Vecna: Eve of Ruin
Don’t Say Vecna
Do you see a theme here?Chapters
Limbo Up: “It’s Three now”
Cientia Tower: “Hail Vecna”
Flesh for Fantasy: “This is not a good place”
Limbo Up
Ever since routing the Eldritch Eye cult, each hero has had recurring dreams of that torrid time, always culminating in the whispered scream of the emaciated skull: I have my eye on you.
Secrets have taken on an weight which makes them feel sacred—whispered, just out of reach, incomprehensible but vitally important. Everyone dealt with this in different ways, some more successfully than others.
All were now well established in their respective worlds, well known for their expertise in their chosen fields—to those that need to know.
And recently one person has needed to know: the Archmage Zandeyr Grawarith.
Archmage Zandeyr is worried. Very worried. Something is shifting in the multiverse, an instability in the Weave. Every plane is showing signs of stress, chaos, and disorder. And from every plane a hushed rumour echoes: Vecna lives.
Zander assigned three scholars—Kalene Whist, Aden Clath, and Brin Kepround—to assist his investigations, ensconcing them in Cientia Tower on the outskirts of Candlekeep. Their task was a simple one: research the archlich Vecna.
Last week the entire tower vanished.
Candlekeep’s finest scryers helped Zandeyr with the frantic investigations to trace the tower and its missing scholars. It proved near impossible, but finally an echo was found: Cientia Tower had been planeshifted to Limbo, the realm of supreme Chaos.
Zandeyr, realising the great danger, contacted his good friend and Stormwatch veteran, Mister Marko Reville, who quickly agreed to put together a team to investigate the fate of the Tower and its inhabitants.
Mister Marko, currently engaged establishing the Wee Folk in Neverwinter, wasted no time. His local advisor, Flukespan Timbers, recommended a collection of likely candidates for the job. The five were men—well one man, two orcs, a Hobgoblin, and a Gith—that he had worked with some years ago routing a Vecna cult. As luck would have it all five were, of late, resident in Neverwinter and a meeting was arranged.
Everyone knew Marko’s name, of course, though not everyone believed him real. The infamous Wee Folk thieves guild was now a serious contender for the dominant guild in Neverwinter, and the word on the street was that this was due to Marko’s work. So accepting the invitation was easy, if for no other reason than to lay eyes on an (alleged) member of Stormwatch.
The meeting took place on neutral territory: the rebuilt Shining Serpent Inn, which, under the management of Idris Tae’loc, was now a thriving destination for gamblers, adventurers, commonfolk, and everything in between.
Idris was one of the recruits, and well known to Marko. Despite his rather terrifying demeanour, Idris was a friendly and extremely capable fellow, and Marko had been pleased that Flukespan had nominated the experienced Gith.
Idris hailed his old companions as they arrived, happy to see everyone and showing particular warmth toward Uthar. Their conversation picked up as if it had been dropped mid-sentence, Idris doing most of the talking. He chatted away happily, ignoring the rather stilted approaches of his fellows. There was little to haunt his face, and he was obviously very comfortable in himself and his abilities. This was his turf and no-one doubted it.
It took a few moments for the fifth member to be identified. Flukespan recalled Brother Jamison Cooper as a fresh-faced novice, rather arrogant and supremely confident, but none matching that description had arrived. It wasn’t until Eli pointed a quiet finger toward a hooded figure leaning against a wall that the Priest was revealed.
“Brother Cooper?” Eli said cautiously. He looked…changed. In fact he looked like a different person. The hood covered most of his face, revealing little. It was clear that something bad had happened to Brother Cooper, both in the way he carried himself and his demeanour.
“It’s ‘Three’ now,” the man replied. Light from the table-candles lit his face for a moment and Eli stifled a gasp. Half of Three’s face had been destroyed, completely disfigured—mouth torn, one eye clearly false. Whatever had happened was diabolical in its destruction.
“As you wish,” Idris smiled, going out of his way to show Three that his injuries and appearance meant nothing. “Names are ours to choose.”
“While we’re choosing names—I’m Sifer now,” the one who was Jondo smiled. “A name I chose, this time.” He had barely spoken beyond acknowledging each arrival. He looked no different, or rather, he looked a far more capable version of his younger self. His gear was better, his swords larger, his physique impressive. There was nothing flamboyant about him, he wore his outfit and his body like someone who took care of both in order to be ready for any challenge. A solider, straightforward, prepared.
Eli regarded everyone quietly. He too hadn’t said much, and avoided eye-contact unless someone addressed him directly. Even that brief contact was little more than a 1000-yard stare, and quick to turn aside, though he spoke as politely as he ever had. He sported a fresh scar down one cheek—nothing to match Three, but a nasty wound none-the-less.
Uthar regarded Three closely. He wasn’t just damaged, he was beyond damaged. Physically, obviously, but Uthar wondered too about his mental state. The cocky swagger was gone, replaced by a sullen and silent tension. Uther himself had filled out, like Sifer: bigger, stronger, an imposing unit. His strength was a man’s strength now, with all the confidence that came with battle-hardened experience. He stood six-foot-five in full plate armour, a huge shield emblazoned with Torm’s gauntlet strapped to his back, a well-used longsword by his side. He oozed competence: there was an underpinning belief that his faith would show him what needed to be done, and that he would do it.
As Idris did his best to break the ice, a plain looking halfling arrived at the table. It wasn’t Flukespan, as Idris had been expecting, but there was something strangely familiar about the short fellow.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “My name is Mr Marko Reville, and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Flukespan talks very highly of you all.”
This was Mr Marko? He had a short bow on his back and a rapier on his waist, very simple clothes, a pack bulging with equipment, and a gentle demeanour that belied his legendary past. If it weren’t for his name you wouldn’t look twice—which was perhaps the entire point, Eli mused. “Hello, I am Eli,” he said in fluent Luiric.
“Hello to you too,” Marko smiled, impressed that the half-orc spoke halfling. It was obvious the non-orc half wasn’t from the wee-folk given Eli’s size, so he must have learnt the language elsewhere.
Three gave a sharp nod to acknowledge Marko’s leadership while Sifer steadfastly didn’t—his respect was hard earned, it seemed.
“Let’s get started,” Marko said. “We have some work to do here, it looks treacherous—we’re going to Limbo.”
As Marko outlined the mission, it soon became clear that he treated everyone as equals despite his legendary status. It was like this was a thrown together work-crew and he just happened to be in charge for the day. “Zandeyr warned that Limbo is not a place to linger. The chaotic magic that swirls throughout is dangerous in uncontrollable ways. There is no gravity, unless there suddenly is, so you can travel freely—but be swift about it. He has provided scrolls of Plane Shift for the journey so if we’re all ready, let’s go.”
Luckily, none refused the mission despite the obvious dangers. But then Marko always had been a lucky fellow. Idris led the company to a private room where Marko deployed the scroll. A shimmering portal opened and everyone stepped through…
Cientia Tower
…and stepped out into Limbo, a realm of unfettered chaos. Water turned to stone which bloomed into roses that withered and ignited. Islands floated in endless sky and stars were born and remade in the blink of an eye.
Just ahead of lay the lost Cientia Tower, just as Zandeyr had described it. Whether by miracle or impossible magic, the tower had remained intact, though its windows and front door were now sealed with writhing black tentacles.
Three gave a horrible little laugh. One that said we’re doomed.
Marko led toward the tower, mindful of Zandeyr’s exhortations to make haste. Uthar immediately fell into step one pace back, on bodyguard detail without being asked. The tentacles reached toward Marko as he drew close, seeking his flesh. The windows around and above also snaked with the black horrors. Meteors crashed together in the empty void beyond as the chaotic nature of Limbo pressed down hard. It was very disorienting.
“Is the tower filled with these tentacles? They’re overflowing out of the orifices?” Sifer wondered with a shudder.
“That’s a lot of meat,” Eli said.
“Evard’s Tentacles,” Three guessed. “Sealing the tower from Limbo’s reach. I could dispel magic.”
“That’s a great idea,” Marko said.
“Who knows what might come out,” Three warned. He cast the spell, targeting the door. As he directed the magic the force was instead dispersed into Limbo’s void and everyone was rocked by a burst of chaos magic, some bludgeoned, some leeched with necrotic disease, others psychically buffeted. “The chaos is warping magic,” Three said matter-of-factly, though he was concerned about any further use of magic.
Sifer nodded, pulled a dart from his belt and hoisted it at the writhing doorway. If floated true, the tentacles wrapping around it and absorbing it. It wasn’t clear if it had been damaged, so Uthar drew his sword and stepped closer. As he swung the tentacles reached around him and pulled him into their embrace. He struggled against it but they were too strong, yanking him into the doorway. He vanished.
Eli ran forward to try to slash Uthar free before he disappeared, but he too was grappled and sucked inside. He yelped with pain as acid from the writhing limbs burned through his exposed flesh.
Those remaining outside found themselves again rocked by random damage from no obvious source—this time there had been no spell. Sifer shrugged, realising staying outside was a death sentence, and stepped into the embrace of the tentacles.
Three turned to Marko and smiled a grim smile. “Looks like—” he didn’t finish as he stepped through. Marko frowned but followed in short order. Idris was the last left. He reached for Uthar’s mind to ask if he lived, but he could make no contact. He wasn’t surprised, and tried a different tact, using his telekinesis to shove the tentacles aside as best he could. It kind of worked, and kind of didn’t, but he did manage to avoid the full impact of the acidic horrors as he stepped into the darkness.
Beyond the tentacles was a pitch black chamber, which even those with darkvision could not penetrate. The company stood huddled in a five-foot pool of light under wooden door. A second pool of light shone on a door across from the entranceway. Both lights had no distinguishable source.
Despite the darkness, one relief everyone felt was the removal of the chaotic energy outside. Three had been right, the tower was sealed.
The relief was shortlived: a sharp skittering sounded from overhead, something climbing along the ceiling, before becoming silent.
“Bones scratching together,” Sifer whispered. He got down on one knee and pointed up. “Skeletons.”
Three took this as a warning, muttering a few words in the darkness and everyone felt the acidic wounds healing. Sifer was surprised, remembering the disagreement between he and Brother Cooper when they were simple men. It was more than just Three’s appearance that had changed, he mused.
Idris summoned a magical light but it was immediately sucked out of existence. Three reached into his bag and put on his night-vision goggles, but they were also of no help.
“I’m going over there,” Sifer said, nodding to the light on the far side. He closed his eyes and tried to step through the mists, but when he opened them he had not moved. “Or not.”
“Mister Marko,” Uthar said. “What do you want to do? I recommend we follow one of the walls to the left or right.”
“Yes. Hold to the wall—go left, always left.”
Uthar reached a hand to the wall and stepped cautiously out into the darkness. Marko put a hand on Uthar’s swordbelt and followed, a chain forming behind him as everyone but Sifer followed suit. After some feet Uthar felt something crunching underfoot. He reached down, expecting bones but finding paper, and what felt like books. He shoved a sample into his pockets and continued on.
A few steps later his foot stumbled into a wooden impediment. He reached out and found a crate, with more stacked atop. “Around the crates,” he said softly to those following. He stepped out toward the middle of the room to work around it and froze when the scuttling started again.
“Ha. There’s something on the ceiling,” Three said with what sounded like a smirk. There was no fear in his voice, unlike everyone else who’s mouths were dry with anticipation.
Uthar had his sword out now, defending toward the centre as he moved on. The rattling bones followed as Uthar cleared his way through a fresh pile of books and crates. “It’s above us,” Three hissed to Idris.
Sifer stepped out into the darkness, judging where his fellows were by sound. He wanted to try and arrive in the light at the same time. He crashed into a small bench at the half way point, drawing a further rattling of the bones. He hoiked himself up on the tabletop, moving over another crate before dropping down on the other side. The light was only feet away now. He leapt across the darkness and landed in the pool.
An instant later a scything bone claw flashed twice through the light, scouring a wound in Sifer’s side. As he reeled, a tail sting stabbed into his neck, flooding his system with poison.
Uthar cried out in alert as he saw the flash of bone before it vanished again into the darkness. He ran to Sifer and lay his hand on the neck wound, drawing the poison free with a prayer. “Uther! The door!” Idris hissed. Uther spun to the door and tried to yank it open. He recoiled with a grunt as a shock of necrotic pain exploded up his arm. “No good!” he cried.
Marko sprinted over to Sifer’s pool of light, hiding behind the staggering orc and searching for the enemy. Three prepared himself but withheld his spellcraft, worried they were just as likely to harm as help—despite the healing having worked.
Eli wondered why both Marko and Three took no action, but he didn’t wait. He fired into the darkness above, aiming for where he guessed the beast had withdrawn. He was rewarded with a shattering bone dropping to the floor. His second shot nicked Marko’s ear instead, and he was quietly thankful the halfling could not see the source.
Idris moved swiftly toward the door, convinced opening it was the way to solve this. His mage hand reached and tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. “Marko—the door’s locked,” he called.
Sifer, recovering, noticed the door rattle, recalling that Idris had deployed similar skills five years ago in the Eldritch Nest—and also realising that magic was still working here, Three’s fears notwithstanding. He dropped to one knee and fired blindly into the darkness, calling on his fighting spirit to direct his attacks. The result was a satisfying crack of bones disintegrating as his strikes struck hard.
Marko started toward the door to work on the lock when the creature’s necrotic claws and tail flashed out of the darkness again, this time catching Uther with three slashing strikes.
“Get out of the light!” Sifer yelled. It seemed obvious the creature was drawn there, and it was only attacking those exposed. Marko was forced to retreat before he could get to the door.
Three threw caution to the wind. He muttered under his breath as he summoned a spectral guardian. It hovered over the pool of light, a beautiful armoured angel with a gleaming sword and shield. Three hoped it would attack the beast, not his companions, and he felt no corruption of magic as he cast the spell.
Uthar was pleasantly surprised at the purity of the summoned spirit, having expected something darker from Three. It inspired him to us his divine sense to locate what he hoped was a fiend or undead. And he was right: an enormous humanoid husk, with dried skin stretched tight across its skeletal frame loomed above. It bore a fearsome skull-like head and the tail of a scorpion.
Uthar smiled. He swung his sword with righteous precision, Torm’s radiant light trailing behind as it smote the fiend once, twice.
The brutal attacks allowed Eli to triangulate his aim. A quick bowshot was followed by two equally quick jabs from his fists. Both of which missed. He hung his head.
Idris pierced the fiend’s tiny mind with a psychic sliver, a shimmer emerging from his forehead to bury into the beast’s skull. The damage was minimal, but it left the creature vulnerable. It saw Sifer working through the darkness toward it and slashed out opportunistically. Sifer staggered backward, but with a grin on his face as he glanced up at Three’s guardian.
The angel reacted the instant the devil attacked. It crunched the holy shield into the unholy beast, shattering bones and claws and collapsing the fiend’s chest. The devil was helpless against the incoming attacks, fooled by Idris’s probe. The guardian followed with a sweeping slash that drove the sword deep into the skeletal skull. The bone devil shrieked as it shattered, a foul odour of decay bursting forth.
The darkness was dispelled as it died. Shards of bone and claw and tail clattered to the floor of the room, dissolving into dust as they struck. The dust instantly reformed into disembodied human hand, tendons and flesh torn at the wrist.
In the sudden light Three’s full head and face was revealed, his hood having fallen back. And now everyone saw. When someone had a scar you wondered how it happened. Eli’s was probably caused by a dagger of some kind. Sifer and Uther had sword nicks from a skirmish or two. But Three. Three was something else. His ruined face had been sculpted. An axe had cut cleanly through Cooper’s cheek and mouth, stopping at the nose. Then it had struck again, a backswing slicing a careful, nonchalant arc that removed the eye as it met the earlier cut. Just like slicing a piece of pie.
Cooper was gone. Three slowly raised his hood.
Everyone had frozen, trying not to think of what Three had been through. Idris was first to shake himself out of the shock, crouching to study the severed hand. It was a woman’s hand, the left. He used his mage-hand to flip it over so the palm was upward. Tattooed on the shredded inner wrist was a name: Aden. “Aden was one of the researchers,” Idris recalled.
“So this might be Kalene’s hand,” Marko mused. “And Aden her boyfriend, or husband?”
“I knew a Brother Aden once,” Eli said.
“Is it his hand?”
Eli had a horrific flashback. “I don’t think so,” he muttered.
Marko shrugged and turned his attention to Uthar and Sifer, both badly wounded. “We should clean and dress this,” he said as he pulled out an alchemist kit and soap.
At the same time, Three dropped his head and prayed, healing everyone. Those that knew heard the name Kelemvor being invoked—the god of death and the dead. Three glanced at Uthar, seeing with some surprise that the hobgoblin accepted the healing without complaint despite the source. He walked over and further healed Sifer, then spoke to Uthar. “Do you wish for my healing? It will be through my god, Kelemvor.”
“That doesn’t worry me. I don’t know if you’ve ever met a paladin before, but this paladin does not blink when you mention other gods,” Uthar said looking up at Three. He frowned when he saw Three was trembling, shaking uncontrollably.
“Oh I’ve…I’ve met…I know paladins,” Three stammered. He lifted a quaking hand and healed Uthar.
Idris did an arcana check on the door, finding it magically locked, but more interestingly he saw the keyhole was shaped like a tiny left hand, with fingers spread. He groaned softly—this could go badly, but he had to try. Everyone turned to watch as he levitated the hand, which was far too large for the keyhole, toward the door. As it drew close the hand was suctioned to the keyhole, followed by the clear sound of the lock unlatching. Idris grinned, retrieving the hand and stashing it away.
“Brother Idris,” Eli said.
“We’re still going with ‘Brother’ after all this time, Eli?” Idris smiled as he lit a cigarillo from a flaming finger.
“Of course. What actually are you?”
“What do you mean? Are you speaking existentially?”
“Well you’re not a man.”
“I’m a githyanki.”
“I don’t know what those words mean.”
Three cackled.
“Ah,” Idris said. “My people aren’t from where yours are. We are native to the Astral Plane, if you know where that is?”
“No. I know where the northern plains are?” Eli offered.
Idris shook his head. “It’s another plane. Picture it being another place like this, but not this place.”
“When you say ‘this’ place, do you mean this place,” Eli said looking around.
“Eli. When the spell was cast to take us here, we were taken to another ‘plane’, called Limbo,” Idris explained patiently. “Which is not the same ‘plane’ the Sword Coast is on. It’s a different world, for want of a better term.”
Eli stared. “You act as if I’m stupid.”
“No. But I don’t know what your baseline is, Eli.”
“So you’re from heaven.”
“Again, no. Although, funnily enough, if you want to speak in terms of heaven and hell, I’m from the plane where gods go to die,” Idris said, glancing at Three. Eli too turned his head to the broken man.
Three looked up. “Don’t we all?”
Sifer searched the room during the debate. There were a lot of papers and books, nothing special, but obviously full of magical knowledge.
“Brother Marko,” Eli said. “I don’t mean to overstep my role here. But if this tower was the tower of the acolytes we are seeking…why was there a devil in here?”
“No idea,” Marko said—without concern, Eli noted. “Maybe it entered when the tower was taken to this plane. Or whoever brought it to this plane may have attacked the tower? We don’t know.”
“I think that’s an astute observation,” Idris agreed.
“There are two more,” Sifer reminded everyone as he poked around.
“Acolytes or devils?” Eli said.
“He means kidnapped sages,” Idris said.
Sifer shrugged, then sunk down with his back to the wall. “We should take a short rest. We need to recover, and there are two more.” He was feeling the after effects of the heavy blows he had taken, and he knew his troupe was low on resources. He closed his eyes and entered a meditative state, not waiting for an answer.
Uthar moved into a defensive position before the door. “Perhaps block it with crates so we get a warning? Then we can rotate a quick watch.” Marko suggested. Uthar didn’t hesitate.
Eli moved to stand with his face to a wall, hand on his sword, drawing concerned looks…that he couldn’t see.
“You going first, Red?” Idris asked Uther, who nodded. Once he could see the company gathered, he ascended the spiral staircase.
He emerged into a living space that was, incongruently, much larger than the previous floor. Plain wooden furniture was strewn around a common area between two wooden doors. Beyond the common area was a small, disorganised library with bookcases that met the ceiling. Dead leaves were scattered on the floor of the library, the source seemingly behind a half-open door at the far end of the room.
Sifer picked up one of the leaves, crushing it in his hand. It looked to be on oak of some variety, not terribly old. There was no movement of air in the room from the open door that might have explained the leaf litter. The staircase wound further upward, so Sifer sat on a torn sofa that faced them to guard and wait.
One of the closer doors was open. Eli peered through to see an unmade bed large enough for two people in the corner of the room. One of the pillows on the bed was smeared with blood. He walked inside, followed by Marko and Uthar on high alert. A simple wooden wardrobe, desk, and basin of water completed the barren furnishing of the chamber. The wardrobe contained men and women’s clothing and a shaving kit sat in a basin in the corner.
Eli studied the pillow, pondering the source of the blood. There wasn’t a lot of blood, suggesting something surgical rather than brutal. He carefully lifted the pillow, following the trail of blood. Lying on the bedsheet was an eyeball, resting in a small pool of vitreous jelly. “Look here, sir,” he whispered in old Luiric to Marko.
“Do you see a theme here?” Marko asked. “A hand and now an eye? If we touch it are we going to spawn something, do you think? A one-eyed floating ball or something?”
“Are you asking me?” Eli said with surprise as Three suddenly appeared between them.
Marko shrugged and cautiously poked the eye with his dagger.
“Don’t do that!” Three scolded, and reached around to pick up the eye. As Three gazed into the eye and he froze as a vision swelled in his mind.
A woman and man dressed in robes of wizardry stood in front of a wrought metal gate made of barbed, pitch black metal. The woman frowned as she traced the runes inscribed on the gate. “Whatever these inscriptions mean, they must be a key.”
The man nodded. “And clues to unlocking it. This will take some time.”
“If only we could get Brin to help. He hasn’t left his laboratory in some time—do you think he is well?”
The man laid a fond hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Probably deep in one of his experiments—let’s invite ourselves to observe!”
The vison faded and Three suddenly grabbed his head as a clap of psychic pain shot through him. He could feel his remaining—left—eye burning, dying, shrivelling. He began to panic before managing to recover his senses—and his sight. He gasped in relief, knowing how close he had been to being blinded. He turned to Uthar and Marko. “I think this attacked me,” he said, dropping the eye on the bed, “Don’t touch it.”
“Brother Cooper—duh,” Eli mocked.
Three didn’t respond to that name, ignoring Eli as he repeated verbatim what he had seen.
“Brin was one of the mages,” Marko said. “And presumably the two in the vision were Kalene and Aden. So now we have all three.” He lifted the non blood-stained pillow and sniffed, finding a slight perfume. “This is her pillow, so I guess the eye belongs to Aden,” he guessed, thinking of the tattooed hand.
“There’s more here,” Uthar said, standing at the desk. Beside a candle that had burned down to its nub, a small journal sat open. A bottle of ink appeared to have spilled its contents on the journal, covering it in shiny black ink.
Marko leafed through the journal, finding all but the most recent entries had been rendered unreadable by the spilled ink. He read the final entry aloud:
“Aden no longer sleeps in our bed. Each night, he roams around the tower reading books, but more often than not he goes to the observatory and stares at the black gate on the far wall. It appeared just a few days ago, but we can’t divine any information on it. I once convinced him to retire to bed, and he was wracked by a pain behind his left eye throughout the night. Now, he sleeps fitfully during the day. He says that ‘night is the time to uncover secrets.’”
“He doesn’t sound well. No doubt that’s the same gate from my vision,” Three grunted.
“Oh dear,” Uthar said.
“Let’s not sleep here,” Eli added sagely.
Outside, Idris moved into the library area, crunching on the dried leaves that provided denser cover here. The cramped shelves were packed with old rotting tomes, newly bound books, loose sheets of parchment, and tightly wound scrolls. Three chairs surrounded a table covered with various documents.
Idris started reading the open books on the table, figuring that these were likely what the trio of wizards were working on most recently. He was quicky absorbed in the words—they were fascinating, deeply researched, and incredibly compelling. So much so that his mind quickly shut off from the rest of the room as his attention focussed on what he read.
Three noticed Idris’s concentration and stepped into the library himself. He scanned the shelves for religious books and soon found several that he started to page through. As Idris had found, the knowledge contained was detailed, but nothing he had not read before. For a moment he felt a shimmer as if the books wanted to command more of his attention, but it passed before he could study it further.
He walked around to Idris, who had a half-lit cigarillo in his hand and a book he was studying intently. “Idris, did you have a weird feeling when you picked up that book?”
“No, why?” Idris muttered without looking up. He floated a new book from the shelves and started on it. He felt close to finding what he sought, if only he could keep reading.
Sifer, tired of watching the barren stairway, strode down past the readers and moved to the half-open door, noting the dense piles of leaves. He pulled his sword and carefully opened the door further. A stone path littered with dead leaves, similar to the one at the base of the tower, led outside, the chaotic skies of Limbo swirling overhead. He moved to the threshold, careful not to cross it, and peered ahead. A bleak and desolate courtyard lay beyond, centred around a dead, gnarled tree with near leafless branches. He wasn’t tempted to step through and he felt more secure knowing what lay through the door. He turned back and waited for his companions to finish their work.
Uthar, at the other end of the room, noted Sifer’s investigations approvingly. The rookie from the Eldritch Eye had been replaced by a professional soldier, one with sharp martial rigour—watching doorways, covering entrances, analysing threats and knowing what was happening. No more running off with a head of stream. He met Sifer’s gaze and the two nodded respectfully.
“Brother Marko, should we open this door?” Eli said, standing by Uthar at the door opposite the bedroom.
“We should,” Marko nodded, quickly clearing it for traps. He put a hand on a the beautiful sword at his waist and received no warning, so he pushed the door open.
The small chamber contained a bed, trunk, and desk. Tucked against the wall just inside the room were a pair of newly shined shoes, polished to parade standard. On the desk a quill rested in a pot of ink, and two books lay open. One looked to be quite old while the other appeared newly bound.
Marko hovered over the two books. The newer journal was a translation of the older, which was in danger of disintegrating due to age. The book that he was translating was about a figure of myth who had a golden eye and a withered hand. It was said that anything this figure wished for came true. The figure met an untimely demise when a thief stole the eye from their head while they slept.
Uthar opened the wardrobe, finding more pairs of obsessively polished shoes, all buffed to mirrors. A nearby shoebrush was stained with traces of blood. “Don’t touch the shoes, Mister Marko,” Uthar warned, leaving the room with Eli.
Left alone, Marko whipped out a wand and waved it around Aden’s room, hoping for secrets to be revealed, but there was nothing.
Idris had raced through three books and was working on his fourth. He had found some information about Vecna that seemed important. He had discovered Vecna was born on the world of Oerth, the son of a hedge witch but he never knew his father. When he was young, his mother was exiled for practicing dark magic.
At the back of his mind, as he scratched out notes, Idris felt he might be able to stop reading if he really wanted—but he was also sure there was more, much more, to be uncovered. He was quickly rewarded with another insight that followed on from his last, almost as if the books were tempting him to stay: Vecna was later bound into servitude by the very same order of wizards that had exiled his mother. One day, he massacred the wizards. Every last one.
Three too had found a tome that talked about the latterdays of Vecna, which described how over the course of hundreds of years Vecna forged an empire in the world of Oerth. When his body started to fail him, he turned to dark powers and became a lich. Three turned to Idris and Sifer, holding the book aloft. “This is a book about Vecna—”
Three dropped the book and grabbed his head in agony for the second time as his mind was crushed by a malevolent assault. Looming behind the psychic pain was a curse that he refused to hear, strengthening his mind against it. “Don’t mention…that name!” he gasped.
Acting on intuition, Sifer raced back to the bedroom to check the eye. To his horror, it swivelled to meet his gaze. He immediately drew his bow and fired a point-blank shot at the tiny glutinous lump. It exploded as the arrow buried into the bed. He slung his bow and turned to see Uthar ready for whatever the danger was. “What happened?” Uthar asked in confusion.
“Three said the name, I saw the eye, it looked at me,” Sifer said simply.
Uthar nodded as if this made perfect sense, turned, and walked down to Idris. “Anything interesting?”
“Interesting. Yes. Look,” Idris said, totally distracted. Uthar lent down to read the entry, and found it irresistible. This was great stuff, so great that he sat down and opened the nearest book to start devouring the riches within. Idris pulled out another cigarillo, lit it, and passed it to Uthar.
Sifer arrived and raised an eyebrow. The spellcaster reads books, sure, but Uthar? He lent against a shelf and waited to see how this would develop.
Eli turned to Marko. “Brother Marko, how long are we to stay in this library?”
“We can keep going upstairs,” Marko nodded. “We should go to where that gate is that Three saw.”
“Shall we leave these ones?” Eli said, indicating the readers.
Marko scratched his head. “I’m a little bit worried. This shoe shining business,” he said holding up Aden’s boots to a confused Eli, “And there’s more like this in the cupboard.”
“Should we be looking for adversaries with shiny shoes?”
“No, we should be concerned that there is some very compulsive behaviour happening,” Marko said.
Three smirked, glancing at Uthar and Idris.
“Uthar!” Sifer called to reinforce the point, receiving no reaction as Uthar opened a fresh volume.
Eli grabbed Marko by his tiny collar and pointed at the readers. “That compulsive behaviour?” he said in old Luiric.
“Oh,” said Marko. “Hm. Okay.”
Uthar was buried in his book, ignorant of the discussion around him. He had just read a very interesting passage. It seemed that at some point Vecna was betrayed (though his betrayer was not named). The battle that ensued between Vecna and his betrayer cost the archlich his left eye and left hand. “His eye,” Uthar muttered, the conscious part of his brain trying to remember why that was relevant and causing Idris to push the notepad over the desk toward him.
“Do you want me to shake them?” Three said to Marko. He moved behind Idris and stood ready.
Eli frowned. “Brother Marko, should he be shaking them?”
“I’m worried about trying that, I’m worried about disturbing them too much. Perhaps we could try moving one of the books, gently, out of their reach?” He walked to Uthar’s side of the desk and used his sleight of hand to shift the book, Sifer moving close in case of trouble. But Uthar was far to quick, grabbing the book back and continuing to read as if nothing had happened.
Marko reached slowly down to Uthar’s hand and took it in his, as if Uthar were a child (though the relative hand sizes were quite the reverse). He tried to halt the page turning, acting as though he was stopping Uthar from hurting himself. Sifer got closer still and mirrored Marko’s movements, certain that this wasn’t going to end well.
Eli had an idea. “Brother Idris,” he whispered into Idris’s ear, “What are you?” Idris only grunted.
Marko tried again, this time verbally. “Uthar. Uthar! May I have your attention please—I need your assistance, urgently.”
Uthar felt something at the edge of his consciousness. An order. From his commanding officer. But…the books. The knowledge. He pushed away the urge to obey, fighting his training, and read on.
“Could you come over here and help me for a moment?” Marko said.
“Soon, soon, I just have to finish this,” Uthar grunted.
“I really do think this is important. This is so important, Uthar. It needs your utmost attention,” Marko pleaded. Despite the size difference, which was considerable, Marko also tried to encourage Uthar to stand.
The struggle in Uthar’s mind was building. He needed to help, he was needed, his leader was pleading for help. The boss of this mission had given him a direct order.
“Only you can do this,” Marko urged.
With a deep groan Uthar struggled to his feet and turned away from the books. The moment he did he reeled away as his head filled with psychic horror beyond comprehension. He fell to his knees, smothering Marko who tried to catch him, and steadied by Sifer who did.
Uthar met Sifer’s gaze, head pounding, eyes terrified. “Hail Vecna,” he croaked, collapsing unconscious.
Flesh for Fantasy
“A hand here please, gentlemen!” Marko cried, doing his best to drag Uthar’s leaden weight toward the bedrooms as Three smirked at the rather absurd sight.
“What about him?” Eli said, pointing to Idris who was still buried in his books.
“He’s next—help me,” Marko ordered. “Please.” Eli nodded and hauled Uthar to the double bed, avoiding the splattered eye. “Now the other one,” Eli prompted.
Satisifed Uthar was in no further danger, Marko grimaced and returned to Idris. “Good sir,” he said gently, trying to get his attention and failing.
“Use the magic you did before,” Eli suggested.
“It wasn’t magic, it was a case of provoking his loyalty. I think something else might work better for Idris.” He pulled a coin from his pocket and started flipping it, using sleight of hand to make it vanish. Idris’s glanced over briefly, and as he did Marko made a piece of paper appear in his hand.
Three clapped his hands mockingly at the ‘magic’, but was surprised when Idris did reach over to take the page. Marko made the page disappear too. “Maybe it’s over here?” Mark said, pointing away from the library. Idris shrugged and turned back to his reading.
“Getting interesting,” Three scoffed.
Sifer decided to test Idris’s patience instead, shifting the piles of books away from his reach. Idris barely noticed, putting a hand out to magically grab a fresh tome from the shelving and float it over to his table.
Eli decided Idris might respond better to taunting than orders. He lent in and whispered: “From what you said to me before, I didn’t realise you were this gullible.”
“Gullible in what way?” Idris said, turning a page. He sounded more interested than offended.
“I thought your mind was your own?”
Idris snorted and turned his attention back to the books. “What do you mean ‘gullible,'” Three laughed. He walked over and shoved with all his strength to try and remove Idris from his chair, but it was like Idris was a boulder so little did he move. “That didn’t work,” Three announced redundantly.
“What didn’t work?” Idris asked distractedly.
“You’re obsessed with reading, and you’re not in our reality.”
“What do you mean?” Idris said holding up his notebook. “Look at what I’ve found!”
“Right. So stop doing that, you’ve done enough. Stop doing that and come over to help Uthar. And if you can’t do that, you might realise you’re fucked in the head!”
The logic of this argument caused Idris to pause. First Eli, now Three, both accusing him of losing control of the one thing he valued the most: his mind. He shifted in his seat, but then saw the book in front of him. No. This was important. He read on.
Three sighed. “He’s lost. We go on without him.”
“That’s really disappointing,” Eli sighed.
“Should I go out to the tree?” Three said, taking half a step outside.
“Not yet!” Marko scowled. He stalked back to Uthar and gently woke him up. “Is everything all right?”
“I dont know,” Uthar said, testing his limbs and finding them whole, though he had a pounding headache. “Why am I here?”
“There seems to be some soft of spell,” Marko sighed.
Uthar slowly remembered, a lost time reading. “Don’t read those books,” he warned. He stood up and shook his head clear. “Let’s go.”
As he emerged, Sifer stepped up to Uthar. “Why did you say ‘Hail Vecna’ when you—” As he spoke his head exploded with daggers of pain. He collapsed to his knees gasping for breath. He tried to call for help but found his thinking so shattered he could not speak.
Three knew exactly what had happened, waving a ‘no’ finger at Sifer who was in no condition to respond, staggering to the couch facing the stairs.
Eli rolled his eyes at Three and turned to Uthar. “Uthar—can you help Idris?”
Uthar looked at the industrious scholar and frowned. “Oh. Can we try convincing him? That’s what worked for me.” He also cast a protection spell on Idris, hoping it would help him with his conviction. He walked to Idris and gently pushed down the book he was reading, trying to make eye contact. As expected, Idris resisted both, but Uthar persisted. “I know what’s happening to you. It happened to me—you’ve got to try.”
Idris found this very amusing—what did Uthar know about books and knowledge!?
Eli was getting increasingly frustrated. Maybe he wasn’t stern enough last time? He lent in. “If you don’t stop being such a fucking asshole I will personally pick you up and shove you back to whatever fucking plane you came from!”
Uthar gasped and Three raised his eyebrows. Had Eli been possessed? Then they noticed…
Idris had stopped reading. He slammed the book closed. What the hell was going on. He shook with tension and simmering anger, torn between what he was compelled to do and what he was being accused of. He wrenched his gaze up and stared at Uthar who still loomed over him. He was shocked by what he saw: the great hobgoblin was a ragged mess, haggard and drained, obviously hurt. From reading these same books. The truth was suddenly obvious—Eli was right, he had been gullible, and Three was right, his mind was not his own.
With an enormous effort he shoved himself away from the table. The agony of breaking the curse was instant and strong. His legs went weak and he staggered reaching for support from Marko. “Follow Lord Vecna or perish!” he gasped, a second wave of psychic pain washing over him as he spoke. His brain started to shatter but, just like Uthar, he pulled himself back from the brink of madness and held himself together even as he faded into darkness.
Idris too was moved to the bed. Eli put his head in his lap and gently stroked his cheek and hair as Marko slowly held his hand back to consciousness. After a few moments of this Eli escalated proceeding by gently slapping Idris’s cheek, which had the desired effect.
“Brother Idris,” Eli said, meeting Idris’s waking gaze, “I’m so terribly sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”
“What for?” Idris croaked, confused.
“For the things I said to you.”
Idris scoured his recovering mind and smiled, remembering. “No. I understand, it’s fine.”
“No? You can’t?” Eli said fearfully, before realising it was all ok.
“You went mad!” Three called over, enjoying himself.
“Yes, well…yes,” Idris conceded. “It seems that for a short time I certainly had a monomaniacal obsession with reading those texts.”
“Mad!”
Idris cleared his throat. “One or more of them is obviously cursed, as I’m sure some of you surmised already. But that you all very all much for waking me up.”
“And are you feeling reasted enough to continue?” Marko asked.
“I’m good.”
“And I’m ready to go, Mr Marko!” Three called.
Marko led the way across the threshold, rapier drawn. It didn’t warn him of any dangers so he proceeded. The company stepped out into the infinite sky of Limbo again, but curiously none could sense the chaotic magic from the entryway. Eli glanced nervously out into the dead space, a nearby lava-tick causing him some concern.
Ahead lay a courtyard, bleak and desolate. Gray stone surrounded the courtyard and beds of dead bushes and flowers lined a circular walkway. At the centre of the courtyard stood a dead, gnarled tree with leafless branches that creaked in a non-existent wind. The floors and walls of the courtyard were covered in black ichor that oozed out of the garden beds and from a scar in the tree.
“I worry the tree might be not what it seems,” Marko warned.
Eli laughed, a racial memory of every single tree over every single adventure seeming to confirm Marko’s words.
Marko tied a rope around his hand. “Hold this and be ready to haul me back,” he said to Uthar. He stepped into the courtyard. As he crossed the threshold he heard urgent whispers calling to him. It was Flukespan, calling from the tree! “The weefolk are in danger! We need your help, Marko—now! Hurry, hurry please!!”
“Flukespan is in danger!” Marko cried to Uthar. “He’s in the tree!” He started running to the scar.
“What??” Uthar called as the rope went taut.
“He’s mad!” Three called. “Uthar! Grab Marko, he’s gone crazy!”
Uthar saw no choice but to follow Marko. As he stepped inside the courtyard he too heard a call. The cleric lives?! She can still be saved, the river has not taken her and it shall not!!” He sprinted after Marko toward the oozing scar in the massive tree.
As both rescuers ran, the tree reached spindly branches down to grab both, but they shunted the grasping tendrils aside such was their urgency to reach the scar.
Sifer fired his longbow at the tree, arrows thudding into the scar. Idris followed with a bolt of flame that struck true but seemed to be smothered and absorbed by the ichor as it hit. As both attacks hit, four wraith-like figures in tattered wizard robes howled out of the scar, shadowy claws reaching for Uthar and Marko.
Uthar attacked the closest wraith with two hefty swings, dodging away from it’s attempted response. Marko poked as his wraith, taking a blow in return. Eli leapt into the fray, easily resisting the whispers that promised him his kinfolk could be saved. He knew that was not true. His sword buried into the overpromising wraith, and his lethal fist followed suit. Alas the wraith responded in kind, tendrils reaching between his armour and sending arcs of necrotic wounds through his system. He felt his strength being drained at the same time, leaving him badly weakened.
Three stepped toward the courtyard—but not inside—and raised his arms to the wraiths, confidently calling on his god to turn the undead fiends. Seconds later his confidence was shattered as all four stayed exactly where they were, ignoring his command, wailing with fury instead.
“Brother Tree, I don’t think you’re helping!” Eli cried.
Three was about to heal Marko but Eli’s words caused him pause. Anger, but also pause. Was his magic faulty?
Idris meanwhile didn’t pause. He unleashed a precision fireball onto the far reaches of the stagnant tree, covering it and the wraiths in flames, whilst only scorching Eli, Marko and Uthar. The tree went up in flames under the inferno, and Idris was thankful the ichor still didn’t catch. At the same time he shunted a wraith backwards, allowing opportunity attacks from the melee combatants. It almost dissipated under the assault, and did once Sifer added his straight and true arrows from the rear.
The battle continued apace, with the wraiths mostly missing and the company mostly hitting, lit brilliantly under the burning canopy of the dead tree. Three was the only ineffective combatant, his tolling of the dead only serving to signal his own failure. He tried to put it down to chance, but a seed of doubt crept into his mind: nothing was working. Maybe pure magic worked, but not channels from the gods?
Meanwhile steel, flame, arrows and very fast feet eventually triumphed over the incorporeal undead creatures. As they died, so too did the whispers, Marko and Uthar sheepishly realising they had fallen for the obviously spurious calls.
Once the wraiths were gone, leaving only the rustling flaming tree, Three dropped to his knees and prayed. He sent targetted healing to Uthar—and it worked, his wounds sealing over. So healing works,, he thought, even if nothing else does. He held his hands aloft and called, “Kelemvor, help me, help me!”, and everyone was bathed in further healing salve, drawing nods of thanks.
A quick search of the courtyard revealed nothing of interest. Everything was dead, parched, desolate. “Let’s get out of this place,” Marko muttered. “Back to the tower.”
“So why did we come out here?” Eli asked, looking at Three.
“Well…because there’s a tree in the middle of Limbo. Which is odd, so we should investigate. Isn’t that right, Mr Marko?”
“Yes, exactly. And we now know it is a possessed tree or some kind,” Marko said.
Idris nodded. “Bear in mind that this tree was probably in a different incarnation before the tower was snatched and thrown here.”
“So was that gate there then?” Sifer said, pointing to the scar in the tree.
“I suspect not. Maybe our missing mage, if he’s not a slavering idiot, will be able to explain,” Idris said, thinking of Brin.
Uthar cautiously ascended the steps inside, feeling the air thickening as he did. Behind him Idris felt his adamantine coin weighing strangely heavy in his pocket. He pulled it free and studied it, but it looked as it always had: the eye and skeletal hand on either side shone dully, but it was noticeably heavier. “Be very careful, Uthar. There’s something in the room.”
Uthar nodded, slowed, and carefully stepped to a humid room. It was filled with abandoned lab equipment that glowed with a sickly green light, the atmosphere fetid. Alarmingly, a decapitated body lay shackled to an upright operating table in the centre of the chamber.
“Footprints,” Three said pointing to bloody tracks that led from the body to the tables, and down the stairs.
“A similar size to the shoes from below,” Sifer warned.
Marko studied them and moved to the body. “Dead for some days,” he muttered. Three agreed. “This wasn’t medical or spiritual—it’s insanity. Someone has wrenched the head from the body in a frenzy.”
Marko turned the wrists of the body over, finding a name etched onto one: Kalene. “This must be Aden.”
“Which may mean it was his eyeball on the bed downstairs,” Idris said. “Which means whoever has been walking around here is probably him—Brin.” He scanned the room carefully, looking for signs of anything moving. He couldn’t see anything, which worried him: his skin tingled with creeping dread.
Everyone felt it. Sifer stood battle ready, back to a wall.
As Idris turned his eyes back to the body, a clump of fetid, rotting flesh splotched onto the stone benchtop. He slowly lifted his gaze to look to the ceiling twenty feet overhead. Everyone followed his gaze.
The ceiling was covered in a mess of pulsating flesh, assorted limbs dangling free and masses of pulped skin clumped with oozing fat. A handless arm hung limply from a pucker of skin. There were three distinct bodies glommed amongst the flesh, three flattened faces mangled amongst the mess—one missing an eye. A mouth opened, spilling blood and gore as it spoke in a slurred, insane voice: “Come join me…in Vecna’s name, enjoy eternal embrace!”
“Oh shit,” Marko said as three enormous lumps of rotting flesh dropped to the ground.
Sifer immediately ran up the wall to get out of reach, using his slippers to grip the stonework. He fired into the far mound burying the arrow into the mound of quivering fat. Marko lashed out at the one that had nearly smothered him, and the foul mass retaliated by swinging two mangled flesh bound fists, which luckily only his once.
It was hard to approach the horrendous masses, knowing this must be all that remained of the three mages. But there was no choice. Uthar and Eli’s swords slurped into flesh, carving chunks of fetid waste, and Eli’s feet sunk into the thick lumps with unsatisfying chonks. The remains of the three mages in turn attacked with unsubtle smashes, trying to engulf whoever they could. Marko poked and prodded, Sifer fired unerringly, and Idris employed the ever reliable magic missiles to whittle the mounds away, his magical shunting also allowing huge swings of damage to be applied by the melee fighters.
Three however. Three’s god magic continued to fail, miserably. His first necrotic attack was absorbed by the lumbering flesh and repaired several of the strikes Uthar had inflicted on it. In desperation Three turned to his healing, reasoning that if the creatures were healed by damage, they would be damaged by healing. It was a good theory, but in practice if failed miserably, Sifer watching incredulously as Three healed one of the shambling flesh mounds. Three quivered with a combination of fear that his gods had abandoned him, and fury at his impotency.
Once again the company triumphed, but the battle was a grim and unpleasant task. By the end everyone was exhausted, drained and covered in the remains of Brin, Kalene, and Aden. The sloughed flesh slumped over the floor of the laboratory.
“This is not a good place, gentlemen,” Marko said wearily.
“You think?” Idris smiled grimly.
Eli looked at Marko in horror, his leader’s failure of faith shaking his confidence.
“Don’t read the books,” Sifer joked, pointing to a stack of journals that sat on a nearby table. This was, of course, an invitation to Marko, who walked over and picked up the one that lay open. It was in the same handwriting as the journal from Brin’s room below, so he felt confident it wasn’t cursed. “This is written by Brin,” he said, “A diary.” He flipped through the earlier pages. “He’s talking about a voice that invaded his mind in recent days, tempting him with thoughts of curing him of his incalculable loneliness. Tell him he didn’t have to be alone—all he had to do with write his lonely thoughts into this book,” Marko said. He flipped to the last entry and read it aloud:
“I have spent my years in solitude researching all of the cruel things that threaten my realm, to protect the people I love. But Vecna is not one of those cruel things. He promises life—an eternity of it!—if only we lend ourselves to his wisdom. For my servitude, he has promised a great gift, a way for everyone I love to be together. The three of us, Kalene, Aden, and me, forever together! So great is this gift that I shall take all of the realm into my warm embrace! Imagine! A world that is one. One body, one mind! A world that is me…”
As he finished reading, Marko felt his mouth go dry and a his eyes cloud over. For an instant he felt a presence that overwhelmed all else, and then it was gone. He shook his head and looked around. “Did that mean that they all merged together?” he said, pointing to the fleshy remains.
“That’s my first thought,” Idris nodded uncomfortably. Everyone agreed, and everyone felt deeply unhappy about this fact. Kalene, Aden, and Brin. Brin, in his madness, slaughtering the other two and somehow merging his own body with theirs and sloughing the joined mass into a single fleshy horror.
There was nothing else in the room, so Marko pointed to the stairs. “We go on.”
The floor of the room above was covered in black tentacles that slithered in a massive pool of fresh blood. The ceiling was a domed window that looks out into the endless expanse of Limbo. On the far wall, tentacles framed a black, circular gate made of barbed, pitch black metal. Three immediately recognised it as the same gate he had seen in his vision when he had held Aden’s eye. Three closed his eyes and prayed again, healing everyone as best he could. At least that still worked, he thought glumly.
“Get to the gate if you can,” Marko ordered, “But don’t touch the blood or tentacles.” Sifer ran over the walls and Marko flew over, revealing his very useful boots for the first time.
The gate was ten feet in diameter and made of intimidating, barbed, pitch-black iron. There were three distinct scenes fashioned into the gate’s wrought metal. The first scene was a man in wizard robes raising his hands before a tall tower while other men and women bow down to him. The second scene displayed a man sitting in a ritual circle, drinking from a goblet. The third and last scene showed a withered, undead spellcaster battling a figure in full plate mail who wielded an ornate longsword, as a tower crumbles in the background.
“Not this tower thankfully,” Sifer observed pointing to the crumbling image, “So now what?”
“I think we should go through the gate,” Marko declared.
“Is the gate open?” Eli called from the far side.
“No,” Marko admitted.
“Can you open it?” Three called.
“Not easily,” Marko said. He had already determined the lock was far beyond even his skills—magic, not mechanics. He lent in to push the surface of the gate, more out of hope more than belief, and was rewarded with tiny spikes piercing his fingers painfully. He whipped his hand away and shook his head.
“I think we can,” Sifer said to everyone’s surprise. “The wizards were searching for a way to unlock the gate, and I think they unwittingly found one. The carvings have a secret,” he said, pointing to each as he explained what he had discovered. “One of the bowing figures in the first scene is missing its head. The wizard in the second scene is missing its left eye…and the undead creature in the third scene is missing its left hand.”
Marko leaned in and saw what Sifer had seen, a little embarrassed to have missed it earlier. “He’s right.”
“I’m sorry but I destroyed the eye,” Sifer said, recalling how he had obliterated the detached eye on the pillow.
On the other side of the room, Three laughed. Of course the eye was gone! But then he had a thought: Marko needed a head, a hand, and an eye. And fortuitously the laboratory below had an abundance of slewed body parts—three heads, and no doubt eyes. There should be no trouble finding the required bits. “I’ll be right back,” he announced, heading downstairs.
“Mr Reville,” Idris called, “Weren’t we in fact entreated to come here to find out the fate of the three wizards and the tower?”
Marko nodded.
“Well is that not complete now?”
“It is. Do we know everything though?”
Idris frowned. “That gate doesn’t bode well. If Three’s vision is anything to go by the wizard’s study of this gate may have led to this unfortunate situation.”
“True,” Marko said, “But does us returning to say ‘the wizards are dead’ help anyone? Does it help our realm? I don’t think so.” He remembered Zandeyr’s dire warnings, and why the wizards in this tower had been investigating Vecna: every plane was showing signs of stress, chaos, and disorder, and the source appeared to be the Archlich. “We are hear to protect our realm. We keep going until we find the villain.”
Idris sighed. “I take your point, Mr Reville. In which case I think it may be prudent to take a breather before we proceed.”
“I agree,” Marko nodded, “But downstairs, not here.”
With some relief everyone headed down. They were met by a gleeful, blood-soaked Three.
“Brother Cooper!?” Eli said in shock.
Three ignored Eli, proffering a bloodied head in one fist and a severed hand in the other. “Our keys,” he grinned, absurdly proud.
Idris winked with a toothy grin. “Well done!”
Several of recovery hours later everyone convened in front of the gate, transported one way or the other without touching the fluid floor.
“Your honour, Three,” Marko announced, “As a thank you for doing the dirty work.”
“Not so dirty now,” Three said as he produced the body parts, which were now cleaned up and almost presentable. He grabbed the head, and presented it to the figure. Everyone tensed as the severed head vanished from Three’s hand and appeared in the gate, and that third of the ironwork started to glow with a pallid green light.
“This is going to work,” Three muttered as he pulled out the left eye recovered from Kalene, and it too was absorbed into the gate which now had two glowing segments. Only the hand remained. “Be ready,” Three warned as weapons were drawn. He offered the hand and the gate pulsed with a wave of necrotic energy as the way was opened. “The portal is opened,” Three said, looking to Mr Marko.
“Well done. Very well done.”
“We’re all with you, Brother Marko,” Eli said.
“Let’s go.”
The black gate opened into a desecrated temple. Ash blanketed the floor and broken pews lay strewn about. Along the cracked stone walls of the temple the tormented dead cried out, undead hands grasping and reaching for succour.
“I’ve decided not to walk on these walls,” Sifer announced with a shudder.
On the far side of the temple, standing at the top of a set of stairs, an open book sat on a plinth. Marko found himself compelled to move directly to the book, unable to resist its call, and deaf to the queries from his surprised companions.
Sifer watched as Marko strode away, worried this was another possession like the library. But Marko had shown himself to be strong willed, so Sifer merely followed his passage with his bow taut and ready.
“An open book on an alter?” Idris said to Uthar. “That’s not ominous at all.”
“He’s the boss, so we should follow,” Uthar said walking twenty feet behind Marko.
“We should be very careful here,” Three said, overstating the very obvious.
Marko climbed the five steps to the podium, and with each step he started to change, growing first taller, then thinner, his flesh decaying and head a skull. As he took the final step his transformation was complete: A corpse decorated in tattered purple robes and an ornate gold breastplate. Inside his chest was a gold and red book, and he was missing his left eye and left hand: Vecna!
The figure turned and looked at the frozen company with a cruel glance. A slow smile spread over his emaciated skull as he spoke in Marko’s voice which carried across the temple.
“I see you have succumbed to the temptation of my honeypot. You mortals were ever the fools, so easy to manipulate.
Curiously, there is something familiar about you. You have earned a page in my book, but only a page—your secrets will be mine before this is over.” As he spoke the book inside his chest turned a page.
“I would congratulate you on your perseverance,” he continued, “But you won’t be alive long enough to appreciate it.
Quite simply: you are far too late.
I have but one warning before I leave you to your awakening: Resist not the truths I offer. Open your mind and heart. Only then will you understand and receive the wisdom only I can provide. Embrace the darkness and spurn the light—let me show you an alternative to life.
For if not, your song will be brief indeed.
The unravelling begins…now.”
Vecna vanished, replaced by a stunned and confused Marko.
As the words faded the entire tower started to shudder and quake, collapsing in upon itself, freeing the wall zombies who swarmed over the company. Necrotic green flames exploded from the floor engulfing the chapel, Vecna’s laughter echoing as dread whispers overwhelmed every sense. The tower fell into Limbo’s embrace with the promise of eternal chaos.
Just as all seemed lost, the company was sucked into a singularity, a piercing diamond of light that appeared in the heart of the maelstrom. Nothingness was all that remained, though the thrum of magic rushed like an electric spark through pulsing veins.
The group reappeared in a nonsensically plush, candlelit parlour, panting, covered in debris and scorched from Vecna’s flames. Three figures stood ahead, looking astonished: a stately woman with platinum hair and matching robes, a tall bald man with a goatee and sharp eyes, and a woman with raven hair and a tattoo below her right eye. Their arms were raised mid-cast and powerful arcane energy swirled around them.
The Wizards Three
The man smirked and chuckled, drawing a frown from the raven haired woman. “This is no laughing matter, Mordenkainen,” she scowled, turning to the platinum-haired woman. “What is the meaning of this, Alustriel?” she demanded.
“I have no idea, Tasha,” the Alustriel said. She stared at the newcomers incredulously. “You can’t be the answer to our Wish! Who on Faerun are you and what did you do to our spell??”
Sessions played: July 17, August 19 2024
Cientia Tower Level One: Entrance
Cientia Tower Level Two: Living Quarters and Library
Cientia Tower Level Two: Botanica
Cientia Tower Level Three: Laboratory
Cientia Tower Level Four: Observatory
Cientia Tower Level Five: Chapel