Further through the cramped stone tunnels of the Tenebrous Tombs, The Friends come to a doorway to a triangular room. The way is blocked by what appears, at first glance, to be some sort of old dried tree. Upon closer inspection, it’s revealed the tree has a face, and the stringy bark clings to branches in the shape of limbs, like a wooden human trapped in a tree. Icoriol recognises this as a type of fae spirit known to humans as a Wood Elf.
We had another player join us for this session, it was her first time playing and she chose to be a wood elf. Wood elves in my setting are very close to plants, they need water and sunlight, so this seemed a pretty good way to introduce a new character in the middle of a dungeon.
Though deep in hibernation, she can be reawakened with water. Emptying the contents of one of their skins, they see the wooden limbs turn from musty pale brown to stronger, healthy oak. Much of the loose bark tightens and readheres to the form, and suddenly there is a lithe tree-woman standing before them. She introduces herself as Antheia, a traveller who lost herself deep in the tunnels. (Fae aren’t exactly good at the whole time thing, so she doesn’t know when, but it has been many, many years since the tombs were open to get lost in.) She decides to accompany The Friends until they can guide her out of the tombs. She is a formidable fighter in her own right, and fickle as a fae, offers to help them in their goal first.
Within the triangular room there is a note hanging from a rusty hook on the far wall. It reads ”
Returning to the network of twisting tunnels, The Friends find and dismantle an oil spraying fire blasting trap, claiming the meager treasure it was guarding, and find a stairway leading down. The lower level is quiet, the rooms they explore covered in dust. They pass by a room with stalactities made of ash, the black dust falling naturally to create visages of torment and sorrow. Their exploration is halted by a silver door protected by a magic circle. While Icoriol studies the circle, a presence arrives in the dark hall behind them. Feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, Siriel leaps just in time to dodge a sharp red tendril stabbing out from the darkness. The long thing retracts into the dark as The Friends leap to combat.
The creature is a strange red floating thing with three thin limbs, a bird like head and a ribcage of red clay. It stabs the friends with its limbs that extend wildly and extract their ability to move and act. Despite this, it is alone, and so put down with relative ease. Icoriol finds that the magic circle is one of binding. It keeps the door locked, but not to keep them out. It’s keeping something in.
The Friends scratch away the magic circle and open the door.
The air inside is prickly cold. Frost lines the wall stones. Their breath condenses. Creeping through these dark cold walls with trepidation, The Friends strain their ears to hear anything. It’s so quiet, the cold seems to oppress the heat and noise of their flickering torches.
In a rectangular stone chamber lined with ancient frozen coffins, The Friends encounter some Shadow Men. They wail and complain about “the false angel” trapping them inside, and how they want revenge. This is the first lead the friends have to anything divine being in the dungeon. They claim they are here to free the spirits so they may get revenge. With voracious appetites, the shadow men flee their cold prison and float through the dungeon toward their prey.
The Friends keep pace, chasing the shadow men up to the higher level and through unexplored regions of the first floor. They lose sight of the shadow men down a long sloped section of corridor. As they approach it’s end they hear sounds of swords clashing, see flashes of light, and hear raspy battered sounds. The last of the shadowmen die as The Friends enter the room.
The chamber has a tall ceiling, domed with rafters like a chapel. Toward the back there is a raised platform on stone columns. Standing atop the platform is a man with outstretched feathered wings. The very picture of an angel, but old and dust eaten. His feathers are torn and battered, thing at the edges. His hair is faded, his skin greying. He presides over the room and speaks with the authority of a priest.
“My brother, I knew you would come. Tell me, please, that you have overcome heavens folly.” he brandishes in his right hand an immaculate golden sceptre with a disc atop it’s head. The Sceptre of Languard, there can be no doubt.
Balthazar steps forward. “Who are you?”
The figures shoulders drop in a facsimile of exhaustion. “I fought by your side once. But I questioned the gods, and now I am banished. I am the fallen, Elial.”
“I need that sceptre.”
Elial looks crestfallen, hopeless. He pleads. “Can you not see that it is a cycle. Your actions beget retaliation. And for what? Do you know, do you allies know, their fate if heaven gets its way?”
Balthazar suffers blasphemy no more. He raises his divine voice,
“Give me the scep-”
“No.”
With the remnants of his own divine spirit, Elial dismisses Balthazars voice. He looks as if he may weep.
“I had hoped, brother. Dreamed, that it would be different.”
Ghoulish figures with taut white skin and bloodstained claws emerge from behind the pillars. The look hungrily at The Friends.
“You cannot have the sceptre. Elial the fallen forbids it.”