Inspired by Sepulchrave II, I’m going to alter my storytelling to reflect a broader perspective, instead of the narrow focus on what the player group senses, which I have traditionally written. This necessitated allowing the story hour to slip several sessions behind current so that I could write about events without giving anything away to my players who read it. Enjoy.
**
BEFORE.
When the dragon roared, the earth obliged. Tunnel walls cracked as buttressed ceilings gave way, and huge chunks of granite and marble splintered, fragmented, and fell in upon themselves. Men died by the dozens, crushed by falling rock or suffocated by thick clouds of pulverized stone. All over the temple complex, the fighting stopped as sworn swords threw down their weapons and fled only to die in terror as the earth above their heads betrayed them. And still the dragon roared its anger, its loss, its vengeance.
Its judgement.
BAAAAAAAAAAMAAAANNNNNN-SHAAAAAAAALLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaa, roared the being in utter fury. Its cry echoed through every tunnel and hall and lingered in the ears of the dying. In a small, cloistered chamber deep within the temple’s corridors, a tall bald man with cruel eyes stood up in shock from where he’d bent. Frozen, he gaped wide-eyed as the sound reverberated in his chest and shook the walls and floor around him. Fear took him then, yet he hardly noticed the rush of warmth in his undergarment that signaled the release of his bladder.
It had said his name.
And in the saying it had rendered judgement, severe and swift, such that he knew at once what fate awaited him. Fright made him weak, and he leaned swooning against the chair of the man he’d just tortured to death. Looking up, he realized that two of his aides had fled, yet a third lay blubbering for mercy at his feet. Seeing the aide’s cowardice inspired hatred in him then – hatred for the fool below him, hatred for the unknown god who now came to punish him, but most of all, hatred at himself for becoming what he most despised, a weakling.
Snarling, Baman-shala stood straight on trembling legs and kicked the man with all his might, again and again. The cretin sobbed and tried to protect himself, but it mattered little; soon the tall man’s foot became black with blood in the dim light and the aide struggled no more. Around him, the walls of the temple cell thundered an inevitable rhythm.
Thoom. Thoom. THOOM. THOOM. THOOM. The footsteps of a god.
“Well, he will not have me,” the man said to no one in particular. “And he will not have you,” he spit at the corpse in the chair. The dead man was ancient, possessing a wrinkled bald head that hung limp, and impossibly long earlobes that drooped to his neck. His eyes stared with the glaze of death, and his small hands hung limp in his lap amid crumpled robes of blue silk stained with blood.
Unsheathing the long knife he’d used to kill the monk, Baman-shala pushed the head back and sawed maniacally through the dead man’s neck. When the head hung by no more than strand of flesh he dropped the cruel weapon, grabbed with both hands, and wrenched it off. Blood seeped from the severed neck, making his hands sticky as he grasped his prize.
Even now he mocks me, thought Baman-shala as he regarded the butchered corpse. He fled the chamber then, down halls filled with dust, debris, and the remains of his loyal tantrics. Behind him, the pace of the being had not changed; inexorably, it marched to him. It sounded impossibly large to fit through the claustrophobic tunnels of the former temple of Hanuman.
Weak with fright, he stumbled and had to retrieve the blood-slicked head from the dusty floor. A fine powder hung in the air, and he coughed and choked as he felt his way along the walls toward his destination. He felt a door then, solid and wooden, which he pushed open to reveal ruddy torchlight beyond. Passing through, he noted the dangerously lurching ceiling and collapsed pillars near the room’s far side, as well as the corpses strewn about like dead fish. In the center of the chamber he regarded the statue of Kali his followers had erected at his bidding. He screamed at it in wordless rage, and fell to his knees as he hurled the dead monk’s head at it. The severed thing thumped into the statue and fell to the marble floor with a wet smack.
As he stuttered forward on all fours to recover the head, Baman-shala froze. His bladder voided again, and his breath caught in his throat as a soul-wrenching fear rooted him to the spot.
Behind him loomed the Presence.
Without turning, he sensed its indomitable will roll over him, stealing the breath from his lungs and all thought of flight from his mind. In the torchlight, he watched the marble floor before him as a large winged form drew up from behind and dwarfed him in shadow.
“LOOK AT ME,” the Presence commanded. Its voice was the voice of old earth and tumbled rock, of mountains worn by time. Cringing, loathing himself for it, Baman-shala turned and beheld his fate.
**
“We’re going in circles,” said Nong Thuot irritably. He glanced around at the others, then raised his face to taste the rain dribbling through the canopy above.
“No, we’re not. Shut up,” said the larger of his companions, a fighter named Ngai Nan Yen. He scowled at the wily man behind him before hacking more of the undergrowth from their path with a rusted machete. Yen stood much taller than the others, with broad shoulders honed by a lifetime of wearing heavy armor. Now all he wore was a ragged shirt, wet and torn across the back where the orcs had lashed him. He shivered so hard that his teeth chattered, which only made him angrier. I’m going to die of fever in this thrice-cursed jungle, he thought darkly, and not for the first time.
Thuot glanced at the others, “Surely the Yao Ren agrees with me? Look, I have seen that tree before, by now I know it like I know my own mother!” The man jabbed a finger at a particularly average-looking tree for emphasis.
Yao Ren Xuan sighed wearily. “If we’d come this way before, we’d have seen the trail Yen left with his machete. Just focus on staying alive, Nong Thuot.” The thief had proven his usefulness with locks and traps early on the expedition, and his sense of hearing was without parallel, but their ordeal had changed him. Now it was all Xuan could do not to strike him, if only to silence him.
“It’s that damn dang-ki’s* fault, it is,” continued the thief heedlessly, “if he hadn’t wasted himself on needless heroics we’d be somewhere warm by now, perhaps even Te Han. I have many friends in Ten Han, friends with food and fiery hearths and…”
“Will you SHUT UP?” thundered Nan Yen. Before he’d realized it, he’d whirled on Thuot, machete poised to strike. Cowed, the smaller man scurried away out of reach. Overhead, birds rustled and cawed in the trees, startled by the fighter’s outburst.
“The orcs still hunt us,” Xuan warned as he interposed himself between his partners, “And we have a long way to go before Phau Dong valley. Let’s not fight amongst ourselves. We have to protect the lady.”
The fighter paused, then grudgingly lowered his weapon, “Alright. Just shut him up please.” He glanced at the bedraggled woman who was their charge. She stood next to the sorcerer dumbly, staring not at the jungle but at the memory of the terrors she’d endured in the orc camp. Yen felt a twinge of sorrow for her; when they’d arrived – a lifetime ago, it seemed - she’d been a charming and animated young lady. Now she stood mute, a husk of her former self. Resolving again to see her safely back to civilization, fever be damned, he turned back to his task.
“What’s that?” cried the thief. He knelt and froze.
“What?” replied Xuan uneasily. But the other man hushed him with a wave of his hand, a familiar gesture from more lucid days. Behind Thuot, Nan Yen fell into a combat stance. Xuan felt the hairs on the back of his neck creep up, and he slowly turned in the direction the thief had cocked his head.
Drawing his dirk as he silently rose, Nong Thuot pointed into the trees. “There,” he whispered. Xuan turned to where he indicated and saw nothing at first. As he peered into the dark canopy however, a subtle form became clear. Sitting in the bole of a large banyan tree was a silver-and-black langur regarding them intently.
“Bah, it’s only a monkey,” exclaimed the fighter.
**
The gigantic snake lunged at Lei with serpentine precision. Along its distended hood, serrated shards of bone flexed as the creature danced its way past the mercenary, cutting a long gash in his torso as it went. Lei screamed as all twenty feet of the enormous reptile disappeared into the quivering brush to his left before he could even raise his sword. The snake possessed supernatural swiftness.
Large thickets of overgrown bamboo crowded close on both sides of the path within the hidden garden, making combat difficult. Lei cursed as he bled and readied to attack the next time the serpent engaged him. Woo and Vinh did the same, trying to position themselves to catch the creature’s next sally. Looking over his shoulder, Tam witnessed Mai fleeing back the way they’d come. He called after her to no avail.
The frightened rogue passed Hien as he moved forward to aid Lei. Before he could approach, however, the monstrous snake darted out again, turning the adventurers’ blows against its tough hide as it struck once again at Lei. The creature’s scales were glossy black, and its underbelly rippled blue and gray. Red eyes peered from above six-inch fangs, and its hood spread out fully four feet across, presenting a red diamond pattern within. Hissing, it sliced the mercenary a deep gash across his thigh before coiling its body around him and constricting. Howling in agony, Lei dropped his scimitar as the creature lifted him off his feet.
Darting in, Woo and Vinh harried the creature’s flanks as best they could, and the no-sheng drove his kama-do deep into the reptile’s body. But the snake did not drop Lei, and Hien could not reach him to heal his wounds. As Lei struggled to break the creature’s grasp on him, the serpent sunk its fangs deep into his chest and constricted again. This time the crunch and grind of bone was audible, and Lei fell limp in its grip. The snake dropped him and turned on Woo.
The monk ducked low and spun his jiann, finding the flesh beneath the scales. As the monster reeled, Vinh raised his weapon high and brought it down with such force across its tail that he nearly severed its spine in a single blow. As the monster staggered and tried to flee Hien leapt high and swung his magic staff like a club, taking the serpent in the throat. With a final sigh-hiss, it fell heavily to the earth and lay still.
Quickly Hien called the spirits’ healing down upon Lei’s dying form, bringing him back to the world of the living.
“Th…thank you,” stammered the mercenary weakly.
“Of course. Why did Mai flee?” asked Hien as he helped Lei to his feet.
Picking up his staff, Woo shrugged, “Because she was scared, I guess. Let’s go find her.”
They discovered the rogue huddled in a corner of the vaulted hall they had come through. The chamber was three-walled, with the fourth open to the garden. The hall had once been a place of meditation, positioned as it was to catch the rising sun. Now, of course, it lay unused.
“Mai? Are you okay?” ventured Vinh as they approached her.
“I can’t take this anymore!” she wailed. “This place is horrible! I want to go home!”
The men glanced at each other uneasily. Blunt as ever, Woo said, “You know that’s not possible, Mai. Not until we find this Monkey Woman and end her curse.”
“I don’t care anymore!” she cried.
Vinh approached her and knelt. Softly, he said, “I know that’s not true, Mai. You’re a strong person. Don’t let your fear of this place prevent you from helping the children of Kim Phe. When you are frightened, think of them.”
The rogue snuffled and got to her feet.
“I thought we were leaving,” said Lei. “I could use some time to train. This place isn’t going anywhere.”
“We could, I suppose,” said Hien, “but let’s stay a little longer. I sense we’re on the verge of discovering something significant.”
“That does not comfort me,” said Woo.
**
*In my campaign, a dang-ki is a skilled woodsman and tracker, an animist who venerates the spirits of his ancestors and the wild, and loathes those that defile the sanctity of nature. In short, a ranger.
