Session 53 - Cold Day in Hell

The coals inside the ruined square shifted, their glow fading from orange to a pale, unnatural blue. A sharp chill rolled across the stones as the heat drained away. From the ashes, the shapes of bone devils rose, their jagged forms stepping out onto the cobbles as panicked civilians scattered.   With the city watch and Hellknights drawn away to deal with the devils, a heavier presence loomed from the center of the crater. Hrimnir, a frost giant warlord clad in cracked iron and old scars, climbed from the coals. His eyes burned faintly with infernal light. They all knew his reputation some fool who’d bartered his soul for more strength than sense.   Declan’s voice carried through the square, steady as always, as he wove a song of courage around his companions. The giant, uninterested in introductions, reached into the icy coals and hauled out a massive boulder, hurling it with ease.   It exploded across the ground. Stone and debris struck the party. Alfie, caught off guard, hit the ground hard. Others shielded themselves as best they could. Amid the smoke, Potato the owlbear performed an awkward but surprisingly effective leap, landing unscathed.  

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The Fight

Alfie pushed himself to his feet, steadying his breathing as he called protective magic over Potato. Cal, eyes sharp, produced a wand and directed its power at Tike, the pugilist growing in size with a shimmer of magic.   Oathgar was already moving, charging across the broken stones. His strike landed solidly, driving the giant back—but not for long. Hrimnir’s fists answered with brutal force, hammering Oathgar like a smith at the forge.   Tike entered the fight, emboldened by his new size and Declan’s song still ringing in his ears. His strike connected with a solid thud, staggering the giant once more. Hrimnir bellowed in frustration, then exhaled a wave of frigid air across the square.   The cold hit hard. The Ruinlords braced against it. Civilians caught in its path were not so lucky.  

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The Banishment

  Alfie studied the giant carefully. Beneath the frostbitten exterior, he noticed certain details, the strange infernal marks beneath the skin, the subtle signs of something worse than frost running through the giant’s veins.   The banishment was not a gamble. It was necessary.   Alfie raised his holy symbol of Erastil, steady and clear. The divine magic took hold. Green shoots, impossibly out of place, pushed up through the frozen coals. A single blade of grass brushed against Hrimnir’s ankle. And just like that, the giant was gone - a faint hiss of smoke the only thing left behind.  

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The Aftermath

  The square was quiet again, save for the wind and the brittle crack of frozen bodies collapsing where they stood. A dozen civilians lay shattered like glass. The street smelled of ash, blood, and fear.   Brother Maercal arrived not long after. His black robes and red trim marked him as a priest of Asmodeus. He offered healing where he could, but his attention was already drifting to the crater, the still-smoking ruins of the Crimson Basilica.   He told them what he had seen. The funeral for Paravicar Cassius Del Vago. The chanting that had started like a prayer and turned into something else. The building vanishing in a column of flame, leaving only coals and unmarked stone behind.  

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The Manor

  The manor house was better than most. Four bedrooms, heavy curtains, and the faint scent of incense clinging to the halls. It had been prepared for Father Pellen, a visiting priest. The same Pellen who had vanished with the Basilica.   The Ruinlords wasted no time.   Cal sat on the front steps, outwardly lounging, quietly pulling rumors from the minds of passersby. The same names kept circling: Blackthorn. Del Vago. Father Pellen. Whispers of division within the church. Quiet doubts about the demicardinal's loyalties. Unease that Pellen had returned to Egorian at all.   Inside, Declan sorted through Pellen's belongings. His magic made quick work of the journals and notes.   The pieces came together. Pellen had struggled with faith. Blackthorn had taken him in, turned his skills toward research. The research had led to Torvus—a hidden demiplane nestled between layers of Hell. An old Runelord’s playground for breeding infernal soldiers. And buried there, the Shard of Wrath, watched over by something called the Warden of Wrath.  

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The Plan

  Supplies were gathered. The debate began.   Planar travel wasn’t simple. Alfie could bring them home, but going to places like Torvus required more. More knowledge. More preparation. More risk.   They considered returning to Prince Voronov with what they’d learned. They considered what might be waiting for them if they didn’t act first.  

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The Offer

  The next morning, Brother Maercal returned. He looked worse for wear, followed by a silver scrying orb that shimmered faintly in the dim light as it floated behind him.   The Basilica was found—or rather, what was left of it. It now sat in Cocytus, the seventh layer of Hell. The frozen hell. Worse still, a barrier surrounded it - old magic, strong enough that even the church couldn’t reach through.   Wulfram the Hollow appeared in the orb’s reflection. His wild hair, sharp features, and faint smirk were unmistakable. Supposedly dead. Still very much a problem.   He offered help. Passage through the barrier. But only for those willing to find him in person.   The Metalstorm awaited a sphere of churning metal and debris, remnants of Wulfram’s old magic gone wrong, sitting like a forgotten scar along the Chelish coast.  

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The Departure

  Terms were arranged. Horses. Healing. Supplies. No more delays.   The missing souls in Cocytus wouldn’t last forever.   The Ruinlords made ready to leave, knowing that to reach the seventh layer of Hell, they’d first have to convince a mad wizard to open the door.