Session 61 - The Shores of Ascension

General Summary

It was shortly after dawn when warmth and laughter filled the Inn of the All-Seeing Eye. The Ruinlords sat around a heavy oak table, sharing platters of goose and plum, stewed pork with shallots, and tankards of almond milk and ale. A lute hummed near the hearth, singing of heroes who never quite found the endings they wanted.   The archmage Edindol spoke with them of the Black Obelisk, the ancient prison for something that should never wake. His delivery made prophecy sound like idle philosophy. Sampson, still dressed for battle, helped the bartender’s dwarven daughters with their trays before joining the table as though he'd always belonged there.   For a little while, the world let them pretend they weren’t on the cusp of an apocalypse.  

The Silver Scabbard

  After brunch, the next order of business was commerce and steel. In Magepoint's adventurers' quarter, the Ruinlords sought final preparations at The Silver Scabbard, where every dented relic whispered of former owners who’d either won glory or died trying. Its proprietor, Serana Dalmire, assessed them with the frank, military stare of a commander deciding whether a soldier was worth investing in.   She approved.   Green-skinned tieflings, identical in face, voice, and unsettling smile, swarmed efficiently to take orders. They then disappeared into secure vaults, with the promise that the goods would be ready "when needed." None bothered asking how the tieflings knew what the group would need, or when.   Some questions were better left unspoken.  

The Glass Sea of Memory

  Then everything stopped.   The Ruinlords stood upon a boundless mirror-ocean, the twilight sky above reflecting perfectly below, as though they hovered between two overlapping worlds. Twelve miniature suns wheeled overhead in ritual orbit around a single, devouring void.   Edindol's voice rolled across the glass.   "Here, you can speak freely. Time is your friend here."   Stone thrones rose like islands. Sigils ignited beneath their feet. Sampson took his post at the periphery as guardian or witness, perhaps both. The air thickened with the gravity of intention as Edindol lifted his staff and began a spell mortals weren’t meant to see.   Ascension.   Power came like a tide that was cold, sharp, and impossibly vast. Their souls stretched to brush the divine. The Ruinlords became something... more. Mythic strength settled into their veins, thrumming like the heartbeat of a star.   "This is not a gift," Edindol warned. "It is a responsibility."   And then shadows consumed the world.  

The Shores of Kyuss

  They emerged upon coarse and wet sand, breath stolen by the sudden reek of rot and brine. A new island steamed beneath a sickly green sky: The Isle of Kyuss, birthed from the sea by ancient blasphemy.   The Faceless One waited to greet them.   The Black Wyrmstone spun lazily around him, its once-infinite power thinned and cracked as if drained somehow. His sermon promised that Kyuss's ascension would not be thwarted this time. Not by anyone.   Then came the sky tearing open.   The mighty undead dragon Dragothalax, stitched to existence by necrotic fire, descended in a cyclone of ash. His grave-breath slammed into the party, felling half of them in a single roar. Mythic power flickered like a pulse just enough to drag the fallen back to their feet.   For a moment, defeat seemed preordained.  

The Turning Point

  The Faceless One's blood magic carved wounds that refused to clot. His cursed sword healed him with every strike he landed. With a single whispered syllable, he nearly tore Oathgar inside out.   Cal called down the storm itself, hurling air elementals into the sky to harry the dracolich.   Above the din, Dragothalax’s hollow voice rasped: "Our bargain ends when your heart stops, priest." He might have been speaking to himself, barely heard above the sound of combat.   But Cal heard. That was all the clarity the Ruinlords needed.   Tike and Oathgar drove in relentlessly, brutally. Steel and myth crashed against ritual and bone. The Faceless One's guard faltered beneath the assault. With precise strikes, Oathgar finished what had begun in the sands of Kuluth-Mar a millennium ago.   One final strike. One final scream swallowed by the storm. The priest of Kyuss fell, the Wyrmstone fleeing to rejoin its master.   Dragothalax retreated with a howl of thwarted fury.  

The New Threat

  A torrent of dark light punched skyward from the center of the island, darkening the clouds over the newly risen land.   Cal levitated above the cliffs for reconnaissance and regretted it immediately.   At the center of the island stood the Black Obelisk, pried open by the Dragonsoul Crucible and burned crimson at its base. And before it...   The corpse that had once been Loris Raknian writhed and grew. Skin splitting, worms seething, bones distending into something titanic. Godflesh knitting over mortal pride. Kyuss forcing his way into the world through the vessel that had massacred a city for the honor.   The storm thickened. The earth screamed beneath them.   The apocalypse was no longer coming.   It was waking up.

Rewards Granted

From Edindol:

• MYTHIC 2 (Eight-Hour Duration)