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JollyDoc's Age of Worms (Updated 11/30, Epilogue!)
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<blockquote data-quote="gfunk" data-source="post: 2813755" data-attributes="member: 1813"><p>EVERYONE WHO’S ANYONE</p><p></p><p>At dawn on the seventh day of the League’s visit to Starmantle, the members were wakened by a tremendous din. Trumpets sounded across the city, every drum, horn and bell in every place of worship called out to announce that the Day of Great Rejoicing had arrived. The streets thronged with happy, smiling faces, the locals cheered and rejoiced, babies were held aloft and patriotic songs about the divine mercy of Embuirhan were sung at every corner. </p><p></p><p>As the day wore on, the group made their preparations for the evening’s festivities. Hawk and Havok both donned noble raiment, with their armor worn beneath. Hawk even deigned to leave his ancestral weapon in one of the vaults in the Deluxury, but his shield he tucked inside a magical glove he had purchased for just that purpose. As for Havok, he was not altogether unarmed either. The warlock had managed to procure a small, flesh-colored pouch that molded itself perfectly to the skin of his abdomen. Inside, he secreted several of his more useful wands and scrolls. Storm, still using her dweomered headpiece to appear as a beautiful elf maid, purchased a glamorous dress cut to flatter her own natural assets.</p><p></p><p>For his part, Faust didn’t bother dressing up. Despite his four-hundred plus years in existence, he still did not understand mortal propensities for outward accoutrements. He simply put on his usual non-descript clothing, and the various magical baubles he wore as jewelry. At the other extreme was Pavel. The dwarf polished his armor as best he could, and then purchased a royal ensemble, complete with a flowing, ermine-trimmed purple robe and a gold circlet. This contrasted with his personal hygiene, which amounted to picking most of the food out of his beard, and slicking his hair down with bacon grease. Reluctantly, he stowed his axes in a locked trunk. </p><p></p><p>Grubber spent the day working with Furtopia, practically until the time the royal carriage was to pick him up for the gala. The pair had discovered that much of the disease being spread among the shanties was the result of both rat and mosquito vectors. The priest was determined to come up with a solution. He too did not bother with finery, instead donning his armor and his simple holy symbol, though he also left his weapon at the Ogre’s Hideout.</p><p></p><p>Two hours before sunset, the carriage, almost shocking in its decadence, arrived at the Ogre’s Hideout. The vehicle was gold-plated, and of incredible size. Its interior was sumptuous, with leather seats padded with down and gold lanterns burning pleasantly-scented oil. A tray contained several crystal decanters of wine and silver salvers of sweet-meats. It was pulled by four trolls, each dressed in ill-fitting suits designed to call out their hideous countenances all the more. The carriage was driven by a lanky, wide-mouthed man with black robes and a tall, black top hat. A sizeable crowd of hobgoblins gathered outside the inn as Faust, Grubber and Pavel boarded.</p><p>“See ya around, losers!” Pavel jeered at the goblinoids, though he noticed a second coach arriving behind theirs, with B’kruss and V’juss getting inside. The hobgoblin captain shot a look of pure hatred at the dwarf. Pavel saluted him in kind with a gesture that would make even a dwarven miner blush. From the Ogre’s Hideout, the carriage traveled to the Deluxury to pick up Havok and his party, and then on to the palace. </p><p></p><p>The red stone wall that surrounded Embuirhan’s palace supported dozens of statues…all which were of the Prince. The grounds featured many gardens set with beautiful orchids, monkey-puzzle trees and small waterfalls and ponds. The palace itself was a fanciful hodgepodge of various styles, with a large central core. Beyond the gates, the carriage followed a steep, rising path, flanked by polished skeletons in gibbets. The path wound up the rocky promontory to the main hall, where the guests were asked to decoach, and then led to a verdant terrace overlooking a two-hundred foot drop to the Dragon Reach. </p><p></p><p>A dozen or more guests were already present on the lawn, milling about in small groups and talking quietly. It was Giovanni that first noticed the one glaring difference between the other invitees and themselves…each bore an expensively wrapped gift!</p><p>“Did Loratio say anything to you about gifts?” the warlock asked Hawk.</p><p>“Not a word, but perhaps he expected we would know the proper protocol.”</p><p>“So what do we do?” Faust asked. “I would hate to start off the evening by offending our host.”</p><p>“The ledger,” Giovanni replied, looking thoughtful.</p><p>“What??” Faust looked stunned. “Are you serious? Why would you want to turn that over to him?”</p><p>The ledger which the warlock spoke of had been among a small cache of valuables they had discovered in the lair of the Ebon Aspect. At first it had seemed to be simply an outdated list of goods stored by the cell. However, upon further examination, Giovanni had discovered a secret page, concealed by magic. On it had been written an exhaustive list of every member of the Ebon Triad in Faerun, including their numerous allies, and the locations in which these individuals lived. It contained some familiar names: Theldrick, Prendergast, The Faceless One, and Ilthane. Its value was immeasurable.</p><p>“We know of the Prince’s hatred of the Ebon Triad,” Giovanni replied. “Don’t you think he would be extraordinarily pleased to have a list of his enemies at his fingertips? Besides, you already committed the list to memory.”</p><p>“I’m not sure about this,” the psion said doubtfully. “We can’t be positive that Embuirhan is not secretly an agent of the Triad.”</p><p>“If that’s true,” Giovanni countered, “then this might be all we need to flush him out into the open. We win either way.”</p><p>The others could not deny the logic of Giovanni’s argument, and it was agreed that they would present the ledger as their gift.</p><p></p><p>It was after this that the group began to take full notice of the other attendees. A few quiet questions of the circulating waiters gained them the names of all the guests. B’kruss and V’juss they already knew. The hobgoblins were speaking quietly with a rather handsome half-orc whom they were told was Mariss Quemp, a one-time mercenary leader-turned aristocrat. B’kruss cast several pointed looks in the direction of the League, and Quemp nodded with interest. </p><p>An almost impossibly fat dwarf, with a rosy red nose and piggy eyes, stood near the appetizer table. He was called Hoff, and was captain of a rather notorious group of pirates and brigands.</p><p>Two human men sipped wine and laughed good-naturedly. One was iron-haired, and weather-beaten, with a hook instead of a right hand. This was Lord Malaven Kiraven, a captain of Starmantle’s border patrol. The other was dark-skinned with a small goatee. He was Captain Vulras, the commander of a squad of rangers who patrolled the southern wilderness for orcs and other raiders. </p><p>An exotic and mysterious woman sat alone near the edge of the terrace. She appeared to be in her late fifties with a thin face that had aged well. She wore her shocking red hair in braids woven around an elaborate headdress. Her clothes were rich and royal, and she wore and excessive amount of jewelry. Giovanni was interested to learn that she was, in fact, Merchantmaster Mahuudril, leader of the Red Blades Merchant Consortium. </p><p>A rather strange looking duo stood out and apart from the other groups. The first was a wide-faced man in his late fifties. He had rosy cheeks and a pair of wire spectacles, and he was dressed in a clashing riot of flamboyant clothing and a strange, pointed hat. His companion was a quaggoth, though far from the animalistic barbarian typical of his kind. He wore gentleman’s garb and possessed a cultured demeanor. Grubber recognized him instantly. He was none-other than Shag Solomon, once a member of the side-show at Daggerford’s Emporium. How odd to find him here, of all places. The human was named Professor Montague Marat, a man the waiter said had provided Embuirhan with all of his palace staff. </p><p>A halfling woman, slightly overweight and a little nervous looking sat chatting with a male gnome, who was extraordinarily long-nosed with a magnificent handlebar moustache. These were Miszen Mitchwillow, a well-respected merchant, and Toris, a visiting noble from one of the other city-states along the Dragon Coast.</p><p>The waiter was just about to point out the final two party-guests, when Faust stopped him.</p><p>“Don’t bother,” the psion said. “I believe we’ve already been introduced.”</p><p></p><p>Immediately, Giovanni’s armor began shouting inside his head. “He’s undead master! Beware!” The warlock looked in the direction Faust was already walking towards, and found himself so stunned he had to remind himself to breathe. The man clothed in rather outdated noble garb was Moreto, the true ghoul Faust had released from Icosiol’s tomb. He turned as the élan approached, and a quizzical look appeared on his face. This turned to surprise as he looked past Faust towards his companions.</p><p>“Well, well,” the ghoul laughed, “I should have known my little diversion wouldn’t hold you lot for very long! See here,” he elbowed his companion, “these are the ones I was telling you about!”</p><p>The pale human next to him, dressed completely in black, turned around. This time it was Grubber who gasped. </p><p>“You!” the goliath shouted, taking several involuntary steps forward.</p><p>Slowly, a smile spread over the gaunt man’s face. “It’s been a long time,” he said in a mournful voice. “I never thought to see you again, least of all in these surroundings. But tell me, where are your friends? I do not recognize your current traveling companions.”</p><p>“While I recognize yours, Filge!” Grubber spat. “I see you have not mended your ways, as you promised!”</p><p>The necromancer laughed, “I am hardly the person you remember. My grave-robbing days are long past.” It was at this point that Grubber noticed the symbol hanging from a silver chain around Filge’s neck…the mark of the Liche-lord Velsharoon! </p><p>“Perhaps you do not recognize me,” Faust said to Moreto. “When last we met I seemed no more than a dragonet familiar.”</p><p>“It was you…” Moreto said in astonishment.</p><p>“Yes,” Faust nodded, “but you need not worry about repercussions from the inquisitor whom I traveled with. He recently met an untimely end at the hands of an Ebon Triad abomination.”</p><p>“Ah,” Moreto smiled. “More’s the pity.”</p><p>“Alas, I cannot say the same for him,” Faust hooked a finger at Hawk, who had approached the group. </p><p>“Well, I owe you all my gratitude for my freedom,” the ghoul said amiably.</p><p>“And I as well,” Filge said, “at least to the goliath.” </p><p>“What strange coincidence brings you here?” Faust asked quickly before any hasty actions could be taken by his comrades.</p><p>“After I left you,” Moreto replied, “I made my way to Waterdeep. There I met my dear Mr. Filge. As it turns out, he and I have similar research interests. Our pursuit of our studies has led us here to Starmantle.”</p><p>At that moment, Giovanni began reciting the opening verses from the Apostolic Scrolls. When he’d finished he asked, “Would your interests have anything to do with that? If so, then we have something in common.”</p><p>Moreto smiled coldly, his pointed teeth dimpling his lower lip. “Our interests may be the same, but I am certain that our goals are not.”</p><p>Hawk and Grubber automatically reached for weapons they were not carrying, but Faust quickly stepped between them. “Our paths will cross again.”</p><p>“I’m counting on it,” Moreto said quietly.</p><p></p><p>At that moment, trumpets sounded from the entrance to the palace. As one, the guests turned. There in the doorway stood a handsome man in his early forties. He wore his hair loose and just off his shoulders, and he was dressed at the cutting edge of style. On his left stood a sinister little man who was only two-and-a-half feet high. He clutched a mummified raven to his chest and looked around nervously. He wore crimson leather and a strange three-pointed, but floppy hat wrapped in black and white ribbons and studded with gems. To the Prince’s right was a woman who was a strange combination of the beautiful and the grotesque. Her piercing blue eyes matched those of Embuirhan, but her face was misaligned, with the right half about half an inch above the left, giving her nose an ugly twist and her mouth a perpetual upturned sneer. Her back was hunched, with a fine cloak attempting unsuccessfully to conceal it. </p><p>“My lords, ladies and other honored guests!” the little man cried. “I am the Ominous Fabler. Prince Embuirhan bids you welcome, and I trust you will enjoy the hospitality of his humble home!” He looked around, leered at some of the guests, then flapped his free arm and lifted the mummified raven up on his shoulder. Using the dead bird as a ventriloquist’s dummy, he chirped out in a raspy voice, “You may now present your gifts to honor the Prince!” He then stepped back, giggling quietly as the attendees reached into folds in their cloaks and pockets.</p><p></p><p>One by one each guest came forward to bow before Embuirhan and present their offering, ranging from jewelry to bottles or rare wine, to exotic caged animals. In the case of Mahuudril, it was a horse that flew onto the lawn on smoking hooves, with fiery eyes and flames blowing from its nostrils. Last came the League, led by Giovanni.</p><p>“My Lord Prince,” the warlock said, bowing low, “allow me to introduce Impotent Rage, champions of the Games of Waterdeep! During our brief stay in your city, we recently uncovered a previously undiscovered lair of the hated Ebon Triad, and there we came upon a fabulous prize!” He produced the ledger, placing it in Embuirhan’s hands. The Prince scanned the pages with curiosity until he came to the list. Then his eyes went wide, and he snapped his gaze up to Giovanni. </p><p>“Can you prove the veracity of this?” he demanded.</p><p>“We can tell you exactly where the cell is located,” Giovanni replied, “as well as the lair of the black dragon Ilthane, who, as you can see, aided the cult in Starmantle.”</p><p>“I will indeed verify this,” Embuirhan nodded, “and if your story is true, then this is indeed a priceless gift. I am well pleased!”</p><p>The other guests politely applauded, but the looks on many faces revealed anything but well wishes.</p><p></p><p>The Prince then proceeded across the lawn, and behind him came a strange menagerie of freaks who acted as palace servants. There were fat ladies, pin heads, men without legs, women without eyes, and all manner of deformity on display. Grubber recognized all of them as former side-show attractions from Daggerford’s Emporium. He, Giovanni and Storm also noted something else. Each of them had the ability to see creatures cloaked by invisibility, and so it was that they saw the quartet of Blessed Angels that silently flanked Embuirhan.</p><p></p><p>Immediately after the gift-giving, servants appeared with padded chairs for each guest. The fool then stepped forward and winded a strange horn. “My masters! We beg you to enjoy our little tale…’tis a small thing I penned myself. A tale of menace, revenge, lust and death which I have called ‘The Harlequinade Mortificatio.’” The fool moved back, and as he did so, the servants arranged a small stage with a backdrop of a town street at night. A wooden moon wafted over the scene, and suddenly a host of animated skeletons dressed as clowns marched on stage. </p><p>‘Master, they’re undead too!’ Giovanni’s armor spoke into his mind. ‘You needn’t point out the incredibly obvious,’ the warlock snapped. ‘The merely obvious will do.’</p><p></p><p>The play was performed in silence, apart from some guests applauding as the skeletal clowns performed particularly ridiculous stunts, such as drinking wine. It soon became obvious that the entire plot recounted how each of the skeletons was acting out its own death, always by suspicious circumstances that were not quite accidents. Throughout the play, which lasted the better part of an hour, servants fluttered about with wine and trays of lightly roasted almond biscuits of exquisite taste. Hawk barely concealed his utter disgust at the whole affair. That the Prince and his toadies were completely debauched was without question. The civilar felt soiled just sitting among them. At the play’s end, the curious actors bowed and everyone (except Hawk) applauded. The Ominous Fabler appeared again, this time dressed as a scarecrow on stilts and with a hare’s skull where his head should have been. He led the guests across the grounds to the next event, singing a song about boiling sparrows as he went.</p><p></p><p>Eventually the guests arrived at the charmingly named Balcony of Expectorance, a wide deck jutting from the cliffside about twenty feet down from the palace. It was sheltered from the wind and the view of the Dragon Reach coastline was even more magnificent than that from the Vertiginous Terrace. </p><p></p><p>The fool trundled up onto the balcony railing, somehow managing to balance there on stilts as he addressed the party-goers. “And now, welcome to the Balcony of Expectorance, my friends, and the Handsome Slaughter of Curious Avians!” Two deformed servants marched out, carrying between them a large rack of repeating crossbows. Another group of servants wheeled out a number of cages filled with brightly colored red birds…corollaxes. “Please select your weapon,” the Fabler continued, “and make ready to…” Prince Embuirhan cut him off with a dismissive slap as he stepped forward. The fool teetered, but managed to catch his balance and clambered down from the ledge as the Prince selected a magnificent looking crossbow and said, “I’m feeling particularly lucky today. If anyone can bring down more than me, I’ll give the lucky soul a thousand gold coins.” </p><p></p><p>As the Prince readied his weapon, the Fabler released ten of the birds, which immediately scattered and began flashing sprays of color as they wheeled in the air. With uncanny accuracy, Embuirhan brought down three of the birds which his first volley, reloaded, and then took down three more.</p><p>“Six!” he cried jubilantly. “Now, who’s next for the challenge?”</p><p>One by one the other guests took their turns, several of them killing a few corollaxes, but none coming close to the Prince’s total. When the League’s turn arrived, Pavel shot first, but the surly dwarf only managed to slay one bird. It was obvious he was more comfortable with an axe in his hands than a crossbow. B’kruss sneered at him as he stepped away from the balcony, to which the dwarf replied with several loud oinks and squeals. B’kruss’ eyes narrowed dangerously.</p><p>Faust also hit one corollaxe, but failed to kill it. Storm had better luck, slaying two. Giovanni also killed two, and then wounded a third. When that one refused to fall, the warlock cursed, “Damn bird!” and reflexively fired off a thin beam of eldritch energy, which also missed.</p><p>“Not fair,” the Prince said in a chiding voice, but smiled nonetheless. Grubber refused to attempt the sport, earning him a scowl from Embuirhan, leaving Hawk to go last. The civilar put on an amazing display, practically blowing four birds apart with his powerful shots. Alas, it was not enough.</p><p>“Well done!” Embuirhan applauded. “Perhaps another sport will be better suited to you!”</p><p></p><p>Throughout the shoot, the servants passed roasted corollaxe glazed in honey and mulled spice wine amongst the guests. Again, Grubber abstained. After the slaughter, the Fabler led the party back into the house, through a maze of doors and halls, and eventually down into the extensive basements. He did so by walking on his hands the entire trip, finally leading the group into one of the Prince’s underground miniature arenas. The guests were directed to sit on the curved benches surrounding the sunken fighting pit (which contained two four-foot square bird cages swathed in dark silks) while the Fabler explained the nature of the event. The misshapen gnome retrieved a small oak box from a locked chest and opened it, withdrawing a pair of silver rings. </p><p>“And now, we come to some lively sports and baiting, my friends! These rings are ensorcelled with magic such that those who wear them can direct the actions and movements of one who has been…specially prepared as a receiver.” He hobbled over to the Prince and handed one of the rings to him.</p><p>“The Prince would like to challenge one of you to an honest fight, utilizing what lives at the other end of these rings as proxies. Are there any of you brave enough to meet the Prince’s champion on the field of battle?”</p><p>None of the other guests immediately rose to the occasion, so it was Giovanni who first raised his hand to volunteer.</p><p></p><p>The warlock placed the ring on his finger, and was immediately overwhelmed with a disorienting sensation of seeing, feeling, and hearing through the body of some creature mentally linked through it. Just then, the Fabler pulled a silk cord, releasing a dozen yowling, hissing feral cats into the arena. The frightened animals immediately began racing around in circles, fighting among themselves. The Fabler then raised his voice over the cacophony. “If you can create more ornaments than the prince, and if you can survive his champion’s wrath, you’ll win a most fabulous prize indeed.” With that, he pulled a second cord, and the cages in the pit below opened, revealing two cockatrices…strange, rooster-like creatures with the power to turn other living things to stone with their touch. </p><p></p><p>Immediately, Giovanni saw the Prince raise his hand, and one of the cockatrices darted towards a nearby cat, pecking at it with its vicious beak. Instantly, the cat went rigid, petrified into a very life-like stone statue. Giovanni now grasped the nature of the game, and commanded his own cockatrice into action. During the fight, dishes of eggs were served…boiled ones of unusual size, eggs scrambled with fine meats, and even a strange cocktail of egg mixed with rum. In the end, Giovanni managed to turn five cats to stone, while Embuirhan only took four. The remaining three were killed outright. Then, the Prince launched his cockatrice at Giovanni’s and a furious struggle ensued. The creatures were immune to their own petrifying touch, but not to their sharp beaks. Blood flew as the little monsters ripped and tore at each other, but finally it was Embuirhan’s champion that still stood, Giovanni’s challenger’s throat gripped in its maw. </p><p>“Another valiant effort,” the Prince said good-naturedly. “Better luck next time.”</p><p></p><p></p><p>The Fabler led the guests back upstairs and out into a long, narrow garden on the north side of the palace. By this time, twilight had fallen, and the garden had been lit by numerous differently-colored flames inside skulls hanging from delicate silver and golden chains. A mound of differently colored human skulls had been arranged at one end of the garden. As the group filed out onto the lawn, Faust spoke softly to B’kruss.</p><p>“I just wanted to thank you again, my friend, for giving Pavel the opportunity to best you in that little contest. It’s simply done wonders for his self-esteem!”</p><p>“Enough!” the hobgoblin roared, whirling around in a rage. “My Lord Prince!” he bellowed. “This dwarf has insulted my honor again, and again! I demand satisfaction!”</p><p>Embuirhan looked around with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. </p><p>“What is it you request?” he asked.</p><p>“A duel!” B’kruss shouted.</p><p>“You have been challenged master dwarf,” the Prince said, turning to Pavel. “How do you reply?”</p><p>“Bring it on!” Pavel growled.</p><p>“Very well,” the Prince said. “The challenge has been made and accepted. As the challenged, Master Pavel has the right to name the nature of the duel.”</p><p>“Dwarven axes,” Pavel said softly, without the slightest hesitation.</p><p></p><p>Two servants quickly brought out silk-lined boxes with a gleaming axe in each, taking one to each of the duelers.</p><p>“I hope their ain’t no hard feelin’s for me pinnin’ that whore of a wife of yers!” Pavel grinned. B’kruss roared, leaping forward with his axe. The hobgoblin hooked the head of the axe beneath the haft of Pavel’s, and attempted to wrench the dwarf’s weapon from his hands. Pavel twisted his own weapon, ripping B’kruss’ axe free instead, and dropping it to the ground at his feet. Still smiling, Pavel reached down and picked the weapon up, dodging a clumsy punch from the hobgoblin as he did so. Now Pavel stood before the unarmed mercenary, an axe gripped in each hand. B’kruss lunged, seizing the dwarf in a bear-hug, and almost lifting him from his feet. Pavel grunted and flexed his arms mightily, tearing loose B’kruss’ grip. As the hobgoblin staggered back, Pavel swung both axes, opening up ragged cuts in B’kruss’ leg and shoulder. B’kruss lunged again, once more grappling with the dwarf, but Pavel was too strong, and too angry to be held for long. Breaking the hobgoblin’s grip once more, he struck four more times, leaving small streams of blood pouring from multiple deep wounds. B’kruss staggered back, pulling a flask from his belt and upending it. Several of his wounds began to heal, but before they could mend completely, Pavel was upon him again, slashing like a dervish. In desperation, B’kruss attempted to tackle Pavel one last time, but the dwarf was having none of it, spinning around and swinging low, he took the hobgoblin’s legs out from under him. B’kruss crashed to the ground, unconscious and barely breathing. The other guests, who had been cheering throughout the battle, now went deathly silent. Pavel gripped B’kruss’ hair, lifting his head from the ground, and then looked questioningly at Embuirhan. Slowly and deliberately, the Prince stuck out his hand, curling all his fingers into a fist save for is thumb, which he pointed down. Pavel nodded and decapitated B’kruss.</p><p>“To the victor goes the spoils,” Embuirhan said, turning away from the gory spectacle and walking towards the pile of skulls. V’juss stared dumbfounded, and horror-struck at what had occurred, before he too turned away. Giovanni and Faust nodded in congratulations to the dwarf, but Hawk, Grubber and Storm looked stricken, and said nothing.</p><p></p><p>“And now my beautiful friends,” the Fabler’s voice interrupted the tableau, drawing everyone’s attention to him, “we come to the final game of the evening. I present to my wonderful Prince an unfortunate criminal named Jack.” He handed the Prince a human skull that had been painted black. “And to the rest of you, I present these delicate treasures!” The Fabler indicated the stack of differently colored skulls. “The prince shall throw Jack to the far end of the garden, and the rest of you shall toss a chap of your own. The thrower who comes closest to Jack shall be declared the winner!”</p><p></p><p>The Prince made his throw, Jack’s skull landing about fifty feet away. One-by-one each guest made their own throw…all save Hawk. The civilar had retreated to the opposite end of the garden, lost in his thoughts. Ultimately, it was the gnome Toris who won the match, earning himself a necklace with a small silver skull with ruby eyes. Throughout the sport, the servants passed around gingerbread men without heads. As the game ended, the sun sank below the horizon.</p><p></p><p>The peal of an unseen gong sounded the call for dinner. The Fabler led the guests back into the palace, and then to the Great Banqueting Hall. A massive, cylindrical chamber rose through the heart of the palace. A tremendous round table of polished mahogany dominated the room, the walls of which were decked with portraits and landscapes of great quality. A large number of these featured Embuirhan himself, although the enigmatic Lashonna, a silver-haired, pale, remarkably beautiful woman, dominated one prominently placed portrait near Embuirhan’s place at the table. A vast stained glass dome depicting what appeared to be angels at play (but on closer inspection show the ‘angels’ to be erinyes devils, whose ‘play’ was something one would not normally associate with angels) arched gracefully above, its perimeter decorated by a ring of severed heads mounted on iron spikes some twenty feet above the polished marble floor.</p><p></p><p>The guests were seated, with Hawk and Giovanni on either side of the Prince. Pavel was placed between Hoff and V’juss, ironically, while Storm sat between Giovanni and Mariss Quemp. Grubber sat between Shag Solomon and Professor Montague, and Faust was between Filge and Moreto. One seat, directly opposite Embuirhan, was left empty. As Pavel took his seat, he nodded to the fat dwarf seated to his right.</p><p>“Humph!” the dwarf snorted.</p><p>“’Zat so?” Pavel asked, a tone of warning in his voice. “You got a problem, bub? You saw what happened to the last guy who got uppity with me.”</p><p>“You don’t seem like any gold dwarf I’ve ever met,” Hoff said with disdain.</p><p>“I ain’t,” Pavel said. “Fact is, I plan on guttin’ every one’o my clansmen first chance I get. What about you? What’s yer story?”</p><p>“I’m captain of the One Armed Bandits mercenary company,” Hoff replied stiffly.</p><p>“Oh yeah?” said Pavel. “I’m a merc myself…freelance stuff mostly.”</p><p>“You’re common is what you are,” Hoff sneered, “and obviously out of your depth here.”</p><p>Pavel scowled in silence. Much as he would like, two duels in one night might be pushing it.</p><p></p><p>Mariss Quemp positively beamed at Storm when she sat next to him, though his eyes were obviously looking somewhat south of her face.</p><p>“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced my lady,” he said standing and kissing her hand.</p><p>“I’m Aurora,” the sorceress replied coolly.</p><p>“And I am Lord Quemp…but you may call me Mariss. All of my closest friends do.”</p><p>“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Quemp,” Storm retorted, a tad sharply.</p><p>Quemp’s smile faltered for a moment, but was quickly replaced. “Surely you must be a noble yourself,” he said. “What House do you hail from?”</p><p>“House Vito,” she said, nodding towards Giovanni, “and he is my master.” Quemp snapped a look at the warlock, and then slowly released Storm’s hand. </p><p>“I see,” he said coldly, then sat and turned his back to her, giving his attention to Mahuudril instead.</p><p></p><p>“Solomon tells me you’re from Daggerford?” Professor Montague asked as Grubber sat down.</p><p>“Not originally,” the goliath rumbled, “but I called it home for a time.”</p><p>“Me too, me too!” The old man laughed. “You’re familiar with the Emporium? Well, it was I who established it before selling out to Zalamandra. When I had heard about its near destruction by a dragon recently, I made it a point to invite the performers and staff here to Starmantle. The Prince has taken quite a shine to them.”</p><p>“I see,” Grubber said flatly. “That was very…thoughtful of you.” Apparently, Shag Solomon did not agree. The quaggoth had a very sour look on his furred face as he puffed on his pipe.</p><p>“Quite!” Montague said. “I would love to speak more with you about the old days. Perhaps you would agree to be my guest at the Deluxury for the week?”</p><p>“I…” Grubber stammered, at a loss for words.</p><p>“Excellent!” Montague said, shaking his hand vigorously. “It’s settled then!”</p><p></p><p>At that moment, Embuirhan abruptly stood, and all of the guests followed suit. A dazzling beautiful elven woman entered the hall. Her skin was like pale alabaster, and her long silver hair was set back with a tiara of black diamonds. Everyone in the room could feel her gaze settle upon each of them in turn. </p><p>“Lashonna,” Embuirhan said smiling, “welcome!” Lashonna nodded, but said nothing, sliding gracefully into the empty seat. As one, the rest of the party resumed their seats.</p><p>‘Master!’ It was Giovanni’s armor again. </p><p>‘What is it now?’ the warlock asked irritably, sure that the coat was going to warn him about the severed heads on their pikes, which he already noticed moved their eyes, watching those below them.</p><p>‘The woman…’ the armor replied, and Giovanni instinctively knew it meant Lashonna. “She’s not alive!’</p><p></p><p>Embuirhan remained standing, and silence fell upon the banquet hall.</p><p>“My dear friends,” he began, and as he did, the decapitated heads above echoed the word ‘friends’ in a ghoulish tone. “I bid you enjoy this feast, eat and drink your fill in my humble abode.”</p><p>“Humble!” said the heads. The Prince clapped his hands once. An instant later, the great doors to the kitchen swung open and a trio of manticores entered to the sonorous hoorahs of the heads. Yet these were no wild monsters…the fire was gone from their eyes, and their wings had been cruelly severed. Even the once ferocious barbs of their long tails had been surgically removed. Each manticore carried great platters on its back, and a host of distorted servants trailed behind them, eager to begin serving food. Each guest was given a small covered silver goblet. Once all had been served, the Fabler stood.</p><p>“One of the founders of Starmantle was a desperate pilgrim,” he intoned, “who washed up on the harbor shore. He had not eaten for many weeks, and he fell upon the moors to die. As he did he saw a worm emerge from the ground, and he realized the worm was a gift from the gods that he should live…and so he devoured it. Along the Dragon Coast it has always been the tradition to start a feast with such a celebration of thanks!”</p><p>The servants then removed the lids from the goblets, revealing in each a fat, writhing, greasy worm, its glistening flesh a nasty shade of green. Pavel immediately picked up the worm between two fingers and sniffed it curiously. He shrugged, and then popped it in his mouth, chewing noisily. Faust recognized the worm as just a harmless green scrubgrub, and he too consumed it quickly. One by one, the other guests followed suit…all except Grubber. Hawk noticed the dark look the Prince shot the goliath, and when Embuirhan leaned over to whisper in the ear of one of the servants, the civilar knew it didn’t bode well.</p><p></p><p>For the second course, a single manticore entered the hall. It carried an enormous pie on a silver dish of great size strapped to its back. Pastry beaks of birds covered the pie, and as everyone looked on, the crust was opened and twenty-four black birds emerged, and flew around the room in terror. The guest partook of the pie with a bit more enthusiasm than the appetizer, finding the crust made of sugar and almonds, and tasting surprisingly good. Servants then brought in huge tureens of vegetables, along with plentiful supplies of a locally produced spiced white wine called Dragon Coast Resinwint, which was particularly potent. </p><p>Once again, Grubber did not eat nor drink. Embuirhan’s gaze grew even darker. Faust and Pavel fumbled with the dozen utensils arrayed by their plates, using them at random, earning them irritated glances from the Prince as well. Hawk cleared his throat, trying, and failing to attract their attention, as he picked up the proper fork for the dish. Giovanni and Storm were quicker on the uptake and mimicked his every move.</p><p></p><p>The Fabler announced the third course as a concoction of the Prince’s own…delectable tojbasarrirge for all! This turned out to be a curious dish involving an entire tojanida, stuffed with numerous gritty basilisk steaks, which were in turn stuffed with tangy arrowhawk breasts, which were finally in turn stuffed with an entire boned stirge with three olives impaled on its proboscis. It was brought out on a huge platter slung between two manticores, upon which rested a great tojanida shell, halved and filed with a descending mass of meat.</p><p>Unfortunately, it was disgustingly foul. Most of the guests could not mask their distaste of the vile concoction, with Faust going so far as to spit his first bite back onto his plate with a curse. Only Giovanni and Havok, somewhat accustomed to the rules of court, managed to maintain impassive looks on their faces as they struggled to choke down the rancid meat. Grubber ate none.</p><p>Abruptly, Embuirhan slammed one fist on the table, staring daggers at the goliath. </p><p>“Do you find my table distasteful?” he demanded.</p><p>“Not at all my lord,” Grubber replied, his eyes going wide. “I am simply in the midst of a fast, as required by my faith.”</p><p>“Then you have no reason to remain here further!” Embuirhan shouted. “Guards!” In an instant, a dozen armed soldiers appeared, man-handling Grubber from his seat and hustling him out of the hall. </p><p>“Nighty-night,” the heads intoned. The rest of the hall was silent. The Prince stared at the mountain of meat, then ordered the servants to clear it away. As he resumed his seat, Giovanni and Storm noted something very disturbing…the four Blessed Angels were gone.</p><p></p><p>As the fourth course began, huge covered tureens were brought out. Within shuddered a strange purple jelly. The Fabler observed that purple worms were a notorious menace in certain areas of the world, and their propensity for eating everything that moved was known to adventurers far and wide. He went on to say that the tribesmen of old learned a way to cook the poisonous tail sections of the worms so that the poison was neutralized, but the recipe had to be precise in its preparation. As the bowls of purple glop were placed before each guest, the Fabler wondered aloud if any present were brave enough to taste the dish before the Prince put his health at risk.</p><p>Faust stood. “I will dare this for you, my Prince!” The psion dipped a large spoon into the concoction and slurped it down his throat. It was quite tasty, though for a brief moment, Faust felt his stomach burning, and his throat close, but the sensation quickly passed. He saw Embuirhan looking at him intently.</p><p>“Delicious!” the élan said, smiling through purple stained teeth.</p><p></p><p>Finally, as the last bowls of purple worm aspic were cleared, the smell of cloves, honey and cinnamon wafted through as a single manticore entered with a nearly eight-foot tall cake. The cake itself was shaped like a ziggurat, but crowned with a marzipan figure of Embuirhan surrounded by light and with angel’s wings. Everyone applauded loudly as the cake was levered onto the table, but as they did, the cake began to fall apart. Large rents appeared on the side, and the marzipan Prince began to list. Suddenly, the figure toppled, sliding down the side of the cake in avalanche of delectable frosting and struck the table hard enough that its head snapped off and rolled across the table to land in Faust’s lap. A few stifled chuckles and giggles came from the assembled. The hate in Embuirhan’s eyes was palpable, but just as he was about to order the execution of his entire cooking staff, the Fabler stepped in, observing that “the cake is not made of stone and iron, and I’ll eat it if no one else will!” The joke went over well, and the mood was broken as the guests laughed along with him. Everyone settled in to the dessert, chatting amiably…all except Embuirhan, who sat in brooding silence.</p><p></p><p>With the conclusion of the great feast, the Fabler called for the traditional Dance of the Dead, which closed all important ceremonies in Starmantle. The help began clearing the table as the fool led the guests into the palace ballroom. There, the skeletal performers from the Harlequinade Mortificatio, now dressed as the dead founding fathers of Starmantle, performed the bizarre ritual. The guests joined in, whirling about the dance floor, constantly changing partners. Embuirhan sat in silence upon his throne, merely watching the festivities.</p><p></p><p>Faust made a beeline for Lashonna as the dance began.</p><p>“May I have the honor of the first dance my lady?” He asked, extending his hand. The sorceress smiled and curtsied, accepting his offer. </p><p>“My friends and I have been anxious to make your acquaintance,” the psion said quietly as he led, rather clumsily. “You are a hard woman to track down.” Lashonna said nothing, merely continuing to smile slightly. “Do you know a man named Balakarde?” Faust finally blurted out bluntly.</p><p>“Save your questions for later, my curious friend,” Lashonna whispered in a silky voice. “There are too many ears in this place. You and your friends will come to Mistwall Manor at midnight, two nights hence, and all will be made clear.” Faust nodded, and bowed out as the next dancer, Giovanni, took his place.</p><p></p><p>“My lady,” he said as he spun her about with considerably more grace than his cohort. </p><p>“I have already told your friend to save your queries for now,” she replied, mildly annoyed.</p><p>“Yes,” the warlock persisted, “but I must tell you that I saw the Blessed Angels depart after our colleague was escorted out. Can you intervene on his behalf?”</p><p>“It’s already too late,” she replied.</p><p></p><p></p><p>Grubber walked in silence down the Toil Road, making his way back towards the Deluxury. He was consumed with guilt, afraid that his actions might have jeopardized the safety of his friends and their mission. So preoccupied was he, that at first he failed to notice the uncharacteristic silence of the usually busy highway. Despite the festivities still going strong throughout the city, there was not another living soul within three blocks. The goliath skin began to prickle with unease, and a soft gust of wind washed over him. Suddenly, four crimson-haired women appeared around him, seemingly from thin air. Large, black-feathered wings sprouted from their backs, and they were clad all in black, spiked leather. Crossbows hung at their sides, and each gripped a long sword in one hand. Blessed Angels.</p><p></p><p>“You should be careful whom you offend in the future, mortal,” one of them intoned, “assuming, of course, that you have one.”</p><p>Abruptly, all four of them raised their free hands, and a greasy, black miasma surrounded Grubber on all sides, washing over him like an oil slick. He felt waves of nausea churn through his guts as his skin seemed to burn like acid fire. Desperately, he counter-attacked, conjuring a Shard Storm, which tore through the infernal guardians. They shrieked in anger and pain, but as the goliath stumbled away from them, they struck at him with their blades, opening several gaping, bloody wounds. As one, they closed with him, speaking in their dark tongue, summoning black energy to surround their swords. Again they struck, and Grubber felt darkness enveloping him. But then, just as he felt the pull of the void, the Contingency he had put in effect upon first entering this accursed city took effect, and a blast of powerful healing magic coursed through his battered body. As his strength returned, Grubber took a step back, and then spoke a single Word, whisking him from the midst of the Blessed Angels, to the safety of the Church of Blessed Deliverance.</p><p></p><p></p><p>Embuirhan rose from his throne and moved to leave, applauded by his guests as he went. Giovanni’s enhanced vision showed him that the Prince’s four bodyguards had returned as he left the room. It was over then.</p><p></p><p>The guests were escorted back to their carriages, and returned to their domiciles. Pavel and Faust were let off at the Ogre’s Hideout just as V’juss entered the inn. When the pair followed, they eyes of every hobgoblin in the common room fell upon them.</p><p>“That’s right,” Pavel growled. “Take a good look, boys. I’m the one that killed yer honcho. Just ask his lap dog over there. Now, if any of ya knows what’s good fer ya, you’ll haul yer sorry arses out of here tonight. If I lay eyes on a single one of ya tomorrow, you’ll be joinin’ B’kruss.” The dwarf turned and stomped up the stairs towards B’kruss’ private suite.</p><p>“Yeah!” Faust said to the silent crowd as he followed his companion.</p><p></p><p>No sooner had Giovanni stepped into his room at the Deluxury, than he heard a familiar voice inside his head.</p><p>‘This is Grubber. Angels attacked. Alive and well. Hidden by Helm. Bring gear.’</p><p>Giovanni recognized the Sending for what it was, and replied in kind, ‘Glad you are alive. Your decision was unwise. Will deliver your gear to Rhorsk in morning.’ Assuming the Blessed Angels don’t find you first, he added silently to himself.</p><p></p><p></p><p>Two days passed, and life returned to what passed for normal in Starmantle, now that the celebration was over. At midnight on that second evening, a black carriage pulled up before the Deluxury. It was driven by a tall, gaunt half-orc, who walked with a limp. All the members of the League, save Grubber, climbed aboard the coach, and were taken with haste to Mistwall Manor. They disembarked, and where escorted through a luxurious courtyard of fountains and topiaries, into a front parlor, and then up a spiraling marble staircase to a private study and reading room. </p><p></p><p>The walls of the spacious, tastefully decorated study were filled with shelves of leather-bound tomes on a wide variety of topics. A large desk sat against the far wall, its surface empty save for a stack of tattered pieces of yellowed paper. The carpet was a deep shade of crimson, and arrayed on it in a semicircle before the desk were several high-backed chairs fitted with velvet cushions. Lashonna waited here, wrapped in a gold-trimmed gown of the very latest fashion, and cut to accentuate her near perfect figure. A delighted smile danced upon her scarlet lips as she dismissed her manservant.</p><p>“You won’t be needed any longer Kelgorn. I’m sure I’ll be quite well attended to, with such pleasing guests to keep me company. Good night.” The half-orc withdrew with a stiff bow as Lashonna gestured to the chairs before the desk.</p><p>“I apologize again for the late hour,” Lashonna said, seating herself behind the desk, “but I assure you that what I have to tell you will make the loss of your beauty sleep worthwhile.” She slid the tattered pages on the desk towards Faust.</p><p>“Balakarde’s journal,” she said, “or what’s left of it, in any event. You’ll see he’s quite mad. Obsessed, the poor dear, and with worms no less. Tiresome. But please, look it over, and then we can talk.”</p><p></p><p>Hawk took the papers and read them aloud to his companions.</p><p>“’It is as I suspected. The ancient undead dragon Dragotha is the herald of Kyuss. He was granted his unlife by the Wormgod well over fifteen centuries ago, after he found the monolith in Kuluth-Mar and brought it to his lair in Skull Gorge. When Dragotha was slain by Tiamat, Kyuss repaid him with the gift of undeath, and in so doing bound him eternally to his will.</p><p>The Rite they performed obscured Dragotha’s phylactery from thought, history and sight…as if it never existed at all. But the Order of the Storm were no fools. They suspected Kyuss would one day rise again, that his worms would learn to walk once more.</p><p>Dragotha’s presence in the world has been quiet for the last several ages. The loss of his phylactery fifteen-hundred years ago left him a coward. Yet my research proves he stirs from his long sleep, that he now intends to waken Kyuss after all this time. Why now? What has changed? I fear that a journey to Skull Gorge to confront the dracolich is my only remaining option.’”</p><p></p><p>“It seems obvious,” Lashonna said once Hawk had finished, “that Dragotha intends to release Kyuss from his prison, and in so doing, usher in the Age of Worms. The solution seems obvious. A king without his commander is powerless. It’s taken Dragotha nearly fifteen-hundred years to reach this point. Remove him now, and it will certainly be centuries before anything has a chance to release the Wormgod again.</p><p>Of course, one cannot simply waltz into a lich’s lair, kill him, and be done with it. Dragotha may not know where his phylactery is, but that doesn’t mean it’s useless to him. Destroying him before you destroy his phylactery is as good as finding it and handing it over to him.</p><p>So your first order of business should be to find his phylactery and destroy it. And that’s where it gets complicated. I have no idea where it may be hidden. Obviously, neither does Dragotha, and that’s a good thing. Certainly, his doubt to its location is the main reason he hasn’t tried to simply destroy himself as a desperate way to discover its location.</p><p>Balakarde left for Skull Gorge, against my advice, intending to learn more about Dragotha. He never returned, but at least he had the foresight to leave his journal fragments with me. His journal and his disappearance have become something of a minor obsession of mine, I must confess. I’ve spent the last sixteen years, on and off, studying the lore of Kyuss, of Dragotha, and associated matters. And while I haven’t managed to determine where Dragotha’s phylactery is hidden, I do believe I know where that information might be found.</p><p>As Balakarde mentions in his journal, the Age of Worms and Kyuss’ resurrection were stopped fifteen centuries ago by the Order of the Storm. Historians believe that the Order died out not long after this victory, hunted down and destroyed by the last surviving members of the cult of Kyuss. These records are incorrect. The Order instead retreated to their stronghold on a remote island in the Shining Sea called Tilagos.</p><p>On this island there is a library of sorts, a repository of the Order’s lore. It has been sought for centuries by wizards, scholars, and explorers, for it is said to be filled with hundreds of years of history, memories, dreams, and of course secrets. Secrets are so valuable, aren’t they, my darlings? Seems the longer they are kept, the more they’re worth. If a written account of the secret of what happened to Dragotha’s phylactery exists, it must certainly be there.</p><p>Of course, there are complications…there always are, right? Before they built this library, the Order of the Storm drove a lasting bargain with primal elemental forces. They sacrificed their lives to whisk the island’s interior off the Material Plane. In its place is a barren rock surrounded by an ever-raging storm of such intensity that ships that approach within ten miles are invariably lost. The island itself appears on no maps, but the stories hint that the druids left a way for those in need to reach their secrets while at the same time warding the place away from the prying eyes of Kyuss’ undead fanatics.</p><p>Worse, I’m afraid others have learned this as well, in part as an unfortunate result of my own research. I have a fair amount of competition in the arena of gathering and keeping secrets, and invariably word gets out that I’ve made a discovery. My enemies are always quick to nip at my heels. I speak in particular of a simpering dog of a man named Heskin, who once served me. I’m afraid Heskin has been wooed from my side with promises of wealth and power, and has taken word of this discovery to a disreputable man indeed, a powerful priest of Velsharoon named Darl Quethos.”</p><p></p><p>“Why can’t you go to Tilagos yourself?” Giovanni asked as she paused.</p><p>“I have reasons of my own,” she replied. “Any allies that I have simply wouldn’t be of any help against the type of things that might be faced there. To tell the truth, I can’t think of anyone other than your group that could have a chance against Dragotha. Now, would you like to have a peek at Heskin and his new friends?” She produced a small lock of hair tied with a gold wire on a fine gold chain. She then produced a scroll, and began to chant a litany of arcane words. A tumultuous scene faded into view in the middle of the room for all to observe, along with the howling sound of an oceanic tempest. The image cleared to show a deathly pale man lashed to a ship’s mast with several coils of rope. Although details beyond a ten-foot radius around Heskin were hazy and unclear, it was obvious that the ship was caught in a tremendous storm…the decks were awash in foamy water as both waves and driving sheets of rain tormented the terrified man. Sounds of gruff sailors shouting commands and curses in Orc could be heard under the raging tumult of the storm, and now and then, frantic orc sailors moved quickly into view, and then back into obscurity as they busied themselves at securing the ship. At one point, two lithe, cloaked figures dropped to the deck from the rigging on either side of Heskin. They were identically dressed in tightly wrapped silken scarves, and small devilish horns sprouted from their heads. The cloaked figures spared condescending glances at Heskin, their eyes glowing faintly with infernal fire before they moved out of sight towards the ship’s unseen bow. Soon thereafter, a blazing red-skinned humanoid with an immense, bulging frame strode almost casually through the scene. The rain sizzled into steam as it struck his burning skin. As he reached Heskin, he looked down at the man, and then looked toward the bow, crying out, “Darl! It looks like your pet might be taking on water!” With that, the creature exploded into a tremendous belly laugh. A few moments later, another two figures stepped into view. The smaller of the two was a shifty-eyed humanoid bird who wore a hooded cloak and carried a repeating crossbow. The other was a towering man clothed in flowing blue robes. His cowl protected his face from the wind and his hands were obscured by long, rain-soaked sleeves. He squatted before Heskin and spoke to him in a low voice, “Only a few hours more, Heskin, and we shall see if you live or die.”</p><p>Suddenly, the blue-robed man’s head whipped around to look directly into the scrying sensor. His face was pale but commanding, and twisted into a snarl as he stood. “It seems we have guests, my friends,” he said. “Perhaps allies of this cur?” He turned back to the bound man, and as he did he pulled back his left sleeve, revealing a rotten, black-nailed appendage that seemed to writhe and twitch with its own life. “We can’t have your friends watching us, so it seems your journey comes to an early end, Heskin!” The putrid hand unfurled and reached out to caress Heskin’s brow. Heskin shrieked in mortal pain as the fingertip froze the skin it touched into an angry black scar. The blue-robed man then made a fist and uttered a single unintelligible word. As he spoke it, Heskin’s eyes bulged, the cords in his neck throbbed, and he slumped against his bonds, dead. The scrying link was broken, and the image faded from view.</p><p></p><p>Lashonna returned to her seat, visibly shaken. “The Hand of Velsharoon,” she murmured. </p><p>“Where is Tilagos?” Hawk asked into the silence.</p><p>“It is in the northern reaches of the Shining Sea,” Lashonna replied, regaining her composure. “It doesn’t appear on most maps, but I happen to have some that give its location.”</p><p>“We appreciate your help in this,” Hawk said with finality. “We will leave as soon as possible.” With that, he turned to go.</p><p>“Just one more thing,” Giovanni said to Lashonna. “We know you are undead.” </p><p>Lashonna looked at him with piercing eyes.</p><p>“What I am shouldn’t matter,” she said levelly. “I’ve spent years getting where I am, and I’m not about to see all that washed away by Dragotha, and neither should you. Take care of Dragotha and if you still feel that I can’t be trusted, you know where to find me.”</p><p>Giovanni nodded.</p><p>“I would leave town quickly,” Lashonna concluded, “and take your goliath friend with you. I can only insure his safety for so long.”</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="gfunk, post: 2813755, member: 1813"] EVERYONE WHO’S ANYONE At dawn on the seventh day of the League’s visit to Starmantle, the members were wakened by a tremendous din. Trumpets sounded across the city, every drum, horn and bell in every place of worship called out to announce that the Day of Great Rejoicing had arrived. The streets thronged with happy, smiling faces, the locals cheered and rejoiced, babies were held aloft and patriotic songs about the divine mercy of Embuirhan were sung at every corner. As the day wore on, the group made their preparations for the evening’s festivities. Hawk and Havok both donned noble raiment, with their armor worn beneath. Hawk even deigned to leave his ancestral weapon in one of the vaults in the Deluxury, but his shield he tucked inside a magical glove he had purchased for just that purpose. As for Havok, he was not altogether unarmed either. The warlock had managed to procure a small, flesh-colored pouch that molded itself perfectly to the skin of his abdomen. Inside, he secreted several of his more useful wands and scrolls. Storm, still using her dweomered headpiece to appear as a beautiful elf maid, purchased a glamorous dress cut to flatter her own natural assets. For his part, Faust didn’t bother dressing up. Despite his four-hundred plus years in existence, he still did not understand mortal propensities for outward accoutrements. He simply put on his usual non-descript clothing, and the various magical baubles he wore as jewelry. At the other extreme was Pavel. The dwarf polished his armor as best he could, and then purchased a royal ensemble, complete with a flowing, ermine-trimmed purple robe and a gold circlet. This contrasted with his personal hygiene, which amounted to picking most of the food out of his beard, and slicking his hair down with bacon grease. Reluctantly, he stowed his axes in a locked trunk. Grubber spent the day working with Furtopia, practically until the time the royal carriage was to pick him up for the gala. The pair had discovered that much of the disease being spread among the shanties was the result of both rat and mosquito vectors. The priest was determined to come up with a solution. He too did not bother with finery, instead donning his armor and his simple holy symbol, though he also left his weapon at the Ogre’s Hideout. Two hours before sunset, the carriage, almost shocking in its decadence, arrived at the Ogre’s Hideout. The vehicle was gold-plated, and of incredible size. Its interior was sumptuous, with leather seats padded with down and gold lanterns burning pleasantly-scented oil. A tray contained several crystal decanters of wine and silver salvers of sweet-meats. It was pulled by four trolls, each dressed in ill-fitting suits designed to call out their hideous countenances all the more. The carriage was driven by a lanky, wide-mouthed man with black robes and a tall, black top hat. A sizeable crowd of hobgoblins gathered outside the inn as Faust, Grubber and Pavel boarded. “See ya around, losers!” Pavel jeered at the goblinoids, though he noticed a second coach arriving behind theirs, with B’kruss and V’juss getting inside. The hobgoblin captain shot a look of pure hatred at the dwarf. Pavel saluted him in kind with a gesture that would make even a dwarven miner blush. From the Ogre’s Hideout, the carriage traveled to the Deluxury to pick up Havok and his party, and then on to the palace. The red stone wall that surrounded Embuirhan’s palace supported dozens of statues…all which were of the Prince. The grounds featured many gardens set with beautiful orchids, monkey-puzzle trees and small waterfalls and ponds. The palace itself was a fanciful hodgepodge of various styles, with a large central core. Beyond the gates, the carriage followed a steep, rising path, flanked by polished skeletons in gibbets. The path wound up the rocky promontory to the main hall, where the guests were asked to decoach, and then led to a verdant terrace overlooking a two-hundred foot drop to the Dragon Reach. A dozen or more guests were already present on the lawn, milling about in small groups and talking quietly. It was Giovanni that first noticed the one glaring difference between the other invitees and themselves…each bore an expensively wrapped gift! “Did Loratio say anything to you about gifts?” the warlock asked Hawk. “Not a word, but perhaps he expected we would know the proper protocol.” “So what do we do?” Faust asked. “I would hate to start off the evening by offending our host.” “The ledger,” Giovanni replied, looking thoughtful. “What??” Faust looked stunned. “Are you serious? Why would you want to turn that over to him?” The ledger which the warlock spoke of had been among a small cache of valuables they had discovered in the lair of the Ebon Aspect. At first it had seemed to be simply an outdated list of goods stored by the cell. However, upon further examination, Giovanni had discovered a secret page, concealed by magic. On it had been written an exhaustive list of every member of the Ebon Triad in Faerun, including their numerous allies, and the locations in which these individuals lived. It contained some familiar names: Theldrick, Prendergast, The Faceless One, and Ilthane. Its value was immeasurable. “We know of the Prince’s hatred of the Ebon Triad,” Giovanni replied. “Don’t you think he would be extraordinarily pleased to have a list of his enemies at his fingertips? Besides, you already committed the list to memory.” “I’m not sure about this,” the psion said doubtfully. “We can’t be positive that Embuirhan is not secretly an agent of the Triad.” “If that’s true,” Giovanni countered, “then this might be all we need to flush him out into the open. We win either way.” The others could not deny the logic of Giovanni’s argument, and it was agreed that they would present the ledger as their gift. It was after this that the group began to take full notice of the other attendees. A few quiet questions of the circulating waiters gained them the names of all the guests. B’kruss and V’juss they already knew. The hobgoblins were speaking quietly with a rather handsome half-orc whom they were told was Mariss Quemp, a one-time mercenary leader-turned aristocrat. B’kruss cast several pointed looks in the direction of the League, and Quemp nodded with interest. An almost impossibly fat dwarf, with a rosy red nose and piggy eyes, stood near the appetizer table. He was called Hoff, and was captain of a rather notorious group of pirates and brigands. Two human men sipped wine and laughed good-naturedly. One was iron-haired, and weather-beaten, with a hook instead of a right hand. This was Lord Malaven Kiraven, a captain of Starmantle’s border patrol. The other was dark-skinned with a small goatee. He was Captain Vulras, the commander of a squad of rangers who patrolled the southern wilderness for orcs and other raiders. An exotic and mysterious woman sat alone near the edge of the terrace. She appeared to be in her late fifties with a thin face that had aged well. She wore her shocking red hair in braids woven around an elaborate headdress. Her clothes were rich and royal, and she wore and excessive amount of jewelry. Giovanni was interested to learn that she was, in fact, Merchantmaster Mahuudril, leader of the Red Blades Merchant Consortium. A rather strange looking duo stood out and apart from the other groups. The first was a wide-faced man in his late fifties. He had rosy cheeks and a pair of wire spectacles, and he was dressed in a clashing riot of flamboyant clothing and a strange, pointed hat. His companion was a quaggoth, though far from the animalistic barbarian typical of his kind. He wore gentleman’s garb and possessed a cultured demeanor. Grubber recognized him instantly. He was none-other than Shag Solomon, once a member of the side-show at Daggerford’s Emporium. How odd to find him here, of all places. The human was named Professor Montague Marat, a man the waiter said had provided Embuirhan with all of his palace staff. A halfling woman, slightly overweight and a little nervous looking sat chatting with a male gnome, who was extraordinarily long-nosed with a magnificent handlebar moustache. These were Miszen Mitchwillow, a well-respected merchant, and Toris, a visiting noble from one of the other city-states along the Dragon Coast. The waiter was just about to point out the final two party-guests, when Faust stopped him. “Don’t bother,” the psion said. “I believe we’ve already been introduced.” Immediately, Giovanni’s armor began shouting inside his head. “He’s undead master! Beware!” The warlock looked in the direction Faust was already walking towards, and found himself so stunned he had to remind himself to breathe. The man clothed in rather outdated noble garb was Moreto, the true ghoul Faust had released from Icosiol’s tomb. He turned as the élan approached, and a quizzical look appeared on his face. This turned to surprise as he looked past Faust towards his companions. “Well, well,” the ghoul laughed, “I should have known my little diversion wouldn’t hold you lot for very long! See here,” he elbowed his companion, “these are the ones I was telling you about!” The pale human next to him, dressed completely in black, turned around. This time it was Grubber who gasped. “You!” the goliath shouted, taking several involuntary steps forward. Slowly, a smile spread over the gaunt man’s face. “It’s been a long time,” he said in a mournful voice. “I never thought to see you again, least of all in these surroundings. But tell me, where are your friends? I do not recognize your current traveling companions.” “While I recognize yours, Filge!” Grubber spat. “I see you have not mended your ways, as you promised!” The necromancer laughed, “I am hardly the person you remember. My grave-robbing days are long past.” It was at this point that Grubber noticed the symbol hanging from a silver chain around Filge’s neck…the mark of the Liche-lord Velsharoon! “Perhaps you do not recognize me,” Faust said to Moreto. “When last we met I seemed no more than a dragonet familiar.” “It was you…” Moreto said in astonishment. “Yes,” Faust nodded, “but you need not worry about repercussions from the inquisitor whom I traveled with. He recently met an untimely end at the hands of an Ebon Triad abomination.” “Ah,” Moreto smiled. “More’s the pity.” “Alas, I cannot say the same for him,” Faust hooked a finger at Hawk, who had approached the group. “Well, I owe you all my gratitude for my freedom,” the ghoul said amiably. “And I as well,” Filge said, “at least to the goliath.” “What strange coincidence brings you here?” Faust asked quickly before any hasty actions could be taken by his comrades. “After I left you,” Moreto replied, “I made my way to Waterdeep. There I met my dear Mr. Filge. As it turns out, he and I have similar research interests. Our pursuit of our studies has led us here to Starmantle.” At that moment, Giovanni began reciting the opening verses from the Apostolic Scrolls. When he’d finished he asked, “Would your interests have anything to do with that? If so, then we have something in common.” Moreto smiled coldly, his pointed teeth dimpling his lower lip. “Our interests may be the same, but I am certain that our goals are not.” Hawk and Grubber automatically reached for weapons they were not carrying, but Faust quickly stepped between them. “Our paths will cross again.” “I’m counting on it,” Moreto said quietly. At that moment, trumpets sounded from the entrance to the palace. As one, the guests turned. There in the doorway stood a handsome man in his early forties. He wore his hair loose and just off his shoulders, and he was dressed at the cutting edge of style. On his left stood a sinister little man who was only two-and-a-half feet high. He clutched a mummified raven to his chest and looked around nervously. He wore crimson leather and a strange three-pointed, but floppy hat wrapped in black and white ribbons and studded with gems. To the Prince’s right was a woman who was a strange combination of the beautiful and the grotesque. Her piercing blue eyes matched those of Embuirhan, but her face was misaligned, with the right half about half an inch above the left, giving her nose an ugly twist and her mouth a perpetual upturned sneer. Her back was hunched, with a fine cloak attempting unsuccessfully to conceal it. “My lords, ladies and other honored guests!” the little man cried. “I am the Ominous Fabler. Prince Embuirhan bids you welcome, and I trust you will enjoy the hospitality of his humble home!” He looked around, leered at some of the guests, then flapped his free arm and lifted the mummified raven up on his shoulder. Using the dead bird as a ventriloquist’s dummy, he chirped out in a raspy voice, “You may now present your gifts to honor the Prince!” He then stepped back, giggling quietly as the attendees reached into folds in their cloaks and pockets. One by one each guest came forward to bow before Embuirhan and present their offering, ranging from jewelry to bottles or rare wine, to exotic caged animals. In the case of Mahuudril, it was a horse that flew onto the lawn on smoking hooves, with fiery eyes and flames blowing from its nostrils. Last came the League, led by Giovanni. “My Lord Prince,” the warlock said, bowing low, “allow me to introduce Impotent Rage, champions of the Games of Waterdeep! During our brief stay in your city, we recently uncovered a previously undiscovered lair of the hated Ebon Triad, and there we came upon a fabulous prize!” He produced the ledger, placing it in Embuirhan’s hands. The Prince scanned the pages with curiosity until he came to the list. Then his eyes went wide, and he snapped his gaze up to Giovanni. “Can you prove the veracity of this?” he demanded. “We can tell you exactly where the cell is located,” Giovanni replied, “as well as the lair of the black dragon Ilthane, who, as you can see, aided the cult in Starmantle.” “I will indeed verify this,” Embuirhan nodded, “and if your story is true, then this is indeed a priceless gift. I am well pleased!” The other guests politely applauded, but the looks on many faces revealed anything but well wishes. The Prince then proceeded across the lawn, and behind him came a strange menagerie of freaks who acted as palace servants. There were fat ladies, pin heads, men without legs, women without eyes, and all manner of deformity on display. Grubber recognized all of them as former side-show attractions from Daggerford’s Emporium. He, Giovanni and Storm also noted something else. Each of them had the ability to see creatures cloaked by invisibility, and so it was that they saw the quartet of Blessed Angels that silently flanked Embuirhan. Immediately after the gift-giving, servants appeared with padded chairs for each guest. The fool then stepped forward and winded a strange horn. “My masters! We beg you to enjoy our little tale…’tis a small thing I penned myself. A tale of menace, revenge, lust and death which I have called ‘The Harlequinade Mortificatio.’” The fool moved back, and as he did so, the servants arranged a small stage with a backdrop of a town street at night. A wooden moon wafted over the scene, and suddenly a host of animated skeletons dressed as clowns marched on stage. ‘Master, they’re undead too!’ Giovanni’s armor spoke into his mind. ‘You needn’t point out the incredibly obvious,’ the warlock snapped. ‘The merely obvious will do.’ The play was performed in silence, apart from some guests applauding as the skeletal clowns performed particularly ridiculous stunts, such as drinking wine. It soon became obvious that the entire plot recounted how each of the skeletons was acting out its own death, always by suspicious circumstances that were not quite accidents. Throughout the play, which lasted the better part of an hour, servants fluttered about with wine and trays of lightly roasted almond biscuits of exquisite taste. Hawk barely concealed his utter disgust at the whole affair. That the Prince and his toadies were completely debauched was without question. The civilar felt soiled just sitting among them. At the play’s end, the curious actors bowed and everyone (except Hawk) applauded. The Ominous Fabler appeared again, this time dressed as a scarecrow on stilts and with a hare’s skull where his head should have been. He led the guests across the grounds to the next event, singing a song about boiling sparrows as he went. Eventually the guests arrived at the charmingly named Balcony of Expectorance, a wide deck jutting from the cliffside about twenty feet down from the palace. It was sheltered from the wind and the view of the Dragon Reach coastline was even more magnificent than that from the Vertiginous Terrace. The fool trundled up onto the balcony railing, somehow managing to balance there on stilts as he addressed the party-goers. “And now, welcome to the Balcony of Expectorance, my friends, and the Handsome Slaughter of Curious Avians!” Two deformed servants marched out, carrying between them a large rack of repeating crossbows. Another group of servants wheeled out a number of cages filled with brightly colored red birds…corollaxes. “Please select your weapon,” the Fabler continued, “and make ready to…” Prince Embuirhan cut him off with a dismissive slap as he stepped forward. The fool teetered, but managed to catch his balance and clambered down from the ledge as the Prince selected a magnificent looking crossbow and said, “I’m feeling particularly lucky today. If anyone can bring down more than me, I’ll give the lucky soul a thousand gold coins.” As the Prince readied his weapon, the Fabler released ten of the birds, which immediately scattered and began flashing sprays of color as they wheeled in the air. With uncanny accuracy, Embuirhan brought down three of the birds which his first volley, reloaded, and then took down three more. “Six!” he cried jubilantly. “Now, who’s next for the challenge?” One by one the other guests took their turns, several of them killing a few corollaxes, but none coming close to the Prince’s total. When the League’s turn arrived, Pavel shot first, but the surly dwarf only managed to slay one bird. It was obvious he was more comfortable with an axe in his hands than a crossbow. B’kruss sneered at him as he stepped away from the balcony, to which the dwarf replied with several loud oinks and squeals. B’kruss’ eyes narrowed dangerously. Faust also hit one corollaxe, but failed to kill it. Storm had better luck, slaying two. Giovanni also killed two, and then wounded a third. When that one refused to fall, the warlock cursed, “Damn bird!” and reflexively fired off a thin beam of eldritch energy, which also missed. “Not fair,” the Prince said in a chiding voice, but smiled nonetheless. Grubber refused to attempt the sport, earning him a scowl from Embuirhan, leaving Hawk to go last. The civilar put on an amazing display, practically blowing four birds apart with his powerful shots. Alas, it was not enough. “Well done!” Embuirhan applauded. “Perhaps another sport will be better suited to you!” Throughout the shoot, the servants passed roasted corollaxe glazed in honey and mulled spice wine amongst the guests. Again, Grubber abstained. After the slaughter, the Fabler led the party back into the house, through a maze of doors and halls, and eventually down into the extensive basements. He did so by walking on his hands the entire trip, finally leading the group into one of the Prince’s underground miniature arenas. The guests were directed to sit on the curved benches surrounding the sunken fighting pit (which contained two four-foot square bird cages swathed in dark silks) while the Fabler explained the nature of the event. The misshapen gnome retrieved a small oak box from a locked chest and opened it, withdrawing a pair of silver rings. “And now, we come to some lively sports and baiting, my friends! These rings are ensorcelled with magic such that those who wear them can direct the actions and movements of one who has been…specially prepared as a receiver.” He hobbled over to the Prince and handed one of the rings to him. “The Prince would like to challenge one of you to an honest fight, utilizing what lives at the other end of these rings as proxies. Are there any of you brave enough to meet the Prince’s champion on the field of battle?” None of the other guests immediately rose to the occasion, so it was Giovanni who first raised his hand to volunteer. The warlock placed the ring on his finger, and was immediately overwhelmed with a disorienting sensation of seeing, feeling, and hearing through the body of some creature mentally linked through it. Just then, the Fabler pulled a silk cord, releasing a dozen yowling, hissing feral cats into the arena. The frightened animals immediately began racing around in circles, fighting among themselves. The Fabler then raised his voice over the cacophony. “If you can create more ornaments than the prince, and if you can survive his champion’s wrath, you’ll win a most fabulous prize indeed.” With that, he pulled a second cord, and the cages in the pit below opened, revealing two cockatrices…strange, rooster-like creatures with the power to turn other living things to stone with their touch. Immediately, Giovanni saw the Prince raise his hand, and one of the cockatrices darted towards a nearby cat, pecking at it with its vicious beak. Instantly, the cat went rigid, petrified into a very life-like stone statue. Giovanni now grasped the nature of the game, and commanded his own cockatrice into action. During the fight, dishes of eggs were served…boiled ones of unusual size, eggs scrambled with fine meats, and even a strange cocktail of egg mixed with rum. In the end, Giovanni managed to turn five cats to stone, while Embuirhan only took four. The remaining three were killed outright. Then, the Prince launched his cockatrice at Giovanni’s and a furious struggle ensued. The creatures were immune to their own petrifying touch, but not to their sharp beaks. Blood flew as the little monsters ripped and tore at each other, but finally it was Embuirhan’s champion that still stood, Giovanni’s challenger’s throat gripped in its maw. “Another valiant effort,” the Prince said good-naturedly. “Better luck next time.” The Fabler led the guests back upstairs and out into a long, narrow garden on the north side of the palace. By this time, twilight had fallen, and the garden had been lit by numerous differently-colored flames inside skulls hanging from delicate silver and golden chains. A mound of differently colored human skulls had been arranged at one end of the garden. As the group filed out onto the lawn, Faust spoke softly to B’kruss. “I just wanted to thank you again, my friend, for giving Pavel the opportunity to best you in that little contest. It’s simply done wonders for his self-esteem!” “Enough!” the hobgoblin roared, whirling around in a rage. “My Lord Prince!” he bellowed. “This dwarf has insulted my honor again, and again! I demand satisfaction!” Embuirhan looked around with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. “What is it you request?” he asked. “A duel!” B’kruss shouted. “You have been challenged master dwarf,” the Prince said, turning to Pavel. “How do you reply?” “Bring it on!” Pavel growled. “Very well,” the Prince said. “The challenge has been made and accepted. As the challenged, Master Pavel has the right to name the nature of the duel.” “Dwarven axes,” Pavel said softly, without the slightest hesitation. Two servants quickly brought out silk-lined boxes with a gleaming axe in each, taking one to each of the duelers. “I hope their ain’t no hard feelin’s for me pinnin’ that whore of a wife of yers!” Pavel grinned. B’kruss roared, leaping forward with his axe. The hobgoblin hooked the head of the axe beneath the haft of Pavel’s, and attempted to wrench the dwarf’s weapon from his hands. Pavel twisted his own weapon, ripping B’kruss’ axe free instead, and dropping it to the ground at his feet. Still smiling, Pavel reached down and picked the weapon up, dodging a clumsy punch from the hobgoblin as he did so. Now Pavel stood before the unarmed mercenary, an axe gripped in each hand. B’kruss lunged, seizing the dwarf in a bear-hug, and almost lifting him from his feet. Pavel grunted and flexed his arms mightily, tearing loose B’kruss’ grip. As the hobgoblin staggered back, Pavel swung both axes, opening up ragged cuts in B’kruss’ leg and shoulder. B’kruss lunged again, once more grappling with the dwarf, but Pavel was too strong, and too angry to be held for long. Breaking the hobgoblin’s grip once more, he struck four more times, leaving small streams of blood pouring from multiple deep wounds. B’kruss staggered back, pulling a flask from his belt and upending it. Several of his wounds began to heal, but before they could mend completely, Pavel was upon him again, slashing like a dervish. In desperation, B’kruss attempted to tackle Pavel one last time, but the dwarf was having none of it, spinning around and swinging low, he took the hobgoblin’s legs out from under him. B’kruss crashed to the ground, unconscious and barely breathing. The other guests, who had been cheering throughout the battle, now went deathly silent. Pavel gripped B’kruss’ hair, lifting his head from the ground, and then looked questioningly at Embuirhan. Slowly and deliberately, the Prince stuck out his hand, curling all his fingers into a fist save for is thumb, which he pointed down. Pavel nodded and decapitated B’kruss. “To the victor goes the spoils,” Embuirhan said, turning away from the gory spectacle and walking towards the pile of skulls. V’juss stared dumbfounded, and horror-struck at what had occurred, before he too turned away. Giovanni and Faust nodded in congratulations to the dwarf, but Hawk, Grubber and Storm looked stricken, and said nothing. “And now my beautiful friends,” the Fabler’s voice interrupted the tableau, drawing everyone’s attention to him, “we come to the final game of the evening. I present to my wonderful Prince an unfortunate criminal named Jack.” He handed the Prince a human skull that had been painted black. “And to the rest of you, I present these delicate treasures!” The Fabler indicated the stack of differently colored skulls. “The prince shall throw Jack to the far end of the garden, and the rest of you shall toss a chap of your own. The thrower who comes closest to Jack shall be declared the winner!” The Prince made his throw, Jack’s skull landing about fifty feet away. One-by-one each guest made their own throw…all save Hawk. The civilar had retreated to the opposite end of the garden, lost in his thoughts. Ultimately, it was the gnome Toris who won the match, earning himself a necklace with a small silver skull with ruby eyes. Throughout the sport, the servants passed around gingerbread men without heads. As the game ended, the sun sank below the horizon. The peal of an unseen gong sounded the call for dinner. The Fabler led the guests back into the palace, and then to the Great Banqueting Hall. A massive, cylindrical chamber rose through the heart of the palace. A tremendous round table of polished mahogany dominated the room, the walls of which were decked with portraits and landscapes of great quality. A large number of these featured Embuirhan himself, although the enigmatic Lashonna, a silver-haired, pale, remarkably beautiful woman, dominated one prominently placed portrait near Embuirhan’s place at the table. A vast stained glass dome depicting what appeared to be angels at play (but on closer inspection show the ‘angels’ to be erinyes devils, whose ‘play’ was something one would not normally associate with angels) arched gracefully above, its perimeter decorated by a ring of severed heads mounted on iron spikes some twenty feet above the polished marble floor. The guests were seated, with Hawk and Giovanni on either side of the Prince. Pavel was placed between Hoff and V’juss, ironically, while Storm sat between Giovanni and Mariss Quemp. Grubber sat between Shag Solomon and Professor Montague, and Faust was between Filge and Moreto. One seat, directly opposite Embuirhan, was left empty. As Pavel took his seat, he nodded to the fat dwarf seated to his right. “Humph!” the dwarf snorted. “’Zat so?” Pavel asked, a tone of warning in his voice. “You got a problem, bub? You saw what happened to the last guy who got uppity with me.” “You don’t seem like any gold dwarf I’ve ever met,” Hoff said with disdain. “I ain’t,” Pavel said. “Fact is, I plan on guttin’ every one’o my clansmen first chance I get. What about you? What’s yer story?” “I’m captain of the One Armed Bandits mercenary company,” Hoff replied stiffly. “Oh yeah?” said Pavel. “I’m a merc myself…freelance stuff mostly.” “You’re common is what you are,” Hoff sneered, “and obviously out of your depth here.” Pavel scowled in silence. Much as he would like, two duels in one night might be pushing it. Mariss Quemp positively beamed at Storm when she sat next to him, though his eyes were obviously looking somewhat south of her face. “I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced my lady,” he said standing and kissing her hand. “I’m Aurora,” the sorceress replied coolly. “And I am Lord Quemp…but you may call me Mariss. All of my closest friends do.” “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Quemp,” Storm retorted, a tad sharply. Quemp’s smile faltered for a moment, but was quickly replaced. “Surely you must be a noble yourself,” he said. “What House do you hail from?” “House Vito,” she said, nodding towards Giovanni, “and he is my master.” Quemp snapped a look at the warlock, and then slowly released Storm’s hand. “I see,” he said coldly, then sat and turned his back to her, giving his attention to Mahuudril instead. “Solomon tells me you’re from Daggerford?” Professor Montague asked as Grubber sat down. “Not originally,” the goliath rumbled, “but I called it home for a time.” “Me too, me too!” The old man laughed. “You’re familiar with the Emporium? Well, it was I who established it before selling out to Zalamandra. When I had heard about its near destruction by a dragon recently, I made it a point to invite the performers and staff here to Starmantle. The Prince has taken quite a shine to them.” “I see,” Grubber said flatly. “That was very…thoughtful of you.” Apparently, Shag Solomon did not agree. The quaggoth had a very sour look on his furred face as he puffed on his pipe. “Quite!” Montague said. “I would love to speak more with you about the old days. Perhaps you would agree to be my guest at the Deluxury for the week?” “I…” Grubber stammered, at a loss for words. “Excellent!” Montague said, shaking his hand vigorously. “It’s settled then!” At that moment, Embuirhan abruptly stood, and all of the guests followed suit. A dazzling beautiful elven woman entered the hall. Her skin was like pale alabaster, and her long silver hair was set back with a tiara of black diamonds. Everyone in the room could feel her gaze settle upon each of them in turn. “Lashonna,” Embuirhan said smiling, “welcome!” Lashonna nodded, but said nothing, sliding gracefully into the empty seat. As one, the rest of the party resumed their seats. ‘Master!’ It was Giovanni’s armor again. ‘What is it now?’ the warlock asked irritably, sure that the coat was going to warn him about the severed heads on their pikes, which he already noticed moved their eyes, watching those below them. ‘The woman…’ the armor replied, and Giovanni instinctively knew it meant Lashonna. “She’s not alive!’ Embuirhan remained standing, and silence fell upon the banquet hall. “My dear friends,” he began, and as he did, the decapitated heads above echoed the word ‘friends’ in a ghoulish tone. “I bid you enjoy this feast, eat and drink your fill in my humble abode.” “Humble!” said the heads. The Prince clapped his hands once. An instant later, the great doors to the kitchen swung open and a trio of manticores entered to the sonorous hoorahs of the heads. Yet these were no wild monsters…the fire was gone from their eyes, and their wings had been cruelly severed. Even the once ferocious barbs of their long tails had been surgically removed. Each manticore carried great platters on its back, and a host of distorted servants trailed behind them, eager to begin serving food. Each guest was given a small covered silver goblet. Once all had been served, the Fabler stood. “One of the founders of Starmantle was a desperate pilgrim,” he intoned, “who washed up on the harbor shore. He had not eaten for many weeks, and he fell upon the moors to die. As he did he saw a worm emerge from the ground, and he realized the worm was a gift from the gods that he should live…and so he devoured it. Along the Dragon Coast it has always been the tradition to start a feast with such a celebration of thanks!” The servants then removed the lids from the goblets, revealing in each a fat, writhing, greasy worm, its glistening flesh a nasty shade of green. Pavel immediately picked up the worm between two fingers and sniffed it curiously. He shrugged, and then popped it in his mouth, chewing noisily. Faust recognized the worm as just a harmless green scrubgrub, and he too consumed it quickly. One by one, the other guests followed suit…all except Grubber. Hawk noticed the dark look the Prince shot the goliath, and when Embuirhan leaned over to whisper in the ear of one of the servants, the civilar knew it didn’t bode well. For the second course, a single manticore entered the hall. It carried an enormous pie on a silver dish of great size strapped to its back. Pastry beaks of birds covered the pie, and as everyone looked on, the crust was opened and twenty-four black birds emerged, and flew around the room in terror. The guest partook of the pie with a bit more enthusiasm than the appetizer, finding the crust made of sugar and almonds, and tasting surprisingly good. Servants then brought in huge tureens of vegetables, along with plentiful supplies of a locally produced spiced white wine called Dragon Coast Resinwint, which was particularly potent. Once again, Grubber did not eat nor drink. Embuirhan’s gaze grew even darker. Faust and Pavel fumbled with the dozen utensils arrayed by their plates, using them at random, earning them irritated glances from the Prince as well. Hawk cleared his throat, trying, and failing to attract their attention, as he picked up the proper fork for the dish. Giovanni and Storm were quicker on the uptake and mimicked his every move. The Fabler announced the third course as a concoction of the Prince’s own…delectable tojbasarrirge for all! This turned out to be a curious dish involving an entire tojanida, stuffed with numerous gritty basilisk steaks, which were in turn stuffed with tangy arrowhawk breasts, which were finally in turn stuffed with an entire boned stirge with three olives impaled on its proboscis. It was brought out on a huge platter slung between two manticores, upon which rested a great tojanida shell, halved and filed with a descending mass of meat. Unfortunately, it was disgustingly foul. Most of the guests could not mask their distaste of the vile concoction, with Faust going so far as to spit his first bite back onto his plate with a curse. Only Giovanni and Havok, somewhat accustomed to the rules of court, managed to maintain impassive looks on their faces as they struggled to choke down the rancid meat. Grubber ate none. Abruptly, Embuirhan slammed one fist on the table, staring daggers at the goliath. “Do you find my table distasteful?” he demanded. “Not at all my lord,” Grubber replied, his eyes going wide. “I am simply in the midst of a fast, as required by my faith.” “Then you have no reason to remain here further!” Embuirhan shouted. “Guards!” In an instant, a dozen armed soldiers appeared, man-handling Grubber from his seat and hustling him out of the hall. “Nighty-night,” the heads intoned. The rest of the hall was silent. The Prince stared at the mountain of meat, then ordered the servants to clear it away. As he resumed his seat, Giovanni and Storm noted something very disturbing…the four Blessed Angels were gone. As the fourth course began, huge covered tureens were brought out. Within shuddered a strange purple jelly. The Fabler observed that purple worms were a notorious menace in certain areas of the world, and their propensity for eating everything that moved was known to adventurers far and wide. He went on to say that the tribesmen of old learned a way to cook the poisonous tail sections of the worms so that the poison was neutralized, but the recipe had to be precise in its preparation. As the bowls of purple glop were placed before each guest, the Fabler wondered aloud if any present were brave enough to taste the dish before the Prince put his health at risk. Faust stood. “I will dare this for you, my Prince!” The psion dipped a large spoon into the concoction and slurped it down his throat. It was quite tasty, though for a brief moment, Faust felt his stomach burning, and his throat close, but the sensation quickly passed. He saw Embuirhan looking at him intently. “Delicious!” the élan said, smiling through purple stained teeth. Finally, as the last bowls of purple worm aspic were cleared, the smell of cloves, honey and cinnamon wafted through as a single manticore entered with a nearly eight-foot tall cake. The cake itself was shaped like a ziggurat, but crowned with a marzipan figure of Embuirhan surrounded by light and with angel’s wings. Everyone applauded loudly as the cake was levered onto the table, but as they did, the cake began to fall apart. Large rents appeared on the side, and the marzipan Prince began to list. Suddenly, the figure toppled, sliding down the side of the cake in avalanche of delectable frosting and struck the table hard enough that its head snapped off and rolled across the table to land in Faust’s lap. A few stifled chuckles and giggles came from the assembled. The hate in Embuirhan’s eyes was palpable, but just as he was about to order the execution of his entire cooking staff, the Fabler stepped in, observing that “the cake is not made of stone and iron, and I’ll eat it if no one else will!” The joke went over well, and the mood was broken as the guests laughed along with him. Everyone settled in to the dessert, chatting amiably…all except Embuirhan, who sat in brooding silence. With the conclusion of the great feast, the Fabler called for the traditional Dance of the Dead, which closed all important ceremonies in Starmantle. The help began clearing the table as the fool led the guests into the palace ballroom. There, the skeletal performers from the Harlequinade Mortificatio, now dressed as the dead founding fathers of Starmantle, performed the bizarre ritual. The guests joined in, whirling about the dance floor, constantly changing partners. Embuirhan sat in silence upon his throne, merely watching the festivities. Faust made a beeline for Lashonna as the dance began. “May I have the honor of the first dance my lady?” He asked, extending his hand. The sorceress smiled and curtsied, accepting his offer. “My friends and I have been anxious to make your acquaintance,” the psion said quietly as he led, rather clumsily. “You are a hard woman to track down.” Lashonna said nothing, merely continuing to smile slightly. “Do you know a man named Balakarde?” Faust finally blurted out bluntly. “Save your questions for later, my curious friend,” Lashonna whispered in a silky voice. “There are too many ears in this place. You and your friends will come to Mistwall Manor at midnight, two nights hence, and all will be made clear.” Faust nodded, and bowed out as the next dancer, Giovanni, took his place. “My lady,” he said as he spun her about with considerably more grace than his cohort. “I have already told your friend to save your queries for now,” she replied, mildly annoyed. “Yes,” the warlock persisted, “but I must tell you that I saw the Blessed Angels depart after our colleague was escorted out. Can you intervene on his behalf?” “It’s already too late,” she replied. Grubber walked in silence down the Toil Road, making his way back towards the Deluxury. He was consumed with guilt, afraid that his actions might have jeopardized the safety of his friends and their mission. So preoccupied was he, that at first he failed to notice the uncharacteristic silence of the usually busy highway. Despite the festivities still going strong throughout the city, there was not another living soul within three blocks. The goliath skin began to prickle with unease, and a soft gust of wind washed over him. Suddenly, four crimson-haired women appeared around him, seemingly from thin air. Large, black-feathered wings sprouted from their backs, and they were clad all in black, spiked leather. Crossbows hung at their sides, and each gripped a long sword in one hand. Blessed Angels. “You should be careful whom you offend in the future, mortal,” one of them intoned, “assuming, of course, that you have one.” Abruptly, all four of them raised their free hands, and a greasy, black miasma surrounded Grubber on all sides, washing over him like an oil slick. He felt waves of nausea churn through his guts as his skin seemed to burn like acid fire. Desperately, he counter-attacked, conjuring a Shard Storm, which tore through the infernal guardians. They shrieked in anger and pain, but as the goliath stumbled away from them, they struck at him with their blades, opening several gaping, bloody wounds. As one, they closed with him, speaking in their dark tongue, summoning black energy to surround their swords. Again they struck, and Grubber felt darkness enveloping him. But then, just as he felt the pull of the void, the Contingency he had put in effect upon first entering this accursed city took effect, and a blast of powerful healing magic coursed through his battered body. As his strength returned, Grubber took a step back, and then spoke a single Word, whisking him from the midst of the Blessed Angels, to the safety of the Church of Blessed Deliverance. Embuirhan rose from his throne and moved to leave, applauded by his guests as he went. Giovanni’s enhanced vision showed him that the Prince’s four bodyguards had returned as he left the room. It was over then. The guests were escorted back to their carriages, and returned to their domiciles. Pavel and Faust were let off at the Ogre’s Hideout just as V’juss entered the inn. When the pair followed, they eyes of every hobgoblin in the common room fell upon them. “That’s right,” Pavel growled. “Take a good look, boys. I’m the one that killed yer honcho. Just ask his lap dog over there. Now, if any of ya knows what’s good fer ya, you’ll haul yer sorry arses out of here tonight. If I lay eyes on a single one of ya tomorrow, you’ll be joinin’ B’kruss.” The dwarf turned and stomped up the stairs towards B’kruss’ private suite. “Yeah!” Faust said to the silent crowd as he followed his companion. No sooner had Giovanni stepped into his room at the Deluxury, than he heard a familiar voice inside his head. ‘This is Grubber. Angels attacked. Alive and well. Hidden by Helm. Bring gear.’ Giovanni recognized the Sending for what it was, and replied in kind, ‘Glad you are alive. Your decision was unwise. Will deliver your gear to Rhorsk in morning.’ Assuming the Blessed Angels don’t find you first, he added silently to himself. Two days passed, and life returned to what passed for normal in Starmantle, now that the celebration was over. At midnight on that second evening, a black carriage pulled up before the Deluxury. It was driven by a tall, gaunt half-orc, who walked with a limp. All the members of the League, save Grubber, climbed aboard the coach, and were taken with haste to Mistwall Manor. They disembarked, and where escorted through a luxurious courtyard of fountains and topiaries, into a front parlor, and then up a spiraling marble staircase to a private study and reading room. The walls of the spacious, tastefully decorated study were filled with shelves of leather-bound tomes on a wide variety of topics. A large desk sat against the far wall, its surface empty save for a stack of tattered pieces of yellowed paper. The carpet was a deep shade of crimson, and arrayed on it in a semicircle before the desk were several high-backed chairs fitted with velvet cushions. Lashonna waited here, wrapped in a gold-trimmed gown of the very latest fashion, and cut to accentuate her near perfect figure. A delighted smile danced upon her scarlet lips as she dismissed her manservant. “You won’t be needed any longer Kelgorn. I’m sure I’ll be quite well attended to, with such pleasing guests to keep me company. Good night.” The half-orc withdrew with a stiff bow as Lashonna gestured to the chairs before the desk. “I apologize again for the late hour,” Lashonna said, seating herself behind the desk, “but I assure you that what I have to tell you will make the loss of your beauty sleep worthwhile.” She slid the tattered pages on the desk towards Faust. “Balakarde’s journal,” she said, “or what’s left of it, in any event. You’ll see he’s quite mad. Obsessed, the poor dear, and with worms no less. Tiresome. But please, look it over, and then we can talk.” Hawk took the papers and read them aloud to his companions. “’It is as I suspected. The ancient undead dragon Dragotha is the herald of Kyuss. He was granted his unlife by the Wormgod well over fifteen centuries ago, after he found the monolith in Kuluth-Mar and brought it to his lair in Skull Gorge. When Dragotha was slain by Tiamat, Kyuss repaid him with the gift of undeath, and in so doing bound him eternally to his will. The Rite they performed obscured Dragotha’s phylactery from thought, history and sight…as if it never existed at all. But the Order of the Storm were no fools. They suspected Kyuss would one day rise again, that his worms would learn to walk once more. Dragotha’s presence in the world has been quiet for the last several ages. The loss of his phylactery fifteen-hundred years ago left him a coward. Yet my research proves he stirs from his long sleep, that he now intends to waken Kyuss after all this time. Why now? What has changed? I fear that a journey to Skull Gorge to confront the dracolich is my only remaining option.’” “It seems obvious,” Lashonna said once Hawk had finished, “that Dragotha intends to release Kyuss from his prison, and in so doing, usher in the Age of Worms. The solution seems obvious. A king without his commander is powerless. It’s taken Dragotha nearly fifteen-hundred years to reach this point. Remove him now, and it will certainly be centuries before anything has a chance to release the Wormgod again. Of course, one cannot simply waltz into a lich’s lair, kill him, and be done with it. Dragotha may not know where his phylactery is, but that doesn’t mean it’s useless to him. Destroying him before you destroy his phylactery is as good as finding it and handing it over to him. So your first order of business should be to find his phylactery and destroy it. And that’s where it gets complicated. I have no idea where it may be hidden. Obviously, neither does Dragotha, and that’s a good thing. Certainly, his doubt to its location is the main reason he hasn’t tried to simply destroy himself as a desperate way to discover its location. Balakarde left for Skull Gorge, against my advice, intending to learn more about Dragotha. He never returned, but at least he had the foresight to leave his journal fragments with me. His journal and his disappearance have become something of a minor obsession of mine, I must confess. I’ve spent the last sixteen years, on and off, studying the lore of Kyuss, of Dragotha, and associated matters. And while I haven’t managed to determine where Dragotha’s phylactery is hidden, I do believe I know where that information might be found. As Balakarde mentions in his journal, the Age of Worms and Kyuss’ resurrection were stopped fifteen centuries ago by the Order of the Storm. Historians believe that the Order died out not long after this victory, hunted down and destroyed by the last surviving members of the cult of Kyuss. These records are incorrect. The Order instead retreated to their stronghold on a remote island in the Shining Sea called Tilagos. On this island there is a library of sorts, a repository of the Order’s lore. It has been sought for centuries by wizards, scholars, and explorers, for it is said to be filled with hundreds of years of history, memories, dreams, and of course secrets. Secrets are so valuable, aren’t they, my darlings? Seems the longer they are kept, the more they’re worth. If a written account of the secret of what happened to Dragotha’s phylactery exists, it must certainly be there. Of course, there are complications…there always are, right? Before they built this library, the Order of the Storm drove a lasting bargain with primal elemental forces. They sacrificed their lives to whisk the island’s interior off the Material Plane. In its place is a barren rock surrounded by an ever-raging storm of such intensity that ships that approach within ten miles are invariably lost. The island itself appears on no maps, but the stories hint that the druids left a way for those in need to reach their secrets while at the same time warding the place away from the prying eyes of Kyuss’ undead fanatics. Worse, I’m afraid others have learned this as well, in part as an unfortunate result of my own research. I have a fair amount of competition in the arena of gathering and keeping secrets, and invariably word gets out that I’ve made a discovery. My enemies are always quick to nip at my heels. I speak in particular of a simpering dog of a man named Heskin, who once served me. I’m afraid Heskin has been wooed from my side with promises of wealth and power, and has taken word of this discovery to a disreputable man indeed, a powerful priest of Velsharoon named Darl Quethos.” “Why can’t you go to Tilagos yourself?” Giovanni asked as she paused. “I have reasons of my own,” she replied. “Any allies that I have simply wouldn’t be of any help against the type of things that might be faced there. To tell the truth, I can’t think of anyone other than your group that could have a chance against Dragotha. Now, would you like to have a peek at Heskin and his new friends?” She produced a small lock of hair tied with a gold wire on a fine gold chain. She then produced a scroll, and began to chant a litany of arcane words. A tumultuous scene faded into view in the middle of the room for all to observe, along with the howling sound of an oceanic tempest. The image cleared to show a deathly pale man lashed to a ship’s mast with several coils of rope. Although details beyond a ten-foot radius around Heskin were hazy and unclear, it was obvious that the ship was caught in a tremendous storm…the decks were awash in foamy water as both waves and driving sheets of rain tormented the terrified man. Sounds of gruff sailors shouting commands and curses in Orc could be heard under the raging tumult of the storm, and now and then, frantic orc sailors moved quickly into view, and then back into obscurity as they busied themselves at securing the ship. At one point, two lithe, cloaked figures dropped to the deck from the rigging on either side of Heskin. They were identically dressed in tightly wrapped silken scarves, and small devilish horns sprouted from their heads. The cloaked figures spared condescending glances at Heskin, their eyes glowing faintly with infernal fire before they moved out of sight towards the ship’s unseen bow. Soon thereafter, a blazing red-skinned humanoid with an immense, bulging frame strode almost casually through the scene. The rain sizzled into steam as it struck his burning skin. As he reached Heskin, he looked down at the man, and then looked toward the bow, crying out, “Darl! It looks like your pet might be taking on water!” With that, the creature exploded into a tremendous belly laugh. A few moments later, another two figures stepped into view. The smaller of the two was a shifty-eyed humanoid bird who wore a hooded cloak and carried a repeating crossbow. The other was a towering man clothed in flowing blue robes. His cowl protected his face from the wind and his hands were obscured by long, rain-soaked sleeves. He squatted before Heskin and spoke to him in a low voice, “Only a few hours more, Heskin, and we shall see if you live or die.” Suddenly, the blue-robed man’s head whipped around to look directly into the scrying sensor. His face was pale but commanding, and twisted into a snarl as he stood. “It seems we have guests, my friends,” he said. “Perhaps allies of this cur?” He turned back to the bound man, and as he did he pulled back his left sleeve, revealing a rotten, black-nailed appendage that seemed to writhe and twitch with its own life. “We can’t have your friends watching us, so it seems your journey comes to an early end, Heskin!” The putrid hand unfurled and reached out to caress Heskin’s brow. Heskin shrieked in mortal pain as the fingertip froze the skin it touched into an angry black scar. The blue-robed man then made a fist and uttered a single unintelligible word. As he spoke it, Heskin’s eyes bulged, the cords in his neck throbbed, and he slumped against his bonds, dead. The scrying link was broken, and the image faded from view. Lashonna returned to her seat, visibly shaken. “The Hand of Velsharoon,” she murmured. “Where is Tilagos?” Hawk asked into the silence. “It is in the northern reaches of the Shining Sea,” Lashonna replied, regaining her composure. “It doesn’t appear on most maps, but I happen to have some that give its location.” “We appreciate your help in this,” Hawk said with finality. “We will leave as soon as possible.” With that, he turned to go. “Just one more thing,” Giovanni said to Lashonna. “We know you are undead.” Lashonna looked at him with piercing eyes. “What I am shouldn’t matter,” she said levelly. “I’ve spent years getting where I am, and I’m not about to see all that washed away by Dragotha, and neither should you. Take care of Dragotha and if you still feel that I can’t be trusted, you know where to find me.” Giovanni nodded. “I would leave town quickly,” Lashonna concluded, “and take your goliath friend with you. I can only insure his safety for so long.” [/QUOTE]
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JollyDoc's Age of Worms (Updated 11/30, Epilogue!)
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