The Final Session

As promised, the warm evening is full of wild music and wilder dance, with Fey wine flowing freely and both savoury and sweet treats laid out on every raised surface. Rifkin adds his voice and music to Magritte’s melodies and the Fey adjacent Arowe enjoys the wanton dancing and uninhibited ‘gifts’ of the Dryad women.

Despite his deep-rooted suspicion and rejection of the aromatic wines, Fortu still finds himself intoxicated by the charm and warmth of these strange woodland creatures. Creatures that he would have considered dangerous enemies just a month ago.

Liga Bur too enjoys the sudden change of pace and environment. Regardless of his ghostly guard; Padrik, the Halfling hadn’t slept easily in weeks, ever since he was first targeted by the nightmare Hag. Here, surrounded by enchanting pixies and nixies, he finally feels safe.

It’s Arowe though, who notices that there’re only three Dryads present, and casting around, he sees for the first time, that one of the four large oak-trees in the glade is dead and withered. He also realises that a new sapling is growing in its shade and beside that sapling is a shy little dryad girl. She appears to be about eight-years-old but Arowe knows well enough to understand the different growth rates and life expectancies of certain Fey.

The three Human mercenaries though are quieter, well aware that they’d attacked their hosts (and killed several of them) the last time they were here. One thing is certain though; all seven of them; Human, Elf and Halfling, are changed men. How could they not be? They’ve explored strange new worlds together, encountered bizarre creatures and discovered new civilisations. They’ve seen horrors and wonders beyond their imaginations and travelled to where few men have ever been before!

Love is in the Air

The octopus-armoured Fortu, eagerly (but unnecessarily) supported by two of the fawning, small but perfectly formed, amphibious Nixies, finds his footing, wades forward up the gentle slope and breaks the surface of the magical pool. Just drinking a mouthful of the enchanted water refreshes him as much as a full nights rest and he feels the aches and stresses from the previous day, wash away as if they’d never been. As the water cascades off of him, leaving him completely dry, he hears the exquisite voices of the Fey creatures singing in harmony. Looking up, he sees three of the Dryads, the smiling Satyr; Magritte and, in the centre, the beautiful ‘goddess’ herself; Estrid. They’re standing in a semi-circle, waist-deep in the water, with their hands outstretched in welcome.

Even as the Four Nixies swim up and down the underwater, hundred foot pipe, retrieving the less submersible Party members, Fortu, despite his distrust, can’t help but gaze upon Estrid. Her beauty is beyond compare, with flaming locks of auburn hair, ivory skin and, her (previously terrifying) eyes are of emerald green. Though not a man comfortable with the ‘gentler’ emotions, Fortu reflects upon the difference between the tall and athletic Estrid’s and overly curvaceous Hetzabah’s beauty; Estrid’s seems to fill his heart, whereas Hetzabah’s seemed to fill an entirely different organ, about two feet lower down.

The heavily armoured, but strangely unencumbered in the water, warrior, accepts Estrid’s proffered hand and allows her to pull him forward. She stands about the same impressive height as him in the water but her kind smile is like a breath of Spring and Fortu, for a moment, forgets why he was so angry with her.

Behind him, two of the Nxies emerge with his Halfling friend and his slobbery dog, before the small, green-skinned women dive back down to retrieve the others.

Liga Bur looks about himself suspiciously, but on seeing no signs of aggression, treads water while holding onto his soggy, doggy-paddling companion. The welcoming choral song the Fey creatures are singing is warm and genuine and even the ever-vigilant, Orc-raised Halfling feels himself lull a little.

Fortu and Liga Bur are soon joined by Arowe and Rifkin and all of them have been guided to the safety of the grassy bank before a coughing and spluttering Henshaw, Barbella and Doberman break the surface of the crystal-clear pool.

Still (mostly) wearing the same uniforms that they attacked the Fey in, the three soldiers weren’t given the magical, water-breathing Nixie kiss and are choking by the time they escape the hundred-foot deep, underwater sinkhole pipe. The four Nixies roughly pull them to the shallower water but their actions are obviously begrudging and Fortu is coldly reminded of the general ill-will felt between the Fey and Humans.

Still, when Estrid finally speaks, her voice is soft, like Summer rain.

“Welcome home my champions. We have much to discuss, but before we’re forced deal with the evil that’s to come, please rest after your arduous journey, share our food and enjoy our music, wine and… our company.”

Fortu feels a wave of confusion wash over him as he battles conflicting emotions. The goddess; Estrid seems so different this time around; kind, generous and objectively, (whatever he may think of her past actions) breathtakingly lovely.

No Choice at All

Emerging out of the vertical watery portal first, Fortu draws his massive sword and, although slightly disoriented from the mind-bending dimensional trip, looks around the Givrad void for potential trouble. He’s not eager to fight anymore of those gigantic Hooked Horrors again after nearly having his throat ripped out last time. Thankfully there’s nothing of immediate concern, other than the disorienting sky, odd gravity, pool of dried blood beneath his feet and the dark crimson trail of it leading away.

Liga Bur and Arowe emerge next, reassured by Fortu’s stalwart presence. The canny Halfling immediately confirms Fortu’s suspicion that it’s the slaughtered camel’s blood and follows the trail until it splits. One bloody trail leads back to the portal to Fissa and Estrid’s pool, the other to wherever Hetzabah has taken her son to raise his army.

Although Liga Bur has no interest in pursuing Sir Briefadel, he still notices the words, scrawled in blood on the path beneath each of the portals. The writing under the one the evil Eldrich Knight and his Mother went through reads, ‘Chase me to Hell!’ and the one leading back to Fissa reads, ‘Run back to Daddy!’.

The astonishingly tall and slender Elf; Arowe smiles. The overwhelming hate that he’d felt for Sir Briefadel has, thankfully, faded to a more rational level and he can see the goading messages for what they are. 

As soon as Rifkin and the others are safely through, they all head to the portal they all first entered the Givrad Void and prepare to swim back. The Bard hesitates for a moment, before Fortu’s about to step in.

“I hope Magritte has got those Nixies in place, otherwise some of us are going to drown at the bottom of that hundred foot, underwater pipe!”

Running his tongue around the circular scar inside his cheek, Fortu merely smiles, confident in his magical armours special ability. He knows that he’s safe from drowning while wearing the helmet and that the armour will allow him to swim upwards as if he were completely unburdened.

An In-Tents Battle - Shit’s got Ethereal!!

Scouring the desert for her prey, Hetzabah’s soulless, but faithful black, Nightmare steed, beats its powerful bat-like wings as they draw ever closer. This time it’ll be different. This time, she won’t go after the tenacious Halfling tracker. This time, she’ll target the dangerous Elven archer…

Floor by Floor, Oozing Right up to the Door

Unaware and indifferent to the fact that it’s losing ground on its prey, the brainless, gelatinous, green mass continues to advance onwards and upwards until it’s finally stymied by a barrier with with gaps too narrow to easily ooze through.
The simple but pragmatic act of reblocking the three-foot-thick, ‘Lord Urdurel’ cold-iron door, probably saved the lives of at least half the Party.

Twisted Fire Starter

The torch-sized Dijonn burns steadily on the dried out bush that Liga Bur had placed him on. The gullible, fleshy, two-legged creature and all his larger friends had disappeared down the stone well several minutes ago now and they didn’t look like they’d be returning anytime soon.

Looking around itself, the fiery elemental cackles. So much to burn! But he reminds himself that all around the oasis, for mile upon mile, is nothing but desert. Nothing but uninflammable silica… The flame creature shrinks a little at the vastness of an element so alien to itself. His ‘Master’ had also warned him that it’d be unlikely that anyone else would be coming by this way for weeks; possibly months!

Dijonn accepts that keeping his promise to Liga Bur about controlling his appetite is indeed the best course of action. Still he could consume a fair stretch of the dried up outer bushes before settling down to a slow burning ember until someone or something came to transport it to somewhere else.

…

Twenty minutes later, the entire Oasis is ablaze! The dead outer perimeter, the dry but still living brown middle section and, with some effort, the still green inner hub. Even the abandoned marquee, desiccated corpses of the zombie animals and the recently slaughtered giant insect-men are burning!

The gigantic Dijonn laughs as he roars ferociously. He’s never been bigger or burned hotter and, as he towers over the blackening oasis, he looks around him. The only things he can see are the seven galloping, wide-eyed camels, already far in the distance, within the hundreds of miles of orangey sand in every direction and everything he could burn, already alight.

…

“Fuck!”

Fire and Water

The last few days travel pass uneventfully and the Party finally get to within sight of the doubly-dead; Zephir’s oasis. It’s withered and browned a fair bit since they were first here but, considering it contains their way back home to Fissa, it’s still a very welcome sight.

Scattered prone around the outer periphery are several tall, multi-limbed bodies though. Several dead, tall, multi-limbed bodies. The corpses of about a score of the nomadic, insectoid Tri-Kreen. The skilled Liga Bur initially suspects another zombie trap but, after ‘careful’ inspection with a ten foot pole, he’s relieved to find them merely mundanely dead. Probably innocent desert travellers exploiting the free water supply here and killed needlessly and mercilessly by Sir Briefadel, his Mother and the dark horse they rode in on.

Scouting ahead and grateful to find no opposition guarding the inner oasis, Liga Bur cautiously approaches the top of the central stone well. Once there though, the fiery Dijonn on realising what’s happening, suddenly flares wildly atop his torch perch.

“Oh No, Oh No, Oh No! Please Master, don’t put me down the well! Leave me here; I can guard the oasis for you. I can easily survive on just the dead, dried out bushes and trees. I promise I won’t burn the living green stuff!”

Rifkin’s slightly-almond eyes also flair, but far more subtly as he hears Dijonn’s terrified hisses and crackles. Why hadn’t he thought about this before now? There’s no way that the flame-bodied Dijonn could survive for even a second underwater and there’s no way to protect him from it for anything more than a few moments.

Arowe immediately comes to the little elementals defence and Liga Bur has no interest in extinguishing his spluttering servant. The canny Halfling had noticed that Dijonn always shrank to his smallest, unnoticeable flame whenever Ghostly Pardrik was on guard or when the Hag had visited. The fire elemental was definitely hiding something, but what?

Still, whatever that ‘what’ is, it’s no reason to kill him. The rough Halfling had begun to question his own cynicism of late. He hadn’t trusted Fortu, Arowe or Rifkin when he’d first met them on the road to Scar Borough, and now he’d trust them with his life. He had been trusting them to protect him from the protracted attacks from the Hag and they’d not let him down. Considering his past losses, it’s hard to have faith in people but perhaps it’s time to change that mindset. Perhaps he could have faith in something bigger than himself. Something deeper. Perhaps he should choose to believe that Henshaw and Doberman weren’t secretly plotting against him… Barbella would be more of a stretch though.

After making Dijonn swear on his favourite fire gods not to burn down the entire oasis, Liga Bur frees the tiny elemental by gently transferring it from his torch to a dried out bush on the dead outskirts of deader Zephir’s oasis garden.

Immediately growing larger, as he consumes the dry and brittle bush, Dijonn smirks as he wavers the Party goodbye.

“Good luck skin-wearers!.”