell slid off them like water on stone. Karnos reached out with his mind, trying to seize control of one of them, but she resisted his will. Zahraan lunged, managing to grab one of the assassins, but the other twisted free.

Before she could escape, Safi raised a hand and uttered a quick incantation. Hold Person. The fleeing woman locked in place, her breath ragged as terror filled her eyes. Interrogation followed, and the truth was more chilling than any of them expected—the women had been hired by someone named Arvego, a man who matched the description of the psionic stalker who had shadowed them for much of their journey.

Safi wasted no time, retrieving two diamonds from his pouch. Channeling divine power, he pressed his hands to the fallen brothers, forcing life back into their torn bodies. With gasping breaths, Shiv and Shank returned to the land of the living.

But Shank’s rebirth was accompanied by wrath. Eyes burning with fury, he seized the two women, one in each hand. They gasped, kicked, and clawed, but his grip was iron. With a savage twist, he silenced them both, their final breaths lost beneath the cracking of their necks.

Chapter 4: First Light

The morning sun hung low over Bitter Well, casting jagged shadows through the dust-choked streets. The usual haze of silt had retreated, offering fleeting glimpses of the endless Sea of Silt beyond the settlement’s crumbling walls. As they finished a hasty meal and stepped outside, they nearly collided with the Urikites.

The soldiers looked worse for wear—bruised, bloodied, and tense with barely restrained fury. At their center stood Thovadarak, his face a thunderhead of anger. He strode toward them, heavy boots grinding into the dirt.

"Two of my people nearly died last night," he growled, his voice rough as sandpaper. "Fights broke out all over the settlement." His sharp gaze flicked over the group, taking in their own weariness. "Looks like we weren’t the only ones targeted." He spat into the sand. "The Orb turned into a bloodbath."

Drawing a slow breath, he forced himself to speak evenly. "Jherrid has gone to find someone who can call the giants. When he returns, we’ll bargain for passage across the Road of Fire. If you need supplies, get them now. We won’t have another chance."

Without delay, the group moved through the settlement, securing what they could before returning, the weight of unseen dangers pressing upon them.

Chapter 5: Calling the Giants

The wait dragged on, stretching into an agonizing hour before Jherrid finally returned—no longer alone. Beside him walked a dwarf so ancient he seemed to have been carved from the very bones of Athas itself. His leathery skin, darkened by countless years beneath the brutal sun, bore the weight of age like an old parchment. Dust clung to his tattered robes, and in his grip rested a long staff, from which hung a weathered bone horn. His frame was frail, yet his presence was undeniable.

Jherrid gestured toward him with a mix of impatience and grudging respect. “This is Freeman,” he said. “He’s lived here longer than any of us. The giants know him.”

Without a word, Freeman turned and led them beyond Bitter Well, where the desert stretched endlessly in all directions—an unbroken wasteland of shimmering heat and silence. Hours crawled by as they trudged through the dunes, sweat soaking their clothes, the weight of the journey pressing upon them. Finally, Freeman halted atop a jagged outcrop overlooking the shifting, treacherous expanse of the Sea of Silt.

He motioned for them to stay back and ascended to the highest point. With the slow reverence of one performing a sacred rite, he lifted the horn to his lips and blew. A single, haunting note cut through the silence, reverberating across the wastes. And then—nothing.

Time stretched, the sun creeping lower in the sky. Again and again, Freeman sounded the horn, the lonely call swallowed by the scorching air. The Urikites grew restless, their murmurs turning to curses. Some scoffed, calling the old dwarf a fool, swearing they would find their own way across. The tension threatened to boil over, but Thovadarak’s iron glare kept them in check.

And then—Jherrid snapped.

With a furious lunge, he stormed up the rocky incline, seizing Freeman by the robes. “Enough of this nonsense!” he snarled, shaking the old man. “You’re wasting our time, old man! The giants aren’t coming!” His rage spilled forth, a torrent of insults hurled like a spoiled child’s tantrum.

But Freeman did not react. His weathered face remained unreadable.

Then, movement stirred in the Sea of Silt.

Dark shapes rose from the dust, massive forms emerging like specters from a fevered dream. They strode forward, each step shaking the ground, their sheer size growing more terrifying with every moment. By the time they reached the outcrop, their immense shoulders loomed level with the ledge where Freeman and Jherrid stood.

Jherrid fell silent.

The largest of the giants stepped onto the outcrop, kneeling beside Freeman. Their voices rumbled in their guttural tongue, an ancient exchange between old allies. After several minutes, the giant turned to the gathered group and addressed them in their own language.

“I am Mulak, son of the leader of the giants of Lake Island,” he said. His voice was a low, rolling thunder. He studied them, eyes glinting like polished obsidian. “My father sent us to meet you days ago, but the silt shifted, and we were delayed. He has need of you on Lake Island.”

He gestured toward his hunting party, their immense forms waiting in the distance. “We will take you across the Sea of Silt to our home.”

Chapter 6: Running Scared

The giants moved with practiced ease, their towering forms shifting methodically as they secured their massive baskets. One by one, the party climbed into the woven carriers strapped over the giants’ broad shoulders, the rough fibers creaking beneath their weight. The sun beat down mercilessly, and the ever-present silt drifted through the air, clinging to skin, clothing, and gear like a second, suffocating skin. It worked its way into every crease and fold, turning sweat to mud, filling nostrils with its dry, acrid taste. An itching irritation spread through the group, but the giants remained utterly unbothered, their thick hides seemingly impervious to the choking haze.

With a signal from their leader, the giants waded into the Sea of Silt, their colossal strides carrying them forward with steady determination. This was one of the most treacherous stretches in all of Athas—its depths shifting, its currents concealing creatures more monstrous than any found on land. Yet if they maintained their pace, they would reach an island by nightfall, a place of temporary refuge before continuing to Lake Island the following day.

The rhythmic swaying of the baskets, the occasional lurch as a giant adjusted their footing, and the unrelenting heat made for an uncomfortable ride. The world became a shifting, formless fog of dust and shadow, where every breath felt thick and grainy. But there was no alternative. They had left the relative safety of the desert three hours ago, and now the silt surrounded them completely, pressing in from all sides.

Then, movement.

At first, it was barely perceptible—a ripple in the silt, a subtle shifting beneath the surface. But soon, they noticed distinct churning paths cutting through the dust, as if something moved with great speed just beneath them. The trails darted and wove, circling, probing. And then, just as suddenly as they appeared, they were gone. The unease lingered, but for now, nothing struck.

Time passed, and the giants began to climb. The sensation of rising broke the monotony, and soon the party realized they had reached a low island in the silt, its surface covered in twisted shrubs and a few gnarled trees that clung stubbornly to life. The giants set them down and stretched out to rest, their deep voices rumbling, “We move at first light.”

Grateful for even a brief respite, the party settled in, letting exhaustion pull them toward sleep. The silt-fog darkened as the last dying rays of sunlight vanished beyond the horizon.

And then, the dust churned again.

This time, it did not stop.

Out in the shifting haze, multiple trails cut through the silt, streaking toward the island in perfect formation. The distant movement became a blur, then a rush, then a sudden explosion as the creatures struck.

Silt runners burst from the dust with terrifying speed, their wiry forms silhouetted against the moonlit fog. Weapons flashed in their clawed hands, and their eyes gleamed with predatory hunger.

The island was no longer a place of rest. It was a battlefield.

Chapter 7: Battle With the Silt Runners

Fazanna wasted no time, raising her hands and conjuring an invisible Wall of Force to shield much of the group. The shimmering barrier flickered in the moonlight, an impenetrable bulwark against the ambush.

Jherrid responded with fire. A Fireball roared across the battlefield, engulfing a cluster of silt runners in an explosion of flame. Their shrieks were short-lived as charred bodies collapsed into the dust.

One of the giants strode to the edge of the island, his massive club swinging in a devastating arc. The blow sent a silt runner crashing into the ground, lifeless.

Shiv dashed forward, his feet barely disturbing the silt as he plunged into the shallows. His Breaker of Minds flared, unleashing a wave of psionic destruction. Five silt runners fell instantly, their bodies convulsing before they went still, while others staggered away, wounded and reeling. With a practiced retreat, Shiv darted back to the safety of the group.

Thovadorak raised a gauntleted hand, his voice a growl as he unleashed three crackling Eldritch Blasts. Three silt runners dropped, their bodies writhing before going still.

Another giant joined the fray, his club crashing down with a sickening crunch, splattering another silt runner across the sand.

Safi murmured an incantation, his fingers glowing as he enchanted several stones with arcane power. He tossed them over the Wall of Force, providing ammunition for his allies.

Tirian took careful aim, her Eldritch Blasts streaking through the night. Two more silt runners crumpled, their bodies sinking into the dust.

Shank raised his weapon and let loose a fearsome roar, his Fury of the Warlord sending a wave of dread rippling through the enemy ranks. Many silt runners faltered, their courage breaking as their eyes darted toward the shifting silt.

Dokala took position beside Thovadorak, her stance resolute, ready to cut down any foe that dared approach.

Zahraan loosed two arrows into the fray, but the shifting shadows and haze of battle caused both to miss their mark.

Then—chaos.

With ruthless efficiency, the silt runners swarmed a fallen giant, their claws latching onto his limbs. Before the others could react, they dragged him toward the edge of the island, their movements unnervingly coordinated.

The moment stretched, the tension palpable.

And then they were gone, vanishing into the silt like specters, their prize in tow.

The battlefield fell silent once more, leaving only the ragged breaths of the survivors and the distant rustling of the endless dust.

Chapter 8: Dawn of the Dead

As they waded through the silt, a dark shape emerged in the distance—another small island, its surface strewn with toppled stone slabs. The stones lay in a haphazard heap, as if something long ago had cast them aside like broken bones. Each slab was roughly two feet wide and three feet long, their surfaces cracked and pitted from untold centuries of wind and dust carving away their edges.

The giants slowed their pace, exchanging glances before stopping at the island’s edge. They lowered their massive hands, allowing the group to climb down. "We will scout ahead," one rumbled, their voice like grinding rock. "Find the path." With that, the towering figures waded off into the haze, their forms vanishing into the endless gray.

The island was eerily quiet. Even the ever-present sigh of the silt winds seemed muted here. As they moved across the uneven ground, a creeping sense of wrongness settled over them. Something lingered in this place—something old, something forgotten.

Then, without warning, the ground began to churn.

A deep, groaning sound echoed beneath them as the dust and stone shifted. Slabs tilted and fell away, revealing skeletal forms beneath. Bony hands clawed free from their ancient tombs, empty sockets turning toward the group with silent, hungry intent.

The dead were rising.

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