The Last Priestess

Eralevia's Lair, Ruins of Amberlan, Tarlanor, June 9th 1655, 10pm

The objective of destroying the lich having been met, the party's thoughts turned to Setram the Dragon, and how well he was doing in his part of their deal.

They climbed back up into the room where the Angels of Decay had so nearly accounted for Méabh; the two ominous stone pods still hung in the top corners, and the pool of corruption was largely dried out. Méabh suggested replacing the 'plug', and Gorfang hefted it easily and dropped it into place with a dull boom. Eralevia was sealed in her tomb now.

Still rather battered, the party decided to return to the place they'd camped in the previous night - the empty room parallel to the fake 'throne room' - and rest once more. This they did, sleeping in shifts. Lynien was a little wary of Gorfang; she'd seen how he'd looked at her when she was pumped up under the effects of Tenser's Transformation, and there'd been no mistaking his expression. The night passed without incident, however.

Eralevia's Lair, Ruins of Amberlan, Tarlanor, June 10th 1655, morning

DM Note: This was a handy fudge, as it bubbled Lynien fairly believeably and avoided nasty questions like could the dragon recognize her scent or that of the stuff she had nicked.

Rather than go back up to the city, they decided to go down into the water-pipes and retrace Lynien's steps to the dragon's lair to meet up with him. Eloy suggested he might go across the surface instead - "so I can warn you if the dragon returns," as he put it. Lynien pointed out that he'd have no means of communicating this, but that a surface scout would be useful. For some reason, meeting the dragon didn't seem to appeal to her much, and she decided to cross the city aboveground.

With this decided, the remaining three companions set out across the lair of Eralevia. The signs of their previous battles were still marked on the damp, crumbling stone of the cellars. Scorchmarks from fireballs, a vast swathe of corridor scoured clean by the acid of the Hidden Pudding, and chunks of gravestone scattered around. Back at the watertank, they found the surviving half of the pudding back in its lair. Covered in burn marks and reduced to half its original size, it was barely moving, and - inasmuch as anything could be read from a featureless nonsentient ooze - it appeared to be sulking.

Back at the wellhead, the group peered down the shaft, which appeared to be around a hundred feet deep. Lynien had climbed up it without difficulty - the walls were rough stonework, easy for a trained thief like her. Eloy could probably manage the descent as easily. Méabh, and especially Gorfang, were not at all sure they could. A rope was unpacked and secured at the top, and Méabh abseiled deftly down it. A few moments later a quiet call echoed up to signal that the others could follow.

Gorfang gripped the rope and glanced down. Climbing crags, buildings and larger opponents was within his experience, but ropes he wasn't particularly used to. Still, Méabh had managed it. He swung himself off the edge in a wide arc, at the end of which his boots crashed into the shaft wall far harder than he'd expected. His grip slipped slightly and the rope slid rapidly and painfully through his fingers for a moment before he regained his hold. Grinding his teeth, he resumed his descent, taking smaller arcs, and was soon at the bottom with Méabh, who was quietly casting protective spells on herself. Eloy unhitched the rope and dropped it, then clambered swiftly down the wall.

The three went cautiously down the passage, quite aware of what was likely waiting for them at the other end. After about half a mile, Gorfang noticed some tracks in one of the occasional scatters of fallen rubble and grit, and recoginzed the fairly distinctive spoor of ratmen. Méabh dug in her pack, and pulled out a peculiar object - it appeared to be a clot of knotted hair - which she tucked into the front of her tunic. Then they moved on

Around a quarter of a mile from the central well, the sound of breathing became audible. Faint and distant, it still bore the unmistakable aspect of something very large breathing. They looked at each other, Whatever the crash of the previous morning had been, it hadn't been the dragon's death. After another hundred yards or so, Méabh halted, took a deep breath, and called: "Hail, Setram, and well met!"

From the lack of a sudden change in the breathing, it was apparent that Setram had not been asleep; had they been insane enough to risk a sneak attack on him they would found him prepared..... A huge slithering, grinding, rattling sound indicated that the mighty reptile was adjusting his position, and then his vast voice rumbled down the tunnel; "Greetings again, my allies. We meet again. I did not expect you to come through the back door. Come into my parlour if your hearts are high enough."

Talking to Setram in his lair - click it for larger image!

Hearts beating faster for a variety of reasons, the three stepped onwards until they reached the mouth of the pipe, and could see into the well-chamber beyond. Most of it was packed with the vast red-black mass of Setram, and illuminated by the slight flutter of flame escaping from his nose and mouth. He had shifted his immense bulk around so that his head was adjacent to the archway framing the adventurers. He appeared well, and uninjured; there was, however, a tension about him that hinted at some intense feeling just below his calm exterior. Visible beneath him was his hoard. Eloy could not help noticing there was a lot of gold there.

Gorfang and Méabh stood boldly in the mouth of the pipe, but Eloy, apparently more nervous of the dragon, hung back a pace or two. The security afforded by this was illusionary, as a mile of cylindrical passage without any hiding places seperated him from the dragon and cover from his fire. The orc spoke boldly. "We have done our part; Eralevia is dead - again - and her servants slain." The dragon nodded. "Tvia is also no more, and her stronghold burns." he said with satisfaction. Méabh lifted an eyebrow. "What was that noise yesterday?" she asked. The dragon's eyes glowed slightly more brightly, and Eloy took a step backwards. "While I was fulfilling our share of the bargain," he rumbled in a voice that grew louder as he spoke, "I - was - ROBBED!" The growl was loud enough to shake the ground now, and the dragon's body shifted as he relived his rage. As it did so, the three caught a glimpse of one of the other passages across the well-room; the archway had been smashed apart as if some object or creature far too large to fit down the passage had rammed itself into the pipe by brute strength. The dragon recounted the subsequent events.

On discovering his loss, he had tracked it by scent to one of the passages, and forced himself through it until he found some - not all - of the lost loot, along with two ratman bodies and more tracks. "They must have fought amongst themselves for the plunder," he snarled. Curiosity overcame Eloy. "There's so much here, such riches," he said, "how did you know what was gone?" Setram's vast head turned, and a vast eye looked directly at Eloy; dots of sweat prickled the brow of the Man in the Shadows. "I am a dragon. I know my hoard - Every. Last. Coin." He turned back to regard the companions generally and Eloy swallowed with difficulty. Something to remember...

Having 'discovered' that the slitheren were responsible, Setram returned to the surface and, put simply, lost it big time. "I allowed myself to become angry," he said. He seemed not to want to go into details of what happened next, or to have unclear memories, but he had clearly wrought havoc across the ruins of Amberlan, tracking, unearthing and obliterating all the ratmen he could find. At one point, the fae mhor of Kaisien's faction had foolishly shot arrows at him as he went past. In his berserk fury, he had turned on her tower and destroyed it; Kaisien's faction was destroyed.

Gorfang and Méabh sympathized with the dragon and spoke admiringly of the thoroughness of his vengance. Tactfully, Gorfang raised the question of loot from the destroyed factions; gold and jewels for the dragon, 'pointy sticks' and unwanted magic for the party. If it was possible, it appeared that the dragon was ... slightly embarrassed? It seemed that his rage had been such that he had not remembered to loot the fallen strongholds. "I was planning to go back when the fires were out and things had cooled," he said, not very convincingly.

"Well, they should have by now," commented Gorfang. "Let's go and loot them! Then we can take out Rhorelian; she's the only one left." Méabh looked at Setram. "Would you care to join us... in human form?" she said. Setram rumbled as he thought. "Though my powers are less against the Pyromancer than the others, what I do have to contribute is largely a function of being a physical dragon. It would be better I feel to wait until we have reduced the fortress of the last fae mhor before I am transformed." Méabh quietly cast a Message spell and spoke into Gorfang's mind. We can come back later for some of this, she suggested. The orc nodded briefly. Then Setram spoke again.

"Climb on my head," he rumbled. After a moment's doubt, the three did so, and suddenly found themselves rising as the dragon uncoiled himself. Setram, unbothered by their weight, climbed up the well, lifting them with him.

As they stepped off his head onto the grass of the citadel mound, the three looked around in amazement. In every direction, the gentle grass-covered decay of the lost city had been violently disturbed. The area of crumbled tenements that had been Tvia's territory was a blasted wasteland. Kaisien's tower, with its' demons and defences, was simply gone; a stub no higher than five feet remained, and blocks of masonry were scattered over an impressive radius, as if blasted by an explosion. Even now, more than a day after, fires were still burning in both places and in other locations around the city, and outside; presuambly locations where Setram had discovered slitheren warrens. The destruction was awesome, and the dragon gazed around at it for a moment with an air of mild pride.

The sole tower remaining upright was Rhorelian's. It stood now in splendid isolation, the flames that were the pyromancer's banners fluttering in the morning air. In front of it, blocks of stone had been drawn into a rough circle around the tower to form a loose rampart, but being daytime this was not occupied. The door was firmly shut and bugbear guards were visible on the battlements.

The adventurers reached the barricade and stopped, Setram bulking vast behind them. Three arrows smacked into the turf at Méabh's feet. "That's far enough!" came a fae mhor voice from above. "Do that again," growled Gorfang, "and I'll rip you a new one!" Méabh smiled briefly and then addressed the tower. "It's time for you to surrender," she said reasonably. "You may have noticed that you're the last ones left; everyone's dead, the lich is slain - "

"What lich?" came the startled question. Clearly communication between factions wasn't any better. Méabh continued.

"Simply throw out your magical weapons," she said reasonably, "and you can walk out of here with your ordinary ones. I'm offering you a way out." There was an outbreak of muttering from the tower, and then a a new voice spoke. Hard, competent, unmistakably female, it had to be Rhorelian.

"We wouldn't stand much chance," she commented. "it's not exactly friendly territory. Why not come in and we'll discuss it." Gorfang snorted. "Over poisoned wine no doubt!" he commented. "She's right, you know, it's your only chance," heckled Eloy, an arrow on the string and his eyes unsuccessfully searching the shadowed windows for the priestess. Rhorelian's voice sounded irritated. "Can't you control your males?" she rapped. Méabh grinned. "It's simple enough," she said. "Look at this place -" she encompassed the city with a wave - "the force we have here. You're the last."

There was a long silence.

It was broken by the thrum of a bowstring as Eloy launched three arrows at the tower window sheltering the archers. A muffled cry of pain rewarded him. Méabh spared an instant to glare at him; Eloy returned a 'who me' look - "I thought negotiations were over," he said. "They are now," commented Gorfang, already running for the door. He didn't sound too upset about it. Méabh, a spell primed, stepped behind the barricade, scanning the windows unsuccessfully for a target.

From behind her came that most dreadful of sounds, a sharp intake of breath from a dragon. Remaining facing the other way was a considerable test of Méabh and Eloy's courage; but a moment later a vast roaring firestorm erupted across and wrapped itself around the tower. Much of it went on around the sides; but the windows at the front admitted and concentrated the heat into lance-like blades. Thin screams, swiftly curtailed, within the tower signified the end of the archers.

Eloy looked at the bow in his hand, then up at the incinerated window, where the gently glowing and slightly melted stones were cooling rapidly from yellow to red with little plink plink sounds. Putting the bow down next to him, he picked one of his few surviving cigars from a pouch and held it up in the direction of the dragon. "Got a light?" he asked casually. Setram snorted gently, and Eloy relaxed, leaning on the wall, cigar in hand.

With a splintering crash, Gorfang was through the blackened and smoking tower door and into the ground floor room beyond. It was occupied by ten heavy bugbears, armoured in lizardhide and equipped with morningstars. Already unnerved by the sudden light and heat, the appearance of the mighty orc in such a fashion was nearly enough to break their nerve - but even if it had they would not have had time to flee. The Weapon Master was among them like an explosion of death, blades slashing and rending as he whirled through their ranks. Reaching the far side of the room, he turned and lowered his blades as he watched the last one fall.

Outside, the sudden blaze of firelight had illuminated the tower sufficiently well for Méabh to catch sight of Rhorelian, lurking in the upper storey waiting to strike. The Loremistress was quicker, and extending her pointed finger spoke one dreadful word. "Die."

The power of the sorceress punched through the innate magic resistance of the fae mhor, taking Rhorelian completely by surprise. She clutched at her chest as her heart simply stopped between one beat and the next, and toppled forwards to plunge down from the tower and crash to the ground at Méabh's feet.

Setram hurled himself into the air with a surprising lack of noise and curved elegantly around the tower. A moment later, faint screams marked the end of Rhorelian's last followers - the ones who'd sneaked out the back with ropes - as the dragon roasted them in the plain below.

Citadel Mound, Ruins of Amberlan, Tarlanor, June 11th 1655

Nearly three days later. the companions gathered with the dragon at the top of the central mound. Bog and Shamlakh had been fetched. All the remaining factions had been looted, and they were divvying up the treasure before leaving. As arranged, Setram had taken most of the coin, precious metals and jeweled objects (with the exception of those that Lynien, still keeping away, had reached first).

Apart from this, there was a healthy pile of magical items left over.

The decision was made to return to Lossal - now the nearest thing to home most of the party had - via Méabh's newly-mastered Teleportation magic. Before that, though, she raised the suggestion of polymorph with the dragon once more. Setram moved to the top of the well leading to his lair, and disappeared inside. A few moments later, terrible crashing and rumbling noises emerged, along with a cloud of dust, and a few moments later the dragon. Once out, he turned and smote the ground around the well - and it collapsed inward, blocking the path to his trove with tons of stone. He returned to Méabh.

"I am ready," he said, clearly bracing himself for the unknown. The sorceress used her Spellslide to reach into the memory of Gennen, Lord of Magic for the spell she needed, and cast it upon the unresisting dragon. In seconds, his vast shape had dwindled down to a fairly unexceptional-looking human, with smooth, pale skin, blonde hair and reddish-brown eyes. He walked up and down for a few minutes, getting the hang of half the legs and a hundred tons less weight. Then he dressed himself in some fae mhor mail and clothes, and added a longsword to his equipment before declaring himself ready.

Méabh teleported Gorfang, Eloy, Shamlakh, Bog and Setram in the first batch, taking them into the main hall of Gorfang's manor at Southwold. Shifting back across the miles, she collected Lynien and Uruk, and deposited them elsewhere in the building, so that Setram could be introduced to Lynien as someone new. Gorfang had roused his servants by the time she returned, and hot food, cold ale, wine, and (for those who wanted them) hot baths were soon available. Refreshed, the group gathered at a table to plan their next move...