24 - The Events At Redmond

The Gate of Redmond

As the party approached the city of Redmond, they were met with a familiar sight—merchant wagons and carts stretching across the bridge leading to the entrance. A long queue of traders, peddlers, and travelers waited in frustration, their patience wearing thin under the watchful eyes of the city guards. The massive gates remained firmly shut, the iron portcullis lowered, barring entry to all who sought passage.

Curious about the commotion, Amelia broke away from the group and approached a pair of merchants engaged in hushed complaints. They explained that the city had reached capacity due to the anticipation surrounding tomorrow’s event. The gates would remain closed until morning, leaving those outside with little choice but to wait. Undeterred, the party moved closer to the entrance, where a heated argument was unfolding between a cluster of merchants and the guards stationed on the other side. Desperation tinged the merchants’ voices as they pleaded their cases, but the guards remained steadfast, unwilling to make exceptions.

Seeing an opportunity, Amelia stepped forward and attempted to convince the guards that she was part of the event. Her words, however, found no purchase. The guards, adhering strictly to their orders, refused to grant her passage and instead instructed her to return in the morning for the scheduled "weapon" showcase.

Frustrated by the delay, Amelia chose a more dramatic approach. With a surge of primal energy, she shifted into her beast form, hoping to prove her significance to the event. Instead, the sudden transformation sent the gathered merchants into a panic. Some recoiled in fear, while others stumbled backward, startled by the display. The guards, now on edge, tightened their grips on their weapons and quickly took note of Ves among the party. Suspicion flickered in their eyes as they demanded to know if the beast was with Amelia.

Before the situation could escalate further, Bartimaeus decided to take matters into his own hands. With a whispered incantation, he vanished in a misty blur and reappeared on the other side of the gate. For a brief moment, he stood victorious—until the guards reacted. Dozens of weapons were drawn in unison, surrounding him in an instant. The lead guard ordered him to drop his arms and surrender for trespassing. Bartimaeus, ever the charmer, attempted to defuse the tension with smooth words, insisting he meant no harm. The guards, however, remained unmoved, their discipline unwavering. Realizing that compliance would only land him in chains, he invoked his magic once more, vanishing before their eyes and reappearing back outside with the rest of the party.

Still determined, Amelia persisted in arguing her case, insisting that she was the very weapon set to be showcased at the event. Before the guards could reject her claim yet again, a ripple of chaos spread through the waiting crowd. Merchants, seeing an opportunity, began rummaging through their belongings, each one suddenly claiming to possess the legendary weapon. They thrust various trinkets, blades, and oddities into the air, clamoring for entry. The guards, overwhelmed by the unexpected frenzy, struggled to maintain control as the situation spiraled into disorder.

Seizing the opportunity to slip away from the unfolding madness, the party exchanged glances before turning back across the bridge. As merchants shouted over one another and guards struggled to restore order, the party faded into the background, leaving the chaos of the city gates behind them.

The Waterway

As the party gathered on the far side of the bridge, they debated their next course of action. The city gates remained shut behind them, and their failed attempts at gaining entry had left them with few options. While they discussed possible alternatives, a lone figure approached. A tabaxi man, his fur a mottled mix of dark grays and browns, had overheard their dilemma. He studied them with keen eyes, his posture relaxed yet observant. Having witnessed Amelia’s transformation earlier, he gauged their strength and offered a possible solution. If they were serious about getting inside, he suggested they take a less conventional route—through the waterway beneath the city.

The party exchanged uncertain glances, weighing the risks of such an approach. After a brief deliberation, they inquired about the tabaxi’s name. He introduced himself as Tav and seemed unfazed by the idea of sneaking through an underground passage. As they prepared to move, Varis pulled out vials of magical goo, distributing it among the group to apply to their feet. The substance would allow them to walk on water. Tav, however, smirked and assured them that the water wasn’t deep enough to warrant such measures. Despite this, Varis insisted, and the party humored him, coating their boots before following Tav toward the riverbank.

The tabaxi led them down to the water’s edge, where they stepped onto the shallow current and moved carefully toward the city’s rocky foundation. The natural stone wall stretched high, its weathered surface partially overtaken by creeping vines. At its base, nestled between jagged outcroppings, was an iron-barred grate. Behind it lay a dark opening, the faint sound of trickling water echoing from within. The rusted metal grate had been secured not long ago, but time had worn it down. The party set to work, using their combined strength and tools to pry it open. Ves, being the largest among them, attempted to squeeze through first, her equine frame proving an initial challenge. Her broad form got caught, forcing Rayenne to step in and bend the iron further. With a few grunts of effort, Ves finally managed to push through, allowing the rest of the group to slip in behind her.

Inside, they found themselves in a damp and dimly lit cavern system. The rough walls glistened with moisture, and the air carried a heavy, pungent scent of fish. The sound of dripping water echoed through the tunnels, the only sign of movement aside from their own. With visibility limited, the party invoked their magic, casting faint glows of light to guide their way. Amelia took the lead, moving carefully through the winding passages. Her keen senses pricked at something ahead—an unusual scent mingling with the damp air. Then, through the silence, she heard it: deep, rumbling snores. She recognized the source immediately. A bear. A large one.

She motioned for the others to stop before whispering what she had detected. Rayenne stepped forward, drawing upon her druidic connection to nature. With a quiet incantation, she attuned herself to the bear’s language, then cautiously approached the slumbering creature. Lying curled within a natural alcove of the cavern was a dire bear, its immense form rising and falling with each slow breath. At the disturbance, the beast stirred, letting out a low, rumbling growl. It lifted its head, blinking sleep-heavy eyes before speaking in a deep, wary voice. It warned her not to steal its fish.

Rayenne gently reassured the bear that they meant no harm. She inquired about its presence in the cave, and the bear explained its predicament. It had wandered in to feast on the fish that pooled in the underground stream, only to fall asleep after gorging itself. When it awoke, the exit had been sealed, leaving it trapped. Meanwhile, Amelia continued her exploration, veering down the tunnel where something unusual caught her eye. Set within a shallow recess of stone was a crude grave. The skeletal remains lay undisturbed, the bones arranged with care, but the grave marker was anything but respectful. A simple tombstone jutted from the dirt, and carved into its surface was a single word: Traitor.

She crouched down, studying the grave, then carefully reached out and lifted the skull from the remains. An idea formed in her mind. She turned back and made her way to Varis, explaining what she had found. If this person had been buried in disgrace, perhaps they had secrets worth uncovering. If Varis could call upon his magic to speak with the dead, they might learn something valuable. Varis nodded, setting himself into position. He cradled the skull in his hands, murmuring an incantation as arcane energy crackled to life. The eye sockets of the skull glowed faintly, and a ghostly voice emerged from within.

The spirit identified itself as Dante. Through a series of five cryptic answers, they learned the truth behind his death. He had broken a barrier—one that was not meant to be disturbed. The dead were not pleased. The barrier had been a stone seal leading to a hidden catacomb beneath the city. Before his execution, he had been buried here in disgrace, and as his final request, he wished for his remains to be burned.

The party considered their next steps. First, they honored the spirit’s wish, gathering at the grave and burned the bones. As flames consumed the bones, Amelia watched in silence. Once the remains had been dealt with, they turned their attention to the dire bear. If they were going to push forward into the city’s depths, it was only right to help the trapped creature escape first. With their path now set, the party prepared for what lay ahead.

The Forgotten Catacomb

The party pressed deeper into the cave, their cautious footsteps echoing softly against the damp stone. Amelia took the lead, her keen senses alert to any hidden dangers. The air grew heavy with the scent of mildew and stagnant water as she moved ahead, her path soon blocked by a crude barricade of nailed planks, wooden boxes, and rotting crates stacked haphazardly against the passageway. She signaled the others to join her, but as they began to gather, Rayenne and Varis had already ventured down a different tunnel.

Their path led them to a small chamber where a narrow shaft of light spilled down from above, illuminating the dust-laden air. In the center of the chamber hanged a rope ladder, its rungs worn smooth from years of use. Surrounding it were more crates, some broken open, their contents long since spoiled. Others remained sealed, their lids marked only by faint smudges where labels may have once been. Rayenne pried one open and found rows of unmarked glass bottles, their contents dark and still. A smuggler’s stash.

The two lingered in the chamber, contemplating their discovery. The ladder, if sturdy, could provide a direct route into the city. Rayenne cautiously climbed up, her movements slow and deliberate, until she reached the top and peered out. The opening led into a shadowed alleyway, deserted for the moment. Satisfied, she descended and relayed her findings to Varis. As they deliberated on whether to rejoin the others or attempt entry through the alley, Tav made his decision. He had seen enough. The talk of restless spirits, conversing with the dead, and befriending bears had worn his patience thin. Without a word to the others, he grasped the ladder and ascended, vanishing into the city above with only a passing farewell to Rayenne and Varis.

Meanwhile, Amelia and Ves worked at breaking through the makeshift barrier. The old wood splintered beneath their efforts, planks cracking and falling aside as they forced their way through. As they stepped forward, they found themselves in a vast, open chamber. The air was thick with age, a stale stillness hanging over the space like an undisturbed tomb. Before them, rows of unmarked mausoleums loomed in eerie silence, their surfaces worn and crumbling. Around them, piles of skulls lay stacked in grim testimony to the countless dead interred within these forgotten halls.

They had entered the catacombs.

At the heart of the chamber, standing starkly against the dim surroundings, was an outcarving of a massive stone hand. Its palm was open, facing upward, and in its center pulsed a faintly shimmering magical ward. The sigil’s soft glow flickered intermittently, like dying embers clinging to life. As the rest of the party arrived, they studied the markings, recognizing them from a similar ward they had encountered before—one designed to suppress the presence of the undead, either preventing them from manifesting or ensuring they could not leave this place.

A tense unease settled over the group. Though nothing stirred within the chamber, they felt the weight of unseen eyes upon them. Bartimaeus stiffened, his senses attuned to the presence of undeath, yet no entity revealed itself. The silence felt wrong. Varis stepped forward, his fingers tracing over the brittle surface of an old skull. He had been tasked with uncovering the truth of this place, and only the dead could provide the answers they sought. With a murmured incantation, his magic reached beyond the veil, drawing forth the whispers of the long-forgotten.

The spirit’s voice, hollow and distant, confirmed their fate—they had been deemed traitors and rebels, loyal to the Lady of Redmond, Baroness Johanna Redmond, during the Redmond Rebellion. Condemned and forsaken, they had lingered in this place, bound by the ward that prevented their spirits from passing on. They had waited in silence for centuries, longing only for release. The weight of history pressed upon the party as they pieced together the truth. This catacomb was ancient, dating back to the beginning of the Third Age. These souls had been trapped here for nearly fifteen hundred years. A decision had to be made.

With careful precision, the party dispelled the ward. A ripple of unseen energy pulsed through the chamber, and as it faded, so too did the oppressive gaze that had watched them from the shadows. The lingering spirits, freed at last, dissipated into the ether, their suffering finally at an end. But there was no time to reflect on the consequences. Their attention shifted to a massive, sealed gateway at the far end of the chamber. The bricks that walled it off were crude and mismatched, a stark contrast to the ancient stone that surrounded them. It was a later addition—one meant to keep something in or others out.

A debate arose. Some suggested returning to the ladder, believing it to be a safer route. Others were set on pressing forward. In the midst of their argument, Bartimaeus took decisive action. With a single, forceful lunge, he hurled himself into the wall. The brittle masonry crumbled beneath the impact, sending dust and fragments cascading to the ground. Beyond the breach, darkness loomed. A tunnel stretched ahead, long forgotten and untouched by time.

With no other choice, the party stepped through, their path now set toward the unknown.

The Family Divide

As the dust settled, the party turned their attention to Bartimaeus, making sure he was unharmed after his forceful breakthrough. Helping him to his feet, they pressed on into the narrow tunnel, the air thick with dampness and the scent of aged stone. Their path was tight, forcing them to move carefully in single file, the flickering glow of their light casting jagged shadows against the uneven walls.

Before long, they reached another obstacle—an unyielding stone wall. However, set within it was an archway, sealed by a massive, solid slab of stone. Varis stepped forward, scrutinizing the structure for any signs of a mechanism. No knobs, no levers—just the smooth surface of the stone, worn slightly from time but otherwise undisturbed. Rather than overthinking it, he pressed his hands against the cold surface and began to push. At first, nothing happened. Then, with a low groan of protest, the slab shifted, revealing itself to be a rotating stone door. The weight of centuries made it nearly impossible to move, the accumulated dust and debris grinding against its mechanism. Together, the party forced it open just enough to slip through the narrow gap they had created, squeezing into the chamber beyond.

They found themselves inside an archive—though not one filled with books and scrolls. The room was lined with stone tables and shelves, and on both sides of the chamber, ornate statues stood as silent sentinels, their carved expressions frozen in solemn vigilance. Dust coated every surface, untouched by time, save for the occasional markings left by small vermin. Varis took a closer look at the stone shelves, quickly realizing the absence of parchment or tomes. Instead, ancient stone slabs rested upon them, each etched with meticulous carvings. He ran his fingers over the inscriptions, brushing away loose dust, and found rows upon rows of names. These were records—not of scholars or scribes, but of the condemned. A ledger of souls who had met their fate long ago.

Rayenne approached one of the statues, tracing the engraved names at its base. As she read, recognition flickered in her eyes. Some of the names were familiar—not just those lost to history, but names of old noble houses, some of which still existed in the present. This was more than just a forgotten archive; it was history of Redmond’s past. Before anyone could linger on the implications, a sudden, sharp bark rang out from the adjacent chamber.

The party froze.

Moving cautiously, they followed the sound, creeping toward a doorway leading into the next room. Rayenne took the lead, peeking through the narrow opening. Beyond the threshold, she saw a group of people gathered—guards clad in steel, and people engaged in quiet discussion. Among them, a large dog stood alert, sniffing the air. It barked again, turning toward its handler, trying to communicate what it had sensed. The party couldn’t understand its words, but Rayenne could. The dog had picked up their scent and was trying to warn its owner of their presence.

Whispering back to the others, Rayenne relayed the situation. If they lingered much longer, they would be discovered. Some among them once again argued for retreating to the tunnel and taking the ladder, hoping to slip away unnoticed. But their voices were drowned out as a decision was made—there would be no running. Ves took the initiative, stepping forward into the chamber. The moment she did, weapons were drawn. The guards tensed, their hands tightening around their hilts, and a few of them moved to block any potential escape. Suspicion hung thick in the air as the people within the room demanded to know who they were and where they had come from. The party quickly explained their descent through the catacombs, but their words were met with skepticism.

Then Amelia spoke, shifting the conversation toward the greater danger at hand—the event scheduled for tomorrow. She warned them that something sinister could be at play, a revelation that caught the attention of one woman among the group. The young woman, the same one whom the dog had been trying to warn, stepped forward. She, too, harbored doubts about the upcoming event, particularly regarding the man at the center of it—Amelia’s father, William Vicarin. He was, at that very moment, in council with the Baron of Redmond, discussing the final details of tomorrow’s grand showcase.

A young man, clad in gleaming plate armor, stepped forward next. His presence commanded attention, and as he spoke, it became clear that he had no intention of allowing any interference. He acknowledged their warning but made it known that the event would proceed as planned. The baron’s plans would not be disrupted. He introduced himself as Fredric Horizon, heir to House Redmond. His loyalty to his father was unwavering, and he would not entertain talk of conspiracies or threats. Dismissing the party, he turned to the young woman—his sister, Tina Rocks—and instructed her to ensure that they were dealt with. With that, he departed, leaving the matter in her hands.

Tina regarded the party carefully. Instead of treating them as enemies, she offered a proposition. If they truly believed danger would strike tomorrow, then they should be there to protect her father, the baron. In exchange, she would ensure they had a place to stay for the night, securing rooms for them at the local inn. The party agreed, knowing that this would grant them a chance to prepare and gather more information.

With their next course of action set, they departed from the underground chamber, emerging into the city of Redmond. The transition from the dark, musty tunnels to the lively streets was stark. Merchants peddled their goods, townsfolk went about their evening routines. They made their way to the inn, securing their rooms for the night. But rest would come later. There was still much to do.

Their focus shifted to uncovering the nature of the supposed “weapon” that was to be unveiled during the showcase. William was at the center of it all, and if he held any knowledge of what was to come, they needed to find a way to learn the truth. Their plan was simple—spy on William and determine whether he had the weapon in his possession. But first, they would rest, gathering their strength for the challenges that lay ahead.  Tomorrow, they would be at the heart of it all.

Investigating Redmond

After settling into their rooms at the Black Bull Inn, the party took the opportunity to rest for an hour, allowing the afternoon light to cast long shadows through the windows. The distant sounds of Redmond’s bustling streets filtered into their quarters—a reminder that time was slipping away.

Once rested, Varis took the initiative to gather everyone in the common area of their floor. Instead of knocking on doors like any reasonable person might, he had a different approach in mind. Taking a seat at the central table, he pulled out a thin length of thread and gestured for Ameena to come closer. She stood near the fireplace, arms crossed, watching him with mild curiosity. When he motioned for her to pull the thread, she hesitated, uncertain of his intentions.

Varis insisted, and with an exasperated sigh, Ameena finally complied. The moment she gave the thread a firm tug, an alarm spell triggered, unleashing a sharp, ringing sound that echoed across the floor. Doors flung open one by one as the rest of the party emerged, startled and confused by the sudden noise. A chorus of groans and complaints followed as they realized what Varis had done—rather than simply knocking, he had opted for an unnecessarily dramatic method to summon them. Everyone had responded to the alarm except Ves, who remained in her room, unaware of what the sound signified. This led to a brief argument over who should go fetch her, with half the group unwilling and the other half rolling their eyes at the entire situation. Eventually, someone relented and went to retrieve her, bringing Ves into the meeting so they could finally begin discussing their next move.

Their goal remained the same: investigate the whereabouts of the supposed weapon and track down William before the event tomorrow. With daylight still on their side, they left the inn and stepped onto the bustling streets of Redmond. The city was alive with activity—merchants shouting to advertise their wares and patrols of guards keeping a watchful eye on the people. As they walked, trying to decide on their next course of action, Varis’s attention was caught by a nearby jewelry store. Its wooden sign said Stones and Gems was inviting.. He mentioned the possibility of making a stop, specifically to look for diamonds—an item of great value both in trade and in magic.

Before heading inside, he approached a nearby city guard, tapping him on the shoulder and inquiring about the local blacksmith. The guard, though polite, delivered disappointing news. The smithy was currently closed—the blacksmith, a man named Lordraet, had passed away just a few days prior. However, the guard offered a useful alternative, advising them to head to the lower parts of the city where the marketplace and various arms dealers could be found. Thanking him, the party made a note to investigate the marketplace and, perhaps, learn more about Lordraet’s passing.

First, however, they turned their attention to the jewelry store. Pushing open the door, they were immediately struck by the near-barren state of the place. The display cabinets, which should have been filled with gleaming gemstones and fine accessories, were mostly empty, their glass surfaces reflecting only the dull remnants of what was left. The air carried a faint scent of dust and polished metal.

From the back room, the sound of breaking glass shattered the quiet, followed by a muffled voice—a woman’s, muttering something in frustration. A moment later, the shopkeeper emerged, brushing off her apron as she stepped behind the counter. Her name was Zeth and was a half-elf, her tired expression betraying a long and likely frustrating day. Apologizing for the state of her store, she explained that someone had come in earlier and purchased nearly her entire stock of gemstones, leaving little behind for new customers. She offered what remained—standard rings and necklaces of lesser value—but the party wasn’t interested in such trinkets.

Instead, Varis reached into his belongings and produced two black sapphires. Their deep, obsidian hues caught what little light remained in the shop, making them appear like captured fragments of the night sky. After a brief negotiation, he sold them to the shopkeeper for 8,500 gold, replenishing some of the party’s resources. Taking advantage of the exchange, Varis pressed her for details about the mysterious customer who had emptied her store. She recalled that it had been a dragonborn with yellowish-brown scales, his eyes concealed behind a pair of tinted goggles. Beyond that, she had no name, nor any real details of his purpose—only that he had paid well and taken nearly everything of value.

Before leaving, Varis asked if she knew anything about the late blacksmith, Lordraet. She admitted she knew little, only that his passing had been recent and unexpected. With no further leads inside the shop, the party thanked her and stepped back into the streets of Redmond. The marketplace awaited them, and with it, the chance to uncover more pieces of the puzzle before the coming event.

The Marketplace

The party eventually found their way to the heart of the marketplace, a sprawling, chaotic expanse filled with merchants hawking their wares from wooden stalls lining both sides of the bustling walkways. Vibrant fabrics draped over makeshift awnings, shielding delicate goods from the afternoon sun, while the scent of roasted meats, exotic spices, and freshly baked bread mixed with the metallic tang of metalworks. Shouts of vendors advertising their goods blended with the sharp sounds of bartering and coin clinking against wooden counters, creating an overwhelming symphony of commerce.

Amidst the commotion, Amelia kept a sharp eye out for weapons, specifically a new bow. She had parted with her previous one after being freed from its cursed binding and now needed a suitable replacement. As she scanned the various weapon stalls, Rayenne decided to lend a hand, calling upon her innate druidic senses to detect the presence of magical items nearby.

A subtle ripple of energy pulsed through the air as she focused, her senses attuning to the arcane. Among the many weapons on display, one in particular caught her attention—an elegant bow resting among several others at a weapons merchant’s stall. Unlike the others, this one shimmered faintly with a magical aura. Following Rayenne’s lead, Amelia approached the stall, her gaze locking onto the bow. The merchant, a shrewd salesman accustomed to eager buyers, wasted no time launching into a well-rehearsed sales pitch. He spoke of its craftsmanship, claiming it to be an Elven Warbow of exceptional quality, its string woven from the rarest unicorn hair.

As the merchant continued his enthusiastic pitch, Varis stepped forward without a word, reaching out to lay a hand on the bow. He closed his eyes, concentrating as he invoked his ability to discern the weapon’s true properties. The merchant, clearly displeased by this unexpected intrusion, immediately objected, insisting that the bow was meant for sale—not for idle touching. Amelia, however, intervened, assuring the merchant that Varis was with her and that his actions were necessary.

With that settled, Varis stood in silence for the next ten minutes, his fingers resting lightly on the bow as he examined its magical essence. The merchant, growing increasingly perplexed by the display, shifted uncomfortably and impatiently asked if they were planning to make a purchase. Eventually, after confirming its properties, Amelia decided to take it, finalizing the exchange before they moved on.

With the bow secured, their next priority was locating potion sellers. Rayenne, still attuned to the magical energies surrounding them, guided the group through the marketplace until they arrived at a stall specializing in alchemical brews. The scent of crushed herbs and strange elixirs hung heavy in the air, the wooden counter cluttered with vials of various colors and consistencies. The merchant, an older individual with a practiced smile, inquired about their needs, his voice carrying the inflections of a foreign accent.

As they surveyed the selection, they noticed that many of the potions were of an unfamiliar make, likely imported from distant lands. Despite this, they managed to find several that would prove useful for their upcoming investigation. In the end, Amelia acquired three Draughts of Resilience, two Potions of Ethereal Sight, and a single potion of invisibility—each carefully wrapped and secured before they left the stall.

With their supplies gathered, the party regrouped, turning their attention to the task ahead—investigating the Baron’s manor.

Rayenne, preparing herself for the infiltration, uncorked a potion of ethereal sight, drinking it in one swift motion before following it with a draught of resilience. A subtle shimmer passed over her body as the protective effects of the potions took hold, fortifying her against potential threats. Closing her eyes, she focused inward, calling upon her druidic abilities to blend into her surroundings. Within moments, her form shifted and shrank, her limbs folding inward as her body contorted into something smaller—until at last, where Rayenne had stood, only a tiny fly remained.

With a faint, near-silent flutter, she took to the air, darting above the crowded marketplace before setting her course toward the Baron’s manor.

Entering The Manor

Rayenne fluttered through the cool air, her tiny wings carrying her toward the looming silhouette of the Baron’s manor. The estate stood tall, its stone façade bathed in the fading light, with iron-wrought balconies and arched windows lining the upper floors. Seeking a discreet entry point, she circled the structure, her compound eyes catching the faintest flicker of movement from within. Fortune was on her side—an open window on the second floor.

Slipping inside, she found herself in a well-kept hallway where soft candlelight flickered against the polished wooden walls. The faint scent of lavender and wax lingered in the air, masking the underlying traces of ink and parchment from the offices nearby. Below, the sounds of footsteps echoed, accompanied by the occasional murmur of conversation. Navigating through the manor proved challenging; maids moved briskly between rooms, and house guards patrolled with disciplined precision. Weaving between them, Rayenne searched for the Baron, hoping to uncover his whereabouts.

Eventually, she came upon a hushed exchange between two servants. Their whispers carried just enough weight to confirm what she needed to know—the Baron was in the basement, engaged in an important discussion. Wasting no time, she descended, flitting unseen through the dimly lit corridors until she reached a large, vaulted chamber below the main floors.

The room was illuminated by a series of candle-holders, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. At its center, the Baron stood with a regal posture, his fine tunic embroidered with gold filigree. Facing him was none other than William Vicarin himself. Rayenne carefully landed against a section of the wall, her small form unnoticed save for a brief glance from one of the knights stationed near the Baron. The armored man stiffened for a moment, his sharp eyes lingering on the tiny fly before dismissing it as nothing more than an idle insect.

She remained still, listening.

William’s voice was measured and firm as he assured the Baron that the weapon—whatever it was—was merely delayed but would arrive in the morning. A flicker of impatience crossed the Baron’s face before he spoke again, this time mentioning that a prisoner had already been selected and was ready for the upcoming showcase. As the conversation reached a pause, William shifted uneasily, his posture subtly tensing. His gaze swept across the chamber, slow and methodical, as if he had sensed something unnatural—some unseen presence lingering nearby. For a brief, nerve-wracking moment, Rayenne feared that he had detected her, that he could see beyond her tiny disguise.

But then, with no clear sign of discovery, William gathered his papers and offered the Baron a curt nod before turning to leave. Rayenne hesitated, weighing her next move. Should she remain in the basement to observe the Baron further, or should she follow William and risk missing valuable information? A moment of indecision passed before instinct took hold—William was the more elusive target, and his actions could lead to greater revelations.

With a quick burst of movement, she lifted off and pursued him up the stairwell, keeping to the high corners of the ceilings.

William moved through the hallways with purpose, only to be intercepted near the entrance by a familiar figure—the Baron’s daughter, Tina. Rayenne hovered nearby as Tina wasted no time voicing her clear distrust of the man, her arms crossed, her expression sharp with disapproval. William, however, remained indifferent, his gaze passing over her with cold detachment. He did not argue, nor did he acknowledge her concerns. He simply turned and continued walking, his silence as dismissive as any words he could have spoken. Tina let out a sharp scoff, her frustration evident, but William paid her no further mind.

Rayenne followed him beyond the manor’s grand doors, into the open courtyard. The air had turned crisp, the quiet outside stark in contrast to the lively hum of the marketplace beyond the estate walls. Then, without warning, William reached into his cloak, retrieving something small and metallic. With a swift motion, he activated it, and before Rayenne’s eyes, a small, shimmering portal flared into existence. A doorway of swirling energy, no larger than a man’s height, rippled in the air before him.

Without hesitation, he stepped through. The portal collapsed as quickly as it had formed, vanishing without a trace.

Rayenne remained suspended in the air, momentarily stunned. Of all the possibilities she had considered, this was not one she had anticipated. There was no clear sign of where he had gone, nor how far his teleportation had taken him. Shaking off her surprise, she turned sharply in the air, wings beating furiously as she hurried back toward the marketplace. She had no time to waste—the others needed to hear what she had discovered.

The Jail and Prisoner

As Rayenne neared the bustling marketplace, she recalled the location of the local jail. The Baron's mention of a prisoner for the "showcase" lingered in her mind, and if this prisoner was still being held, the jail was the most logical place to start looking. Wasting no time, she altered her flight path, heading toward the stone structure that stood tucked between the marketplace of the city.

Gliding through the open doorway, she slipped inside undetected. Despite the quiet, a handful of guards stood watch, their boots scuffing lightly against the worn floor as they idly exchanged murmured words. None paid any mind to a mere fly buzzing in the dim light. Navigating the rows of iron-barred cells, Rayenne peered into each one, studying the prisoners in hopes of finding some clue as to who might have been chosen for whatever grim purpose the Baron had spoken of. Some captives lay curled in restless sleep, while others sat against the walls, their faces vacant with resignation. None bore any immediate signs that set them apart from the others.

Lacking a clear lead, she took to the air again, scanning for any administrative records that might provide more insight. In the main guard station, her multifaceted eyes landed upon an open ledger placed upon a sturdy wooden counter. The pages contained lists of names, crimes, and sentences, meticulously recorded. She skimmed through the inked lines until one particular entry caught her attention. A prisoner’s details had been crossed out with a single, deliberate stroke. Their crime? Heresy against the Dominion. The sentence: twenty years imprisonment, followed by transport to the Dominion itself. A special note further detailed their past—a former priest who had made claims of visions from a “false god.”

The significance of this was undeniable, but the ledger did not indicate which cell the prisoner had been held in. With no further leads to follow, Rayenne decided she had learned all she could. She lifted off from the desk, darting back toward the window before slipping out into the air once more. Descending toward the lower districts of the city, she finally spotted her companions gathered near the wooden walkways of the merchant quarter. She prepared to revert to her normal form—only for a sudden, forceful impact to send her body spiraling through the air.

Varis, unaware of her presence, had swatted at the tiny fly out of pure reflex.

Rayenne tumbled into the side of a rock wall, the force jarring her from her transformation. She landed unceremoniously onto a wooden pathway a meter below, shifting back into her normal form as she hit the planks with a dull thud. The abrupt shift startled the group, and for a brief moment, she lay still, dazed from the impact. Varis, realizing his mistake, quickly commanded his automaton, Sabre, to retrieve her. The mechanical construct stepped forward, lifting Rayenne effortlessly before hoisting her over its metallic shoulder. The party had little time to dwell on the mishap—there was still the matter of investigating the smithy.

The blacksmith’s workshop was not far from their location, yet when they arrived, they found the building locked down. Its windows and doors had been hastily secured with wooden planks, nailed tightly across the entrances to deter intruders. The group took in their surroundings—several townsfolk lingered nearby, their ragged clothing and weary faces revealing the hardships of the city’s lower district. Attempting to force their way inside with so many onlookers would draw unwanted attention.

Bartimaeus, ever resourceful, surveyed the gathering crowd and saw an opportunity. Stepping away, he quietly invoked his limited paladin abilities, conjuring simple food and drink into existence. Without hesitation, he began distributing it among the needy, handing out fresh loaves and water to those who gratefully accepted the offerings. The sight of food stirred immediate interest, and within moments, the people of the district gathered around Bartimaeus, eager to receive their share. With the crowd now focused on him, the party saw their window of opportunity.

Varis gestured to Sabre, and the automaton moved forward, gripping the wooden planks barring the smithy’s entrance. With an effortless pull, the reinforced boards groaned before snapping free, the entrance now clear. As Bartimaeus continued his act of charity, the rest of the group slipped inside, vanishing into the darkness of the abandoned smithy while Sabre took position outside, standing watch over the street.

The Barred Smithy

Stepping into the darkened smithy, the group fanned out, their footsteps echoing against the stone floor. Dust clung to the air, mingling with the lingering scent of metal and coal, but Amelia, relying on her heightened senses, picked up something far more distinct—the unmistakable scent of blood. She followed the scent trail to a nearby room, its door slightly ajar. Peering inside, she found nothing out of the ordinary. The space was immaculately clean, devoid of any visible signs of violence. Yet the scent of blood remained, subtle but unmistakable. Someone had bled here—a great deal—but the evidence had been scrubbed away.

After relaying her findings to the others, they reached an unsettling conclusion: this was where the blacksmith had died. But the mystery deepened—was the cleanup an effort to hide the crime, or had city officials removed the body through proper channels? There was no way to tell.

Turning to the blacksmith’s ledger, they searched for any record of recent transactions, hoping to uncover the last visitors to the shop. However, the most recent page had been torn out, a deliberate attempt to erase a crucial piece of information. With nothing more to gain, most of the group exited the smithy, leaving only Varis and Rayenne behind to examine the space further. Moments later, Bartimaeus reentered, drawn by an idea forming in Varis’ mind—one that carried significant risk.

Varis retrieved a set of Chronos Stone, powerful artifacts capable of manipulating time. While they were typically used to stop or accelerate time, he intended to attempt something far more dangerous—forcing a glimpse into the past. As an artificer, he believed he could bend their properties to his will, but tampering with time itself was an unpredictable venture. Bartimaeus, recognizing the magnitude of the endeavor, retrieved a Source Stone—a rare arcane catalyst—and handed it to Varis. The artifact pulsed with latent energy, amplifying the potency of the spell beyond its natural limits.

As Varis activated the stones, the very air inside the smithy wavered like a mirage. The room around them blurred, its edges distorting as time began to reverse. For a moment, nothing appeared—just the empty smithy shifting through vague, indistinct echoes of its past state. Then, a figure emerged. A cloaked individual stepped through the smithy’s entrance, approaching the blacksmith Lordraet. Though their words remained unheard, their body language suggested tense discussion. After a brief exchange, the cloaked figure was led into the back room.

Minutes passed. The figure emerged once more—but Lordraet did not. Instead, the cloaked stranger strode toward the counter, reached for the ledger, and tore a page from its binding before swiftly exiting the building. Determined to glean more, Varis pushed the spell to its absolute threshold, stretching the chrono stones to their breaking point. For a fraction of a second, the illusion sharpened—just long enough to reveal the stranger’s features beneath the hood. A dragonborn. His scales were yellowish-brown, a rare coloration. Before Varis could refine the image further, reality snapped back into place with violent force.

A sudden implosion rocked the room, releasing a concussive blast that shattered every window and sent them hurtling backward. The sheer force of the explosion suggested more than just arcane instability—almost as if a divine force had intervened, rejecting Varis’ tampering with time itself. Glass and debris rained down around them as the explosion’s sound echoed through the city streets. The damage was impossible to hide.

With alarm bells sure to follow, the group wasted no time fleeing the scene. Eventually, they stumbled upon The Dark Cupid, a well-lit establishment that, at a glance, seemed to offer lodging. Desperate for a place to lay low, they pushed inside. The moment they stepped through the doors, however, it became clear that The Dark Cupid was not an inn—it was a brothel. Lavish velvet curtains and perfumed incense filled the air as courtesans lounged about, their gazes shifting toward the newcomers. Realizing their mistake, the party quickly made it clear they sought only a room—one large enough for all of them, with no added “services.”

A matronly woman, the apparent head of the establishment, handled their request, albeit with mild amusement. Meanwhile, a new plan formed—if the brothel operated throughout the day, then perhaps some of the working girls had seen who entered the smithy before the blacksmith’s demise. Varis took it upon himself to find the brothel’s madam, hoping she could identify which of the workers had been present that day. While she was uncertain, she offered Ves a tour of the establishment.

Unaware of what a brothel actually was, Ves accepted. The workers, however, were utterly perplexed at how to accommodate a centaur. While this strange encounter unfolded, the rest of the party remained inside, waiting for the city guard to finish inspecting the now-ruined smithy. Outside, patrols had already begun questioning passersby, their attention fixed on the destruction left in the wake of the botched chrono spell. For now, the group remained hidden—but their next move would have to be made carefully.

Investigating The Square

The party remained inside The Dark Cupid, waiting for the chaos outside to subside. Across the street, the city guards had gathered in force, assessing the damage done to the smithy. They worked quickly, securing the shattered windows and barring the entrance to prevent further trespass. Onlookers, drawn by the explosion, lingered for a while before eventually losing interest and dispersing. As the commotion settled, the streets returned to a semblance of normalcy. Taking advantage of the lull, the party slipped out of the brothel, mindful of the fading daylight. There were still a few hours before nightfall, enough time to investigate the city square—the site of tomorrow’s showcase. If something sinister was planned, they needed to gather information while they could.

Navigating through the city streets, they soon noticed that several key routes had been barricaded, heavily guarded by patrols. Whether this was part of routine security for the event or a reaction to the earlier explosion remained unclear. The increased presence of guards forced them to take alternative paths, winding through backstreets until they finally reached the perimeter of the square. As they approached, two guards blocked their way, standing firm at the entrance. They explained that the square was being cleared of market stalls and vendor goods to make room for the crowds expected to gather the next day. No civilians were allowed in.

Thinking quickly, the party devised a ruse. Grabbing a few stray sacks from a nearby pile, they claimed to be there on behalf of Tina Rocks, the Baron's daughter. The excuse worked—though not without some suspicion. One of the guards agreed to let them through but assigned his partner to escort them, ensuring they entered and exited without delay. Once inside the square, the party wasted no time. The vast, open space had been largely cleared, with only a few lingering remnants of the market still scattered about. At its center stood two imposing statues of bulls, locked in a dramatic pose as if poised to charge at each other. The statues dominated the area, making them an obvious focal point for whatever grand spectacle was planned.

Observing their surroundings, they quickly noted a concerning detail—the square was practically a dead end. Aside from the main entrance, there were no viable escape routes, save for a narrow walkway along the side, which had been barricaded. If anything dangerous unfolded during the event, the crowd could easily be trapped. Bartimaeus took the opportunity to ensure their escort would not interfere. Using his paladin abilities and natural charisma, he lulled the guard into a deep, unnatural slumber. With their lone observer incapacitated, they had a brief window to investigate undisturbed.

Searching the square, they found no immediate signs of danger—the so-called “weapon” they feared had yet to arrive. If something was planned, it was either still en route or hidden elsewhere. Not wanting to leave without some kind of contingency, Varis took the initiative. Discreetly, he planted a small explosive beneath one of the wooden walkways, tucking it into a concealed crevice. If the worst came to pass during the showcase, they would have a means to create a distraction—or an escape route.

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the square. With darkness approaching, the party knew they had little time before patrols increased. Their reconnaissance complete, they roused the sleeping guard, leaving him dazed and unaware of the time lost. Making their exit as naturally as possible, they retraced their steps through the city, careful to avoid unnecessary attention. By the time they reached the inn where they were staying, the city streets had grown quieter, the hum of the day giving way to the subdued atmosphere of the approaching night. With their preparations set, the only thing left to do was rest—and await whatever the next day would bring.

Late Night Intruder

As the party prepared to settle in for the night, the weather took a sudden turn. The wind howled through the streets, rattling wooden shutters and sending rain hammering against the inn’s walls. Distant thunder rumbled, low and ominous, as flashes of lightning briefly illuminated the darkened cityscape. Inside, the warmth of the inn offered a stark contrast to the storm raging outside.

Varis, ever cautious, began his nightly ritual—setting up an alarm spell around the floor where the party was staying. The enchantment would alert everyone if anything crossed its boundary. With their precautions in place, everyone drifted off to sleep, lulled by the rhythmic drumming of rain against the roof. Not long into the night, the silence was shattered. A piercing, magical ringing echoed through the inn, sending a jolt through Varis as his alarm was triggered. He reacted instantly, grabbing his gear and rushing into the hallway, Ves close behind him. The corridor was empty. The dim lantern light flickered, casting eerie shadows along the walls, but there was no sign of an intruder.

Then, Ves noticed something—wet footprints on the wooden floor, trailing toward the staircase. She followed the trail downstairs, but as she reached the common area, she was met with a different problem. Several guests, groggy and furious from being woken by the magical alarm, confronted her, demanding answers and an apology. Ignoring them, she pushed past and stepped outside into the rain, scanning the dark streets. The footprints had disappeared, washed away by the downpour. Whoever had triggered the alarm was gone.

Frustrated but alert, Ves returned upstairs and relayed what she had seen. The guests muttered their grievances before retreating to their rooms, and the rest of the party resumed their rest. Varis, however, remained vigilant. Resetting the alarm spell, he altered it so that only he would hear its warning. If the intruder returned, he would be ready. It didn’t take long. The alarm chimed again in Varis’ mind, jolting him awake. This time, he didn’t rush into the hallway. Instead, he moved carefully, pressing himself against the wall near the doorway. Muttering an incantation, he wove invisibility around himself before peering into the corridor. At first, there was nothing—but experience had taught him not to trust his eyes alone. Channeling another spell, his vision shifted, allowing him to pierce through illusions.

There—standing at the far end of the hallway—was a figure cloaked in shadow. The intruder wasn’t just invisible; they were watching him, their gaze locked onto his despite his own unseen presence. Before the figure could react, Varis struck. He lunged forward, hurling his enchanted rope toward the unseen enemy. The magical bindings coiled around the figure like living serpents, tightening in an instant. A struggle ensued, the sounds of scuffling boots and shifting wood echoing through the hall.

Ves, hearing the commotion, stepped out of her room. From her perspective, the scene made little sense—Varis appeared out of nowhere, wrestling with an invisible force on the ground. Then, in a sudden shift, the spell concealing the intruder unraveled. A shimmer of magic faded, revealing the figure beneath. A dragonborn. The same one they had heard about before. With the storm still raging outside, the party wasted no time. Pulling the dragonborn to his feet, they dragged him toward a table, the flickering candlelight illuminating his yellowish-brown scales. The time for secrecy was over. Now, they would have their answers.

The dragonborn studied Varis with a knowing smirk, his expression unreadable beneath the dim candlelight. His eyes remained concealed behind a pair of intricate goggles, but before he could react, Varis reached forward and yanked them from his face. Beneath the tinted lenses, the dragonborn’s gaze was striking—one eye a deep, smoldering red, the other an eerie silvery-white. He scowled slightly, clearly annoyed by the intrusion, yet he maintained his composure, his smirk returning as he regarded Varis with intrigue. Then, he spoke Varis’ name.

Varis hesitated, caught off guard. The familiarity in the dragonborn’s tone was unsettling. His first instinct, oddly enough, was to assume the stranger was a fan—perhaps someone who had heard of his exploits. With a grin, he reached for a scrap of parchment, ready to sign an autograph. The dragonborn’s expression remained unimpressed. Before the exchange could continue, Amelia groggily stepped out of her room, glancing at the scene before rubbing her eyes and muttering something about being too tired for this. Without another word, she turned on her heel and disappeared back inside. Ves, though equally exhausted, chose to stay, arms crossed as she watched to see what Varis could uncover.

Varis wracked his memory, searching for any recollection of the dragonborn, but nothing surfaced. Meanwhile, the stranger shifted his gaze toward Ves before looking back at Varis, silently questioning her presence. Varis confirmed that she was with him, and at that, the dragonborn finally introduced himself. Arconot. The name struck a chord. It clicked—Arconot had to be part of the secret artificer network Varis was once involved in. The realization brought a flood of half-forgotten memories: fleeting encounters at the Arcane Academy, whispers of projects that never made it onto official studies, and the occasional exchange of studies between members who operated outside sanctioned channels.

Ves remained on the sidelines, confused by the unspoken history between them but unwilling to interrupt. Now more curious than ever, Varis pressed Arconot for answers. As he did, he casually examined the goggles he had taken, channeling magic to identify their properties. Meanwhile, Arconot remained tight-lipped, revealing only fragments of information. He admitted that he knew of William—the party’s adversary—and that he had been hired to craft something for him. A weapon. When questioned further, Arconot merely smirked and stated that it would be ready by tomorrow, inviting Varis to witness its debut. He spoke of his creation with unmistakable pride, claiming it would serve Redmond well.

Varis remained skeptical. He knew William’s track record all too well—deals with him never ended in anyone’s favor except his own. As he continued analyzing the goggles, the enchantments became clearer: they granted temporary true sight to the wearer. Impressive craftsmanship. He couldn't help but offer begrudging praise, acknowledging their value. Arconot accepted the compliment with little reaction. Then, the conversation turned to the dead blacksmith. Arconot dismissed the death as an unnecessary evil—regrettable, perhaps, but nothing he lost sleep over. His tone was cold, almost indifferent, making it clear that morality was of little concern to him when it came to his work.

Unnoticed in the dim light, Ves seized an opportunity. As Arconot sat with his satchel slightly open, she deftly slipped a hand inside and withdrew a paper scroll, concealing it beneath her arm before stepping back into the shadows. With no more answers forthcoming, Varis loosened the restraints and let Arconot go. The tension lingered between them, unspoken but present. Arconot extended a hand expectantly, and after a brief pause, Varis returned the goggles. As the dragonborn strode down the hallway, he straightened his long coat, giving it a subtle tug. Then, without a sound, his form shimmered and vanished—another trick concealed within his attire.

Varis cursed under his breath. He had to get that coat. And the goggles. They waited in silence, listening for any sign of deception. When it was clear Arconot had truly left, Ves revealed the stolen scroll. Unfurling it, they examined the sketches—detailed schematics of an advanced bombard with four revolving cannons. Their suspicions were confirmed. This was the weapon William had commissioned. The weight of the discovery settled between them, but exhaustion crept in. There was little they could do now. Folding the parchment, they returned to their rooms, knowing they would need to bring the rest of the party up to speed in the morning.

The Showcase Massacre

As the first light of morning crept over Redmond, the party stirred from their slumber one by one, shaking off the weariness of the night before. In the dim glow of the common room, Varis gathered the group and relayed what had transpired. The revelation of Arconot’s visit, his ties to William, and the grim confession about the blacksmith’s death cast a heavy pall over the room. Bartimaeus was the most visibly shaken. He struggled to grasp why they had allowed Arconot to walk free, knowing what they did now. But the decision had been made—there was no undoing it. What mattered now was what lay ahead. They readied themselves and set off toward the city square, tension hanging thick in the air.

Upon arrival, they found a crowd already gathered before an elevated stage, murmuring in anticipation. The nobility of Redmond stood apart on a high balcony overlooking the event, their fine garments marking them as lords and ladies eager to witness the promise of a new power. At the center of the stage stood Fredric Horizon, the heir of Redmond, delivering his opening speech with practiced ease. He welcomed the people warmly, his presence meant to reassure them. But all eyes drifted to the man standing to the side of the stage—William Vicarin.

The party wordlessly dispersed, moving into the crowd to take their positions. Amelia looked at her father to see If he had noticed her, he made no indication, his attention seemingly fixed on the stage. Scanning the area for anything out of place, the party found nothing overtly suspicious. Yet Varis couldn’t shake a growing unease. His thoughts drifted to Arconot. He should be here, somewhere. Reaching into his magic, he peered beyond the veil of the seen—and there he was. Leaning against a stack of wooden crates, half-hidden behind the mass of spectators, watching.

Then William stepped forward. His voice rang out, smooth and commanding, as he greeted the assembled nobility before turning his attention to the gathered townsfolk. He spoke of a new era—one not forged by sword and shield, but by the genius of alchemy. No longer would Redmond’s defenses rely on steel alone. No longer would their safety rest in the hands of mercenaries or the fleeting valor of knights. No—knowledge itself would become their fortress. He paced the stage, gesturing with confidence, feeding on the curiosity in the eyes of the crowd and the skepticism lingering among the nobles. What could he possibly unveil that would surpass centuries of warfare and strategy? The question hung in the air. Then, he chuckled, as if sharing in their doubt. Raising a hand, he offered an alternative to words.

A demonstration. At his signal, guards dragged a prisoner onto the stage. A ragged, desperate-looking soul, bound in chains. A ripple of shock moved through the audience. William raised his hands in reassurance, his tone light, almost amused. He bid them not to be alarmed. This woman was a condemned criminal, he explained, already sentenced to death. But rather than waste her final moments on the gallows, she would serve a greater purpose. Progress. He turned his gaze to the nobles, speaking with conviction. For all their wisdom and strength, threats still lurked beyond their walls—bandits, traitors, beasts, worse. But with his creation, Redmond would never again cower in fear.

As murmurs spread through the crowd, William stepped closer to the prisoner, resting a firm hand on her shoulder. Then, with a subtle motion, he injected something into her arm. A heartbeat passed. The woman gasped, her body convulsing as veins darkened beneath her skin. A low, guttural sound tore from her throat as her form twisted. Bones snapped and reformed, muscles bulged unnaturally, skin stretched and tore. The cries of the crowd turned to horror as the wretched figure writhed, growing monstrous before their eyes.

On the balcony, the nobility tensed. Years of battle-hardened instinct had them reaching for their weapons. Guards stepped forward, hands gripping their hilts, unsure whether to act. William, however, remained unshaken. Raising both hands, he commanded the panic to still. This, he declared, was what lurked in the darkness beyond their walls. This was the enemy they faced. And his creation—his weapon—would ensure Redmond was never threatened again. Varis acted on instinct.

A surge of arcane energy coiled around the criminal as she vanished from the crowd, reappearing behind the gathering. In an instant, the twisted prisoner was gone from the stage—teleported away from the spectacle, away from William’s grasp. If any part of the woman remained, he had to try and save her. Then the square erupted in thunder. A deafening barrage of cannon fire roared across the square. The party turned just in time to see it—the “weapon.” No mere firearm, but a bombard—its four massive revolving barrels housed within a wagon, now fully unveiled. Arconot stood beside it, momentarily stunned. The prisoner had vanished from sight—his target had moved. The blast, meant to strike her down, instead slammed into the rock face behind the stage. The force of the explosion ripped through the platform, sending bodies flying.

Screams tore through the crowd. Four lay dead and among them—Fredric Horizon. The heir of Redmond was gone in an instant, his body reduced to nothing but burned gore. A great cry of anguish rose from the noble balcony as the Baron himself bellowed in grief and fury, his son’s lifeless form sprawled among the wreckage. Panic swept through the square. Townsfolk scrambled to flee, pushing past one another in blind terror. The nobles, their shock turning to action, called for their guards.

And William—William seethed. His moment, shattered. His carefully constructed display, ruined. His lips curled with barely-contained fury, his hands trembling at his sides. The party had interrupted him. And now, the battle against his wickedness had begun.

William's Last Stand

As the dust and echoes of the explosion settled, the city square descended further into chaos. The guards, rattled and seeking immediate retribution, turned their weapons toward the party, believing them responsible for the carnage. A surge of hostility crackled through the air as steel was drawn and shouts of accusation filled the space.

Ves, her centaur form looking over the panicked masses, wasted no time. She surged forward with a gallop, her sights locked onto William Vicarin, who was desperately attempting to shift the guards’ attention away from himself. His carefully crafted deception was unraveling, but he needed time—time that Ves refused to give him. The moment she reached the stage, the guards reacted instinctively, slashing at her with their weapons. Their strikes met only empty air as she wove past their defenses, her momentum carrying her straight into William. A brutal flurry of fists and hooves crashed into him, the force of each blow sending reverberations through the wooden platform.

Meanwhile, Varis directed an order to Sabre. The true instrument of destruction—the infernal cannon—had to be destroyed before it could be used again. Sabre obeyed without hesitation, launching his harpoon spear with unrelenting force, piercing the arcane machinery of the war engine. With a wrenching pull, he began to dismantle it, metal groaning and gears snapping under his sheer strength. But neither Sabre nor the others anticipated what had been sealed within the cannon’s twisted mechanism.

A guttural, hellish shriek tore through the air as the construct collapsed. The cannon ruptured in a violent explosion of infernal energy, a firestorm erupting outward in a scorching wave. Blackened flames seared through the square, consuming everything in their wake. A spectral roar echoed through the square—the tormented wail of an infernal soul, released from whatever cruel prison  Arconot had fashioned inside the machine.

Sabre stood firm, his metal plating blackened but largely unharmed. Bartimaeus, fortified by the sacred waters of the rivers, managed to resist the worst of the searing blaze, though the pain still carved across his skin. Arconot, however, was not so fortunate. His invisibility shattered as he was thrown backward, his coat catching fire, his flesh scorched beneath the infernal heat. He staggered, frantically patting at his smoldering attire as he struggled to regain his composure. In the chaos, Ameena fought through the stampeding crowd, desperately trying to reach the stage where Ves held William at bay. The mass of panicked civilians slowed her advance, forcing her to push and weave through the fleeing bodies.

Varis, ever the strategist, took only a heartbeat to reassess the battlefield. Sabre was intact. Bartimaeus could endure. The cannon was destroyed, but the real threat—the mastermind behind this catastrophe—was still standing. His gaze snapped back to William. The man was dangerous, cunning, and clearly prepared to flee if given the chance.

Summoning his arcane mastery, Varis quickly began casting forth a spell designed to strip away any enchantments shielding William. The energy surged through the air, invisible yet potent, unraveling whatever concealed truths the dark alchemist had hidden beneath his carefully maintained guise. The reaction was immediate as a sickening ripple passed through William’s form, his body shuddering unnaturally. Flesh twisted, stone cracked, and wings—grotesque and jagged—burst forth from his back. The leathery appendages stretched wide, their gargoyle-like texture unmistakable. A manticore’s tail lashed behind him, its barbed tip curling with predatory intent.

Gasps of horror spread like wildfire. The guards hesitated, their confusion giving way to grim understanding. This was no mere alchemist. This was no noble visionary. William was something else—something monstrous. The hesitation lasted only a moment. Weapons, once aimed at the party, now turned on William. The tide had shifted and William knew it.

As the grotesque revelation of William’s true form sent ripples of horror through the square, one figure moved against the tide of revulsion—Amelia Vicarin. Without hesitation, she sprinted forward, weaving through the chaos with singular purpose. Though his form was monstrous, to her, he was still her father. The party barely had time to react as she reached William, hastily uncorking a series of vials and had him downing them in quick succession. The alchemical brews took hold instantly—his body surging with unnatural speed, his hands steady despite the surrounding madness. In a fluid motion, she slipped a final vial into William’s grasp before dashing away from the fight, retreating before anyone could stop her.

Then it happened. A shift, almost imperceptible at first. William straightened, his movements suddenly sharper, his eyes burning with a renewed vigor. His monstrous form no longer seemed sluggish under the weight of his transformation. The party tensed as they realized what Amelia had done. Varis exhaled sharply, his expression darkening. A variable he had not accounted for. The odds had shifted, but the battle was still winnable—so long as they adapted.

Rayenne, standing firm in the chaos, wasted no time. Recognizing the fiendish nature of William’s mutation, she raised her staff, calling forth the divine judgement of the moons. A brilliant, ethereal beam of silver light descended from the heavens, striking William with unwavering force. The radiance burned into his flesh, forcing a guttural snarl from his throat as he staggered. He raised his stone wings in a desperate attempt to shield himself, but the celestial energy seared through his defenses, scorching him down to the bone.

Varis, ever the strategist, saw the momentary weakness and acted. He called out to Rayenne, instructing her to deploy the protective dome. Without hesitation, she complied, tossing her bag as it began weaving the shimmering barrier around herself before stepping inside. Within the dome’s sanctuary, she was free to maintain her concentration on the punishing moonbeam, ensuring that William remained under its relentless assault.

Meanwhile, Bartimaeus had locked onto a different target. Arconot. The artificer had attempted to slink away amidst the chaos, but Bartimaeus would not allow him to escape judgment. With a burst of divine strength, he charged forward, slamming into Arconot with unrelenting force. The impact sent both men crashing to the ground, but Bartimaeus was already upon him, pinning him with a vice-like grip.

The paladin’s magic surged outward, blanketing the area in an aura of unyielding truth. The divine commandment settled into place—Arconot could no longer speak a lie. Bartimaeus wasted no time. With an iron will, he demanded answers. William’s schemes. The cannon. The heir’s death. But Arconot, knowing full well the nature of the spell, remained silent. Bartimaeus’ grip tightened. Silence was not an option. His sword gleamed as he pressed the edge forward in warning, the weight of divine judgment hanging over the struggling artificer.

Varis, still analyzing the battlefield, turned his attention back to William. Amelia’s intervention had shifted the fight in the alchemist’s favor, but magic could balance the scales once more. Reaching into the depths of his arcane prowess, he wove a spell designed to counteract the unnatural enhancements coursing through William’s veins. The effect was immediate. William’s movements, once unnaturally swift, began to slow. His monstrous vitality dulled, the stolen power slipping through his fingers. He let out a frustrated snarl, now caught between Varis’ arcane suppression and the relentless burning of Rayenne’s moonbeam. The battle had turned into a fight of attrition, each side grasping for control. But the party would not let this monster claim victory.

William's Ascension

Ves had been relentless, delivering a storm of strikes against William with both her fists and hooves. Each blow landed with force, sending shockwaves through his twisted frame, yet he endured. For a moment, it seemed like he was faltering—until he suddenly spread his gargoyle-like wings and took to the air. With unnatural speed, he veered sharply, diving towards Varis with predatory intent.

The city guards rushed to intercept William. Their swords and spears lashed out, attempting to ground him before he could wreak more havoc. But William, with a mere gesture, unleashed a nightmarish corruption upon them. His twisted magic seeped into their flesh, warping bone and sinew into something unnatural. Before the party could react, the guards convulsed, their bodies distorting as they let out agonized wails. Limbs thickened grotesquely, spines jutted out at odd angles, and their forms became monstrous amalgamations of muscle and jagged bone—no longer men, but abominations bound to William’s will.

At the same time Bartimaeus tightened his grip on Arconot, his arms holding the restrained man firm. The Zone of Truth still pulsed around them, its magic demanding honesty, but Arconot remained silent, his jaw clenched, refusing to utter a single word. Bartimaeus’ patience, already stretched thin amidst the chaos, finally snapped. With a swift, merciless motion, he drove his longsword straight through Arconot’s stomach. The blade pierced flesh and scales, sinking deep until the hilt pressed against his coat. Arconot let out a strangled gasp, his body shuddering in pain—but still, he refused to speak.

His silence only enraged Bartimaeus further. Without hesitation, he tore the blade free, its steel slick with blood, and drove it into Arconot again. Then again. Each thrust was deliberate, each strike meant to break him, to force him to admit his role in the carnage that was unfolding. Arconot’s breaths grew ragged, his body weakening with every wound. Blood pooled beneath him, his knees threatening to buckle, but he remained stubborn, unwilling to betray his own secrets. Only when the darkness of death loomed over him did his will finally fracture. With his strength failing, he gasped out the truth—a desperate plea for surrender spilling from his lips. He swore that he would take no further part in the battle, that he was done.

The words carried across the square, heard by those who fought alongside Bartimaeus. That was enough. Bartimaeus released his grip, allowing Arconot to slump backward. The wounded dragonborn staggered, clutching at his torn flesh, his hands trembling as he fumbled to staunch the bleeding. He collapsed to one knee, his breath shallow, his survival uncertain. But Bartimaeus had already turned away. His work was done. His focus shifted toward the monstrosity William had become. There was no more time to waste—justice still had to be delivered.

The rest of the party hesitated for only a moment before springing into action. Recognizing the severity of the situation, Varis extended his will and cast his own magic, attempting to wrest control of one of the creatures from William. Against the odds, his spell took hold—one of the abominations shuddered violently before turning against its brethren, giving the party an edge.

Seizing the opportunity, William beat his wings and retreated, returning to the stage where his alchemical concoctions had been spilled and his dark work had begun. Though still under the effects of Varis’ previous spell, he sought time to recover, his eyes flicking toward Amelia as though expecting aid. But the moonbeam continued to burn, its radiant force relentless. No matter how he moved, Rayenne’s concentrated celestial energy followed, forcing him to keep his distance from her protective dome.

The abominations, while horrific, were not insurmountable. Though their monstrous forms gave them unnatural strength, they lacked strategy, flailing wildly in their new existence. The party methodically cut them down, their focus unwavering despite the grotesque scene before them. As the last of the twisted guards fell, Varis knew this was the moment to strike. Taking a deep breath, he reached into his robes and withdrew the Crowned Skull of Xandrik, the ancient relic pulsing with dark power. A sinister green glow emanated from its hollow eyes, casting eerie shadows across the battlefield. Varis extended a hand toward William, his fingers curling as he uttered the words of a devastating necromantic incantation.

The air thickened with deathly energy as the spell took form. A withering force surged from Varis’ fingertips—Finger of Death. The necrotic blast struck William with full force, his already battered body unable to resist the raw destruction coursing through him. William let out a strangled gasp, his wings trembling as his body buckled. His knees hit the ground, his breath ragged. This was it. Defeat loomed over him. The party steeled themselves, ready for the final blow—But then William spoke.

Not to them. Not in any language they could fully understand. His voice twisted, slipping into ancient, guttural tones—whispering, pleading, conversing with something unseen. Varis, sensing the danger, attempted to counter whatever spell was forming. Yet, there was no spell—no incantation to unravel. William was not drawing on his own magic. He was giving in. A sickening sound echoed through the square as his body began to rupture. Flesh split, bones cracked, his very form unraveling as though breaking free from human limitation. His torso bloated and contorted, tearing apart like a grotesque flower bud unfolding. From its depths, his body reshaped itself—mutating into something wholly unnatural.

What emerged was no longer William as they had known him. A living cathedral of flesh and bone rose in his place—a massive, pulsating colossus of grotesque muscle, jagged protrusions, and eldritch growths. His new form seethed with ceaseless regeneration, wounds closing as soon as they were inflicted. The abomination loomed over the battlefield, shifting and twisting like a thing still becoming, as if reality itself struggled to comprehend its existence.

At the center of this horror, emerging from the ruptured cavity of his own chest, stood a younger, unblemished version of William—a perfect manifestation of his intellect and magical prowess. This being, this core of intelligence, gazed down at the party with cold amusement, fully in control of the abomination that had once been his body. What had seemed like victory mere moments ago was now nothing more than the prelude to something far worse. The party stood in stunned silence, the weight of what had just occurred sinking in. Then, from the edges of the battlefield, reinforcements arrived. Oliver Rocks, the Baron of Redmond, along with Lord Ivon Eisenhorn and Tina Rocks, descended upon the square, weapons drawn, ready to stand against whatever horror William had become.

William's grotesque form dominated the battlefield, his massive limbs swiping through the air with devastating force. Each movement of his flesh-wrought body sent waves of twisted magic spiraling outward, warping the space around him and lashing at anything within reach. The battlefield had become a shifting nightmare, and the party struggled to find openings amid the relentless chaos.

Amelia stood frozen in place, her mind locked in turmoil. A part of her still clung desperately to the idea that her father—the man he once was—could be saved. But as she took in the carnage, the mutated horrors left in his wake, and the monstrous thing he had become, that fragile hope crumbled. With a steadying breath, she pulled an arrow from her quiver, nocked it against the string of her new bow, and let it fly. The arrow struck true. A bellowing, multi-layered voice erupted from William’s mutated form, a voice no longer belonging to a singular being. The thing that wore William’s face now spoke as we, a chorus of cursed souls entwined within his flesh. Whatever humanity had once dwelled inside him was utterly lost.

Enraged by Amelia’s defiance, William’s wings unfurled, their stone-like structure grinding against the air as he took flight. He hurtled toward her, but as he descended, his trajectory shifted—his hulking form slammed into the ground beside Lord Eisenhorn and the Baron of Redmond instead. The two knights reacted instantly, steel flashing in the dim light as they moved to strike. Their weapons found purchase, cutting into William’s grotesque flesh, but it was like striking stone. The wounds barely slowed him. With an effortless motion, he swung one of his massive, malformed limbs like a bludgeon. The impact sent Lord Eisenhorn hurtling backward, his armor screeching as he crashed into the wooden deck. He did not rise. The Baron, though pushed back by the force, dug his feet into the ground and held firm, his stance unwavering.

From a distance, Tina Rocks took aim. Her arrows streaked through the air, finding their mark in William’s exposed joints and eyes, though they did little to halt his rampage. Seeing Eisenhorn motionless on the ground, she quickly repositioned, moving to his side in an attempt to rouse him.

Meanwhile, William shifted, his many eyes scanning the battlefield. He seemed to be searching for something—or someone. Then, without warning, he turned and retreated back onto the stage, where he was met by a ferocious assault. Ves struck first, her blows raining down on him in a relentless storm of fists and hooves, each impact reverberating through his grotesque form. Before he could react, Sabre lunged in, driving his spear deep into the mutated horror’s flesh. But then William spotted her.

Across the battlefield, in the chaos of battle, his gaze locked onto Amelia. His elongated fingers curled inward, eldritch energy surging through them. Before she could react, a dark, warping force enveloped her body. Her limbs twisted, her spine contorted, and her very essence was reshaped against her will. When the magic settled, Amelia was no longer herself—her once-graceful form had become hunched, monstrous, a sluggish and grotesque version of what she once was. Though her mind remained intact, she could do nothing but stumble in place, trapped within this wretched transformation. Her body refused to obey her will, rendering her unable to act. For the moment, she was out of the fight.

The Birth Of A Demigod

As the battle raged on, the party’s relentless assault forced William to act with desperation. Realizing he could not withstand their combined efforts much longer, he sought to shift their focus away from him. With a surge of arcane might, he reached out to the battlefield's fallen—the slain city guards and the grotesque remains of the abominations he had twisted before. In a horrifying display of necrotic sorcery, the bodies convulsed and merged, forming a singular, writhing horror—a massive amalgamation of dead flesh, sinew, and bone.

The abomination let out a gurgling, unnatural wail as it lurched forward, attacking with unrelenting fury. Jagged limbs, misshapen mouths, and grasping claws lashed out in every direction, forcing the party to divide their attention. The diversion worked—while the others turned their blades against the newly formed horror, William’s mutilated form underwent rapid regeneration, his wounds knitting together, his grotesque flesh becoming whole once more.

Varis  quickly maneuvered around the battlefield, raising his firearm and taking aim at the shambling monstrosity. As the others rushed in with their weapons drawn, Ameena stepped forward, determination in her eyes. She called upon the divine power she had once lost, desperately seeking the light that had long since abandoned her. And then, in an instant, her prayers were answered. Her twin swords flared with radiant energy, a brief but undeniable return of her paladin’s blessing. With newfound strength, she struck the amalgamation, divine light searing through the abomination’s flesh as she carved into it.

Meanwhile, Bartimaeus charged through the chaos, making his way toward William. His faith-fueled judgment struck true, each smite burning into the corrupted flesh of his foe. William let out a monstrous howl, his anger turning to fury as he lashed back with inhuman might. His elongated, mutated arm swung like a battering ram, striking Bartimaeus with devastating force. The impact sent the paladin crashing through the wooden boards of the stage, splintering them beneath his crushed form. He lay broken, barely clinging to life.

Varis saw the opening and sprang into action. Seizing the moment, he rushed forward, grabbing Bartimaeus’ battered body and dragging him away from the battlefield. He concealed him behind cover, working quickly to stabilize his injuries. At the same time, Amelia fought against the dark magic still gripping her body. With sheer force of will, she pushed back against the twisted spell, her form shifting and reshaping until, at last, she was herself once more. The moment her limbs were her own, she wasted no time—drawing her bow, she loosed a volley of arrows into the writhing mass of flesh William had conjured.

Varis, having stabilized Bartimaeus, stepped out from cover and raised his firearm once more. He opened fire, his shots tearing into the abomination’s patchwork hide. With the party’s combined efforts, the grotesque creation could not withstand the onslaught. It collapsed into a heap of lifeless flesh, its unnatural existence snuffed out. Now, with nothing left to shield him, their focus turned back to William. They pressed their attack, striking with precise and unrelenting force. Though his body regenerated with unnatural speed, it was not enough—the sheer volume of wounds overwhelmed his healing, his massive form beginning to falter. Flesh sloughed off his body, grotesque limbs crumbling under their assault.

He was falling and then, they realized the truth. William had not been losing—he had been stalling. Even as his body crumbled, his essence surged beyond mortal limits. His flesh twisted and contorted, not in collapse, but in ascension. The battlefield trembled as his form reached its final, terrible stage. He was no longer a mere warlock, no longer a mere fiend. His core transcended, breaking past the confines of mortality. His body became an ever-shifting mass of divine corruption, flesh unraveling and reconstituting in an eternal cycle of mutation. He no longer had a true form, existing instead as a shifting tide of raw, consuming flesh—an entity beyond life, beyond death, beyond anything the party had ever faced.

The air grew heavy, thick with the overwhelming presence of something unnatural, something unholy. William was gone and in his place lingered Vicarin, the Flesh Tyrant.

The Flesh Tyrant hovered above the ground, its ever-shifting form pulsing with unnatural fluidity. Limbs formed and dissolved, tendrils extended and retracted, its entire existence in a constant state of grotesque transmutation. The battlefield had fallen into an eerie silence as the party stood before this ascended horror, their minds struggling to comprehend the abomination that had once been William. For a moment, the Flesh Tyrant seemed almost hollow—its form thinning in places before folding back into itself, as though struggling to maintain a stable shape. Then, Ves and Varis spotted something within the gaping cavity of its shifting chest: a heart. Not a normal one, but a pulsating black core, encased in layers of sinew and shadow. It was small compared to the vast, monstrous frame surrounding it, but its presence was undeniable. If the Tyrant still had a weakness, this was it.

The moment Varis locked eyes with the heart, a whisper slithered into the back of his mind. A voice, ancient and insidious, spoke directly into his thoughts: "Take it. Take it back." A shiver ran down his spine, but he forced himself to remain focused. If the Flesh Tyrant's body was merely a shell, then perhaps severing the heart would end it for good. Ves, meanwhile, had been relentlessly striking the creature with her magical blows, darting around its massive limbs and exploiting every opening she could find. But the Tyrant had had enough. Without warning, one of its warped hands twisted and reshaped into a massive, grotesque claw of bone and muscle. It struck with terrifying speed, seizing Ves in its grasp. The immense pressure began to crush her, her body bending unnaturally under the monstrous grip.

Across the battlefield, Rayenne remained within her protective dome, still concentrating on her moonbeam, which burned into the Tyrant's ever-changing flesh. But just as she reinforced her focus, the dome around her suddenly shattered like fragile glass, leaving her exposed. The Flesh Tyrant’s hollow gaze locked onto her, and in an instant, it vanished—only to reappear directly in front of her, towering over her vulnerable form. Before it could strike, Ameena intervened. With a battle cry, she charged, her twin swords blazing with radiant energy as she carved into the Tyrant’s flesh. The divine light seared through its form, forcing it to recoil. The attack had drawn its attention, but the price was immediate.

The Flesh Tyrant's torso split apart with unnatural speed, forming a massive, gaping maw lined with jagged, shifting fangs. Before Ameena could react, the monstrous cavity lunged forward and swallowed her whole. Ameena disappeared within its chest, consumed by darkness and acid. The party sprang into action, attacking from all sides in a desperate attempt to free her. Varis, unable to spot the heart in the chaos, instead took aim at the Tyrant’s massive claw still holding Ves. He fired, his shot striking true. The impact caused the limb to momentarily falter, loosening its crushing grip just enough for Ves to break free.

With nearly everyone now assaulting the Flesh Tyrant from all directions—blades, arrows, and spells cutting into its ever-shifting body—the Tyrant’s chest lurched open once more. Ameena, burned and gasping, was expelled from its form, thrown onto the battlefield. Ves saw her opportunity. Without hesitation, she dove into the gaping maw herself. The searing acid of the Tyrant’s insides burned into her skin, but she ignored the pain, forcing herself deeper into the grotesque cavity. Her eyes darted around frantically, searching—and then, she saw it. The black heart, pulsing, veined with something that seemed more akin to writhing tendrils than arteries.

She reached out, her fingers wrapping tightly around it. And in that instant, she vanished. With a burst of fey magic, Ves teleported herself out of the Flesh Tyrant’s body, landing in the square beside Varis. As she caught her breath, she looked down at her hands—her fingers trembling as they clutched the still-beating, black heart. At first, she felt victorious then the reality of what she was holding crashed down upon her. Her expression twisted into horror as the weight of it—the pulsing, unnatural life within her grasp—became unbearable.

The Killing Of A Demigod

The heart in Ves' hand was a void of absolute blackness, pulsing with a sinister rhythm that resonated with something beyond mortal comprehension. Tendrils of shadowy roots began to creep from its surface, curling around her fingers, as if trying to claim her. She stared at it, her breath ragged, her mind unable to grasp the sheer horror of holding something so utterly wrong. Varis locked eyes on it, his stomach twisting in realization. He had seen this before—not in reality, but in nightmares. This was no ordinary heart; it was the abyssal core that William had stolen from the nightmare fiend Gorrekoth. And now, in the back of Varis’ mind, the entity’s voice slithered through his thoughts. “Return it. Return what is mine.”

He gritted his teeth, trying to shut out the invasive demand, but resisting only made the voice grow sharper. A searing pain lanced through his mind as Gorrekoth retaliated, attacking his psyche with visions of endless horror. His hands trembled, his vision swam, but he refused to yield. The Flesh Tyrant, as if awakening to what had transpired, turned its hollow gaze toward Ves. It knew what had been taken. It would not let go of its stolen prize so easily. With a monstrous roar, it moved to reclaim the heart—only to be met by the Oliver Rocks, the Baron of Redmond.

Standing firm, greatsword in hand, the Baron ignited his blade with radiant fire, illuminating the area with divine light. He swung with unrelenting force, driving the burning steel into the Tyrant’s shifting flesh, halting its advance. Tina Rocks, taking the opening, loosed a barrage of arrows, her shots striking true and forcing the beast back further. Amelia caught sight of the heart in Ves’ grasp and felt an undeniable pull toward it. A deep instinct, primal and unexplainable, urged her to take it. She stepped forward, demanding that Ves hand it over. But Ves, still in shock, only clutched it tighter, unable to decide whether to let it go or to rid herself of it by force.

Despite his own battle against Gorrekoth’s influence, Varis forced himself back into focus. His hand steadied as he pulled up his firearm, aiming directly at the heart still writhing in Ves’ grip. It was a reckless move, but a necessary one. A calculated breath. A pull of the trigger. The bullet struck home. A shockwave of abyssal energy burst from the heart, visibly damaging the Flesh Tyrant, sending its ever-shifting form into violent spasms. But at the same moment, Gorrekoth’s wrath lashed out against Varis’ mind once more, more furious than before. A vice of pure nightmare wrapped around his thoughts, crushing them under the weight of eldritch rage.

Amelia, seeing the Tyrant reel from the attack, hesitated no longer. She knocked an arrow and took aim. Another shot pierced the heart, sending it flailing as it struggled to maintain its hold on Ves. Then, with a final, strangled pulse, the heart withered in Ves' palm. Its dark roots shriveled and turned to dust, disintegrating into nothingness. The Flesh Tyrant let out a deafening, otherworldly howl, its body convulsing as the abyssal core that had sustained it was utterly destroyed.

Varis, still fighting the echoes of Gorrekoth’s influence, knew he had to act before his mind was lost entirely. He reached into his coat, pulling forth an old scroll—the Scroll of Dreamward. Without hesitation, he unfurled it and invoked its magic. A barrier of divine protection wrapped around his mind, severing Gorrekoth’s hold in an instant. Silence. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, his mind was his own. But the battle was not yet over. The Baron stood beneath the radiance of Rayenne’s moonbeam, continuing his assault against the wounded Flesh Tyrant. With his mind clear, Varis rushed to his side, sword in hand, stepping into the divine light to join the final stand.

Amelia, sensing her moment, reached for two explosive arrows. She whispered a silent invocation, channeling her own psyche into the first one. Varis, seeing what she intended, infused it with elemental lightning. The arrow crackled with power as she pulled back the string. She fired. The projectile streaked across the battlefield like a bolt of fury, striking the Flesh Tyrant’s shifting head with a thunderous detonation. The explosion tore through its grotesque form, shattering the abomination’s ever-morphing face.

Before the smoke had even cleared, Amelia had already loosed the second arrow—this one infused with radiant might, empowered by the blessing of Bartimaeus. The divine arrow struck the exact same spot, unleashing an explosion of holy energy that ripped the last vestiges of the Tyrant’s form apart. Its head was obliterated. For the first time, the battlefield fell silent. The towering, monstrous form of the Flesh Tyrant trembled, its body unraveling at an accelerating pace. Without its abyssal heart, without its ascended essence, it could not sustain itself. Flesh peeled away, sinew turned to ash, and the remnants of its decayed mass crumbled into the wind. What little remained splattered onto the cobblestone square, nothing more than lifeless, rotting hunks of meat.

An eerie stillness followed. The party stood among the ruins of their struggle, exchanging glances, ensuring that each of them still remained. The day had been won. As the realization set in, Varis instinctively scanned the battlefield for Arconot. But there was no trace of him. The dragonborn had vanished in the chaos, slipping away unseen. A problem for another day.

An Exchange Of Emotions

As the dust of battle settled over the bloodstained square, a tense calm fell upon the ruins left by the demigod's destruction. The acrid stench of burned flesh lingered in the air, rising in thin black wisps from the scattered remains of the Flesh Tyrant. All around, nobles and highborn ladies began to gather near what was left of the abomination, their armor and cloaks stained by soot and shadow, their faces pale with disbelief and quiet dread.

The Baron of Redmond stood still amidst them for a moment, his greatsword now sheathed, his shoulders rising and falling in slow, deliberate breaths. Varis watched him carefully, noting the flicker of grief behind his hardened expression—the kind of grief too deep for words, masked beneath the practiced mask of nobility. Then, without a word, the Baron turned and strode away, his steps heavy with anger and sorrow, making his way toward his manor.

The remaining nobles murmured amongst themselves, forming small clusters as they processed the aftermath of the horror they had just witnessed. There was a brief but necessary exchange about what to do next, and amidst it, Ivon Eisenhorn emerged from the gathering and approached the party. His usually composed demeanor was marked with fatigue, but he made an effort to check on each of them. Varis informed him that the Baron had departed in silence, and Ivon gave a solemn nod, remarking that the nobility would reconvene at the manor shortly to make sense of this tragedy.

One by one, the nobles departed, leaving the square to the local guards and knights who moved swiftly to secure the area. Some set up lit purifying pyres to incinerate the remaining fragments of the Flesh Tyrant, unwilling to leave even the smallest piece of it intact.

Near the remains, Ves, ever gentle and well-meaning, tried to approach one of the guards. With soft insistence, she requested that Amelia Vicarin be given a moment alone with what was once her father—though the truth of that connection was not something the guards understood. To them, the request sounded suspicious. Their expressions hardened, and within seconds, several crossbows were leveled in Amelia’s direction, not out of hostility, but caution. In their minds, she might have had some unseen tie to the enemy. 

Ves quickly tried to clarify, her words stumbling under pressure. But the confusion had already set in. Realizing she had unintentionally cast suspicion on Amelia, Ves gave a quiet sigh and stepped away, retreating to the rest of the party to explain her blunder. The others listened, exchanging glances of mild concern, but they understood the situation for what it was—an unfortunate misunderstanding. There was no point in trying to fix it now.

Meanwhile, Varis moved toward the raised platform where the creature had first manifested—where Fredric Horizon, the man who had once been, had perished. The gore was unrecognizable, a chaotic blend of twisted flesh, bone, and blackened viscera. Still, Varis knelt down and sifted through the remains with methodical care. He knew that if the Baron ever wished to attempt a reincarnate spell or preserve a piece of Fredric's memory, something tangible would be needed. His search eventually bore fruit. Among the mutilated matter, he discovered a severed finger still bearing a noble’s ring—etched with the Rocks family sigil. It was enough. He took it, wrapping it carefully before rising to his feet. After informing the others of his find, the group began to make their way toward the manor, their pace slow, their minds weighed with the gravity of the battle they had survived.

All except Amelia. While the others departed together, she turned away from the path to the manor and quietly slipped into the winding streets of the city. Alone with her thoughts, she walked beneath the fading light of the day, her steps unhurried, seeking solace—or perhaps clarity—amidst the silence of Redmond’s battered streets.

As Amelia wandered alone through the winding streets of Redmond, her thoughts were heavy and tangled. She let her heightened senses guide her, tapping into the primal instincts. She tried to catch any lingering scent of her father—William, the man who had once been her father and who now stood at the heart of so much confusion and ruin. Her nose skimmed the air for traces—burnt oil, alchemical residues, or the unique scent of blood and old parchment that once clung to him—but the city's mingled aromas overwhelmed her efforts. No trail revealed itself. If he had hidden somewhere in Redmond, he had covered his tracks well.

As she searched, the city murmured around her. News of the massacre at the square had already begun to spread. Though the details were hazy and warped by rumor, the name Professor Vicarin echoed in the air with increasing suspicion. Whispers in alleyways and behind closed doors painted her father as a deceiver, a man who had wormed his way into noble circles under false pretenses. Strangers spoke his name with distrust and disdain, unaware of his true identity or the weight he carried. Their words stung, but Amelia pressed on.

Meanwhile, the rest of the party had made their way to the Baron’s manor. Upon arrival, they were greeted with an unmistakable change in atmosphere. Knights and guards were stationed at every corner, tension humming through the air like a drawn bowstring. As they stepped into the grand hall, they were met by familiar faces—nobles who had been present at the square, now gathered again in uneasy silence. Ivon Eisenhorn greeted them, his expression grave. He explained that the Baron had locked himself within the throne room along with his daughter. No one had been allowed in. Angry voices and the crashing of furniture could be heard beyond the heavy door, a storm of grief and fury contained only by stone walls.

The party requested an audience, but Ivon shook his head—so had everyone else in the hall, and they were still waiting. Varis asked about Ivon's hometown and if he actually rode bisons there to which Ivon said no and refused to elaborate on. He then looked around and Varis saw the Wellers on the other side of the hall however he did not approach, he explained the situation for Bartimaeus who then offered to help him with the marriage proposals later. The room was thick with unease. Ves, unfamiliar with noble customs or courtly patience, stepped forward without hesitation. She approached the throne room door and asked to be let inside. A knight quickly moved to intercept her, raising a hand to stop her advance. But without a word, Ves turned, raised her hind legs, and kicked the door with the full force of her centaur body. The loud crash of hooves against wood rang out through the hall.

All heads turned, eyes wide in disbelief at the audacity. But before the knight could protest, the door creaked open slightly. From the gap, Tina Rocks peered out, her face pale and tense. Recognizing the party, she stepped aside and motioned for them to enter. As the heavy doors shut behind them, confused murmurs rippled through the nobles left in the grand hall. Inside the throne room, chaos reigned. Furniture lay overturned, shards of shattered vases crunched underfoot, and thick silence hung in the air between outbursts. Tina crouched behind an overturned table, shaken but unharmed. Baron Oliver Rocks stood at the far end of the room near his throne, his greatsword drawn, his eyes wild with a storm of rage and sorrow.

His grief had transformed into accusation. He turned it upon the party and upon William—blaming them for the death of his son, Fredric Horizon. The confrontation was tense, emotions fraying at every edge. Carefully, the party tried to de-escalate the situation, speaking with measured calm and suggesting a path forward: the possibility of bringing Fredric back through reincarnation. Ves, soft-spoken despite her earlier boldness, stepped toward the Baron, gently guiding the conversation. As voices calmed, the doors creaked again—the other nobles had overheard and now filtered into the room. Their expressions were mixed: some disturbed by the idea of tampering with death, others curious, hesitant, or quietly supportive.

The Baron, still raw with emotion, was open to the idea—eager, even. But when the party warned that reincarnation was not guaranteed—that the soul must be willing to return—his confidence cracked. He scoffed at the idea of resistance. Why wouldn't his son return? The question turned to Fredric’s mother. Where was she? At first, the Baron hesitated. Then, with a bitter edge in his voice, he revealed the truth: she was gone, no longer among the living. Her absence, the party suggested, might weigh heavily on Fredric’s soul. The Baron refused to accept that. His son, he insisted, would want to come back.

Emotions flared again. The Baron seemed on the verge of ordering them to perform the spell immediately, but the party explained that they lacked the necessary components. Time was needed to prepare. After a moment of tense silence, the Baron relented. He instructed them to return to the manor later, once they were ready, and after he had consulted further with his noble council. The decision would be made then. The party left the throne room and the manor behind. The air outside felt cooler, less heavy with sorrow and rage. With their next task clear, they made their way toward the market district—hoping to find the materials they needed, and perhaps a few merchants willing to offer fair prices in the wake of a near-catastrophe.

A Blessing Of Silver

As the party entered the market district, they quickly sensed the undercurrents of tension that had begun to stir throughout Redmond. Much like what Amelia had overheard in the streets, the market buzzed with uneasy speculation. Though business carried on, the conversations between merchants and customers were laced with suspicion, rumors, and cautious glances. The name Vicarin passed between lips with growing distrust. Still, coin changed hands, and life in the city limped forward.

After some searching, the party came across an elderly merchant who was in the process of packing up his small stall of bottled wares. His goods were arranged in weathered crates—bottles of oils, balms, and unguents, most unmarked save for faded, handwritten tags. The group stopped him and inquired about any rare or arcane oils, specifically those suitable for spellcasting. They needed materials worth at least a thousand gold for the reincarnation ritual. The old man hesitated at first, then glanced around the square before presenting a selection from under his stall—an assortment of glimmering vials nestled in velvet. As Rayenne reached for her coin pouch, Varis leaned in and inspected the oils more closely. His trained eye caught subtle flaws: slightly clouded liquid, improper seals, and mismatched weights. Quietly, he tallied the value and found the total fell short—barely eight hundred gold at best.

When Varis pointed this out, the merchant’s demeanor shifted. Clearly not wanting to be embarrassed in front of potential customers, he quickly swapped out the inferior vials for higher-quality stock, restoring the value to what had been requested. Satisfied, Varis then inquired about grooming oils for horses. The merchant nodded and pulled out a small, neatly packaged kit. But when he realized Varis intended the items for Ves, his tone grew cautious. He warned that the oils were made specifically for horses and might not be safe for a centaur’s skin. Ves, unconcerned by the warning, purchased them anyway.

With the transaction nearly complete, Varis indulged himself, selecting a few bottles of fine bathing oils and soaps—intent on washing away the grime and blood of recent battles. With their supplies secured and coin exchanged, the group departed the market and made their way back to the inn they had previously stayed at. As they neared the building, they spotted Amelia sitting alone outside on the wooden street, her posture tired and withdrawn. Without a word, Varis handed one of his bathing oils to Ves, who in turn offered it to Amelia in a quiet gesture of care.

They gathered together and entered the inn. The innkeeper greeted them with visible annoyance, clearly remembering their last stay. However, any objections were quickly silenced when it was made clear that their rooms had been pre-paid by Tina Rocks. Begrudgingly, the innkeeper handed over the keys and allowed them to settle in. Once inside, the party retired to their rooms. Each member took time to rest and clean themselves in the privacy of their baths, the tension of the day slowly washing away. The evening passed uneventfully. Bartimaeus sat and wrote letters to various noble families. At one point, the innkeeper checked in on Ves, clearly worried that her size or unfamiliar physiology might have caused damage to the bath. To her surprise and relief, all was in perfect order.

The group rested well, preparing themselves for whatever decision awaited them at the manor the following day. Amelia, however, felt no such resolve. Her heart was elsewhere, her thoughts no longer tethered to Redmond or its grieving nobility. She had already decided to leave the city behind. Still, despite her desire to disappear, she followed the others when they set out—driven more by loyalty to them than any interest in the Baron’s final judgment.

Back at the Baron’s manor, the party returned under clearer skies but with no less tension in the air. At Varis’ suggestion, Ves was encouraged to announce their arrival in a dramatic fashion. She hesitated—unsure if the formality was appropriate or simply excessive—but eventually relented. Drawing her horn, she gave a sharp, echoing blast that turned heads throughout the hall. After a pause, she declared the arrival of the Travellers with as much ceremony as she could muster. The gathered nobles, already tired and uneasy from the events of the previous day, exchanged glances of confusion at the bold entrance. Still, they offered polite, if wary, nods as the party stepped into the grand hall.

Among the assembled elite, Lady Sabina Weller of Moorn emerged from the cluster of noble houses. She approached Varis with deliberate grace and introduced a young woman at her side—Amanda Weller, her daughter and a potential match for marriage, as suggested in one of the arrangements from Varis’ family. Varis recognized her from an earlier visit to the hall but had no personal memory of interacting with her. From his father’s correspondence, he recalled Amanda being described as a sharp-minded and formidable swordswoman, though here she bore no arms, no signs of training, and had not taken part in the recent battle. It left him wondering whether her martial prowess was something reserved for private circles or simply exaggerated.

He greeted them both cordially. Lady Sabina expressed interest in discussing the matter further, and Varis agreed to a future conversation before his attention was drawn elsewhere.

Across the room, he spotted William and Anna Karlstain—the once-missing nobles he had tried to aid in Riverend. Moving toward them, Varis offered a greeting and made cryptic allusions to their shared past. He mentioned a "dark elf friend," attempting to jog William’s memory or subtly reference their prior connections. William seemed puzzled by the implication, his expression slowly shifting toward suspicion. Varis followed up by bringing up a mutual acquaintance: a red Dragonborn commander—another hint layered in ambiguity.

The moment of confusion ended when Varis produced a worn journal, one he had taken from the Karlstains' estate back in Riverend. Upon seeing it, William’s demeanor changed immediately. Recognition dawned, and his posture relaxed. He thanked Varis for returning it, though Varis made it clear that he wanted to keep the final page—an arcane page imbued with a spell, possibly still active. William warned that removing the page could break the enchantment, but Varis was willing to take the risk and experiment regardless. William gave his reluctant approval.

Before the conversation could go further, Bartimaeus appeared to greet the Karlstains. He brought up the party’s passage through Highmarsh, mentioning their encounter with the tormented spirit of Asher Karlstain—a distant relative of William and once a companion-in-arms to Bartimaeus himself. William, however, found this hard to accept. Asher’s fate was cloaked in family legend and whispered rumors, and the idea that his spirit had lingered in the swamps stretched the boundaries of belief.

Their discussion was interrupted by a summons to the throne room. A steward's voice echoed through the hall, calling the nobles and guests inside for the Baron’s decision. The crowd filtered through the wide doors into the throne room, voices dimming to hushed tones as they took their places. All except Amelia—she remained seated in the grand hall, unconcerned with the political discussions or the noble rituals unfolding behind closed doors. She sat alone, quietly eating, detached from the world.

Inside the throne room, the party stood among the gathered nobility. Baron Oliver Rocks, grim and weary, addressed the room. After long deliberation, he had made his choice. He gave his approval to attempt the reincarnation spell. All eyes turned to Rayenne, now burdened with the delicate task of bringing his son back from death’s grip.

Everyone stood in a reverent hush as Rayenne stepped forward, gently placing the severed finger of the fallen heir onto the cold floor of the throne room. She knelt, her hands moving with practiced grace as she began the ancient druidic incantation. As she chanted, the air shifted—subtle at first, then more pronounced. Winds stirred from nowhere, carrying the scent of wild earth and distant storms. Wisps of green and golden light curled around the room, spiraling upward like vines seeking the sun. Some of the nobles bowed their heads in silent prayer; others watched in tense anticipation. The Baron remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the ritual with a complex mix of hope and dread.

But as the final word of the spell echoed through the room, nothing happened. The arcane light faded, and the floor remained still. Concerned, Varis stepped forward and calmly advised Rayenne to try again, urging her to act quickly before the expensive materials became inert. She nodded, composed despite the exhaustion creeping in, and began anew. This time, the ritual surged with even greater force. The winds intensified, sweeping through the room like a breath of life. Arcane sigils bloomed in the air, casting strange shadows across the walls. Then, at the ritual's climax, a radiant burst of energy flared across the floor—and from within that light, a tall figure slowly took shape.

As the glow receded, lying before them was not the young noble they expected, but a silver-scaled Dragonborn—nude, unfamiliar, yet unmistakably alive. Rayenne, though weary, allowed herself a relieved smile, while the room stood frozen in disbelief. The Dragonborn stirred, blinking against the bright hall. As they wrapped a blanket around his form, the party gently questioned him. He introduced himself as Fredric and seemed bewildered, unable to recall much beyond a fragmented memory of presenting Professor Vicarin. The sight of his clawed, reptilian hands shocked him, as if seeing his body for the first time. The realization of his transformation only deepened his confusion.

The party explained the circumstances, and the Baron stepped forward, his expression a storm of emotion. There was no doubt—some fragment of his son lingered within this new form. And yet, the transformation posed a dilemma. The heir of Redmond, now reborn in a form foreign to the expectations of the court, could not simply assume his former role. The laws, the traditions, and the people would not accept it. Ves approached the Baron with quiet resolve and urged him to see the truth—to recognize his son, reborn and alive, no matter the shell he now bore. The room fell silent, the tension heavy as the Baron contemplated. At last, he raised a hand and ordered everyone out of the throne room—save for Tina and Fredric. He needed time alone with the son he had lost and regained.

The nobles and party filed back into the grand hall. Amid the murmurs and speculations, Varis took the opportunity to question Bartimaeus about the marriage proposals he had entrusted to him. Bartimaeus admitted they had already been handled and that a wedding was in the works in his mind, but offered no further explanation. Before Varis could press him, Lady Sabina Weller and her daughter Amanda approached. Without delay, Bartimaeus bluntly informed them that another had been chosen for Varis, leaving no room for negotiation.

Sabina took the news with noble composure, offering a graceful nod. Amanda, however, looked to Varis with a touch of disappointment in her eyes—more curious than hurt, as if genuinely interested in what could have been. With quiet dignity, the Weller women withdrew, leaving Varis staring after them with questions still unspoken. Bartimaeus simply promised a surprise and refused to elaborate. The party regrouped and discussed their next steps. Amelia made it clear she had no desire to remain in Redmond any longer. The city, for all its grandeur, held nothing more for her. The others agreed, and by morning, they departed.

To their relief, the old wagon they had acquired earlier remained untouched outside the city gates. They hitched their gear, mounted up, and began the journey south toward Bullholm—the stronghold of the Eisenhorn family. Varis, in particular, was eager for the road ahead. He looked forward not just to the politics and power of Bullholm, but also to the famed bison herds that roamed the region—a welcome distraction from the complexities left behind.