The City of Rust and Ruin
Following Korgoth’s grim assessment and Alessa's lead, the trio moves away from the relative—if rough—order of Torch’s main thoroughfare. The path toward Scrapwall is not a well-trodden road but a gradual descent into greater desolation. The sparse, tough grass gives way to cracked, barren earth littered with increasingly large and bizarre chunks of metal debris. The air grows heavier, the metallic tang sharpening into an acrid cocktail of rust, ozone, and chemical decay.
Soon, the settlement itself rises from the plains, less a town and more a monstrous, festering wound in the landscape. Scrapwall is not built *on* the ground so much as it is the ground—a sprawling, multi-layered heap of technological refuse piled dozens of feet high. Jagged walls of fused metal plates, tangled nests of ancient cable, and the fractured hulls of forgotten machines form a chaotic, almost organic-looking barrier. There is no formal gate, only a jagged wound in the junk-heap, a wide gap flanked by makeshift watchtowers constructed from skeletal gantries. Lounging in the shadows of these towers are several hard-faced figures, their armor a patchwork of scavenged plating and worn leather, their eyes tracking your approach with the predatory stillness of crocodiles.
Stepping through the gap is like entering the belly of some colossal, dead machine. The sky is partially obscured by a haphazard canopy of debris, casting the "streets" below in a perpetual, grimy twilight, punctuated by the sputtering glow of alchemical lamps and the eerie, pulsing light of still-active, but damaged, alien technology. The pathways are a treacherous maze of compacted refuse, narrow catwalks made of rusted grating, and bridges of bent support beams spanning chasms of unknown depth filled with more junk. The air is a cacophony of groaning metal, the mournful whistle of wind through countless holes, and the distant, muffled sounds of arguments and industry. It smells of rust, spilled chemicals, unwashed bodies, and the faint, unsettling scent of burning plastic.
The inhabitants of Scrapwall are a hard lot, their faces etched with desperation and paranoia. A motley collection of broken humans, hard-bitten half-orcs, wiry goblins, and other outcasts eye you from shadowed alcoves and the doorways of shanties bolted to the sides of the junk piles. Your group is an immediate curiosity. Alessa's clean gear and Zyl'thara's otherworldly appearance draw long, covetous stares. The only thing keeping the most desperate from approaching is the immense, granite-like presence of Korgoth, whose reputation, or at least his formidable appearance, seems to precede him. Every eye that falls upon you seems to be calculating, weighing the potential profit of your gear against the certain danger of your goliath escort.
Before you, the path splits. One route leads up a shaky-looking ramp to a higher level of catwalks, where makeshift stalls seem to form a kind of bizarre marketplace. Another path continues on the "ground" level, winding deeper into the oppressive canyon of refuse. A third, darker path descends into a shadowy under-level, from which the acrid smell is particularly strong.
Zyl'thara takes a single step into Scrapwall and immediately recoils, her hand flying to her nose and mouth as if to ward off a physical blow. The air is thick and sharp, a painful assault on her senses. It's nothing like the clean, metallic tang of Torch; this is a smell of decay, of things gone wrong and left to fester. Her antennae flatten against her head, twitching erratically as they are overwhelmed by the discordant symphony of groaning metal, angry shouts, and the unsettling hum of broken things that refuse to die.
"Oh," she whispers, her voice small and tight. She presses closer to Alessa's side, her large, dark eyes wide with a mixture of horror and morbid fascination. The sheer wrongness of the place is a palpable force. Piles of sharp, angry-looking metal tower over them like jagged, sleeping beasts. The people are even worse. Their eyes are like the eyes of the hungry predators from Castrovel's deepest jungles—cold, empty, and calculating. Zyl'thara can feel their stares like tiny, sharp needles pricking her skin.
"Alessa," she murmurs, her gaze fixed on a shadowy figure with too many limbs made of mismatched metal. "This place… it feels… sad. And pointy. Everything is broken. The air… the metal… the people…" She shudders, her grip tightening on Alessa's arm. She glances up at Korgoth's massive, stony back, finding his silent, formidable presence the only comforting thing in this terrifying metal graveyard. "I do not like the way they look at us. It is not a friendly look. It is a… 'I want to take your shiny things and maybe also your antennae' look." She hides herself further behind her companions. "Which way do the mending-pieces hide in a place like this?"
Korgoth steps through the gap into Scrapwall and his entire posture changes. In Torch, he was a formidable presence; here, he is in his natural element. His hand, which had been resting near his greataxe, now grips the haft firmly. His head is on a constant, slow swivel, his grey eyes missing nothing—the twitchy goblin watching from a high perch, the half-orc with the sharpened rebar club, the glint of a broken glass bottle held like a dagger in a shadowed alley. He is a granite statue of coiled lethality.
The stench, the noise, the oppressive atmosphere—none of it seems to faze him. This is the reality of the wastes, a truth he has known his entire life. He lets out a low grunt, a sound of grim acknowledgement rather than discomfort.
"Hmph. Smells like home," he rumbles, the words meant more for himself than for his companions. He notes the covetous stares fixed on Alessa and Zyl'thara and adjusts his position slightly, placing his bulk more squarely between them and the most obvious threats. He knows that his size and the brutal promise of his axe are the only currency that matters here.
His gaze sweeps over the three paths before them. The marketplace above, the deeper canyon, the dark descent. "Up high, you see them coming," he says, his voice a low growl that cuts through the din. He jerks his chin toward the ramp. "More eyes, more thieves. But they do their business in the open." He then glances toward the darker, lower path. "Down below… things crawl. Things you don't want to meet. Things that don't like the light." He looks back at Alessa, his expression unreadable but his meaning clear. The choice is theirs, but every step in this place is a gamble. "Stay close. Don't touch anything. Don't trust anyone. Speak only when you must." He is not their friend or their guide in this moment; he is their shield, and he expects them to be smart enough not to step out from behind it.
Alessa had hardly expected a welcoming vista from Scrapwall, but she was still scarcely prepared for how harsh the place seems. She advances slowly into the expanse of rust and rock, keeping a wary eye above and below as best she can. In the dangerous places she has been before, she felt empty and alone, but here, everything and everyone seems ready to lash out, the gaze of each inhabitant matching the sharpness of every broken metal frame. Zyl'thara's trembling, fearful voice almost tells her to turn around, but Korgoth's stony reassurance is enough to keep her moving forward, for now.
She tells herself that in this place she is not dealing with mindless brutes or accursed spirits, but people. Dangerous, vicious people, but people nonetheless, who she might just be able to get some information or even favors from with choice words, appearances, and a little spellcraft.
The marketplace, by this line of thought, shows the most promise. She points up toward it, whispering to her companions. "Let's start with the marketplace. But keep your purses tight and your weapons ready. And keep close together. Be ready for anything." Alessa casts **mage armor** on herself, creating a faint shimmer of force around her body.
She then slowly and carefully follows Korgoth toward the catwalk. The treachery of the path strikes her immediately: a tangle of makeshift rusty planks and ladders that looks as daunting as any mountain face. Quietly, she casts **overland flight** on herself, hovering in the air for a brief moment but then falling back to the ground; she doesn't want to draw too much attention to herself yet. She then makes her way to the marketplace, constantly looking back and offering her arm to her sister if she needs it.
Upon arriving at the marketplace, she tries to assess the place. Trying to keep a calm, businesslike demeanor, she quietly asks the locals of their wares and what else the others in this place might be offering. She pays close attention especially to who might bear lots of knowledge, who might have traveled far, and who might be hiding something big.
Diplomacy (Gather Information) | 1d20+13
16
The ascent to the marketplace is a nerve-wracking affair. The ramp is a patchwork of rusted metal plates bolted to a groaning frame, swaying with every gust of wind that funnels through the junk canyons. It creaks and groans under Korgoth's immense weight, and several scavengers eye the structure warily as you climb. Alessa’s quiet use of flight gives her a sure-footedness that borders on supernatural, allowing her to easily offer a steadying arm to her sister.
The marketplace above is less a collection of stalls and more a chaotic bazaar of desperation. Scavengers squat on stained blankets, displaying their meager finds: dented cogs, lengths of corroded wire, cracked data-slates that flicker with dead static, and crude shivs fashioned from sharpened scrap. The air is thick with the smell of rust, cheap synth-ale, and poorly cooked meat from some unidentifiable creature. People haggle in low, guttural tones, their eyes constantly darting around, assessing threats and opportunities.
Alessa’s attempt to gather information (Diplomacy 16) is met with suspicion and greed. Her clean appearance and direct questions mark her as an outsider, a potential mark. The vendors are willing to talk, but their words are cheap and self-serving.
"Wares? Best in Scrapwall, lady, best in Scrapwall," croaks a one-eyed man, gesturing to a pile of what looks like burnt-out power converters. "Got a genuine laser-etched focusing lens here. Bit of polish, good as new." He holds up a piece of broken, cloudy glass. When Alessa presses for information, he squints. "Travelers? Nah, no one comes *here*. People just… end up here. Looking for something big? Everyone's looking for something big. Go talk to Whiskifiss at the Guzzler if you want rumors. Cost you, though. Everything costs."
Another vendor, a wiry woman with intricate tattoos of circuitry on her face, is more direct. "You ask too many questions," she says, her hand resting on a wicked-looking metal hook at her belt. "Makes people nervous. You want to know who runs things? The Lords of Rust. You want to know where the good stuff is? Down deep in the guts of this place, where things with too many teeth and not enough eyes live. No one's just gonna *give* you skymetal, girlie. Not unless you got something they want more."
The general consensus is the same: anything of real value is either held by the ruling gang, the Lords of Rust, or it's buried deep in the most dangerous, unexplored parts of the scrap heap. A few people mention a central, fortified tavern called the Guzzler as the hub of information and black-market dealings, but they speak of it with a mix of reverence and fear. No one seems to have even heard of Glaucite, and the mention of rare metals only earns you harder, more calculating stares. You have the lay of the land, but you've also announced yourselves as naive newcomers on a treasure hunt.
Zyl'thara's knuckles are white as she clutches Alessa's arm on the way up the ramp. Each groan of the metal beneath her feet sends a fresh wave of terror through her, and she keeps her eyes squeezed shut for most of the climb, antennae pressed flat against her scalp. "It is… very… wobbly, Alessa," she whimpers. "Like a sick space-whale."
When they reach the marketplace, she opens her eyes, but the sight brings her no relief. It's a panorama of brokenness. She sees devices that look vaguely familiar—twisted versions of the technology she grew up with, now inert, rusted, and being sold as junk. It is like seeing a graveyard of possibilities. A profound sadness wells up inside her.
She stays as close to Alessa as physically possible, a silent, wide-eyed shadow. The vendors' gazes make her skin crawl, and she flinches when the woman with the hook speaks so sharply. She listens to Alessa’s questions and the scavengers' cagey replies, her brow furrowed in confusion.
"Why are they not helpful?" she whispers to Alessa when there's a moment's pause. "That man's 'focusing lens' is just sad glass. And the lady was so… prickly. Don't they know we need the mending-pieces for the Starfire? It is a very important reason. Back home… if someone needed help, we would just… help them." She looks around at the desperate faces and the piles of useless scrap. "This place feels like a heart that has stopped beating. It makes my own heart feel… heavy."
Korgoth navigates the treacherous ramp with the heavy, unconcerned surety of a landslide. The metal groans under his weight, but he pays it no mind. His focus is entirely outward, his grey eyes scanning the catwalks above and the alleys below. He is a walking mountain, and his presence alone makes a few lurking toughs think twice about jostling the newcomers on the narrow walkway.
In the marketplace, he remains a step behind Alessa, a looming man of silent judgment. He watches her interact with the vendors, his expression an unreadable mask of stone. He recognizes the type instantly—vultures picking over a corpse. The man with the "focusing lens" gets a low, almost inaudible rumble from Korgoth's chest, a warning clear enough that the scavenger doesn't press his sale.
He listens to the information Alessa gathers, nodding slightly to himself. It is exactly as he expected. Half-truths and misdirection designed to lead them into more trouble. When the vendors mention the Lords of Rust and the Guzzler, his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. These are names of consequence, focal points of the violence and desperation that rule this place.
He remains silent, allowing Alessa to conduct her inquiries. This is her path to walk. He is here to ensure she is not consumed by it before she has a chance to learn its harsh lessons. But as the scavengers' eyes linger on them, growing bolder with each question, his hand tightens on the haft of his greataxe. Patience, in Scrapwall, is a resource as finite as clean water.
Alessa keeps her arms tense, and closely by her purse, as she navigates the twisting catwalks of the market. The clientele here make the folk of Torch look like pampered courtiers, and never has she felt more conspicuous. She tries to think of how she might be able to use that to her advantage, but fear and uncertainty cloud any such judgment. Still, she has come too far to turn around, and has managed to find what might be a lead. She motions her companions toward a quiet corner in a hollowed-out rusted sphere of some sort to regroup and find a plan from here.
She pauses for a moment, taking in the titanic metal ruins around her. From what she has read in the few volumes on Numeria she has found, these must be the remains of other vessels that could travel between the stars. She can even see some parts that resemble her sister's vessel: enormous beams, metal wings, scorched hollow cones. Yet they are all far larger, more angular, more imposing, and any beauty in them has long faded away. "It looks like we weren't the only ones who ended up lost on this world," she says with a sigh to Zyl'thara.
As Korgoth looks downward expectantly, Alessa remembers the information she has gathered. "Well, I heard someone in the Guzzler might know of some rumors... what was his name? Whisky-fish?" She looks up at Korgoth expectantly, hoping he might offer guidance. He only stands emotionless, shifting his eyes a tiny amount. All she can read from this is that he's ready for her to chart the course, something she may not feel quite safe with, but neither will anyone here. "Let's... let's try there?"
Navigating from the catwalks toward the supposed location of the Guzzler is a descent back into the oppressive gloom of Scrapwall’s ground level. Korgoth wordlessly takes the lead, his bulk forcing a path through the narrow, refuse-choked canyons. The stares follow you, more intense now that you move with a clear purpose. A few ragged figures detach from the shadows to follow for a time, their intentions masked, but they inevitably sheer off, unwilling to challenge your goliath escort directly.
The Guzzler is not so much a building as a fortified tumor growing out of the side of a colossal, half-buried engine block. Its walls are thick plates of scavenged hull metal, reinforced with girders and bristling with sharpened rebar. The only entrance is a heavy, screeching metal door guarded by two hulking figures in spiked patchwork armor, both clutching massive pipe wrenches like warhammers. They watch you approach, their expressions flat and hostile, but a flicker of recognition—or perhaps professional respect for a fellow brute—crosses their faces as they see Korgoth. One of them gives a curt, almost imperceptible nod, and they step aside, allowing the heavy door to swing inward.
The inside of the tavern is a single, large, smoke-filled chamber. The air is thick with the competing stenches of stale synth-ale, unwashed bodies, and ozone from a flickering, jury-rigged neon sign behind the bar that buzzes erratically. A low, grinding electronic beat thumps from a set of ancient speakers. The patrons are a rogues' gallery of Scrapwall’s hardest cases: cybernetically augmented thugs, grim-faced scavengers, a few goblins playing a knife game in the corner, and a dour-looking dwarf tending a bar made from a starship's control console.
Your entrance causes a momentary lull in the tavern's noise. Every head turns. The eyes that land on Alessa and Zyl'thara are filled with a predatory mix of curiosity, lust, and avarice. The eyes that land on Korgoth are filled with something else: caution. He is a known quantity, or at least a recognizable type of danger. The tension in the room is a physical presence, a weight in the air. The conversations resume, but they are quieter now, laced with whispers, and you are the undeniable center of attention. No one fitting the name "Whiskifiss" immediately makes himself known.
Zyl'thara’s antennae droop as she follows Alessa into the hollowed-out metal sphere. She gazes out at the colossal, skeletal remains of the other ships, and a wave of profound sorrow washes over her. "Yes," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "So many… broken Starfires. Did they have sisters, too? Were they trying to get home?" She reaches out a hand as if to touch one of the distant, fractured hulls. "It is a very sad thing, to be so far from your own sky and unable to return. I hope… I hope their journey was not too frightening at the end."
When Alessa mentions the Guzzler, Zyl'thara’s attention snaps back to the present, and a fresh spike of fear pierces through her melancholy. The name alone sounds unpleasant, like something that chokes and swallows. She follows Korgoth and Alessa meekly, her eyes darting nervously into every shadow.
Stepping through the heavy door of the tavern is like being submerged in dirty water. The thick, smelly air makes her want to retch again, and the low, grinding music feels like it's trying to burrow into her skull. She shrinks behind Alessa, her hand gripping the back of her sister’s clothing. The stares from the patrons are worse than in the market—less guarded, more openly hostile. She can feel their thoughts, not clearly, but as a muddy, aggressive sludge of base desires.
"Alessa," she whispers, her voice trembling. "This place feels… very loud inside my head. The people here are thinking… sharp, hungry thoughts. I do not see a 'Whisky-fish'. I only see… big, angry fish with many teeth. Are you sure the mending-pieces would be near a place like this?"
Korgoth listens to Alessa’s decision. The Guzzler. Whiskifiss. It is a plan. A thin, dangerous plan, but a plan nonetheless. He gives a single, sharp nod. "Whiskifiss. A rat-faced man. A whisper-monger. Sells words. Sometimes they are even true." His voice is a low rumble. "He will be in a corner. Or near the bar. Watching. Always watching."
Without another word, he turns and leads the way. He does not look back; he expects them to keep up. His path is direct, his heavy footfalls steady and sure on the treacherous ground. He is an advancing wall of intimidation, and the lesser predators of Scrapwall part before him. At the door to the Guzzler, he meets the guards' gaze without flinching. No words are exchanged. None are needed. The language of violence is universal.
Inside, Korgoth comes to a halt just past the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. He is a granite pillar in a sea of sharks. His gaze sweeps the room once, methodically, cataloging every occupant. He notes the armed thugs, the twitchy goblins, the man with the glowing cybernetic eye who watches them a little too intently. He dismisses most as simple threats, easily managed. His presence is a clear declaration: these two are with me. Touch them and you deal with me.
"The rat is not here," he grunts softly, his eyes still scanning the room. "Or he is hiding. Wait. Watch. He will scurry out if he smells coin. Or blood." He moves toward a small, unoccupied section of the wall, away from the main throng but with a clear view of the entire room. He gestures for Alessa and Zyl'thara to stand with their backs to the wall. He remains standing, arms crossed. He is not here to drink or to talk. He is here to watch for the first sign of trouble.
Alessa follows even closer behind Korgoth as she slowly enters the tavern. She would be fascinated by the strange machines, lights, and sounds of the place if not for the need to keep her guard up as tightly as possible. Some of the looks given to her by the patrons make her feel very uncomfortable, especially as they also extend to Zyl'thara as she trembles by her side.
"You can hear their thoughts?" she whispers to her sister. "That reminds me... I can try..." Under her breath, she recites the incantation for detect thoughts (Will DC 20), the rapid chatting of the clientele soon filling her mind. Still, she figures she might need a ploy to draw out either this Whiskifiss or perhaps a word on where these Lords of Rust might hoard their most valued posessions. She has an idea, a dangerous idea, one that may draw even more attention to herself, but to go unnoticed by now is not an option. Besides, if there is anyone, or anything, she has learned to trust in these parts, it's Korgoth.
Bright-eyed, and with a bounce in her step, she approaches the bartender. "I'll have your most expensive drink," she says, putting a handful of shimmering coins on the old ring of scrap. As she waits for the cup, she scans the rest of the tavern, attempting to sift through people's thoughts for any clues about glaucite, the Lords of Rust, or any imminent danger.
The moment the coins—shimmering, cleanly minted, and clearly not local scrip—hit the bar, the quiet hum of the Guzzler drops several decibels. It's as if a switch has been flipped. Eyes that were merely curious now gleam with open avarice. You haven't just ordered a drink; you've put a bounty on your own head.
The bartender, a dour dwarf with a massive, soot-stained beard and a cybernetic replacement for his left arm, doesn't even look at Alessa. His gaze is fixed on the coins. He slowly sweeps them into his metal hand with a grating scrape, then turns to a grimy vat behind him. He pulls a lever, and a thick, rust-colored liquor that smells of antiseptic and regret oozes into a chipped ceramic mug. He slides it across the bar. "One Scrap-Jack," he grunts. "Keep the change." It's not a gesture of generosity. The information, the attention, the drink—it's all part of the price.
As this happens, the spell takes hold, and Alessa's mind is flooded with a torrent of surface thoughts from the tavern's collective consciousness:
…look at that metal arm, bet it’s worth a few bits… thirsty… that goliath is trouble, stay clear… the girl with the feelers, strange… pretty… wonder what she tastes like… shiny coins… easy mark? no, look at the big one… I hate this rotgut… need a fix… Lords of Rust are looking for new scrappers for the deep runs… my knife is sharp…
It's overwhelming, a mess of base survival instincts, greed, and boredom. But Alessa pushes through the noise, scanning, focusing her arcane senses.
She brushes against the mind of a hulking, pipe-wrench-wielding thug near the door. He fails his save easily. His thoughts are a simple, violent loop: Coins. Soft girl. Big goliath. Wait for them to leave. Alley is dark. Easy. A clear and immediate threat.
She focuses on the dwarven bartender. He's more disciplined. His mind is a fortress of professional pragmatism. He notices the faintest psychic touch and his mental walls slam shut (Will save succeeded). His surface thought is all she gets: Paid is paid. Not my problem what happens after.
Then, her mental probe sweeps across a shadowed booth in the far corner. A small, wiry man, wrapped in rags with only his beady eyes and twitching nose visible, is hunched over a drink. His surface thoughts are a whirlwind of paranoia and calculation. As Alessa focuses, she pushes past his initial defenses (Will save failed).
...new people. Not from around here. Too clean. The alien is a prize, the Technic League pays for live exotics. But the goliath… Korgoth? Looks like him. Bad business. They’re asking about skymetal… they said… glaucite? That’s League-tech. Dangerous questions. Maybe the Lords of Rust would pay more than the League… information is coin…
The man suddenly flinches as if stung. His head snaps up, and his beady, rat-like eyes scan the room until they lock directly with hers. He knows. He knows he was just touched. A flicker of panic crosses his face, followed by cunning. He gives a barely perceptible shake of his head, then melts deeper into the shadows of his booth, pulling his rags tighter around him. You have found Whiskifiss.
Alessa shudders and nervously glances over at her sister as all manner of unsavory, violent thoughts enter her mind. The voices already feel like they are cutting into her, which should say something about their blades. She wants to spend as little more time here as she can.
She takes a quick look down at her thick liquor. The smell alone is enough to never miss this place. She fakes taking a sip, stifles a cough, and gives a quiet nod to the bartender before getting up. Alessa then quietly circles the bar once more, passing by the wrench-wielding thug. "No need to follow me outside," she says with an innocent shrug. "I left my coins here at the bar, they're not going anywhere else." She weaves some magic into her words, making a quick stride away before anyone else might grow suspicious. (Suggestion, DC 21 Will)
Alessa then hurries to the other corner, where the ragged man sits hunched in a booth. One should expect this look, she guesses, from anyone who has come to know so many secrets of a place like this. She gives him a light curtsey, for a moment meeting his sunken eyes with her own. "Pleasure to meet you," she says with a bright smile. "I heard you know a thing or two about glaucite. Would you be kind enough to share with us where and how we can find it? It'll be better off put to use than left locked up or forgotten." She again weaves an enchantment spell into her words, concentrating even harder on this one as she knows his mind may be difficult to reach. (Suggestion with Persistent Spell, DC 21 Will, roll twice and take the lowest)
As Alessa speaks to the hulking thug, a subtle, violet shimmer dances in her eyes for a moment. The thug, who had been tensing his shoulders to follow you out, suddenly stops. A look of profound confusion crosses his brutish features. His eyes flick from Alessa's back to the bar, where the dwarven bartender is still polishing the mug. The thug's brow furrows, as if grappling with a complex logical problem. Then, his face smooths out, a greedy, simple-minded certainty replacing the confusion. The coins. Yes. The coins are here. He doesn't need to go anywhere. He lumbers over to the bar, leans on it heavily, and fixes his gaze on the bartender, completely forgetting Alessa's existence. (Thug fails Will save)
Alessa then glides across the room to the shadowed booth. The rat-like man, Whiskifiss, shrinks back as she approaches, his hand instinctively reaching for a hidden knife. But when she curtsies and speaks, her words laced with potent enchantment, his paranoia is slammed by a wave of magical compulsion.
His body goes rigid. His knuckles are white where he grips the edge of the table. A war is being fought behind his beady eyes. Every instinct screams at him: Trap! Trick! They know! Run! But the spell's insidious logic worms its way into his mind: She's just asking. It's just information. Information is my trade. Sharing it is what I do. It's a reasonable request. It would be... kind... to help her. It's for a good cause... better than letting it rot...
A low, pained hiss escapes his lips. He looks from Alessa to the mountain of a goliath standing guard, then back to Alessa. The magical imperative is too strong, reinforced by the very real threat of physical violence if he refuses. The first Will save is a catastrophic failure, and the second, forced by the persistent spell, is no better.
"N-not here," he rasps, his voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement. He waves a trembling, dirt-caked hand, gesturing for her to lean closer. The rest of the tavern watches, the tension thick enough to taste. "Too many ears. League ears. Rust Lord ears."
He pushes himself out of the booth, keeping his body low, wrapped in his rags. "Back alley. Two minutes," he whispers, his eyes darting around nervously. "Come alone. The big one draws too much attention." He doesn't wait for an answer, scurrying past the table and melting into a dark, refuse-choked corridor near the back of the tavern that likely leads to the latrines... or an exit. He has been compelled to share his information, and he is now trying to do so under conditions that he, in his magically-addled but still paranoid mind, deems safest for himself.
Zyl'thara watches, her heart thumping against her ribs like a trapped bird. She sees Alessa speak to the very large, very angry-looking man, and is certain he is about to shout or smash something. But instead, he just... stops. He looks confused, like a grub that has lost its leaf, and wanders over to the bar. Zyl'thara's antennae twitch. "Oh. Alessa, you… you made him sleepy?"
But her relief is short-lived. Alessa immediately walks toward the corner where the scary rat-man is hiding. Zyl'thara shrinks further behind Korgoth, peering around his massive leg. She can't hear what Alessa is saying, but she sees the rat-man tense up, and for a horrible moment, she thinks he is going to lunge. When he scurries away into a dark hole in the wall, her fear spikes again.
"Alessa, no!" she whispers urgently when Alessa returns. "He is a rat-man! He ran into a rat-hole! Rats bite! And he said to go alone! That is the opposite of sticking together! It is a very, very bad plan! What if he has other rat-friends with sharp teeth in his hole?" She looks pleadingly from Alessa to Korgoth, her dark eyes wide with terror at the thought of Alessa walking into a dark alley alone with that creature.
Korgoth watches the entire exchange with the stillness of a stone pillar. He sees Alessa's magic work on the thug and a low grunt rumbles in his chest. A useful trick. Better than a brawl.
When she approaches Whiskifiss, his hand never leaves his axe. He sees the rat-man's internal struggle, the way he tenses and twitches. Korgoth is ready to cross the room in two strides and end the conversation permanently if the man so much as reveals a centimeter of steel.
He hears Whiskifiss's whispered command. "Come alone."
Korgoth's eyes narrow. He looks down at Alessa as she returns, his expression unchanging but his voice a low, gravelly warning. "No. The rat wants to separate the herd. A classic ambush. You do not go alone."
He glances toward the dark corridor Whiskifiss disappeared into. "We go together. Or we do not go. If he wants to sell his words, he sells them to all of us." He takes a heavy step forward, positioning himself between Alessa and the alley. "If he wants a fight, he gets one." His tone leaves little room for debate. He will not allow Alessa to walk into an trap, magic or no magic.
Alessa’s eyes dart back and forth between Korgoth, Zyl’thara, and the dark corridor into which Whiskifiss had just vanished. They are right: they should be cautioned for a trap. The darkness, isolation, and assistance to come in alone are all signs to expect something. But the rumor-monger did insist that they follow quickly, and even if he means no harm, Alessa figures that he will be gone quickly.
“Come with me,” she says, leading Korgoth and Zyl’thara just beyond sight of the bar. She casts dancing lights, creating violent motes that float around the rusty corridor. Her hand shimmers with magic again as she casts invisibility on Zyl’thara, causing her to vanish into the flickering light.
“Stay close to me. I can’t see you either, and you can still be heard. Don’t say a word, and keep watch for anything that might come out of the shadows.” She whispers the incantation again and touches Korgoth, causing his stony form to vanish into nothing. “Staying very still is bound to help too.”
Keeping a hand subtly on her sister’s arm to ensure she is close, she carefully advances into the corridor. “Hello again. What secrets might you like to share?”
The corridor is a narrow, claustrophobic space of rust. The four motes of Dancing Light bob and weave ahead, casting long, distorted shadows that writhe and twist like living things. The air is cold and foul, thick with the sickly-sweet reek of chemical runoff and decay. A constant, slimy drip echoes from an unseen pipe above, spattering into a caustic puddle that sizzles faintly.
A pile of debris to the left shifts, and Whiskifiss scrambles out, his rags barely distinguishing him from the surrounding trash. His beady eyes are wide with panic at Alessa's voice.
"Fools!" he hisses, his voice a frantic whisper. "You did not come alone! I can smell the big one! You'll bring them all down on us!" He's terrified, but the magical compulsion still holds him in its grip, forcing him to obey the spirit of his promise.
He shoves a grimy, rolled-up piece of leather into Alessa's hands. It feels like a crude map. "Glaucite," he whispers, spitting the word out like a curse. "You won't find it loose. Not here. The Technic League guards it. But the Lords of Rust... they got lucky. Stupid, but lucky."
He points a trembling, dirt-caked finger roughly in a direction leading deeper into Scrapwall. "They hit a League caravan a week ago. Stole a power converter. They think it's just a battery. Idiots. It's not. The core... the regulator... it's a solid block of the grey stuff. Pure glaucite." He backs away, already looking for an escape route. "They keep it in their fortress, the Smelter. Kulgara the Tyrant, she's got it in her throne room, powering her toys. It's the only piece this side of Starfall that isn't locked in a League vault."
Suddenly, a shadow falls over the alley from above, accompanied by the sharp hiss of ignited fuel. Whiskifiss looks up, and a terrified squeak escapes his lips. "No, no, no... a patrol! Technic League patrol! It sees us all!"
With an eerie, graceful burn of thrusters, a metallic creature descends into the corridor, its landing a heavy CLANG that shakes the junk-piles. Standing a full ten feet tall, it resembles a sleek, weaponized automaton. Its pincer-tipped arms are poised to strike, and two whip-like tentacles made of force crackle near its head. A single, baleful red optic glows in the center of its chassis, swiveling with cold, analytical precision.
The red eye scans the area. It passes over Alessa, dismisses her for a fraction of a second, and then locks onto the "empty" space where the invisible Korgoth stands. The Myrmidon's Superior Optics have rendered your invisibility spell utterly useless against it.
"That's your payment! We're even!" Whiskifiss shrieks. He turns and scrambles up a pile of junk with shocking agility, disappearing into a narrow fissure in the wall of scrap. He is gone.
The Myrmidon takes a heavy step forward. Its quantum lashes whip through the air with a sound like tearing the air, and its laser-eye glows with sudden, intense heat. It has identified its targets and is moving to neutralize them.
Roll for initiative.
Ignoring Alessa completely, the Myrmidon's single red optic swivels and locks onto the empty space where the invisible Korgoth stands. With cold, mechanical precision, a small panel slides open on its shoulder chassis. There is a sharp hiss of compressed air as a small, finned projectile launches into the air. It doesn't travel far, arcing for a moment before slamming into the ground directly at Korgoth's feet.
The world dissolves into fire and thunder. The explosion is deafening in the narrow corridor, a concussive blast of force and shrapnel that rips through the junk-piles and engulfs the entire party in a ball of searing flame.
The Myrmidon uses its standard action to fire a rocket. It targets the ground at Korgoth's feet, catching the entire party in its 30-foot-radius burst.
This deals 6d6 fire damage and 6d6 bludgeoning damage. A successful DC 18 Reflex save will halve this damage. Since this is an area-of-effect spell, invisibility provides no benefit to the save.
A terrified shriek is ripped from Zyl'thara's throat as the world becomes a vortex of agonizing heat and crushing force. The invisibility shimmers and vanishes around her as she is thrown back against the alley wall. Pain lances through her body, and the smell of burnt metal fills her nostrils. Her antennae ring with the deafening blast, and she stumbles, a choked sob escaping her lips as she becomes visible, trembling and disoriented.
HP: 64/80
The explosion tears away Korgoth's invisibility with a roar of fire and shrapnel. He plants his feet, weathering the blast with a grunt of pure fury, his massive frame appearing in the firelight. Hot metal peppers his skin, and the concussive force staggers him for only a moment. A snarl escapes his lips, his eyes, now burning with rage, lock onto the Myrmidon. The pain is nothing. The challenge is everything.
HP: 125/141
Alessa cries out in fear and pain as the explosion scorches her skin. She darts back in the direction of the bar, hoping not to attract any further attention but caring rather little about that now.
“Keep spread out! And be quick to run out of the way! This should help.” She raises her hand, and a pulse of green light washes over herself, Korgoth, and Zyl’thara. (Haste)
HP: 37/53
The green light of Alessa's spell washes over Korgoth, and the world seems to slow down around him. His rage, already a burning fire, erupts into a roaring inferno. "RAAAGH!" The wordless bellow echoes off the metal walls, a primal challenge to the cold machine before him. He drops his shoulder and charges, his feet pounding against the scrap-strewn ground with the force of hammers. He doesn't run around the debris; he runs *through* it, kicking jagged metal shards aside as he closes the distance in a blur of motion. He brings his greataxe around in a devastating arc aimed at the robot's central chassis.
HP: 125/141
Korgoth takes the following actions on his turn:
1. Free Action: Enters a Rage.
2. Full-Round Action: Charges the Myrmidon. (Haste allows a charge and a single swing).
Power Attack, Damage | 1d20+33, 1d12+27, 1d6
46, 37, 6
Zyl'thara stumbles back, her large, dark eyes wide with panic. The raw violence of Korgoth's charge and the cold, unfeeling presence of the Myrmidon are overwhelming. But seeing the pained grimace on Alessa's face cuts through her terror. Her sister is hurt. "Alessa! Hold still!" she cries out, her voice trembling but clear. Scrambling backward to put Korgoth's charging form between herself and the robot, she stretches out a hand toward Alessa. A torrent of gentle, white-gold light flows from her fingertips, enveloping her sister in a soothing, restorative aura that knits flesh and eases the burning pain.
HP: 64/80
Zyl'thara takes the following actions on her turn:
1. Move Action: Moves 30 feet back, away from the Myrmidon and behind cover if possible.
2. Standard Action: Casts Cure Critical Wounds on Alessa.
Cure Serious Wounds | 4d8+11
35
The adamantine greataxe slams into the Myrmidon's torso with a deafening shriek of protesting metal, gouging a deep wound in its chassis and sending a shower of sparks into the grimy air. The robot doesn't recoil. It doesn't register pain. Its single red optic simply tracks the blow, analyzes the threat, and recalibrates.
With a short, sharp blast of fire from the thrusters on its back, the Myrmidon levitates five feet off the ground, hovering just above Korgoth's head. Its movements are impossibly fluid. Before the barbarian can even re-center his stance, the machine descends upon him in a whirlwind of violence. Its heavy metallic pincers lunge for his arms and shoulders, seeking to crush and pin him, while two shimmering, whip-like tentacles of pure force lash out, bypassing his armor. Simultaneously, its central red eye glows with incandescent heat, unleashing a searing beam of crimson light that streaks past the melee towards the spellcaster who healed.
Myrmidon Status: Healthy (Force Shield: Damaged)
Claw 1, Claw 2, Quantum Lash 1, Quantum Lash 2, Integrated Laser Rifle | 1d20+22, 1d20+22, 1d20+22, 1d20+22, 1d20+16
25, 34, 23, 36, 26
Claw 1 Damage, Claw 2 Damage, Quantum Lash 1 Damage, Quantum Lash 2 Damage, Integrated Laser Rifle Damage | 1d6+8, 1d6+8, 1d10, 1d10, 2d10
12, 12, 6, 3, 12
Sat, Sep 27th 2025 12:44
Korgoth raises his axe to parry, but the machine is too fast. The first pincer slams into his side with the force of a battering ram, the sharpened metal points digging past his breastplate to find purchase. Before he can react, the pincer clamps down with incredible hydraulic force, locking his arm and torso in an unbreakable hold. He is grappled, his movement arrested.
A second claw smashes into his other shoulder, followed by two whip-like lashes of pure energy that sizzle through the air, bypassing his armor entirely to deliver jolts of concussive force. He grunts, the impacts jarring him to the bone, but it's the cold, unyielding grip of the grapple that fuels his rage. A furious, guttural roar escapes his lips as he struggles against the metal arm.
HP: 106/141
Status: Raging, Hasted, Grappled
Status: Raging, Hasted, Grappled
Zyl'thara watches in horror as the machine overwhelms Korgoth. Just as she opens her mouth to cry out a warning, the robot's single red eye swivels and locks onto her. A searing beam of crimson light erupts from the machine's eye. Zyl'thara's enhanced reflexes scream at her to dodge, but the beam moves with the speed of light itself. It strikes her in the shoulder with a flash of incinerating heat. She screams, a high-pitched sound of pure pain, as the laser burns through her clothing and sears her flesh. She stumbles back, clutching the smoldering wound, her large black eyes wide with terror and shock.
HP: 52/80
Status: Hasted
Status: Hasted
Alessa's heart beats fast, becoming slower and deeper as she feels Zyl'thara's healing spell take hold. She had spent so long trying to protect her sister, and she can only feel warmth at knowing she has protected her.
"Thanks!" she says back to Zyl'thara. "Go help Korgoth too!" Alessa hovers a few feet into the air, trying to keep whatever aerial distance she can in such tight quarters, and takes aim at the robot with a roaring arc of fire.
Burning Arc (DC 20 Reflex for half damage) | 10d6
46
HP: 53/53
Status: Hasted
A roaring jet of fire erupts from Alessa's hands, engulfing the Myrmidon. The robot's energy shield, already weakened, flares into brilliant blue oblivion and then dies with a sharp fizzle. The remaining flames lick across the machine's chassis, blackening the metal but failing to find purchase or do significant damage against its hardened frame. The shield is down, but the construct itself appears unharmed.
Myrmidon Status: Healthy (Force Shield: Deactivated)
Zyl'thara clutches her seared shoulder, tears of pain and terror streaming down her cheeks. Alessa's command—"Go help Korgoth too!"—cuts through her panic. She sees the goliath struggling against the machine, pinned and helpless. Her own pain is secondary. Her friends are in danger.
Wincing, she lifts her free hand. It doesn't glow with the brilliant, restorative light of healing. Instead, a soft, silvery luminescence gathers around her fingertips, the magic of liberation. "The big metal bully won't hold you!" she cries out, her voice a mixture of a sob and a defiant shout. She casts the spell, and the silver light flows from her hand as an ethereal oil, coating Korgoth's body in a shimmering, frictionless sheen.
HP: 52/80
Status: Hasted Zyl'thara takes her turn.
1. 5-Foot Step: She takes a cautious step back, away from the melee.
2. Standard Action: She casts Freedom of Movement on Korgoth. The spell takes effect immediately, ending the grapple. Korgoth is now free.
Status: Hasted Zyl'thara takes her turn.
1. 5-Foot Step: She takes a cautious step back, away from the melee.
2. Standard Action: She casts Freedom of Movement on Korgoth. The spell takes effect immediately, ending the grapple. Korgoth is now free.
Trapped in the Myrmidon's crushing grip, Korgoth strains against the pincer, a roar of frustration building in his chest. Suddenly, Zyl'thara's strange, silvery magic washes over him. The crushing pressure vanishes. The metal arm that held him fast is now just an object touching him, its power to restrain nullified.
He is free.
The guttural roar erupts, no longer one of frustration, but of unleashed fury. The instant the pressure is gone, his body explodes into motion. His greataxe, no longer impeded, becomes a blur of adamantine, scything through the air again and again in a relentless, vengeful storm of steel aimed at the machine that dared to hold him.
b[HP: 106/141
Status: Raging, Hasted, Free Thanks to Zyl'thara, Korgoth is free and can take his full turn. He will use a Full-Attack Action. He is Raging, Hasted, and using Power Attack. His greataxe's Bane (Construct) property is active.
Status: Raging, Hasted, Free Thanks to Zyl'thara, Korgoth is free and can take his full turn. He will use a Full-Attack Action. He is Raging, Hasted, and using Power Attack. His greataxe's Bane (Construct) property is active.
Attack 1, Attack 2, Attack 3, Haste Attack | 1d20+22, 1d20+17, 1d20+12, 1d20+22
41, 36, 18, 41
Attack 1 Damage, Attack 2 Damage, Haste Attack Damage | 1d12+24, 2d6, 1d12+24, 2d6 1d12+24, 2d6
25, 3, 28, 86, 9
Sat, Sep 27th 2025 10:44
Attack 1 Damage (+2d6+, Attack 2 Damage (+2d6), Haste Attack Damage (+2d6) | 1d12+24, 2d6, 1d12+24, 2d6, 1d12+24, 2d6
36, 7, 28, 3, 27, 5
Sat, Sep 27th 2025 10:45
The silvery magic frees Korgoth, and the barbarian becomes a living creature of destruction. His first swing shatters the Myrmidon's outer casing, shearing away a plate of armor with a groan of metal. The second blow bites deep into the robot's shoulder joint, eliciting a shower of sparks and blue, viscous fluid. The final, hasted attack smashes into its central chassis, and the Myrmidon's red optic flickers violently, its movements suddenly becoming jerky and erratic. The machine is critically damaged, its metallic body rent with deep, smoking gashes.
Its programming shifts instantly from "neutralize" to "survive and eliminate primary threats." Ignoring the raging barbarian standing before it, the Myrmidon's thrusters flare to life. It disengages, soaring backward and upward, ascending twenty feet into the air above the narrow alley.
As it rises, a different panel on its chest slides open, revealing a rack of five rockets. With cold, swift efficiency, it locks onto the two spellcasters who have dismantled its strategy. It doesn't target either one directly, but rather the ground between them. A single rocket detaches with a sharp hiss and streaks down into the center of the corridor.
Myrmidon Status: Bloodied (HP: 61/167)
1. Movement: The Myrmidon uses a Move Action to fly 20 feet back and 20 feet up. This movement provokes an Attack of Opportunity from Korgoth.
2. Action: The Myrmidon uses its Standard Action to fire a Rocket. It targets a square on the ground precisely between Alessa and Zyl'thara to ensure both are in the 30-foot-radius burst.
The rocket deals 6d6 fire damage and 6d6 bludgeoning damage.
Both Alessa and Zyl'thara must make a DC 18 Reflex save to take half damage.
2. Action: The Myrmidon uses its Standard Action to fire a Rocket. It targets a square on the ground precisely between Alessa and Zyl'thara to ensure both are in the 30-foot-radius burst.
As the Myrmidon's thrusters flare, Korgoth lets out a final roar. He is not done. The barbarian's greataxe scythes upward in a vicious parting blow, catching the rising machine in its damaged leg joint. The sound is a sickening crunch of sheared metal and fried circuits. The robot staggers in the air, its red optic dimming for a fatal second, trailing smoke and a spray of vital blue fluid.
Yet even as it dies, its final directive completes. The rocket, already launched, streaks down toward the alley floor aimed at the two spellcasters below.
Myrmidon Status: Critical (HP: 23/167)
Alessa reels backward in the explosion, her floating body tumbling through the air and against the wall with a clang. The searing pain coursing through her body. The smoke is still clearing, but the piercing red eye of the machine still stares her down. She sees nothing else to try other than fire through the fire. She casts another burning arc into the robot, pleading that her friends can finish the fight if she cannot.
HP: 4/53
Burning Arc (DC 20 Reflex for half damage) | 10d6
38
The world explodes for a second time. Zyl'thara cries out as the rocket impacts, but this time, fueled by terror and the green magic of haste, her body moves before her mind can catch up. She throws herself behind a large, jutting piece of scrap metal just as the main blast hits. The shockwave still slams into her, and superheated shrapnel peppers her side, but the worst of the impact is absorbed by the junk pile. She coughs, her lungs full of smoke, and pushes herself up, wincing from a dozen new cuts. Her eyes immediately search for her sister and find her tumbling through the air, grievously wounded. "Alessa!"
HP: 31/80
Status: Hasted
Status: Hasted
Alessa's final, desperate gout of fire lances through the smoke-filled air. It strikes the critically damaged Myrmidon dead center in its flickering red eye. There is no explosion, only a final, pathetic hiss.
The crimson light in the robot's optic dies, replaced by a cascade of internal, short-circuiting sparks. The quantum lashes dissolve into nothingness. The thrusters sputter and fail. For a moment, the ten-foot automaton hangs in the air, a dead thing suspended by its last ounce of momentum. Then, gravity reclaims it. The Myrmidon plummets from the sky and crashes onto the floor of the alley with a deafening, final CLANG of broken metal. Its limbs twitch once, and then it is still.
A sudden, profound silence falls over the corridor, broken only by the drip of caustic fluid and the faint crackle of smoldering fires. The fight is over.
Myrmidon Status: Destroyed (HP: -15/167)
Everyone obtains 4,266 EXP each!
Zyl'thara scrambles out from behind her cover, her eyes immediately finding Alessa. Her sister is still aloft, but just barely, her body wreathed in smoke and her flight unsteady as she leans heavily against the alley wall. She looks so fragile, like a scorched butterfly.
"Alessa!"
The name is a ragged cry of pure terror. Ignoring her own burns and the robotic corpse, Zyl'thara rushes across the debris-strewn alley to get as close as she can. She reaches a trembling hand towards her sister, afraid to even touch the grievous wounds. Tears stream freely down her face, cutting clean paths through the soot on her cheeks.
"No, no, you hold on!" she pleads, her voice catching in a sob. "Too much pointy fire, too much noise."
She presses her palm towards Alessa, channeling a torrent of potent, life-giving energy. A brilliant, desperate flare of white-gold light flows across the short distance, enveloping Alessa's body in a soothing aura, knitting flesh and washing away the brink of death. "You are not allowed to fall, little sister! We have to find the mending-pieces! We have to see the green sky!"
HP: 31/80
Action: Zyl'thara moves to Alessa and casts Breath of Life. Alessa is healed for 5d8+11 hit points and, if she was dying, is now alive and conscious.
Action: Zyl'thara moves to Alessa and casts Breath of Life. Alessa is healed for 5d8+11 hit points and, if she was dying, is now alive and conscious.
Breath of Life | 5d8+11
34
The rage recedes like a blood-red tide, leaving the cold, sharp reality of the alley in its wake. The fire in Korgoth's veins is replaced by the dull, heavy ache of his wounds. The world, once a simple place of friend and foe, resolves into a thousand dangerous details: the drip of fluid, the distant shouts, the smell of burnt wiring.
He takes a deep, shuddering breath, his knuckles white on the haft of his greataxe. The fight is over, but the danger is not. He knows this place. A fight this loud is a dinner bell in Scrapwall.
His gaze sweeps over the scene. He sees the little green one tending to the spellcaster. Good. They can handle that. His job is not done. He turns his attention to the fallen Myrmidon, its form a treasure trove of rare metals and parts, and then to the dark entrances of the alley.
Wordlessly, he moves to stand over the two sisters, planting his feet wide. He turns his back to them, facing the corridor that leads back to the Guzzler.
HP: 106/141
"Is it gone? Is everyone safe?" Alessa picks herself up off the ground and runs over toward the automaton, scanning its now lightless form as she readies a spell for defense. Seeing the final twitch, her shoulders drop in relief.
She runs back toward Zyl'thara, embracing her tightly as a tear wells in each of her eyes. "You saved me! You saved all of us!" She turns her head toward Korgoth, seeing his axe still clutched and ready for a second danger to appear. Figures he might not respond as well to the same affection at this moment, Alessa still can only sigh in gratitude at the incredible strength he lent to her and her sister. "And that was quite the strike," she exclaims, maybe a little too loudly given the risk of attention.
"Let's check the automaton, it might have some parts we could use," says Alessa as she attempts to spin the head and peer into the innards that were cut or blasted open. "And where was it that Whisky-Fish told us the glaucite was located?" She runs through her memories of gathering rumors and scanning the minds in the tavern, searching for any hints about the Smelter or Kulgara the Tyrant. While trying to remember, she augments her search with a true skill spell. A lead this strong shouldn't be left alone.
Appraise (searching the robot) | 1d20+7
18
Knowledge (local, information about the Smelter or Kulgara the Tyrant, +5 from True Skill) | 1d20+10
20
Sun, Sep 28th 2025 05:02
Zyl'thara flinches at the loud crash, her relief palpable. When Alessa embraces her, she clings back just as tightly, burying her face in her sister's shoulder for a moment. "You were so brave, Alessa! I made a loud 'eep' sound and hid behind some metal." She pulls back, wiping at her tear-streaked face with a dirty hand, leaving a smudge of soot. "You flew and made hand-stars! I am glad my little light-stitch could help you."
Her eyes go wide with alarm as Alessa immediately approaches the robotic corpse. "Oh! The pointy metal bully. Are you sure it is... sleeping forever?" She inches closer, staying behind Alessa, peering nervously at the inert machine. The idea of touching it, let alone taking it apart, seems deeply unsettling. She watches, wringing her hands, ready to pull Alessa away if the machine so much as twitches.
Korgoth does not relax his stance. The embrace between the sisters is a moment of softness he cannot afford. He acknowledges Alessa's praise with a low grunt, his eyes never leaving the shadowed entrances to the alley. "Loud," he rumbles, his voice a gravelly counterpoint to the sisters' relief. "Others heard. We take what we need. Then we go. Quickly."
As Alessa begins to inspect the Myrmidon, Korgoth steps over to the corpse. He has no eye for delicate parts, but he knows strength. He hefts his greataxe, jams the point into a seam near a damaged joint, and with a grunt of effort, pries a large section of armor plating open with a screech of metal, giving Alessa a much clearer view of the machine's inner workings. He then resumes his watch.
Appraise Result (18):
With Korgoth's brute-force assistance, Alessa gets a clear view inside the Myrmidon. While much of it is a fused, sparking mess, her trained eye spots several valuable, intact components. There are high-yield servomotors in the joints, several lengths of pristine, hair-thin wiring that seem to hum with residual energy, and the primary focusing lens from the laser-eye, cracked but still potent. Most importantly, wedged deep in the torso is a small, perfectly intact power core – a dense cylinder of black metal that hums faintly. It's a technological marvel, far beyond anything forged in Torch. You also recognize that the shattered plating Korgoth tore open is refined adamantine; there are several pounds of it that could be salvaged. Knowledge (Local) Result (20):
As you sift through the robot's guts, the information from the tavern clicks into place, augmented by your spell. Whiskifiss's words were true. You recall every detail:
Kulgara the Tyrant is the undisputed leader of the Lords of Rust, the most powerful gang in Scrapwall. She's a hulking half-orc woman known for her cruelty and her custom-built, super-charged junk-axe.
The Smelter is her fortress, the heart of their territory. It's a massive, semi-functional factory complex at the highest point in the center of the scrap heap, constantly belching foul, green smoke.
Kulgara hoards all the best technology for herself, and her throne room is said to be a workshop powered by unique salvage. The rumor of her possessing a Technic League power converter fits her methods perfectly. She would absolutely use a priceless piece of technology as a simple battery if it gave her an advantage.
Just as this information solidifies in your mind, a scraping sound echoes from the alley's main entrance. Silhouetted against the dim light of the Guzzler's corridor are a half-dozen figures. They are armed with crude, sharpened weapons—rebar spears, swords made from sharpened hull plates, and heavy pipe wrenches.
"Well, well," a gruff voice calls out, its owner stepping forward. He's a broad-shouldered human with a scarred face and a jagged metal jaw. "Looks like the trash took itself out." His eyes gleam, fixing on the valuable wreckage of the Myrmidon. "Hand over the shiny bits from the bot, and maybe we let the weird girl with the antennae live. She'll fetch a fine price."
With Korgoth's brute-force assistance, Alessa gets a clear view inside the Myrmidon. While much of it is a fused, sparking mess, her trained eye spots several valuable, intact components. There are high-yield servomotors in the joints, several lengths of pristine, hair-thin wiring that seem to hum with residual energy, and the primary focusing lens from the laser-eye, cracked but still potent. Most importantly, wedged deep in the torso is a small, perfectly intact power core – a dense cylinder of black metal that hums faintly. It's a technological marvel, far beyond anything forged in Torch. You also recognize that the shattered plating Korgoth tore open is refined adamantine; there are several pounds of it that could be salvaged. Knowledge (Local) Result (20):
As you sift through the robot's guts, the information from the tavern clicks into place, augmented by your spell. Whiskifiss's words were true. You recall every detail:
Zyl'thara flinches as the new voice cuts through the quiet. Her head whips around, and her large, dark eyes go wide with a fresh wave of terror as she sees the armed figures blocking the exit. The man's words make no sense until he says "antennae girl."
A soft gasp escapes her lips. She shrinks back, her hand instinctively grabbing the back of Korgoth's leg armor. "Alessa?" she whispers, her voice trembling uncontrollably. "What does... 'fetch a fine price' mean? Like... like a pretty river stone? I... I do not want to go with the mean man with the metal chin." The concept of being bought and sold is so alien, so horrifying, that she can only process it in the most literal terms. She hides herself completely behind Korgoth's massive frame, peeking out with one terrified eye.
Korgoth does not even turn his head. He had been waiting for this. The arrival of the scavengers is as predictable as rust. He listens to the man's demands, his stony expression unchanging. The threat is noted, processed, and dismissed.
A low, guttural sound rumbles in his chest, more felt than heard. It is the sound of a landslide beginning. "No," he grunts. He shifts his weight forward, the muscles in his back and shoulders bunching. He raises the head of his blood-spattered greataxe a few inches.
Zyl’thara shrinks behind Korgoth’s sturdy form, revealing the scavengers’ glaring eyes. Once, Alessa might have been frightened, but not anymore. She knows she will fly higher and shine brighter than any of them.
“You will never touch her,” she says as shimmering sparks of light emerge and circle around herself. She then rises into the air, hovering above the pack of scavengers in the hollow left by the automaton. The circling stars descend in a shimmering helix, zooming toward the scavenger who threatened Zyl’thara.
Wandering Star Motes (DC 22 Will)
HP 38/53
Scrapjaw Initiative, Scrapwall Bruisers Initiative | 1d20+2, 1d20+1
8, 18
Mon, Sep 29th 2025 01:20
Peeking around Korgoth's leg, Zyl'thara sees the angry men with their sharp, pointy things. She doesn't want another fight. There has been too much loud, painful fire already. Squeezing her eyes shut, she focuses, her antennae twitching. She reaches out not with force, but with a gentle plea, a wave of soothing, tranquil energy that washes over the alley, attempting to douse the scavengers' avarice and aggression with a feeling of profound peace. "Please," she whispers to herself, "no more angry thoughts."
Zyl'thara is first in the initiative order.
She remains behind Korgoth for cover and casts Calm Emotions. The spell is centered on Scrap-Jaw, and its 20-foot radius will affect the entire group of scavengers. All 6 of them (Scrap-Jaw and the 5 Bruisers) must make a DC 22 Will save or become unable to take violent actions.
She remains behind Korgoth for cover and casts Calm Emotions. The spell is centered on Scrap-Jaw, and its 20-foot radius will affect the entire group of scavengers. All 6 of them (Scrap-Jaw and the 5 Bruisers) must make a DC 22 Will save or become unable to take violent actions.
Scrapjaw Will, Scrapwall Bruiser 1 Will, Scrapwall Bruiser 2 Will, Scrapwall Bruiser 3 Will, Scrapwall Bruiser 4 Will, Scrapwall Bruiser 5 Will | 1d20+3, 1d20+1, 1d20+1, 1d20+1, 1d20+1, 1d20+1
12, 12, 14, 14, 10, 9
Mon, Sep 29th 2025 01:24
WANDERING STAR MOTES: Scrapjaw Will, Scrapwall Bruiser 1 Will, Scrapwall Bruiser 2 Will, Scrapwall Bruiser 3 Will, Scrapwall Bruiser 4 Will, Scrapwall Bruiser 5 Will | 1d20+3, 1d20+1, 1d20+1, 1d20+1, 1d20+1, 1d20+1
4, 8, 20, 8, 5, 14
Mon, Sep 29th 2025 01:26
The alley is suddenly filled with a profound and unnatural peace. Zyl'thara's gentle, invisible wave of magic washes over the scavengers just as they tense to charge. The aggression drains from Scrap-Jaw's face, replaced by a slack, placid confusion. His bruisers lower their weapons, their murderous intent completely extinguished.
Before this bizarre calm can be processed, Alessa's spell takes effect. A helix of shimmering, multi-colored stars descends from the air, swirling around the now-pacified thugs. Five of the six men, their minds already softened, become utterly mesmerized. Their heads tilt back, their jaws hang open, and their eyes glaze over as they stare, captivated, at the beautiful, dancing lights. Only one bruiser, through some fluke of willpower, resists the fascination, but he remains magically calm, simply standing with a profoundly bewildered look on his face.
The immediate threat has vanished, replaced by an eerie, silent scene of six armed men standing perfectly still, neutralized by magic they cannot comprehend.
All six scavengers failed their saves against `Calm Emotions`. Five of the six failed their saves against `Wandering Star Motes` and are now Fascinated as well as calm.
The five Scrapwall Bruisers, their faces devoid of aggression, do nothing. Four of them are utterly captivated by the swirling motes of light Alessa summoned, staring blankly into the air. The fifth, while not fascinated, is magically pacified and simply stands his ground, his rebar spear held loosely at his side, making no move to attack.
The Bruisers are under the effects of Calm Emotions and four are also Fascinated. They cannot take any hostile actions and will not act this turn. No rolls are needed.
Korgoth blinks. He was braced for a charge, his muscles coiled, his rage a roaring furnace. Then... nothing. The scavengers just... stopped. They stand like confused cattle, staring at the soft lights. He glances back at Zyl'thara, then up at Alessa, a deep furrow in his brow. This is not how battle works. This is some kind of soft, strange magic he does not understand and certainly does not trust.
But he understands an opportunity.
With a low grunt that is part confusion and part grim acceptance, he takes a heavy, deliberate step forward. He walks directly to the nearest mesmerized bruiser, who doesn't even flinch. The man is still staring placidly at the sky. Korgoth raises his greataxe high.
Korgoth is taking advantage of a helpless opponent. He will perform a coup de grace. This is a full-round action. The attack is an automatic critical hit. The target must then make a Fortitude save (DC 10 + damage dealt) or die instantly. The damage will be so high that the save is effectively impossible.
Axe Damage (First Roll Multiplied by 3) | 1d12+24, 2d6
26, 11
Mon, Sep 29th 2025 01:32
Zyl'thara watches, her mind struggling to comprehend. She had made them peaceful. She had stopped the fight. Then Korgoth stepped forward. She saw the axe rise, and a small, hopeful part of her thought he was just going to scare the man. But the look in Korgoth's eyes is not one of intimidation; it's one of finality.
"No!" The word is a sharp, desperate cry that tears from her throat.
Before anyone can react, she scrambles forward, She doesn't try to grab the axe or push the goliath. Instead, she darts in front of the mesmerized scavenger, spreading her arms wide as if to shield him. She stands directly in the path of the descending blow, her head tilted back to stare up at Korgoth's stony, unreadable face. Her own is a mask of terror, but also of fierce, unwavering conviction.
"Korgoth-mountain, please! Stop!" she pleads, her voice trembling but clear. "I... I made him quiet. He wasn't going to hurt us anymore. It was... it was quiet. You don't have to do this!"
For Alessa, any fear that might have stayed in her as she flew into the fray quickly vanishes. Her star-power has transfixed her enemies, and her sister's power over them seems equally potent. She looks over the savengers with a confident smile, ready to claim her victory, or strike them with something that might leave more of a mark. But as she looks down at Zyl'thara's deep look of calm in her big rounded eyes, she stays her hand and keeps watch for a moment.
It is in this moment that Korgoth charges forward, heaving his axe into a mesmerized enemy to cut him down like a tree. Zyl'thara's words seem to give him pause, but is it enough? Can she really let this happen? She can try to use magic to influence him, but he's a friend; he doesn't deserve that. Still, can she really let herself be friends with someone who kills in cold blood?
No, she tells herself, having little more time to think. She floats down several feet and stares down Korgoth with a concerned yet commanding expression in her face. "Korgoth," she says, as her eyes faintly shimmer, "the battle is won already, without one swinging of a blade. It is best to put your weapon down."
Suggestion: DC 21 Will
HP: 38/53
Scrap-Jaw's eyes widen, his mind struggling to process the bizarre scene. The little alien is... protecting his man? From the giant who is supposed to be on her side? The logic of the situation is completely broken.
His own rage is a distant, muffled drumbeat, suppressed by the spell. All that remains is a chillingly calm understanding of how badly this has gone.
"Wait," he says, his voice flat and devoid of its earlier bluster. He takes a single, slow step backward, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Wait. Mistake. We made a mistake. Just... stop. You can have the bot. Let us go." He is not just surrendering to a superior foe; he is trying to de-escalate a conflict within the party that he cannot begin to understand.
The greataxe hangs at the top of its swing, a guillotine of adamantine poised to fall. Below it, Zyl'thara stands, a fragile, trembling shield.
For a moment, nothing happens. Then, Alessa's voice cuts through the tension, and with it comes a slimy, unwelcome touch against Korgoth's mind. It's a sweet, persuasive whisper trying to tell him what to do, trying to soften his will. His rage, fueled by a deep, primal hatred of such magic, flares violently. The mental intrusion is repelled, thrown off like water from hot iron. His head snaps up, and his eyes lock on Alessa, a flash of pure fury in their grey depths.
The rage screams at him. Finish it! They are the enemy! This is weakness!
But Zyl'thara is still there, staring up at him, her huge, dark eyes filled not with fear of him, but with a plea. She is physically in the way. She is... a shield. For an enemy. It makes no sense.
The muscles in his arms tremble with the strain of holding the blow. A low, guttural snarl rips from his chest, a sound of profound frustration and confusion. For a long, silent, terrible moment, the outcome hangs in the balance.
Then, with a final, disgusted grunt, he lowers the greataxe. The movement is not gentle or reassuring. It is a heavy, angry, deliberate act of compliance. He does not sheathe the weapon; it remains gripped tightly in his hand at his side.
He turns his head, his stony gaze sweeping over Zyl'thara and then up to Alessa. "The battle is not 'won'," he rumbles, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You kill a snake. You do not... calm it... and let it go. This is foolishness."
He jerks his chin toward the now-terrified scavengers. "They will come back. With friends. Remember this moment when they do." He steps back from Zyl'thara, putting space between himself and the choice she has forced upon him. His stance is still one of caution, but his immediate attack has been averted, replaced by a simmering, resentful vigilance.
HP: 84/119
“You’ll do well to remember this moment too,” says Alessa as she brushes her hand and sends the star-motes to flicker away. “If you ever try us again, you might face more than some pretty lights.”
She hovers down toward Zyl’thara, putting her arms over her shoulders and leaning onto her. “We saved all of us! Nobody was hurt! I didn’t know that was possible, but we did!”
Once the raiders are gone, she scans the corridors. The darkness still looms over her in all directions, and faint clanging echoes further into the depths. “But it’s still not safe here,” she says as she rolls the power core and focusing lens into her bag of holding. “Can we press further toward the Smelter? Or should we retest and find a place to rest?” She looks over at her companions expectantly.
Her gaze meets Korgoth’s. His stony face is less welcoming to her than she is used to. Between the threatening scowl and the disobeyance of her suggestion, she quickly pieces it together: Alessa’s spell failed, and this did not elude Korgoth. Alessa’s heart sinks. Korgoth had put such trust in her already, for reasons she still does not understand. And now he knows she did not put the same trust in him.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” she says weakly, looking down at the rusty plates on the floor. “I didn’t want anyone to hurt Zyl’thara.”
Scrap-Jaw doesn't need to be told twice. He gives Alessa a wide-eyed, terrified nod, his metal jaw hanging slightly agape. "Right. No problem. We're gone." He turns, practically tripping over his own feet, and gestures frantically to his remaining crew. "Get out! Go! Now!"
The scavengers, still magically calm but now acutely aware of their mortality, back away slowly, their weapons held low. They don't run, but their retreat is swift and silent. They melt back into the corridor leading to the Guzzler and vanish, the sound of their footsteps fading into the alley's oppressive silence.
The immediate danger has passed. The alley is now quiet, save for the drip of caustic fluid and the hum of the scavenged power core in Alessa's bag. The green haze of the Haste spell fades from you all, leaving a sudden, profound weariness in its place. The adrenaline of combat recedes, and the aches, burns, and the sheer filth of the place settle back in. The path forward leads deeper into the scrap heap toward the Smelter, but the shadows seem darker now, and the distant sounds of Scrapwall feel more menacing.
Combat is over. Each party member gains 1,867 XP.
Zyl'thara flinches as Alessa's star-motes vanish, the sudden return to the alley's gloom jarring. She leans heavily into her sister's embrace, her own body still trembling from the aftermath of the fight and the confrontation with Korgoth.
"We did," she whispers, her voice muffled against Alessa's shoulder. "Nobody else got... broken. It was quiet." But her tone isn't triumphant. She glances over Alessa's shoulder at Korgoth's broad, tense back, then at the spot where the scavenger's body would have been. The relief she feels is tainted by the memory of the axe, poised and ready. "It was almost not quiet, Alessa."
She pulls back slightly when Alessa asks about pressing on. The burn on her shoulder throbs, a painful reminder of her own fragility. "The... the Smelter? With the Tyrant lady?" she asks, her voice small. "Maybe... maybe we could find a quiet, not-so-pointy corner first? To mend a little? My shoulder feels like a sad, angry star. And... and my insides are still wobbly." She looks between her two companions, her large eyes pleading for a moment of peace in this relentlessly hostile place.
The suggestion spell works. Alessa's words, laced with magic, bypass Korgoth's rage and embed themselves directly into his will. It is best to put your weapon down. His body obeys. The muscles in his arms, still straining with the urge to kill, are forced to relax. The greataxe, heavy with purpose a moment ago, becomes a dead weight, and he lowers it. The act is a profound violation, a puppeteer pulling his strings. His mind is a silent, screaming prison inside his own magically compliant body.
He watches the scavengers leave, his face an unreadable mask of stone. But inside, a cold, resentful fury builds. It is a different fury than his rage—it is the hatred of a wild animal that has been caged.
When Alessa puts her arm around Zyl'thara, his gaze is distant, cold. Her words about "quite a strike" are meaningless noise. All that matters is the lingering, slimy residue of her magic in his mind.
Korgoth turns his head slowly, his grey eyes locking onto hers. There is no warmth, only a flat, chilling emptiness. "You used... that... on me," he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, each word clipped. "You pointed your magic at my mind. To make me stop."
He looks away, his gaze fixed on the dark alley ahead. "The snake is gone. For now. You have shown it that we are merciful." He spits the word 'merciful' like it's poison. "It will come back with a hundred other snakes." He doesn't say anything more.
Alessa opens her mouth to say sorry again, but lets no words come out. Words seem to have no use to mend here, especially not when given Korgoth. She looks shamefully up at Korgoth, wishing that he wouldn't be looking back with such scorn, and that it wasn't her fault she had angered him. His face reminds her that no matter how much power she has, she is no one's master and never should be.
And yet... she can't shake the image of what might have happened if he hadn't stayed his axe... if Zyl'thara was in the way...
"We should leave this place. Find a place to take shelter. This place is enormous, there's no way they can follow us into the depths." She summons her dancing lights again, the purple orbs illuminating the tunnel of reddened rust that looms forward. "Though there's no knowing what might already be waiting there. If anything tries us, be ready to strike."