Road to Bullholm
As the party journeyed southward along the country road toward Bullholm, the sun hung high, casting long shadows over their path. The pleasant weather brought a rare moment of calm, and they took the opportunity to tend to their gear and speak of what lay ahead. Though William Vicarin was gone, traces of his work still lingered, like shadows stretching far beyond his demise. Some speculated about the location of his last hidden laboratory, though the warmth of the sun made such thoughts seem distant, almost unreal.
Their peace was soon interrupted by a figure standing beside a broken-down cart further up the road. He waved them down with urgency, and they approached cautiously. The man, a wiry fellow with a nervous smile, gestured to the shattered wheel of his cart. He explained that it had come loose, and his bison had bolted towards Bullholm, spooked by the fall. Bartimaeus and Ves volunteered to track down the runaway beast, heading down the road towards the distant silhouette of Bullholm. But as they crested the hill, there was no sign of the bison—just empty road stretching to the horizon.
Back at the cart, Rayenne and Varis helped the man reattach the wheel. He expressed his gratitude, wiping sweat from his brow. Varis, ever watchful, asked for the man’s name. The stranger hesitated, his gaze flickering nervously before stammering, "A-Alladin." Varis's eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping in. Before he could press further, Alladin's hand shot out, brandishing a thin blade that gleamed in the sunlight. Varis twisted away just in time, narrowly avoiding the strike.
Before they could react, masked figures emerged from the rocks flanking the road, their blades drawn and eyes hidden behind white cloth. It was an ambush. Bartimaeus and Ves, having heard the scuffle, raced back toward the commotion. Bartimaeus sprinted around the rocky outcroppings, while Ves vaulted up the side of the rocks, engaging the assassins head-on.
Below, Varis and Rayenne fought back fiercely. Sabre, the towering automaton, stepped forward like a juggernaut, batting aside one attacker with a backhanded blow and impaling another with his great spear. Ves pushed her advantage atop the rocks, sending two assassins tumbling down to the road where Varis and Rayenne waited. She then misty-stepped across the gap to the opposite ridge, appearing in a blink of azure light, and struck at the ambushers there, knocking them down as well.
Varis found himself nearly surrounded, blades gleaming in every direction. He acted swiftly, pulling a small black sphere from his pouch. His eyes met Rayenne's for a brief second. "Get back," he commanded. She did, just as Varis twisted the sphere open. A piercing wail erupted from its core—an unnatural, keening sound that sent waves of agony rippling through the air. When it ceased, the assassins lay lifeless, collapsed like marionettes with their strings severed.
Only one attacker remained, perched atop the rocks. Ves kicked him down, and he hit the ground with a sickening crack, his leg snapping under the fall. He writhed in pain but remained conscious. The party encircled him, weapons drawn. They questioned him, but he had little to offer. He gestured weakly to one of the fallen assassins, identifying her as their leader. A brief debate ensued about whether to let him live, but his silence sealed his fate. A quick end was granted, and the party turned their attention to the corpses.
Amid the strewn bodies, Alladin lay still, the price of his choices paid in blood. Some speculated that he had been nothing more than a pawn, coerced or bribed to stall them. But it mattered little—he had chosen his fate the moment he drew his blade.
Varis reached into his bag of holding and pulled forth a skull, whispering dark incantations as he began the ritual of Speak with Dead on the body of the assassin leader. Moments later, her eyes flickered with a dull, lifeless glow, her mouth slack and ready to answer. Through strained whispers, the party learned that the Dominion Church had sent them—their reach extending even here, into the wilderness. More troubling still, the order had come from the capital itself. Their bounty was still active, their names marked for death.
The revelation hung heavy in the air, a grim reminder that while William Vicarin was gone, other threats still lurked in the shadows.
Entering Bullholm
A few hours later, the party reached the outskirts of Bullholm. The landscape was dotted with ramshackle farmsteads, their fields eerily still, untouched by farmers’ hands. It was as if the entire area had been abandoned, a ghost town under the glaring light of midday. The wind stirred loose shingles and whispered through empty haystacks, lending the scene an unsettling stillness.
As they moved along the path, they spotted a lone bison standing idly by a stone fence. Varis and Rayenne approached it cautiously. Varis, ever the opportunist, suggested that Rayenne use her druidic abilities to communicate with the beast and see if it would allow him to ride it. Rayenne explained that while she could connect with its emotions and sense its intent, true understanding was beyond her immediate magic. After a moment of concentration, she told Varis that the bison was not keen on carrying him. However, it clearly longed to join the rest of its herd grazing just beyond the stone fence.
Varis, undeterred, decided to help the creature anyway. With a flick of his hand, he cast a teleportation spell, shifting the bison over the fence in an instant. It landed gracefully among its kind, snorting in what could only be described as appreciation. Satisfied, Varis and Rayenne rejoined the rest of the party, who watched the act with mild amusement.
As they made their way towards the town proper, two mounted soldiers appeared on horseback, their armor bearing the crest of Bullholm. The soldiers halted the party with stern expressions, demanding to know who they were and what business they had in the area. Varis stepped forward and explained that they had come from Redmond and were acquaintances of Lord Ivon Eisenhorn. The soldiers exchanged glances, visibly surprised by the mention of the lord’s name. They informed the party that Lord Eisenhorn was not currently in Bullholm, to which the party replied they were already aware.
The soldiers relaxed slightly but warned them to be cautious—there had been recent reports from local farmers of trolls wandering near the outskirts. Two of the beasts had been spotted not far from the town. Varis immediately offered their assistance, but the soldiers, bound by orders, declined, explaining they were not authorized to hand out such tasks.
With that, the party was escorted into Bullholm, where they took stock of their situation and began planning their next move. The news of the trolls lingered in their thoughts, sparking the desire to hunt them down. But the journey had taken its toll, and they agreed to rest first. They made their way to the local tavern, a modest establishment with creaking wooden floors and the faint scent of ale and stew. A few coins bought them cheap rooms for the night, and they settled in, preparing themselves for whatever awaited them in the shadow of Bullholm.
Trouble At The Ebon Vault
As morning broke over Bullholm, the party rose from their modest lodgings and stepped into the town’s quiet streets. The chatter among townsfolk had shifted slightly—though rumors of troll sightings still lingered, new whispers now centered on the local magic shop, The Ebon Vault. Word had it the establishment had been sealed off by the town guard.
Curious, the party made their way to the shop, only to find a contingent of guards stationed at the path leading to it. When approached, the guards initially blocked their way and advised them to leave. However, with some persuasion—and a reminder of their connection to Lord Eisenhorn—the party convinced the guards to let them through.
Further up the path, they encountered an unexpected sight: three armored knights stood in formation before the Ebon Vault, halberds at the ready, eyeing a mass of thick, thorned vines that had erupted from the ground and ensnared the entrance. The tangled growth pulsed faintly with magical energy, forming an almost organic barricade. The knights admitted they had no idea where the vines had come from, only that they dared not approach them.
The party began investigating. Varis quickly deduced that the vines responded to vibrations in the ground. When Ves tried to advance, one of the vines lashed out and grabbed her, forcing the group to reconsider their approach. Thinking quickly, Varis activated his levitation boots, gliding above the earth and landing safely in front of the door. The rest of the group followed, either carried or guided over without triggering the vines’ aggression.
Inside the Ebon Vault, the air was cool and tinged with incense. On the main floor, they found the shop’s proprietor, Fredrik Summers, calmly leafing through a ledger behind the counter. Nearby, a young woman perused a shelf of wares. As the party entered, the woman quietly exited through a side door. Fredrik looked up, puzzled and slightly irked by their sudden appearance.
He asked how they’d managed to bypass his "deterrent," clearly referring to the carnivorous vines outside. After a brief exchange, the party inquired about the cause of the barricade. Fredrik sighed and explained: the vines were a temporary ward—an improvised defense after a client had robbed him. He was reviewing his inventory to confirm what else might be missing.
When pressed, Fredrik revealed the culprit: a dragonborn named Arconot. The name rang familiar to the party. They offered to track him down, but also raised the issue of the troll sightings troubling the nearby countryside. Fredrik had heard the same reports and appreciated their concern, but he remained focused on securing his wares. As the party browsed the shop, they noticed that several display cabinets were sealed behind magical wards, glowing faintly. When Varis asked about the items inside, Fredrik’s tone sharpened—those items were not for sale. He gave no further explanation and discouraged further questions.
After purchasing supplies and gear suitable for a troll hunt, the party departed the shop and set out into the surrounding countryside. Following a stretch of winding road and open hills, they came upon a small, neglected graveyard nestled just off the main path.
There, among broken stones and overgrown weeds, they spotted their quarry: two large trolls, their skin coarse and grey, standing over a shattered wagon. The creatures grunted and rifled through its contents, oblivious to the party’s presence. Keeping their distance for the moment, the group crouched low behind the rise of the road, preparing for the coming encounter.
The Graveyard
The party gathered at the roadside, speaking in hushed tones as they considered their next move. Rayenne, fluent in the Giant tongue, stepped forward, offering to approach the trolls alone. The rest of the group held back as she calmly walked toward the creatures.
The trolls, towering over her with crude features and thick hides, paused their rummaging as she neared. Amused by her presence and language, they responded to her questions. They denied destroying the wagon, claiming instead that they had fled the Riverwoods after being banished for damaging a sacred ruin. They admitted ignorance of its significance, only stating they had acted on someone else's orders. Their goal now was simple: they were hungry and scavenging for food.
Rayenne had nothing to offer but mentioned her companions might. The trolls looked confused until Ves stepped forward from the hiding spot, soon followed by Amelia. They offered rations and some dried fish, which the trolls gratefully accepted. Rayenne advised them to return to the Riverwoods peacefully. Before the conversation could continue, a thunderous voice echoed across the area, deep and wrathful, demanding that all leave. The sound rolled forth from within the graveyard, now wrapped in a heavy mist that clung to every stone and shadow.
The trolls, startled and wary, hastily retreated, leaving the party to investigate the source of the ominous warning. Mist swirled between ancient gravestones as they approached. Amelia took the lead, drawn by a shifting shape deeper within the haze. She moved alone through the thickening fog until she reached a weathered crypt partially sunken into the earth.
As she approached the entrance, a massive figure descended from the misty air, landing heavily in front of her. A great shovel, rusted and chipped, swung toward her in a sudden arc—barely missing as she leapt aside. Before her stood a monstrous, hunched being cloaked in burial cloths and broken tombstones strapped to its back. Its flesh was gnarled and pallid, stitched in places, and its presence exuded both sorrow and rage.
The figure roared once more, ordering her to leave.
The rest of the party arrived, weapons drawn. Though clearly dangerous, the creature bore signs of torment: its voice trembled with pain and pleading, while its body twitched with barely contained violence. There was a sense of fractured will—as if something inside it was fighting against itself.
Despite Amelia’s efforts to reach the creature, its fury overcame reason. With a guttural cry, it attacked, sweeping its massive shovel in wild, earth-shaking arcs. The battle raged through the graveyard, knocking over headstones and churning up the ground. The party fought with precision and force, wearing the creature down blow by blow.
Eventually, it collapsed under the weight of its wounds. As it fell, it exhaled a final breath—less of pain, and more of relief. With its last ounce of strength, it whispered a broken farewell, thanking them for ending its suffering. Silence returned to the graveyard, save for the wind stirring the mist.
The battle concluded and the graveyard fell into an uneasy stillness. The party took a moment to recover, catching their breath among the shattered tombstones. While the others regrouped, Varis wandered deeper into the graveyard, drawn by curiosity. He came upon a smaller crypt, its entrance sealed by stones. With little hesitation, he forced his way through, the noise of crumbling masonry echoing across the misty field. Ameena Summerwind watched from a distance, visibly displeased at the disregard shown to the sanctity of the resting place.
Inside the crypt, Varis found a solitary stone coffin resting in the center of the chamber. Rather than honoring the grave, his interest was fixed on its contents. He tried to push the heavy lid aside but lacked the strength. Bartimaeus, having followed him in, stepped forward and heaved the stone lid open.
Within lay the preserved remains of a noblewoman, her features delicate and undisturbed by time. A metal plaque set into the coffin’s front bore a name—Lady Avelyn Eisenhorn-Dragoon. Bartimaeus quickly recognized the significance and urged restraint. With solemn care, he returned the lid to its place and the two exited, leaving the tomb undisturbed. They rejoined the others near the larger crypt where Amelia had already sent her magical companion to scout ahead. The creature returned with vague impressions—there were people inside, unmoving and silent, simply “hanging around.” Concerned, the group pressed forward into the already opened crypt.
Within, they discovered signs of disturbance. Someone had tunneled through the back of the crypt, digging down through soil and stone into a deeper, forgotten level beneath the graveyard. As they descended into the rough-hewn tunnel, the air grew cold and damp, heavy with the stench of rot. Then they found the people. Several bodies hung from wooden support beams—guards, townsfolk, perhaps visitors—all lifeless, their necks broken. The makeshift supports groaned faintly under their weight, and the tunnel stretched onward into darkness.
Steeling themselves, the party pressed deeper, weapons drawn and spells prepared. The passage led into a wide, sunken crypt chamber—its ancient stone walls now transformed into a grim laboratory. Tables covered in broken glass, scorched alchemical tools, and strange residues filled the space. Something foul had made its home here—and whatever it was, it hadn’t left quietly.
The Last Lab
The party stepped cautiously into the dim, reeking laboratory. Dust clung to the air, heavy with the lingering scent of old blood, burnt chemicals, and decay. At a glance, the place seemed abandoned, its tables strewn with scraps of parchment, shattered vials, and worn instruments of alchemy.
Amelia and Rayenne moved carefully among the chamber, searching for anything of value or use. Their search turned up only grim remnants—notes on necromantic rituals, scrawlings in abyssal script, and studies connected to the same corrupted roots the party had previously encountered. The deeper they looked, the more it became clear that this place had long been a site of dark research.
Elsewhere in the chamber, Bartimaeus knelt in solemn focus beside Varis. He had sensed a disturbance in his companion—something invasive. As he prayed and reached into the divine, he discovered the source: one of the cursed skulls stowed away in Varis’ bag of holding had begun to influence his mind. Drawing upon his holy power, Bartimaeus forced the connection to break, severing the skull’s hold over Varis.
Their ritual was interrupted by a voice echoing across the room, though no figure could be seen. Alert, Varis focused his vision and pierced through the veil of the unseen. Hidden within the shadows was a skeletal figure encased in a towering mechanical shell—an undead mind encased in steel, cloaked by magic. Once spotted, the figure dropped its invisibility and emerged, its presence unnatural and cold.
The armored lich introduced himself with grim patience and a singular request: he wanted the cursed skull—one he identified as the Crowned Skull of Xandrik. It was clear he knew exactly what it was, and what power it held. Though he acknowledged the party's intrusion, he offered safe passage in exchange for the artifact.
Amelia arrived shortly after and immediately regarded the figure with suspicion. The party learned that the undead being—Skallbrand—had once worked alongside William Vicarin, though he had no knowledge of William’s demise. Despite this, he remained focused on acquiring the skull and offered a set of carved stone keys as compensation. He claimed they were relics given to him by William, their purpose unknown, but the party recognized their design—they were copies of the stone keys they had been seeking.
Rather than handing over the artifact, Varis summoned his strength and destroyed the cursed skull in a flash of radiant energy, its malevolent essence dissolving in his palm. Skallbrand reacted with fury, his mechanical limbs tensing. Before the situation could escalate, Amelia intervened—offering her deed to her father’s estate as barter for the stone keys, promising Skallbrand could use the land for his experiments instead.
Though visibly irritated, Skallbrand accepted the deal. He tossed the stone keys to the group, took the deed, and left the laboratory, disappearing into the misty catacombs. Meanwhile, Ves had wandered deeper into the far end of the lab and uncovered a row of containment cells. Inside, remnants of necromantic experiments stirred faintly. One cage held a pack of skeletal hounds, animated and strangely obedient. Fascinated, Ves coaxed one of the creatures with food, and against the judgment of some of her companions, convinced the others to help her release it.
The undead hound followed Ves as they left the crypt, pacing behind her like a loyal beast. But as the group crossed beyond the graveyard’s threshold and into the fading afternoon light, the magic sustaining the creature faltered. Without ceremony, it collapsed into a heap of brittle bone and rotted sinew—startling no one except Ves herself. Leaving the ruined cemetery and its secrets behind, the party turned back toward Bullholm. They knew Fredrik Summers would want to hear what they had discovered beneath the graveyard—and what strange things stirred in the dark places once thought forgotten.
The party returned to Bullholm under an overcast sky, the weight of recent events pressing heavily on their shoulders. Without delay, they made their way to the Ebon Vault and sought an audience with Fredrik, the eccentric mage and proprietor.
They reported the troll encounter near the farmlands, explaining that the threat had been dealt with and the area was once again safe. When asked about their journey beyond the graveyard, however, they remained vague, offering little more than assurances that the matter was "handled." The true nature of what lay beneath the crypts remained unspoken.
Fredrik, always difficult to read, offered them a modest reward for their efforts. Yet his patience had clearly worn thin. Their constant inquiries into the forbidden curios locked away in his vault had irritated him, and he made no effort to hide his annoyance. Despite this, the party pressed one last request: assistance in teleporting elsewhere.
Fredrik hesitated. He had little desire to waste more time on them, but the thought of getting them out of Bullholm for good proved tempting. Begrudgingly, he relented—on the condition that they touch nothing. With a final warning, he led them into the lower levels of his shop, where a concealed study housed his private teleportation circle.
At Varis’s request, Fredrik attuned the circle to the Arcane Academy in Greenfield. Arcane sigils flared to life around the stone ring as he began the incantation, the hum of magic thick in the air. Within moments, the spell completed, and the party was swept away in a flash of light.
Return To The Academy
They reappeared inside the vaulted stone halls of the Arcane Academy. Polished marble floors reflected the arcane glow of suspended chandeliers, but the atmosphere shifted quickly. Sentinel golems stationed throughout the hallways immediately sprang into motion, encircling the group with precision and silent judgment.
From among them stepped a smaller, more refined construct—one of the academy’s custodial overseers. Its scanning gaze flickered, and after a moment, it declared the presence of a suspended individual within the group. All eyes turned to Varis.
Without delay, the golem instructed Varis to follow, leading him away down the grand corridors toward the headmaster’s chambers. The rest of the party, left behind, were permitted to remain within the academy’s main halls, free to explore or wait in uneasy anticipation of what awaited Varis behind the grand master’s inner chamber.
Varis entered the vaulted chamber of Grand Master Lupricall Maximus. The aged archmage greeted him without surprise, his expression one of tempered disappointment rather than anger. Despite the strained history between them, Lupricall’s focus was elsewhere—news had reached him of troubling developments in the Stormwoods. Forces from various factions had already been dispatched to support the beleaguered elven defenders.
Varis, understanding the situation all too well, explained that he and his companions were preparing to intervene directly. The Grand Master urged him to act swiftly, but before departing, Varis asked for one final favor: the whereabouts of the white dragon Kazmidrax the White, who had been stalking them since their last encounter. Lupricall shared that recent sightings had placed the beast near Falktown.
In a last-ditch effort to regain favor with the Academy, Varis offered one of his gemstones to appeal for his suspension to be lifted. The Grand Master declined without ceremony, redirecting Varis’s focus back to the urgency of the encroaching abyssal threat.
Before leaving the Academy, the party gathered potions and vital supplies. Varis sought out Matthius Highstool, an artificer friend, who proudly showcased his latest mechanical creation. Moved by the cause and eager for a challenge, Matthius agreed to accompany the group into the perilous Stormwoods.
The Death Of Kazmidrax
The group departed Greenfield and turned their path first toward Falktown, following the trail of Kazmidrax. As they crossed the countryside, the terrain began to change—patches of land were scorched by sudden frost, trees snapped and splintered by blasts of cold. Eventually, they came upon the ruined remnants of a lone house, its frame encased in unnatural ice.
The party spread out, bracing for the worst. Without warning, the clouds above parted in a sudden stormfront as Kazmidrax dove from the sky in a fury, unleashing a frigid breath that blanketed the battlefield. The adventurers, however, were ready. They narrowly avoided the initial assault and sprang into action.
Kazmidrax landed with thunderous impact, his ancient might shaking the ground. But this time, the party fought with practiced coordination and hardened resolve. The battle raged—icy winds clashed against fire, steel, and spell. In the final moments, Varis commanded his construct Sabre to harpoon the dragon with its massive spear, while Bartimaeus drove his sword deep into the beast’s spine. The great white dragon let out a final shriek before collapsing in death.
With grim efficiency, they took their trophy. Sabre severed the dragon’s head, mounting it on its back as a brutal symbol of their victory. There was no reverence for the fallen creature—only triumph. As they tended to their wounds, a group of mounted soldiers arrived from Falktown, having tracked the commotion from afar. They quickly realized what had transpired and offered their thanks, taking over the task of handling the dragon’s remains.
With Kazmidrax defeated and the path ahead clear, the party resumed their journey. Ahead lay the Stormwoods, where far greater threats awaited.
Returning To The Stormwoods
With their objective firmly in mind, the party arrived at the Stormwoods and began their journey through the ancient forest. Though they moved with practiced ease, something about the woodland felt subtly altered—its silence heavier, its shadows longer. The trees, though familiar, seemed to watch with quiet unease.
Before long, the stillness was broken by the sound of something large crashing through the underbrush. Weapons were drawn and stances hardened as the party braced for impact. A moment later, a dark, malformed creature burst through the foliage, arrows protruding from its back. It was clearly fleeing, wounded and desperate. Without hesitation, Varis raised his rifle and felled the beast with a single shot.
The group approached cautiously, ensuring the creature was truly dead. Moments later, two native elves emerged from the woods, bows in hand. Upon seeing the slain monster, they gave a nod of approval—it was one of the abyssal spawn that had escaped their patrol. They expressed gratitude for the kill and introduced themselves.
The conversation quickly turned when they spotted Ves among the group. The elves were visibly surprised by her presence and assumed she had arrived with the other centaurs who had come to guard the gate. Ves, equally surprised, learned for the first time that others of her kind had been summoned by their shared patron. The news sent ripples through the group as they all tried to make sense of the coincidence.
The elves led them to their village, nestled among the towering trees. There, Ves was reunited—if cautiously—with a contingent of centaurs who had answered the same call. The party also took note of other arrivals: a detachment of templars from Moorn, led by the resolute Beastbane, and the silver dragon Nerovaz, cloaked once more in the guise of a tabaxi. He quietly acknowledged the severed head of Kazmidrax strapped to Sabre’s back but offered no judgment—only a knowing look. The outcome, after all, had simply favored the victors.
At the edge of the village lay the site of the abyssal incursion. The gateway pulsed faintly, but the roots that once writhed from its maw had begun to wither. The elves did not know why, but the party suggested it may be tied to their slaying of William Vicarin, the mad architect behind much of the chaos.
The Plain Lord, a noble elven figure clad in ceremonial armor, received the abyssal keys the party had recovered. Though she remained composed behind her ornate helm, there was a clear sense of relief at their arrival. Plans were made to seal the gate once and for all. However, the party learned that others had already entered the portal, hoping to eliminate the threats from within—but none had returned. Among the missing was a figure the party recognized by description alone: Satix, an Archdruid of the Riverwoods.
Though they were willing to enter, the party requested a night’s rest before undertaking the descent into the unknown. Their offer was accepted. As twilight fell upon the Stormwoods, the village grew still. The party prepared for what might be their final stand beyond the veil of the abyss.
At dawn, the party stood ready at the threshold of the abyssal gate. Weapons were checked, armor fastened, and spells prepared. Before departing, Varis approached Nelvana Umeren, the elven leader of the village remnants, recalling the powerful ritual she had once performed. In answer, she summoned a Heroes’ Feast—a banquet of radiant magic that nourished their bodies and steeled their minds against the terrors ahead. Once the blessing had settled over them, the group ascended to the gate and stepped into the waiting void.
The Abyssal Finale
They emerged within a vast, shadowed chamber, where darkness clung unnaturally to every surface. The very air felt heavy, and the edges of their vision seemed to twist with unseen movement. Cautiously they moved forward, until a frail figure emerged from the gloom ahead. It was Satix—the Riverwood archdruid—wounded and barely conscious, hunched amid the shadows.
As they approached to assist him, the silence shattered. A colossal figure emerged from the dark, cloaked in a twisting mantle of shadow. Though unrecognizable at first, they soon realized it was Gorrekoth—once again in a new form. He struck without warning, unleashing a mental assault that washed over the party like a wave of dread. All resisted—except Varis.
Gorrekoth had already planted seeds in Varis’ mind long ago. Tendrils of abyssal shadow lashed into him, dragging his consciousness inward. In an instant, Varis stood alone in a surreal void, face-to-face with a towering, multi-limbed horror. It loomed silently, its many eyes fixed upon him. A second presence arrived—a feminine figure of living shadow, whispering an unfinished offer into his ear. Before the offer could be completed, the connection was abruptly severed. In the material world, Amelia had found and destroyed the tendrils that bound Varis. Though still trapped in his mind, the thread of Gorrekoth’s manipulation had been cut.
With no time to spare, the party launched their assault on Gorrekoth. He retaliated with fury, confident his nightmares would break them. But the enchantments of the feast held strong—none succumbed to his horrors. Denied his usual advantage, Gorrekoth was forced into direct combat. Meanwhile, Beastbane moved to rouse Varis from his trance. A hard blow landed—but inside the mental realm, the abyssal beast turned and attacked. The sudden jolt allowed Varis to regain control, and he awakened amid the chaos. Assessing the battlefield, he quickly reentered the fray.
As the battle raged, smaller portals tore open across the chamber. Abyssal creatures began to pour through, aiming for the gateway that led back to the Stormwoods. Acting swiftly, Varis commanded Sabre to intercept them while Beastbane took position on the opposite flank. The party was now divided across multiple fronts.
Gorrekoth’s power grew erratic and volatile. Party members fell, grievously wounded, some skirting the edge of death. Ves reacted quickly, carrying the injured Amelia to safety so the others could restore her. Ameena and Beastbane were also pushed to their limits, but Rayenne—having withheld her might until the critical moment—unleashed a surge of potent druidic magic, stabilizing her allies and renewing their strength.
Then Bartimaeus proposed a bold maneuver. With a nod, Varis unleashed his vortex spell, flinging the knight through the air. Sword drawn, Bartimaeus flew toward Gorrekoth and drove his blade deep into the fiend’s chest. For a heartbeat, the chamber fell deathly still. Breath caught in lungs. Wounds bled quietly.
Gorrekoth staggered, then slowly wrapped his wings of shadow around himself like a cocoon. The silence broke not with relief, but with dread. The darkness began to churn anew. He was not finished.
The fiend unfurled his towering form once more, his visage now altered in grandiose self-worship. A twisted crown of horns ringed his shadowy, alien head—an emblem of his self-declared dominion over fear and nightmare. It was another attempt to impose dread, to remind them that this realm was his and his alone. Yet the Travellers stood unmoved. The magic that had fortified them still clung to their souls, rendering his fear impotent.
With a screeching tear in reality, Gorrekoth splintered himself into three distinct forms, each a mirror of his malice. From multiple fronts, he struck—claws raked, tendrils lashed, and psychic blade assaults echoed through the chamber. The party was pressed hard, scattered and strained under the onslaught. Yet they held their ground. Piece by piece, they dismantled him. Each illusion shattered under blade, spell, and fury, until only the original remained.
Even as the Nightmare Weaver twisted minds and sought to unravel their resolve, his power met a wall of resistance. Wardings held fast. Spirits remained unbroken. His dominion, built upon terror, could not touch them. But victory came at a cost. The battle was grueling. Gorrekoth—wounded, desperate, but still dreadfully potent—fought with the fury of a cornered godspawn. At last, with a final, decisive blow, his form convulsed and crumbled. The shadows that held his shape were pulled inward, collapsing into a silhouette of the being he once was—before madness, before his ascension. His unraveling sent tremors through the realm itself.
As his essence tore free, the domain around them began to collapse. The walls of nightmare dissolved into raw void, undone as swiftly as they were made. In that unraveling darkness, something vast stirred.
Xinon, the abyssal god of the first abyssal sphere, emerged—not in wrath, but in silence. Gorrekoth’s essence coiled into his outstretched hand like a dying flame returning to the hearth. He gazed upon the Travellers, not as enemies, but as variables. Unknowns. He offered no threat, no praise—only a wordless gesture of will. The dream fractured.
And the party was returned. They emerged from the gate into the material world, blinking against the daylight. Without pause, they sealed the portal using the stone keys, locking the nightmare away for good. Cheers erupted around them. The villagers—survivors, refugees, and defenders—greeted them with awe. The Travellers were bathed, bandaged, and honored with a humble yet heartfelt banquet. No banners, no trumpets—just quiet gratitude.
The people of Rivermond would never know the full scale of what had been averted. The kingdom had fallen into civil war, yet a greater shadow had passed—unseen, unspoken. The Veloren elves of the Stormwoods could at last return to their lands, their ancient groves safe once more.
With their task complete, the Travellers stood at a crossroads. The war that now gripped the country was not their burden to bear—at least, not together. One by one, they chose their paths.
Varis called upon the one favor he had left—a magical summon to Professor Zetra Wildshade of the Arcane Academy. She appeared, irritated and begrudging, yet honored his request. A teleportation gate was opened for Rayenne, who returned to the Riverwoods to tell her people what had transpired. Ves joined her fellow centaurs and galloped homeward into the western realms. Amelia Vicarin, weary from a life of peril and haunted by all she had seen, quietly slipped away to find peace.
Bartimaeus Brightheart, his oath renewed, declared his intention to restore the Grail Knights. Daviok Beastbane, impressed by the vision, offered his strength—on one condition: that Bartimaeus train with him in Moorn, to forge new Templars for the battles to come. The war would need knights with true purpose. Varis Brightheart chose to journey to Seacliff, where his family awaited. He departed not as a warrior, but as a man seeking closure.
The civil war would burn on, shaped in subtle ways by what they had done. Their tale would be told in hearsay, if at all. The nightmare had ended—but the world, as always, moved forward. Unknown heroes to most, but cherished legends to the few who witnessed them.
The Travellers were no more. But their mark would endure.
11 Celba, 913 Fourth Age