7th Eleasias, 1372 DR (Yes, I’m keeping time again!)

After the disastrous raid on Blackwater, the PCs regroup, heal Wern the militia chief, and ask him what he knows about the castle.

Wern reveals that he doesn’t really know much about how to get into the castle, but reveals that there may be other ways to get in. Kieran remembers that the group did have to rendezvous with the group of Purple Dragons, which everyone else somehow forgot.

In any case, the group heads off to meet the soldiers, who have been waiting for them for days. The captain shows them a map of the castle and proposes a way of disrupting the castle’s defenses: As long as the PCs are able to seize the barbican and open the gate, they can clear the way for the soldiers. The Purple Dragons can then gain control of the trebuchets on the roofs of the barbican and begin raining hell on the rest of the castle.

The PCs have come up with an brazen plan to break into the castle: While a patrol exits, the party, clothed in both invisibility and seeming, enter the fortress and hide until sunset. As the sun goes down and torches are lit, the PCs overturn the torches (which is not outright a hostile action) and thereby set the barracks on fire.

After using a commune spell, Acantha determines that the plan will work well enough, but many other things regarding the Marquis’s intentions are for them to discover on their own. Acantha also gleans that the Marquis is part of a large conspiracy, and that there is more at stake here than mere personal gain. Before the spell ends, Kelemvor leaves them with a simple piece of advice: “Connect the dots.”

The PCs execute the plan. Under the cover of dusk, they sneak across to the castle’s base and prepare to get in. Just as planned, they are able to avoid detection until the torches are lit at sunset. They then drop torches and start sneaking off elsewhere as the invisibility wears off.

After turning visible, they stroll nonchalantly over to the barbican. Kieran picks the lock, and the party soon finds itself in the barbican’s capstan room. Deciding instead to take out the hobgoblins on the roof ahead of time, they go up to the roof.

On the roof, they meet not only the archers, but a heavily-armored hobgoblin with a shield and longsword. In an attempt to lead them away from the barbican and avoid a fight,  Kieran tries to bluff the officer on the gate (whom they did not realize is the top hobgoblin officer) into leaving.

Kieran, unfortunately, knows not a single ounce of Goblin.
Alzarug, fortunately, has no ranks in Sense Motive and has 12 Wis, which puts his modifier at +1.

<Kieran> *random grunting, gesturing at the fire, rolls high*
<Alzarug, Hobgoblin Crusader of Bane> *in Common* Yes, I can see it’s burning.
<Kieran> *now in Common* Why aren’t you putting it out? Can’t you see the barracks is on fire?
<Alzarug> Yes I can. Our orders were to stand our ground on the gate. Why aren’t YOU putting it out? What are you doing here?
<Kieran> We were ordered to come up here.
<Alzarug> What? Why? Who gave you those orders?
<Kieran> *at this point noticing that this was the only guy wearing a big helmet and ornate armor* Um…um…YOU DID, SIR!
<Alzarug> Really?! Did I? (rolls a 1 on Sense Motive) *scratches chin for a moment* Well, whatever! I’m changing your orders now! Go and put out the fire!
*party stands there, blinking*
<Alzarug> YOU FOOLS! Why are you just standing there?
<Kieran> We are following your example, Sir! *again rolls high*
<Alzarug> I see. Well, what are you waiting for?! Follow me! *Goes down the stairs.*
Just as he takes the first step down, female bugbear clad in light robes runs up the stairs, almost bumping into Alzarug.
At this point, Kieran, who has a couple of levels in Swordsage, uses Shadow Garrote on him. The damage is massive, but Alzarug was far tougher than he appeared. He yells to his archer underlings to open fire.

Azareth springs into action, blinding one of the archers with glitterdust. Lesa also attempts to attack Alzarug, but the commander skillfully blocks every single one of her strikes. Grinning with malice, Alzarug tells the PCs that they won’t live to regret their mistake of attacking.

So ends the most recent chapter of The Black and the Purple. I was quite happy at how they were able to pull off a plan and actually stick to it, and I was also very pleased that Kieran finally managed to put her legendary Bluff skills to use along with her deadly precision attacks. This is only the beginning of an epic struggle to take Dragonsgate and put the Marquis Eldershade’s plans to rest.

But just what is this conspiracy? How do the dragonspawn figure into the equation? The PCs are about to find out.

It’s been an age and three fourths since I updated this campaign journal. Thankfully, the party has progressed much further than I would have thought:

1. The party successfully vanquished the Tiefling swordsage Eirklaon and her partner Chandrakali. It took quite a while due to their inability to really land a solid hit on the AC 30 swordsage, but Alioth eventually whittled her HP down while the others took on the Rakshasa. Eirklaon died much faster than the Rakshasa, but Chandrakali survived due to her DR/Good and silver. Eirklaon managed to cast darkness before she died, through which Chandrakali escaped.

2. Knowing that the Zhentarim were indirectly implicated in this and seeing that Viram Eldershade is increasingly suspicious, the party goes consult Princess Alusair. They are sent off back to Red Spires, where they relax for a bit, only to receive a summons to Suzail once more—a grand council meeting.

3. The meeting is immediately strange. They see Eldershade, and his female knight companion, a tall, stoic, strawberry blonde. As the proceedings go underway, Eldershade is able to dominate Alusair and force her to act to sign a treaty with Sembia and Westgate. While this gravely weakens Cormyr’s national security, it allows Zhentarim agents (disguised as Sembian merchants) to infiltrate the country with impunity. The assembly erupts into an outroar, and an angry mob (enchanted by Eldershade) forms outside.

4. With the creative use of the silent image spell, Azareth is able to disperse the mob. However, a meeting with Caladnei reveals that she is highly suspicious of Eldershade’s actions.

5. The party is then attacked by Fire Knives assassins. A connection is quickly made: Eldershade is behind these attacks. His real name is Voltemand Cormaeril, and he seems to be assembling a very suspicious crew.

6. The PCs go off to investigate Dragonsgate by traveling by sea. The waters of the Dragonmere are now infested with pirates, and they are attacked almost immediately. The pirates are annihilated by their own stupidity and the party’s might.

7. Finally landing and forging north towards Dragonsgate, the PCs travel through the swampy area and encounter nothing less than an adult black dragon–Aszaufvorax. Almost getting slaughtered, the party manages to hang on until Alioth gets lucky and cleaves the dragon’s head in half.

8. Now emboldened and enriched by looting the dragon’s hoard, the party continues the trek to Dragonsgate.

9. The PCs come to a small village close to Dragonsgate named Blackwater Bend. Blackwater has been suffering strange attacks that have been drawing off their militia via strange howling sounds at night. The PCs learn that this is caused by the Blackwater Hollow, which they discover is a Night Twist—a terrifying tree that lures in its victims with haunting songs before thrashing them to death with its limbs. The PCs are able to destroy the wicked tree, and retrieve a lost weapon held by a hero of Blackwater: the sentient elven blade, The Last Winged Unicorn.

10. The village folk are jubilant at the destruction of the Hollow, and treat the PCs to a free night at the inn. However, the PCs wake up the next morning to realize that they are under attack. Ogres, dragonspawn, and hobgoblins raid the town. While the party puts up a formidable show and neutralizes the ogres and hobgoblins, a wyvern-riding redspawn Arcaniss sets the village hall and granary on fire.

11. Although Azareth had protected the village elder via resilient sphere, a sniper shot him in the back as soon as the sphere ended. Rushing to investigate the sniper, the party finds several Greenspawn sneaks camped out in an abandoned building. Alioth attempts to interrogate the sniper but fails to say anything, while Azareth resorts to using charm person to get answers out. Unable to convince the sneak to work for them, they end up executing the three dragonspawn.

Now the party is trying to figure out just how to get into Dragonsgate. The castle is a formidable work of defense, built on top of a 200-foot block of basalt, with 60-foot walls, trebuchets, and God knows how many soldiers. Rumors of the blue dragon Al’Lashvahazred are also sending chills down the PCs’ spines.

So we’ve sort of finished the first arc. We were about three encounters short of the end of the first campaign, but unfortunately we didn’t finish the boss fight for the third chapter.

The last session ended with a cliffhanger: The PCs had gone to rescue Lord Sthavar, Lord Mayor of Suzail, from a group of deadlier-than-usual bandits who had taken him hostage in his own manor. A strange mix of Vhaeraunian drow, spawn of Tiamat, and rakshasa greated them.

Most of the battles were taxing. Azareth was brought very close to death several times, much to his dismay. Nothing would prepare them for the boss encounter, though .

A ballroom. Three hostages.  A falling chandelier.

Darkness.

Two assassins: a tiefling swordsage and a Naztharune rakshasa.

Alioth and Kieran get hit by the falling chandelier,  taking an immediate 6d6 damage. The two assassins go first (having a massive +9 to their initiative), catching everyone flat-footed. The swordsage attacks Azareth immediately, sinking 22 damage and stunning him for a round. The rakshasa sneaked Alioth for almost 3/4 of his HP, although she failed to hurt Lesa.

In a mad scramble to hurt the Swordsage, Alioth expends both his smites for the day. Only one hit, while the other missed. Azareth managed to eventually cast fly on himself, but flying away drew an Opportunity Attack from the swordsage, putting him at 0 HP. Only Acantha’s efforts saved him from being a floating paperweight.  Unfortunately for Acantha, the swordsage opened up a massive can of whooping on her, literally and bodily throwing her forty feet across the room. That sank 37 damage into her, dropping her to -5 HP. The encounter ended there.

Will they manage it? I think they can. But what will this battle entail for them?

Al’Lashvahazred’s Plot

I wanted to introduce more draconic villains so that Al’Lashvahazred wouldn’t feel shoehorned into the end sequence just because the campaign needed a dragon. As such, his allies Gorge, Asphyxia and Bleedfire will be appearing within the next arc. I hope that the introduction of this extra depth will make the campaign a lot more interesting.

Now that the PCs have been awarded the Barony of Red Spires (which went to Azareth, who now refers to himself as Baron Starsmiter), they’ve entered the prickly arena of politics among Cormyr’s nobility. And now they’ve met a character whom they simply cannot bring themselves to trust: Viram Eldershade.

The PCs have already met Lord Eldershade once before through the person of Ord, a fellow inmate at the city jail. Ord was  once Eldershade’s personal carriage driver, until he was thrown in the slammer for stealing a few gold pieces. Ord had described Eldershade as “a cheapskate” to the point of Ord needing to steal from his master to feed his family. Acantha hated him immediately.

Now, the PCs have actually met him–in the court of Princess Alusair, no less. Alusair described Eldershade as one of the few nobles who actually cooperates with the throne, but the recognition his name brought to Acantha and Azareth made them immediately suspicious of him. And who wouldn’t find him suspicious?

Dressed in a gaudy outfit of green velvet, emeralds, rubies and dripping gold chains, this man seems to show the worst in Cormyr’s nobility: arrogant, self-important, and cheap despite his wealth. But what is his agenda? What is he living for? Why is he important enough to materialize? We can only speculate.

And hope that our speculations are true, because political blunders in Cormyr might cost more than a few gold pieces.

Artwork: Cannith Wand Adept by Tom Giorello.

Well, it’s been a long time. Black//Purple isn’t dead yet–in fact, the story has progressed a lot since our last post. Let me run through this quickly.

1. Azareth died on the sword of a hobgoblin.

2. Azareth was raised from the dead, a little loopy.

3. The party encounters a Zhentarim caravan in an attempt to purchase spell components for the College of War Wizards.

4. It was a trap. The Zhentarim attack the PCs. The PCs overcome and pursue the escaping caravan. Before the beginning of the battle, the PCs notice three figures in the camp talking—one on a horse, who escaped back toward Suzail, one on foot, who escaped with the caravan, and a third one—a slave, it seemed, who spoke in Infernal, barked orders to the others, and vanished in a puff of smoke.

5. The party encounters the Zhentarim cleric of Bane, Ataklos Rathryn. Ataklos is distracted by Acantha’s beauty (hey, she looks like Jessica Biel), and runs off, defeated.

6. The party then encounters Ardragon Caellamore deLavierre. Caella murders Milica. An enraged Alioth nearly kills her.

7. The party ventures back to Suzail, exhausted and in mourning, only to be thrown in jail by the city guard for the supposed murder of Milica Illancet. Milica’s brother Arnion backhands Alioth and calls him a wicked excuse for a paladin.

8. The party is sprung from the brig by the sorceress Caladnei, who needed the PCs to complete their work.  The party attends the funeral of Milica, where they attempt to get on Arnion’s good side. The most successful is Lesa, whose line “Sir Arnion, please remember, you are a knight yourself.  You should know what bonds are formed in battle.” softened his hard facade somewhat. Alioth leaves his sword at Milica’s grave and storms off.

9. As everyone leaves, a stranger remains, warning them of imminent danger. Crossbow bolts hail upon the party. The gravediggers are NINJAS! The stranger helps out, single-handedly dispatching two more attackers. The stranger introduces himself as Kenrou, a wandering warrior in search of ancient lore—and disciples. The party is now at Level 7.

The horizon was still pink from the sunset when Caellamore deLavierre finished the last stroke of her sword drills. She wiped the sweat from her brow and shook the moisture from her deep red hair. She gave a few stretches before sheathing her sword–a 5-foot two-handed sword that was so thin and tapered that it looked like a giant’s rapier. Caella twirled the sheathed sword and tapped the tip on her boot.

Things were going to change starting midnight. Everything.

***

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Master Seishiro was testing his sword, tapping it with a small hammer. The fine Kara-Turan katana hummed softly with each tap, a sound that the old swordsage found extremely soothing. Just as he was about to sheathe his sword, a series of angry yells erupted from the next room.

The old swordsage looked up from his work and peered into the training room.

Caellabianca deLavierre was furiously slashing at a training dummy with her practice sword, yowling like an angry wildcat with each stroke. The 16-year old’s forms were graceful and dexterous, noted the old master as he studied his apprentice’s movements. Still, the swordsage couldn’t help but shake his head as he sensed the deep anger in Caella’s voice.

“Caella.”

The girl stopped in mid-swing, shaking the sweat from her hair.

“Sensei,” she said, bowing in the traditional Kara-Turan formal manner of greeting.

“Are you still upset?”

The girl hid her eyes.

“I keep thinking about that night, master. Horses thundering over the horizon. Black-cloaked men breaking into the house. Black-bladed swords, smoldering with green fire. Papa and Mama falling on the floor, cut into pieces…” trailed off the girl as she choked back her tears.

She screamed as she threw the wooden sword she was holding at the dummy with all her strength. The wood quivered in the center of the dummy’s chest as Caella collapsed onto the floor.

“Caella,” whispered the old man calmly as he knelt down beside the sobbing girl. “This is why I taught you my sword wisdom. It is not an outlet, not a mere conduit for rage. The Diamond Mind is a transformative discipline, turning chaos into order, fury into focus. “

“But…but..” blubbered the girl. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“It’s not a matter of forgetting it,” replied the old man. “Take that memory that you see. Grasp it. Take hold of the faces of your father and mother.”

The girl closed her eyes, still half sobbing.

“What do you see?”

“I remember that the last expressions on their faces before they died.”

“What were they?”

“They did not turn to face their attackers. They turned back to me. They were smiling.”

“Excellent. Take that memory and send it deep into the earth. Beneath the blackness of the Underdark, into the fires at the very center of Toril. Into the fire of your soul, into the pressure of your focus. Turn that memory into a diamond.”

“It is…frozen forever, sensei.”

“As it should be. It isn’t a matter of forgetting about it. It’s a matter of seeing that memory the way it should be seen.”

The old man stood up, smoothing out the creases in his robe.

“Thank you, master,” Caella said with a bow.

“Thank your parents for the memory,” replied the old man without looking back.

***

Caella did find the meditation successful. She was sleeping peacefully for the first time in a long time, and her dreams were pleasant recollections of her frolicking in the wheat fields of her father’s land with her father and mother. They had often gone out on picnics, eating bread so hot it was painful to touch, spread with blueberry jam that glistened in the sunlight like jellied sapphires and butter that would glow like Lathander’s sun had it been any more golden. She felt the strong grip of her father as he hoisted her up to the sun, calling her in Chondathan “my white heaven.” Caellabianca.

Her mother’s laughter rang out, filling the morning–and Caella’s heart–with unspeakable joy.

Then came the sound of thunder. It was a low rumbling, coming from the horizon with black clouds. Caella’s parents did not stop smiling.

The thunder came loud, crashing over and over again–until Caella realized it was not thunder, but the sound of horses.

The rasping scream of metal being drawn from leather followed, along with the blaring cry of battle trumpets. Black flags flew over the golden fields. The horses came closer, and warriors in black, glossy armor rode over the small family. Swords met flesh. Flesh gave way to blood and bone.

Caella awoke screaming and realized that the thunder of hooves was still there even if she had already stopped dreaming.  With a start, she drew a sash around her loose night robe and ran for the training room while calling out her master’s name.

“Master! Master Seishiro! Sensei!” she cried as the angry orange glow of torches flickered outside.

Stumbling into the training room, Caella picked up one of the swords that hung from the wall of the training hall. Just as she looked towards the door, she realized it was wide open, and Master Seishiro was standing outside.

The old man was calm as usual, his long white hair loose and billowing in the angry, hot breeze that blew through the Heartlands that night. Caella walked up to him, trembling.

“Caella, if you want to be of any help to me, draw your sword now.”

“Sensei, I…”

Three black-armored warriors strode up to the old swordsage, each carrying a short sword and a huge shield. Behind them was a fourth man; a tall, imposing Chondathan who wore a red-trimmed black tabard over his polished obsidian armor. The black fist of Bane was embroidered in great detail on the tabard.

“The Zhentarim demands information, old man,” said the man in a tabard.

“I would gladly school your warriors in my art,” replied the swordsage.

“Pah! We have no need for your training,” spat Tabard Man. “Our warriors can take you on without any trouble.”

Caella heard only the click of her master loosening his katana from its sheath. Before she could see him move, Master Seishiro was already done with the stroke, standing with his legs wide and his blade in the air. The   three foot soldiers crumpled to the ground, their armor and weapons clinking as they fell.

“You may insult me, but you shall not insult the Diamond Mind,” whispered the old man as he sheathed his katana once more.

Caella was awestruck. She had never seen Master Seishiro use his abilities in actual combat.

Tabard Man’s face crumpled into a frown. He walked forward, imperious, undaunted.

“I only want you to tell me where the daughter of Earl Agathion deLavierre is.”

“She died with her parents.”

Tabard Man held up his right fist, and whispered a few words in a black and foreign language.

“You may lie to me, old man. But you will not lie to the Black Lord.”

A roaring pillar of green fire surged down upon the old man. He pivoted out of the way as the flamestrike scorched the ground and singed his robes and hair. As he regained his composure, the old man stood up straight, held his blade before him with both hands, and closed his eyes.

“Oh? Is the old fool praying to his own gods?” snarled Tabard Man. “No god can save you from the hand of Bane.”

“Learn the power of the Diamond Mind, Caella,” whispered Seishiro. 

The cleric raised his hand to the sky once more, but Seishiro’s eyes were open once more. The old man lunged forward, his sword singing as it sliced through the air. There was a brief snapping sound as the blade struck Tabard Man’s breastplate, splitting it cleanly in half along with his breastbone and heart.

Seishiro pulled out the sword, flicked off the blood and sheathed it–all while Tabard Man fell onto the ground with a heavy thud.  The ranks of soldiers stepped back, given pause by the old man’s power.

Then the echo of an unearthly neighing pierced the sky.

Caella looked up and saw  a ghostly white horse racing across the black above, its hooves and nostrils trailing ghostly blue fire. A nightmare.

The horse swung low, and seated on its back was a warrior, clad in black armor with gold devices. The warriors cape was white, matching the spectral color of the steed. The knight was slender but not any less menacing. In fact, there was something about the warrior’s eyes that caught Caella by surprise. They were green, much like hers–except they seemed to flicker ever so slightly, as if like dying pieces of charcoal.

The nightmare came to a halt beside the corpse of Tabard Man. The rider back cocked his helmet’s visor–the image of a face twisted into a grimace of pain and misery. Caella then realized that the rider was no man. The rider’s dun brown hair was short and cropped like a pageboy’s, but her face was chiseled and fine. Her eyes were not dampened by the ivory glow of her skin–their green fire burned angrily as she stared down Master Seishiro.

“Old man,” said the rider. “I am Scyllua Darkhope, emissary of the Zhentarim Highlord, Fzoul Chembryl.”

“I wish I could say it was my pleasure to meet you.”

The rider’s frown deepened and her brow creased.

“I take it you are not willing to cooperate with us.”

“You are wise enough to be such as I,” said the old man. “But your soul is blackened through and through.”

“I take that as a no.” Scyllua’s tone darkened dangerously.

“Master,” whispered Caella.

“Every word I say against you is merely an echo of ‘no,’” said the old man as he turned back to Caella. The young swordswoman knew what would happen next. Master Seishiro would smile, and the rider would take his head off.

But he did not smile. An expression of unfathomable sorrow creased the old man’s face.

In the silence of those brief seconds, in the impenetrable calm that unites all disciples of the Diamond Mind, in the great flow of energy that binds all adepts of the Sublime Way–Caella knew why.

Master Seishiro saw her future. He knew that his death would break her spirit. The diamond would shatter.

Metal rasped as the mounted blackguard drew her bastard sword.

“Bane take you, you old fool.”

The sword flared green, green as the cleric’s flamestrike, green as Scyllua’s eyes. The same green flames that killed her parents.

Caella closed her eyes as she heard the sword bite into the old man’s neck and the sickening thump of the disembodied head as it rolled onto the floor. She did not want to open her eyes. She did not want to see what Master Seishiro’s dying eyes would tell her.

“Girl,” whispered the woman blackguard. “Who are you?”

“Caella…more.”

“Caellamore?”

“Yes.”

“‘Black Heaven.’”

Caella nodded, her eyes still closed.

“You’re a strong girl,” said the blackguard.

Caella heard the clink of Scyllua’s visor closing.

“The Black Lord could use someone like you,” continued the woman. “But you’ll probably just mourn for your dead master for the rest of your life.”

Caella choked back tears, trying to ignore what the blackguard said.

“Men, torch the house. Targaraene!” yelled Scyllua as she spurred her nightmare. “To the sky!”

The twisted horse let loose another unearthly whinny and took to the air. The black-armored warriors surged forward, pushing past Caella as she collapsed to the ground. A cold, mailed fist struck the girl in the face and dropped her to the ground. Caella kept her eyes closed. She refused to see what was going on. She refused to see her master dead. As her consciousness drifted out of her body, Caella swore to her dead master that the diamond would not shatter. The diamond would only become harder in the baleful green flames of Bane. The diamond would become sharper, and it would pierce the black heart of Scyllua Darkhope.

***

Caella drew her hood over her head as she mounted her horse, a coal-black mare. She gazed off into the distance. The ominous lights of Zhentil Keep glowed in the distance.

“It’s time, Hardeneth. I will have my revenge. And I will become stronger than Scyllua.”

The horse gave a snort.

“She is the picture of what a warrior should be. But I will become more than her.”

The air atop the Red Spires was still warm from the recent explosion, and the pungent, smell of smokepowder was still very strong. The fires around them seemed to have died down yet there was an unexplainable feeling of trepidation that lingered. The leader of the garrison-no doubt the most powerful creature in it-was already taken care of. “What else do we have to worry about?” Azareth Starsmiter stopped moving as the person in front of him had, and thought–as most wizards do every now and then. Mental preparation was an important thing for any arcane spellcaster.

“How many prepared spells remaining? How many arrows do I have left?  Where is Master now? How many more of those non-orcs are there still alive again?” These were just a few of the many thoughts floating through Azareth’s mind. “A Wizard must always be prepared”.

Three faint swishing noises coming from the opened door nearly disturbed his concentration. He was sure though, that they clearly were not the sound of a door being opened. It was the sound of an ambush, or at least, this is what Azareth assumed after hearing Alioth cry out in pain. The Aasimar stumbled back with three black-shafted arrows sticking out of his chest.

“Tyr! Give me strength!” he yelled, steeling himself and breaking the shafts of the arrows off with a swipe of his sword. His face still twisted in a grimace of pain, Alioth rushed into the room with his sword at the ready.

The space between Azareth and the room was now clear as the paladin charged forward. The elf saw that the barracks was lit by a number of torches on the walls. There were also beds were arranged in two rows of three from where he stood.

Familiar angry and very intimidating growls could be heard coming from across the room. Azareth instantly recognized them. “Non-Or–Hobgoblins again. Four of them.” Three of them were carrying longbows and were smiling-or perhaps grinning menacingly-as if they had accomplished something great. The fourth one, dressed in black robes and plate armor, was wearing a symbol that, to Azareth, looked very much unholy and evil. It was a black armored fist with rays of light in its grasp.  

“That does not look good,” thought the elf.

It certainly did not make him feel any better that he seemed to have nearly run out of spells fit for the occasion. “Master would have easily taken these annoying or–hobgoblins out, even without spells.” Azareth thought. “It is very unfortunate that I am not as skilled as he was in battle.”

“At least I can still do this.” The former student of Fyren started waving his arms, which were now radiating with blue energy, in intricate patterns.  “Fyrath Chiro Embel!” recited Azareth while simultaneously grabbing the first weapon he saw: Kieran’s rapier. Energy flowed from Azareth to the weapon as the spell took effect. Azareth noticed a peculiar thing about the weapon’s glow.

“There seems to be something– different about my spell” Azareth thought. “Did I-”

“Wait, Kieran, may I ask, is your rapier one of high quality?” the Wizard asked.

“Yes” Kieran proudly nodded. The now-enchanted rapier was glowing a soft shade of blue though nothing else about the weapon seemed to have changed. That was when he remembered.

“I should have checked first!” exclaimed Azareth. The Magic Weapon spell was useless on a masterwork weapon. “A spell wasted”.

Alioth stopped charging forward a few feet in front of the entire group, raising his shield to protect himself, and his allies, from any more arrows. Acantha ran forward next to the wounded paladin, closing her eyes and putting her hands together in prayer to Kelemvor. A faint outline of the holy symbols of Kelemvor started materializing, revolving around Acantha’s hands. The symbols exploded in a burst of bright light, and three arrowheads fell from Alioth’s wounds.

“Be strong Alioth” Acantha said as his injuries healed.

Alioth grasped his greatsword tighter, readying himself for an attack.

“What in the Nine Hells is everyone doing blundering into rooms, getting shot?!” half-screamed Milica, their supposed leader as she watched the unorganized and unplanned counter-ambush take place. Azareth felt the urge to agree with Milica, they were not making any progress with what they were doing now. Knowing how to plan as a group seemed to be what they all lacked. “Except maybe for that one time down in th-”

“At least we don’t stand around shouting!” replied Kieran, charging forward as well to get in front of Acantha and Alioth, making Azareth snap out of his deep thought.  ”Oh wait, why am I in front of the Paladin?!” said Kieran, finally noticing where she was standing.

The hobgoblin cleric closed his eyes and raised his arms up, glowing with energy and strange looking symbols. He chanted words that were obviously tinged with evil.  “You fools shall witness the might of Bane!” With that Prayer, the air seemed to feel colder. The atmosphere seemed darker.

“Tyr shall protect me from your evil!” Alioth said in reply to what the Hobgoblin had said, sounding more alive than ever.

One of the hobgoblins reached for his side. He pulled out a large two handed sword, a bastard sword, and held his ground, eyeing everyone in the room. Another drew an arrow and fired at Milica, the shot narrowly missing her arm.

Azareth was still outside the barracks watching all of this happen. Wasting his spell on Kieran’s weapon made him more cautious about using any more spells, or even moving without thinking for that matter. One of the hobgoblins started moving again, drawing another arrow from its quiver. With another swish, that arrow flew across the room, hitting Kieran. “A little help would be appreciated!”

“I’m not going to forget something like that again. I just need to er–think more.” With that, Azareth rushed in the barracks. As he ran up beside Acantha, he started casting a spell he had used not too long ago. Waving his arms furiously, rushing to finish yet concentrating on tiny detail. His arms started glowing with, again, blue energy, except this time in a deeper shade and brighter intensity. He faced the Cleric of Bane and started chanting in a voice that sounded as if it was not his own.

“Suni Va Arast! Foozhing!” A streak of lightning flew across the room, the sound of thunder echoing with it. After burning two of the beds in the room, it hit two Hobgoblins, the cleric and the hobgoblin who had tried to fire at Milica. “A spell as powerful as Lightning Bolt is almost sure to-”. The wizard’s thoughts were cut short by the two hobgoblins still standing upright. “Another miscalculation” Azareth murmured under his breath.

Azareth was still on his toes. He could already count the number of spells he had left, which was obviously not a good thing. “I might have to take this more defensively.”

Acantha on the other hand, was attacking in full force, confronting the hobgoblin who had just drawn its sword. The cleric raised her aspergillum and took a quick swing to the hobgoblin’s shoulder. It was a strong enough swing to make the hobgoblin howl in pain, but not strong enough to make it lose its focus. The hobgoblin merely stood up straight again, but this time with a furious look on its face and growling at Acantha.

“What kind of a blow was that?” It was another side-comment by Swordcaptain Milica.

“You should always aim low!”

With that said, she did something that the two men in the party tried their very best to forget.

“I’d rather not hear that.” Alioth said in discomfort. Azareth was thinking the same thing. Even Acantha was shaking her head for the same reason.

In a similar fashion to her attack down in the first floor, Milica ducked down next to the hobgoblin Acantha had attacked and forced her rapier into its groin. Not only was it a direct hit but it was an exceptionally powerful one as well. However, the poor hobgoblin was still alive, the look on its face was a look of pain beyond comprehension.  Despite all this, the hobgoblin with no hope at all for future children merely howled at a nearly deafening volume at Milica, readying his sword again.

“Rgh! It worked the first time!” Milica said in frustration.

Kieran showed no compassion at all for the hobgoblin in pain, probably in an attempt to best Milica. As if without pity, she ran up towards it and slashed. In a spatter of blood, her blue glowing rapier sliced through the creature’s exposed brownish-yellow arm. Another howl came from the creature but even after that, it was still alive.

“Hey, you mus-”

Kieran stopped talking when she noticed the black-robed cleric was trying to grab her with his hand-which was sheathed in energy as black and putrid as cesspool water. The contagion spell narrowly missed the rogue, who dodged in time, with the spell charging in his hand fizzing out.

“You like my piece?” Kieran said as she waved her blue rapier at the cleric.

Another arrow zoomed across the room. It was directed at Alioth, who wasn’t lucky enough to dodge out of the way. The arrow pierced through his arm as he was defending himself from a slash from another hobgoblin. “Curse you foul creature!” Allioth said in anger.

Kieran was just there, recovering from slipping away from the cleric. After dodging a spell, it seemed like she would be fine. The hobgoblin beside her circled his sword above his head, and swung it downwards. It was too late to evade when she noticed it. The sword cut through her like cloth, gashing through her entire torso. Kieran fell to the floor with a thud, bleeding. The hobgoblin roared in triumph.

Milica was the first to notice their fallen comrade. Azareth saw that she was breathing heavily, and for a second, he thought he saw her eyes water up.

“I wanted. To do that myself!”

Acantha was right beside Kieran when it happened. As another hobgoblin aimed his bow to attack her, she shouted in rage at the one carrying a bastard sword.

“KELEMVOR TAKE YOU!”

Azareth was breathing heavily as well. Just a while ago, his attempt to help Kieran failed to work, and now, she was on the floor dying. He felt an immensely strong, sudden need to do something, anything to help out now. Thinking about what to do seemed less important now to him. He just needed to act, and fast. Azareth ran on top of one of the beds and started waving his arms once more. His hands were shining a bright orange-red that grew brighter until finally igniting with yellow flames.

“Firol Driar Ima!” Azareth chanted as he swung his arms sideways from his shoulders, the flames moving from his hands to the hobgoblins. The Burning Hands did its work. The Cleric and two others were severly burned by the spell. Yet, again, they still survived.

“When will you hobgoblins die?”

Alioth lowered his sword to attack, ignoring the flames around him. He swung his sword upwards, the cleric bending backwards to avoid it.

Azareth was thinking that all hope was lost. He felt as if the world was moving too fast for him. A companion had fallen, all because of an ambush. He blamed himself, for not being ready, for not preparing, for not thinking. But most of all for not acting. He could’ve done more. Deep in his mind he prayed to Mystra, goddess of magic, for anything to help them now.

At that exact moment, Azareth heard a loud crash. Lesamien Xelephia Vaebar and Nealla, her elven hound, had just burst through the door.

Unfortunately, due to our schedule getting blown apart by the storm, it has been very difficult for us to catch up with gaming sessions. I still have a couple of backlog chapters (the most recent combative one with Azareth, and then the “downtime” chapter afterwards). We will begin the next chapter tomorrow.

Again, my apologies for being so slow to update.

My apologies for this late post. Exam week and all.

Time is a very peculiar thing, thought Alioth Ras’Elased as he watched the flask of alchemist’s fire fly towards its target. Sometimes, years can go by in a flash .Other times, it seems the gods themselves had stretched seconds to eternity. For him, this was one of those times. As the small flask of liquid flew towards the ammunition room that was stained with the stench of sulfur and gunpowder, Alioth could clearly see all the slightest movements and splashes of the orange liquid inside. It was only halfway to the door when the cork that held the contents of the flask inside flew out and fell to the ground. The liquid ignited as it came into contact with the air around it and the drops that fell looked like raindrops ablaze. Alioth had hoped that the liquid would run out before it reached the door and the flask would only shatter harmlessly on the red granite of Red Spires Garrison. Alas, a hope is just a hope, just a thought that all would go in one’s favor, something life never lets happen.

It only took one drop of alchemist’s fire to cause an explosion so full of force that even Kreshnak, the leader of the forces that had seemingly single-handedly captured the garrison, almost fell off the short wall where he was cornered. Alioth heard his comrades scream in pain as the huge flames engulfed the fortress before withdrawing to the skies.

Lesa, the first to recover from the shock of the explosion, lunged forward and swung her thinblade, aiming for Kreshnak’s neck. Kreshnak, seeing the danger, moved backward and dodged the small rapier-like elven weapon. Alioth saw an opening and, with all the strength he had left, jumped up as high as his armor would allow, holding his greatsword high above his head. Remembering what had he had done before, he shouted “Evil, I smite thee!” and brought his sword down as hard as he could. Kreshnak tried to dodge again, but this time he wasn’t so lucky. The slash that was to cut his head in two had instead sliced into his shoulder and almost cut his left arm off. A horrifying sound somewhere between a scream and a howl escaped from Kreshnak’s mouth as the steel tore into his flesh. Alioth pulled back his sword, now covered in hobgoblin blood, and went back into position.

From the corner of his eye, Alioth could see Kieran, the rogue of the party. She was the only person who did not seem to get hurt in the explosion. “Let’s wear him down!” she called from halfway across the inferno. “In a few years he might die! And of natural causes, too!” She seemed to have cheered up a new hope seemed to have stirred within her, for she was no longer complaining about “all you brave people.”

But Alioth heard none of this. He was thinking again…

Strange. Why didn’t it work? He thought, examining the sword he was holding. He remembered vividly what happened last time he tried to smite an opponent. He could clearly remember how his sword glowed as if engulfed by a white flame and he saw, at the corner of his eye, a solar angel standing close to him. After the swing that sliced the gnoll in half, he thought he saw brilliant white feathers falling to the ground from where his sword had been and where the solar was standing.

He was so immersed in his thoughts that it seemed he had awoken from a dream when he shook off his thoughts and came back to his senses.

Lesa had already stabbed Kreshnak with her kukri and went back into position when Alioth remembered he was in the middle of a battle inside a raging inferno.

Snap out of it, Alioth!, he thought, scolding himself, remembering that he had just put himself in grave danger. You can think about what went wrong if and when you survive this!

“Auviza, verdua, vaikat,” whispered a barely audible voice from somewhere behind him. It was Acantha, the cleric of the party. She was the shy one of the party. She rarely talked and whenever she did, she would always speak very softly. Now she was healing Lesa’s wounds, which had been inflicted on her some time ago. Alioth watched the deep gashes close up and leaving no sign that there had been a wound at all.

It was Milica’s turn to strike now. With a spin and a flourish of her rapier, she slashed Kreshnak’s arm. The new wound drew enough blood to stain the armor he was wearing.

“You will pay for that, little fleshling!” cried Kreshnak as he raised his flaming sword above his head, ready to slash.

“Fleshling? Wow, you’re running out of insults, Kreshnak!” said Alioth with a laugh as he remembered the insults Kreshnak would throw every time he would attack.

“You look like you’re getting tired. Why don’t you give up you… non-orc?” came a voice from behind Alioth. It was Azareth, the group’s wizard. He still seemed to have a hard time distinguishing the difference between orcs and most other creatures. But he was getting there. It would just take a little longer before he could.

“Enough with the interruptions!” bellowed Kreshnak, obviously frustrated that he had no chance of winning. “That’s the last mistake you’ll ever make, elf!”

“Then this will make you give up!” shouted Azareth. “Ti-en Shangang Si-a!” With a fleeting gesture and a snap of his fingers, Azareth launched a brief spark of blue-white at Kreshnak, who just laughed at the seemingly weak spell. The sparks hit him in the chest and the laughter immediately stopped. He stumbled for a while and fell, unconscious and slowly bleeding to death.

“Yes! I killed the non-orc!” shouted Azareth with glee.

“He’s not dead. He’s just unconscious,” said Lesa, kneeling down to look over Kreshnak’s corpse. “There doesn’t seem to be anything of value on the other two bodies. Kreshnak’s armor looks like it’s been made well, and he has this magical sword. Now, who gets what?”

“I can carry the sword,” said Alioth.

“But you already have a sword,” replied Lesa

“Then I can use the magical one.”

“No. It might be cursed. We’ll have to wait until we can examine it before anyone uses it. Just to be safe.”

“Okay then. Now who wants the chain shirt?”

“Ugh! It reeks of non-orc!” said Milica, somewhat disgusted by the fact that some of them actually wanted to take any kind of armor soaked in hobgoblin blood.

“Kreshnak’s bleeding a lot,” Azareth pointed out. “What do we do with him?”

“Do you want me to tie him up?” said Lesa, pulling out a bundle of rope to tie Kreshnak up with. “I’m pretty good at it.”

“Why didn’t you say this last time?” asked Milica.

“You never asked,” she replied, evidently in an attempt to annoy the one in charge.

While Lesa tied up and stopped Kreshnak’s bleeding, Alioth tried scan the area for evil auras once more. It was harder to concentrate with the noise and heat of the dying fires around him, and he thought he heard Milica taunting Kreshnak’s unconscious body. “Not so tough now are you?” she said. Soon there was less noise and he was able to concentrate.

All went black except for four red hazy shapes that looked around the size of an ordinary human. He could feel the evil auras, and he slightly felt the anger and the hate within them as he watched the auras. He could feel one that was stronger than the others.

A voice brought him back to reality.

“So, how many did you see?” asked Azareth, wondering how many more they had to fight.

“Four,” he replied. “One is stronger than the others. It had a moderate aura.”

“But didn’t we just defeat the one with the stronger aura?”

“Apparently Kreshnak only has a faint aura.”

“Why didn’t you say that before? I wouldn’t have wasted so many of my spells.”

“Because I only found out now.”

“Great. Now we’ll have to fight another strong non-orc.”

“Not necessarily. That one could be a cleric.”

“Oh well. We’ll just have to be ready then.”

“I think I’ll stay here,” said Lesa, putting Kreshnak’s body up to the stone wall. “We need someone to guard him. Just in case he wakes up early. You guys can go ahead. Nealla, follow them and come back to me if they run into trouble.” Her last sentence was directed to her cooshie, who had saved them from a fireball spell that would have definitely killed some of them.

So they marched around the inferno, with Alioth leading them. When they got around the flames, they saw four charred bodies. They must’ve died in the explosion. Alioth thought to himself. There was nothing worth taking from the bodies for all they had had been burned to a crisp, none of which can possibly be useful anymore. Seeing that, they decided to keep on going.

They stopped at a wooden door that was only a little damaged by the explosion. There were no holes so they could not tell if there was anything waiting behind it. Without a word Milica took out the map of the garrison and unfolded the large piece of paper.

“It shows here that this door leads to a long room that in turn, leads to the barracks.” She said, refolding the paper and putting it in her pocket.

Alioth concentrated again, trying to see where the evil creatures were. He didn’t see anything directly in front of him, so he assumed there was nothing behind the door. He was about to open his eyes again when a voice rang from behind him.

“Are you detecting evil?” It was Milica. She sounded confused.  “Didn’t you just do that?”

“Yes,” he replied, completely calm.

“So why did you do it again?”

“To see if there was anything behind this door. There’s nothing evil in the next room. There are three, however, in the room next to it.”

Convinced that there was no danger on the other side of the door, they entered it. The door opened to a long room well lit by four torches on either side, on the side to the left of Alioth, the walls were bare. There was a plain wooden door in the middle of the wall on the other side. In between two tapestries that seemed to have supposed to show the Symbol of Cormyr, the purple dragon. The tapestries however, had large holes burnt into them where the symbol should have been.

“Is everyone ready?” Alioth asked, his hand on the knob of the door to the barracks.

“Yes,” came a resounding reply from the rest of the party.

Alioth opened the door and saw a large room well lit by torchlight. On either side were four beds, where most of the Cormyrian soldiers must’ve slept before Kreshnak and his troops captured Red Spires. It was the three figures on the other side that caught his attention. There were three archers and a cleric. All four were hobgoblins and they all looked ready to fight. The archers had their bows ready and the cleric was wearing a hematite medallion around his neck. It was carved into the shape of a fist, and a green gem was set into the middle of the fist. The symbol of Bane.

Strange, don’t hobgoblins usually worship Maglubiyet? He was awoken from his thoughts by an all-too-familiar twang and a zip. Time is a very peculiar thing, thought Alioth Ras’Elased as he watched three arrows fly in slow motion towards him.

A very peculiar thing indeed.

by Aldrich and Aslan.

The cold desert air blew the scent of sand across the roof of Red Spires Garrison. The night had only begun to settle on the city, but it was a moonless one. The only light that illuminated the battlements came from the dozen or so torches hanging from the sconces on the walls. Their impish dance cast a faint, slightly maddening orange glow on the fortress’s red granite.

Acantha grasped her aspergillum as the figures of the hobgoblin captain and his two lieutenants emerged into the flickering torchlight. She was more than a little frightened-these were nothing like the grunts they had easily dropped in the mess hall. These were grizzled veterans. She was at a loss for what to do- she had never been any good at combat, but she wanted to do something, anything, for the sake of her companions.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion-the fanged mouth of the hobgoblin spitting insults, making chewing motions; the gnoll’s tongue slurping about its black, doglike lips; the wizard’s hands flexing, preparing for arcane gestures. The gnoll’s pet hyena was yelping and gibbering, pawing at the ground. Thick, fetid-looking drool dripped from its jaws.

The scream of metal being drawn out of leather tore through the air around Acantha. Milica was standing erect, with her heels snapped together, her left hand behind her back, and her deadly rapier held forward by a straight arm. Kieran was crouched low, her own rapier held low with the blade pointing upward. She held her dagger in her other hand up to her face, covering her mouth. Lesa held her thinblade over her head with a cocked elbow, while her other hand grasped the kukri at her waist. Another breeze blew, fluttering her hair, which glowed like molten copper in the torchlight. Acantha raised her own weapon, hefting its solid weight with one arm and raising her shield with the other. Even Lesa’s hound was ready, her massive head held low near the ground, her teeth bared, her eyes locked onto the gnoll’s pet hyena.

“A swift painless death to the worthy,” Acantha prayed. “Grant thee us this request, O Lord Kelemvor.”

The cry of the paladin snapped Acantha out of her thoughts. Alioth was trading barbs with the captain.

“So, the little outsider wants to fight?” taunted the hobgoblin, mocking Alioth’s celestial heritage. “Maybe you should go back to your heavens and seek refuge with your gods, or you will never live to regret the day you crossed Kreshnak of the Iron Nail tribe.”

Acantha admired the paladin’s nerve-he said nothing in response, fixing his topaz eyes on the brute, his greatsword held ready.

The cleric quickly ran through a mental list of the spells she had prepared that day-none of them seemed to be of much help, but she was grateful that any of them could be converted into a healing spell in any case. Had the hobgoblins been undead, she would have been able to use her undead turning ability.

“Unfortunately,” she muttered to herself. “They’re not undead.”

Milica, who had heard her despite the softness of her tone, scowled in impatience. “Then we’ll make them undead,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Could we skip the “un” bit and just leave them dead?” Kieran chirped.

“Focus, everyone!” Azareth cried as he readied his first spell. A black cloud rose up from the ground around the wizard’s feet as he extended his finger. A blood-red circle of glyphs appeared around him, glowing in the midst of the black cloud.

“Nekul-matrak!“

The negative energy swirled to Azareth’s fingertip and darted towards Kreshnak, screaming like a banshee.

Acantha shivered as she felt the ray speeding through the air. Merely looking at the purplish-black ray seemed to sap the energy out of her muscles. As soon as the ray passed by, however, she felt a wave of relief as the strength seeped back into her. She shuddered at the thought of how the spell would affect its actual target, then stubbornly reminded herself that you were supposed to hurt your opponents, no matter how horrible the attack.

The ray of enfeeblement struck true, grazing Kreshnak’s arm. The hobgoblin howled as the black energy flooded his veins, but even as it faded he was able to stand. Acantha was amazed-although Kreshnak’s grip on the sword was not as steady, he lumbered toward the paladin with ease.

“I hope you like pain!” Kreshnak roared as he swung his greatsword. The flaming blade left a red-orange trail as it scythed through the air-and through Alioth’s armor.

“Alioth!” Acantha screamed as the flaming sword bit into the Aasimar’s side and knocked him to the ground.

The cleric gripped her weapon tightly. Its exquisitely-carved metal was warm to the touch, and this comforted her somewhat. The stylized skull carved into the flanged head always unnerved her, though-it always reminded her of that fateful night when the living dead tore her father to pieces. Nevertheless, she called to mind something she had learned in her training as a cleric: Although Death is not something you always want at your side, it certainly is something you always want on your side.

“Lord Kelemvor,” she prayed. “May Death be on our side.”

“See? That’s what all you brave people get!” Kieran yelled as she backpedaled. “How can we enjoy gold if we’re dead?” Acantha could see from the movement of Kieran’s drawn rapier that the rogue was quivering in fear.

“Stop being such a coward!” Milica shouted back.

“I’m not a coward, I’m moral support!”

Lesa, the ranger, sprang up onto the damaged trebuchet and landed beside the injured paladin. She flicked her thinblade at Kreshnak, tearing through the knotted muscle on his arm.

“Nealla!” she yelled. “Rethyr shal e’mai!”

The cooshie obeyed, snarling as she leapt toward the wizard. The dog’s jaws closed and tore through the flailing hobgoblin’s robes, but the teeth did not bite into any flesh.

“I’m scared. Can I just stand here and cheer?” It was Kieran again, looking indecisive as she pondered on what to do, even as she readied her weapons.

“We should attack the wizard!” Azareth shouted as he flipped furiously through his spellbook. “He’s just as fragile as I am!”

Kieran nodded tentatively and hustled toward the hobgoblin wizard, taking up a position opposite the hound.

Alioth, meanwhile, pushed himself up and grunted. He placed his hand on his side and closed his eyes, whispering words of healing as positive energy sparked across his wound.

It’s not enough, Acantha thought as she knelt down beside him.

“Ovidar, nabora, sesma” she whispered as she placed her hands on him. The spell mended the torn and scorched flesh, and took away the paladin’s pain.

“You should be more careful,” Acantha chided.

“Tyr bless you, I-”

The words of thanks were barely out of Alioth’s mouth when a jagged battleaxe sank into his shoulder blade. Acantha’s eyes traveled up the blade, down the haft, which was held by a filthy, hairy hand, which belonged to the slavering gnoll. The hyena-man’s eyes were glaring with hate and bloodlust.

A shrill human voice pierced the cleric’s ears, shaking her back into focus.

“Acantha, stop making puppy-dog eyes at the paladin and fight or I swear by Tempus’s bloody axe I’ll tear your hair out! Alioth, you’re being too reckless!” Milica yelled as she stepped behind the gnoll, flicking her rapier at its back.

“I’m not even doing anything!” The paladin gasped out in reply as Milica’s rapier struck true. The gnoll yelped in pain as the blade glanced off its spine and sliced through flesh. He made a strange sound-it sounded to Acantha like a cross between a bark and a laugh-and the pet hyena snarled and leapt toward Kieran.

“They get attacked by the big guys while I get mauled by a smelly dog,” the rogue muttered in displeasure the animal bore down on her, gibbering like a madman. The hyena pounced on Kieran, latching onto her leg with its powerful jaws. The rogue screamed and slapped the animal away with the flat of her rapier.

“Don’t worry,” Azareth said, attempting to comfort Kieran. “It’s just a flesh wound-at least compared to what Alioth went through, at least.”

“Wow, we’re a nice little ray of sunshine, aren’t we?” quipped Kieran as she wiped the blood and drool from her injured leg. Azareth wasn’t paying any attention any more, though-his eyes were locked onto the hobgoblin wizard.

The hobgoblin opened one of the many pouches strapped to his belt, produced a small ball of bat guano and sulfur, and closed his eyes as he gestured. Fiery red runes sizzled to life around him, and the smell of sulfur began to rise up from the ground. His voice had an eerie, otherworldly layer added to it, sounding like the roaring and crackling of a firestorm.

“Everyone, duck!” yelled Azareth. “That’s a fireball spell!”

“Otano, ful’digyamma!” the hobgoblin chanted. The little ball of guano ignited as the runes coalesced around it, circling in ever-tightening rings. Just as the wizard was about to release the fireball, Nealla, Lesa’s faithful hound, took advantage of this moment of distraction and clamped her jaws on the wizard’s arm.

The runes fizzled like candle flames being snuffed out as the hobgoblin howled. The fire consumed the spell component, which fell charred onto the floor as the wizard shook the cooshie off. Nealla dropped back lightly onto the ground, her teeth bared, her ears pricked and her eyes full of fire.

“My turn!”

Azareth raised his hands in a quick, arcane gesture. Three glowing rings of purplish-blue glyphs flashed briefly around Azareth’s hands and focused into tight, apple-sized spheres of energy.

“Arza’grashna!”

The three spheres shot toward the hobgoblin wizard, arcing and sizzling through the air like tiny comets. The magic missiles slammed hard into the wizard’s ribcage, winding him and forcing him to double over in pain. Blood dripped from his lips as he straightened up. From where she was, Acantha could see that the missiles had left puncture wounds not very different from those a dagger would leave-she had treated more than a few of those in her career as a cleric.

“Wow! Love you, Azareth! That was amazing!” Kieran cried. The half-elf girl blushed slightly, her cheeks turning a slightly darker shade of blue.

“Anytime,” the moon elf replied, pleased that he had been appreciated by someone in the group.

“And the half elf blushes a pathetic shade of blue,” Milica muttered in disgust as she watched for another opening.

“I was speaking for all of us!” The rogue cried out defensively.

It was then that the hulking hobgoblin captain turned to Lesa. “Pray to whatever nature god you have, little elf,” Kreshnak growled, spitting out the last word in disgust. With a flourish and a howl, the hobgoblin swung his flaming sword at Lesa, aiming to take off her head.

The nimble elf ducked, and Acantha could have sworn that the tongues of fire from the massive sword singed a few of the wood elf’s copper-colored hairs. Kreshnak let out a guttural cry that sounded like a word-Acantha assumed it to be a curse in his native language-and used the momentum from the swing to lunge at the injured Alioth.

Alioth tried to raise his sword to parry, but the flash from the blade’s flames singed him and caused him to wince-allowing the hobgoblin’s weapon to break into his defenses. The greatsword slipped between the joints of Alioth’s breastplate, slicing through tendons and muscle.

“You seem to attract a lot of attacks,” Lesa commented.

“Just keep fighting!” Alioth hissed through his clenched teeth as he grasped his wound.

The ranger jabbed her thinblade into the gnoll’s abdomen, yanked the weapon out, and with an elegant pirouette, hacked her wickedly-curved kukri into the hyena-man’s thick neck. Her movement was so fast that the gnoll only noticed both wounds after Lesa yanked out the kukri. The hyena-man gave a horrible shriek.

“Somebody, get him now!” Azareth said, pointing at the black-robed hobgoblin. Acantha saw that the mage was pulling out another spell component from a pouch. She would not be able to get close enough to attack in time. Jaw set and brow furrowed, Acantha resigned her soul to Kelemvor.

“Nealla!” Lesa yelled in a voice that Acantha found hoarser than usual. “Rethyr shal e’mai! E’MAI!”

The elven hound’s tufted ears pricked up, and she lunged for the wizard’s exposed neck. Her vicious jaws snapped shut, but she had missed the wizard completely.

“I’ll do it!”

Kieran moved over to attack the wizard, tumbling past the snarling hyena. The animal tried to bite at the rogue’s injured leg, but Kieran was far too quick. She landed behind the wizard, who was still distracted by Nealla, and thrust her blade between the hobgoblin’s ribs. A horrid cry gurgled out of the wizard’s mouth as he shuddered and fell to the ground, pierced through the heart.

Acantha breathed a sigh of relief as the mage fell, whispering a brief prayer to Kelemvor to grant the hobgoblin’s soul a fair trial-after all, each mortal was entitled to one in the grim court of the Lord of the Dead.

“Your comrades have fallen. It is now your turn!” Alioth cried out. The paladin’s greatsword flared bright white, and Acantha could have sworn that for a fraction of a second, she saw the shimmering image of great winged angel standing above Alioth. Its platinum skin reflected the orange glow of the torchlight, which added to its inherent radiance. Although it did not look straight at Acantha, she could guess that the gaze of the angel would be as heavy as the world and that to look back into the angel’s topaz eyes would be to stare straight into the sun-a sight that would be soul-piercing in its beauty and at the same time absolutely terrifying.

“A solar…” the cleric managed just as the vision disappeared and Alioth swung his greatsword.

“Tyr take you!”

The blade gave out a strange, metallic howl as it sliced through the air, splitting the gnoll in two at the waist with a brilliant white flash. The torn hyena-man fell onto the stone floor, gurgling in its death throes. Acantha felt almost glad that the horrible creature was dead. At the sight of its dead master, the gnoll’s pet ran yelping down the stairs with its tail between its legs.

“It ends here!”

Alioth followed through with his swing, aiming to take Kreshnak’s head with the same blow.

“You just got lucky, outsider,” Kreshnak hissed as he ducked below the scything blade.

“Call it what you will,” the paladin responded calmly. “It is the might of Tyr!”

Acantha noticed that Milica cast the paladin an admiring glance from where she was, then noticing that he was occupied with something else, turned her eyes away with a bit of pink still dusting her cheeks.

“Hopefully there isn’t a third time,” Acantha commented as she once again touched the paladin’s shoulder to heal him. “You are lucky-Kelemvor does not mean for this to be your time to join him.” The positive energy flashed from the cleric’s hands and sealed the wounds shut.

Milica tore her eyes from Alioth with some difficulty and leapt toward Kreshnak, using the gnoll’s heavy head as a stepping stone.

“Wizard, cover me!”

The swashbuckler flicked her blade at the captain’s neck, hoping to sever his jugular-but the gnoll’s head wasn’t as stable as she had hoped, and she fumbled the swing. Milica stumbled back to her feet, cursing as she regained her composure-and promptly ducked as she heard Azareth call out an incantation.

“Shareer ful’shammah!”

Acantha turned to see the wizard holding a twisting loop of fire in his hands. Burning red runes floated in the air around Azareth as he pointed at Kreshnak with right index and middle finger.

The helix of fire sprang toward Azareth’s fingers, uncoiling out of his left palm like an unraveling thread. The fire left his fingers in a tight, focused ray, which stabbed directly into Kreshnak’s chest. Howling in blinding pain, the hobgoblin smothered the flames with one hand and recovered his stance.

“Doesn’t this guy ever die?” Kieran cried out in frustration.

Still smoldering and smelling of sulfur, Kreshnak turned to Azareth.

“You’ll pay for that, shrimp,” he snarled through clenched teeth.

The hobgoblin reached for something at his back and produced a small flask from his belt. Acantha was taken aback by the sight, thinking it strange that the brute would threaten Azareth with a healing potion. Then she realized that the liquid inside the bottle briefly flashed orange as it sloshed around inside. She remembered what was in the bottle-of course, she had sold the same to so many adventurers before.

Alchemist’s fire.

Kreshnak roared and swung his arm, sending the little flask tumbling end over end through the air, its contents pulsing orange. Acantha thought it was aimed at Azareth, but she realized quickly that Kreshnak had a more explosive attack in mind.

The flask was nearing the end of its flight, and the end of its trajectory was right inside the storeroom-the very same room that was full of haphazard piles of smokepowder.
-by Ice and Aslan