ROTR Session 13

Mending bridges

The bridge twisted and groaned in the violent autumn winds, a fragile thread stretched eighty feet above the raging surf. From the tangled cover of the last brambles of the Nettlewood, the Sentinels crouched low, their eyes fixed on Thistletop fortress.
Two watchtowers loomed at the southern edge of the island, their weathered timber darkened by the misting rain. In the eastern tower, goblins leaned lazily against their horsechoppers, their sharp voices raised in petty arguments, oblivious to the storm around them.
Below the tower, at the island’s edge, a cruel game was underway. A handful of goblins howled with laughter, hurling stones at a struggling seagull — its feet lashed by twine, fluttering helplessly as one of the creatures jerked it back and forth like a broken kite.
The western guard tower stood empty, its silhouette stark against the brooding sky. Only a Goblin Dog stirred beneath it, sprawled in the muddy earth, snoring noisily as the drizzle slicked its filthy fur.
Beyond the swaying bridge, Thistletop awaited — grim, battered, and very much alive.

"So Jinx, how is the day going to end? What do your cards say?" Cletus asked, his gaze fixed on the way the bridge bowed and swayed under the lash of the wind.
The Gnome sat cross-legged beside him, squinting critically at the sagging ropes and weathered planks. "I guess some goblins are going to die."
Cletus let out a dry chuckle. "I don't need the cards to know that. What about Nualia, will we see her on the isle?"
Jinx shook his head absently, his mind half on the structure in front of them. "My cards didn't reveal that yet... However, they do reveal that this bridge is more fragile than it seems. It might hold me, but I don't know about the rest."
"Maybe we should go one by one," said Vannrik, voice low and thoughtful.
"I'll go first," Jinx said, a glint of confidence lighting his small face.
"Are you sure?" the Jadwiga asked, frowning.
"I am the lightest," the Gnome mused with a smirk.
"You'll be walking right into the goblins," Vannrik said grimly, the weight of the risk thick in his voice.
"That's a good point."
"The bridge seems so fragile, you'll be having a hard time getting to the other side. The goblins could gang up on you at the other end. Are we going in, weapons drawn? Or should we try to somehow convince them to let us pass safely?" Cletus asked, casting a wary eye at the distant figures.
"You want to convince them to let us pass safely?" Jinx echoed, raising a skeptical brow.
"If possible. I just don't think that we can cross all at once," Cletus said. "The goblins could easily attack us from the other end, and then we're stuck on the bridge."
Jinx frowned in thought. "We need a way to reinforce the bridge."
Cletus narrowed his eyes at the sagging structure, scrutinizing it. Then he caught sight of something — subtle but telling — near the far anchoring posts. Fresh cuts scored the ropes, half-hidden by the mist. He gave a short, sharp laugh, impressed despite himself. "Oh, I see now. It's an old Goblin trick. Quite crafty — they’ve sabotaged the other end of the bridge. It would be sturdy enough as long as the ropes at the other end are mended somehow." He paused, then added quickly, "But don't look at me for mending."
"No, don't look at me either," Vannrik said, shaking his head.
Jinx nudged Rabie lightly with an elbow. "Well, it's up to us, I guess. I'll help you. I think you're the better craftsman out of the two of us."
Rabie gave a skeptical grunt, but after a moment's hesitation he muttered, "I'll do my best."
Wasting no time, Jinx and Rabie moved to gather what materials they could, the steady roar of the ocean beneath the cliffs filling the air with a restless, urgent drumbeat.

Kobbu grunted in frustration, fighting the urge to throw Ghiff off the guard tower and turn the Goblin into red soup on the island floor below. "No, you dog-eared moron. The tastiest pickles are grown in a vat of discarded fish."
Ghiff recoiled, eyes bulging. "Fish pickles? That's why your breath smells like drowned toes!" He jabbed a stubby finger toward Kobbu’s face. "Everyone knows the best pickles soak in Goblin sweat and rat vinegar. Or You boil 'em in goat pee. That’s the secret! Makes 'em spicy!"
The two burst into heated argument, waving their weapons and nearly toppling a loose plank from the guardrail.
Then, cutting through the noise like a blade they heard:
"The master needs you."

  Rabie kept his gaze locked on the guard tower, deliberately ignoring the violent churn of waves beneath the swaying bridge. Above, in the eastern tower, two goblins were mid-squabble, their shrill voices cutting through the wind as they leaned over the edge, shouting down at their kin on the island's far side.
“You heard it too, Ghiff!” one barked. “The master needs us!”
“Liar! You just don’t want to go—coward!” came the reply, followed by a sharp gesture toward the eastern slope, where several goblins were playing their cruel game with the bound seagull. The bird flailed on its twine leash as rocks zipped past it, and the goblins below jeered and laughed.
“Why should we go?” one of them yelled back at the tower. “You’re closer!”
“That’s not how this works, dumbweed! We said it first!”
The squabble grew louder, devolving into chest-puffing, name-calling, and arm-flailing chaos. Rabie smirked—his spell had done its job.
Moving swiftly and low, he returned to Jinx, who crouched near the bridge’s frayed end, already gripping the weakened ropes. Together, they worked fast, reinforcing the tattered lines with spare cord and quick knots. Rain misted down in sheets, and the wind didn’t let up, but their hands were sure and silent.
Rabie gave one last, testing tug. The bridge groaned but held.
Satisfied, Jinx shot a glance across the gap and gave the signal. Cletus, Vannrik, and Andromeda crept forward from the cover of the brambles, the wind whipping at their cloaks as the Sentinels prepared to cross into Thistletop’s heart.

Infiltrating

The Sentinels took a quiet moment to absorb their surroundings. Looming ahead was the main entrance to Thistletop—a looming wall of scavenged timber, lashed together in the crude but serviceable fashion of Goblin handiwork. Much of the wood bore the scars of its past life at sea; nameplates from wrecked ships were still nailed to some beams, while weather-beaten masts had been repurposed into crude supports. The whole structure reeked of salt and rot.
To the east, the guardtower buzzed with noise—goblins still squabbled and shouted from its heights and below, their voices mingling with the pitiful screeching of the tethered seagull. To the west, beneath the vacant tower, a goblindog slumbered in the drizzle, its mangy hide twitching with each gust of wind.
The gate itself led not into a proper building, but into an open-air courtyard beyond the stockade. The true stronghold—whatever it was—lay deeper within, shielded behind the inner wall.
"I suggest we don't go through that door," Cletus said softly.
Vannrik shot him a curious look. "You wanted to talk to them, go ahead."
"I might, if I have to. But if the goblins were clever enough to sabotage the bridge—and the bridge leads straight to that door—then who’s to say there isn’t a trap waiting behind it? They’re crafty buggers. We know there are goblins to our right, and at least one of their dogs to the left. If we’re quick enough with that Dog, we could try sneaking in from the west. As long as we deal with it before it makes too much noise. What do you say?"
Rabie barely acknowledged the plan. His gaze was fixed on the eastern guardtower, where the goblins' shouting grew more frenzied by the second.
Vannrik gave a measured nod. "We can certainly try."
"But if we’re not quick enough," Cletus warned, "the Dog could alert the whole fortress."
The situation on the tower escalated quickly—one of the goblins unslung a bow and started yelling threats down at his companions. “No, you go to the master. We have to keep watch!”
Luckily, Vannrik was already thinking ahead.
"I have an idea."

The sore loser among the goblins was grudgingly chosen to deliver the message to the chieftain. He stomped across the island’s uneven terrain, muttering curses under his breath while the goblins in the guardtower howled with laughter. Midway, he stopped, turned, and flashed them a defiant green middle finger. Had he not paused for that small act of rebellion, he might have caught a glimpse of the last of the Sentinels slipping behind cover.
Vannrik crouched low, adopting a submissive posture as he crept toward the goblindog, one hand outstretched. He kept his expression steady, despite the pungent stench wafting from the rain-dampened creature. The beast’s ears flicked, its lip curled into a snarl—until it caught a whiff of something more enticing: smoked venison.
After the Swallowtail Festival, Vannrik had sampled the jerky he’d won, but it hadn’t suited his taste. As he suspected, the goblindog had no such reservations. It devoured the offering with gusto, slathering Vannrik’s hand with its foul, slobbery tongue. He knew better than to reward it with a friendly scratch—some instincts weren’t worth tempting.
The goblindog huffed once but allowed the rest of the Sentinels to pass without raising an alarm. The western guardtower loomed above them, leaning precariously over the edge of the island. Its unstable tilt left little space to move along the perimeter. 
"I'll take a peek," Cletus offered quietly. He placed a hand against the tower’s slick wooden frame, steadying himself as he slipped around the narrow corner. The tiefling moved with practiced ease, his footing sure despite the rain-slick planks. Rounding the bend, he caught sight of a crude barrier—a makeshift stockade cobbled together between the leaning guardtower and a northern shed, wedged alongside the main structure. He made it through, but one glance behind told him the same maneuver might not suit everyone. 
"I'll sneak a little bit further ahead," he whispered back to his companions waiting at the island’s southern edge. "Right now I don't see any goblins. So this might indeed be an unguarded side."
But as Cletus crept closer to the stockade, a rank odor filled his nostrils—wet fur and rot. His eyes narrowed. The courtyard beyond wasn’t empty. It was a kennel. Four more goblindogs lounged in the mud behind the barricade, two absently scratching themselves with gnarled claws. The other duo were rummaging about the shed.
"I'm gonna need help with those ones," Cletus muttered under his breath. 
He slipped back to the southwestern corner with quiet urgency. "There are more dogs on the other side," he reported as he rifled through his pack. "Dogs we can deal with, right?"
Uncoiling a length of rope, Cletus spun it once and tossed it back toward the others. "Catch!" he hissed.
Rabie and Jinx were first. Vannrik kept the original goblindog distracted with calming gestures and quiet murmurs. Rabie inhaled slowly, seized the rope, and leapt—his boots landing solidly on the wet planks beyond. A breath held, then released.
Jinx followed, gripping tight—but his foot slipped on the slick wood. A sharp yelp escaped as the Gnome dropped out of sight, rope burning in his clenched hands as he held on for dear life. Teeth grit, he fought the urge to cry out. Rabie and Cletus braced themselves, muscles taut as they hauled the dangling Gnome back up and over the edge.
Vannrik, having witnessed the stumble, abandoned the rope entirely. His eyes scanned the crude wooden beams of the tower. Salt and rain made them slick, but they were hastily built, and offered ample grips. Without hesitation, he began to climb, fingers and boots finding purchase where none should exist, scaling the structure with practiced grace.
The Sentinels studied the eastern side of the fortress, eyes tracing the stockade’s uneven frame. The wooden barrier looked climbable—but doing so would drop them directly into the middle of the kennels. A risky maneuver. Perhaps the northern face held a quieter entrance, but the path there led past the lounging beasts.
Without a word, Cletus drew a spiraling shape in the air with one finger. A shimmer of arcane energy pulsed—and his ashen skin shifted to a mottled green hue.
"It's not a disease, guys. Just a trick," he whispered, flashing a sly wink.
The others barely acknowledged the transformation; their focus was locked on the growling shadows beyond the barrier. Rabie and Vannrik exchanged a glance as a faint sound rose above the drizzle—a stifled, rhythmic neighing, barely audible beneath the patter of rain.
"There's a horse in danger," Rabie said, dryly.
"Must be a stable," Cletus muttered. "Belongs to Nualia, I guess? I'll head to the other side and take a better look."
With practiced grace, the tiefling slipped past the barricade—little more than a blur of green, foliage, and suggestion. A leaf caught on the wind. A trick of the eyes. A Goblin, maybe. But the goblindogs didn’t stir. Once in place, he turned back and flashed a silent hand signal—four fingers raised. Four dogs.
The rest of the Sentinels weren’t exactly known for their subtlety. But Vannrik had a plan. He reached into his pouch and retrieved the last of the smoked venison, the remnants of their earlier bribery. With a quick motion, he lobbed the jerky over the stockade.
Barking erupted instantly. Snarling and scuffling followed as the goblindogs turned on one another, fighting over the treat with wild abandon. The sudden commotion masked the sounds of footsteps and armor as the others dashed forward, using the chaos to regroup with Cletus undetected.

Cletus took a breath and attempted the leap—skirting the edge of the stable in a bid to reach the northern strip of the island. But this time, his footing failed him. His boot slipped on the slick stone, and he barely managed to dig his nails into the rough wooden slats of the shed, dangling precariously over the churning surf below. From within the stable, the sudden thump and scrape of his struggle sparked a new burst of panicked neighing and furious kicking.
Vannrik and Rabie were quick to act, hauling him back to safety. Cletus’s lip curled, more in frustration than pain.
He'd seen enough.
"Nothing on the north side," he muttered, brushing off his hands. "And I don't want to go as far as the eastern side. That's where the other goblins are. I'll take my chances with the dogs, to be honest."
From their crouched position behind the shed, Vannrik glanced upward, following the sloping silhouette of the building.
"What about the roof?"

The main structure stood a good fifteen feet tall, the towers twice that. The rain made everything slick, every hold treacherous—but not impossible. With deliberate care and a few heart-stopping slips, Vannrik managed to clamber up the uneven wall. The roof greeted him with a chaotic patchwork of poorly aligned planks—more afterthought than architecture. No trapdoors. No loose panels. No easy way inside.
He flattened himself against the wood, careful to stay below the line of sight from the still-snarling kennel below. The dogs were too busy tearing at one another to notice him. Quietly, he uncoiled a rope and lowered it for the others.
The Jadwiga's eyes flicked to the nearby guardtower. The goblins were still at their post, bickering and distracted—for now. But if they turned, if one of them happened to look just a few degrees to the left...
It would only take a glance.
Below, the door to the main building burst open with a sharp crack, followed by a shrill chorus of Goblin screeching. From his vantage, Vannrik could just make out the words—he’d picked up enough Goblin to recognize the unmistakable command: someone inside was telling the dogs to shut the hell up.
Then came the bang of the door slamming shut again, fast and final. No footsteps followed. Whoever issued the command clearly had no intention of investigating further.
By the time the last of the Sentinels reached the rooftop, Vannrik was crouched and waiting, his eyes locked on the guardtower. He jabbed a silent finger toward it—an urgent warning. They were still exposed. One careless move, one glint of steel or silhouette too bold, and the whole infiltration could unravel.
Low to the boards, the Sentinels crawled like shadows across the rain-slick roof until they were in position. There was only one way into the fortress from here: through the kennel.
And so they carved their way.
The goblindogs never stood a chance. There was no shelter from the spells and frozen weaponry that followed. Androma, was summoned to the scene, and she fought with uncharacteristical silence. The yelps and growls of their earlier squabble blurred seamlessly into cries of pain and confusion. One, more desperate than the others, scrambled partway up the wall—claws digging for purchase, foam flecking its maw. It managed to lift itself several feet, eyes wild with defiance.
But it was too slow.
Moments later, the creature fell limp, and silence returned to the kennel—except for the distant rain.
One by one, the Sentinels dropped into the enclosure below, hearts pounding.. Not a second too soon—they slipped behind cover just as Kobbu, the Goblin sentry, glanced their way from the tower.
But his gaze passed over them. Oblivious.
For now.

Nails and hooves

The Sentinels moved quickly, dragging the goblindog corpses out of the line of sight from the tower. The door to the outbuilding stood in grim defiance—its edges cracked and splintered, the entire frame reinforced with boards nailed over nails in a makeshift barricade. Two Goblin corpses slumped in the dirt nearby, their skulls caved in by something heavy. Flies swarmed their bloated, sun-baked bodies, the stench thick in the rain-heavy air.
"We heard a horse inside," Cletus muttered, squinting at the warped doorway, still wondering how goblins had managed to bring a horse all the way to this island.
"A beast captured by these goblins!" Andromeda exclaimed with righteous indignation, her voice a bit too loud for comfort. The others flinched.
Rabie crouched beside one of the corpses and lifted the tattered tunic, revealing a deep, purplish bruise shaped unmistakably like a horseshoe.
The witch placed a hand on Vannrik's shoulder. "I think this horse was very angry."
The Jadwiga gave him a glance and a knowing nod. "I think so too. Probably with justification."
"Are we going to pry it open?" Rabie asked, eyeing the outbuilding with a rare eagerness. For once, he hoped to rescue rather than destroy.
With a dramatic flourish, Vannrik retrieved a crowbar from his pack. "I've got a crowbar."
Cletus rummaged through his toolkit, lips pursed in thought. "I’ve got a little bit of skill. I just hope that when we free it, it doesn’t trample me."
The Tiefling and Varisian worked side by side, prying at the reinforced boards. It was slow, meticulous labor—each creak of wood a risk of drawing attention. From within, the horse grew more restless. Its heavy hooves struck the floorboards in agitation, loud neighs vibrating the thin wooden walls.
As the last board hung by a single bent nail, Rabie and Cletus stepped back, cautious of what came next.
"I hope you're good with animals," Cletus said, gesturing toward the door.
"I am," Vannrik replied with calm certainty, his voice low but steady as he ripped free the final board.
The door shuddered open.
A magnificent creature stood framed in the dim light, its coat dulled by dust and hunger, its ribs beginning to show beneath taut skin. The wild-eyed stallion stomped and snorted, ears back, muscles tensed in fury. It locked eyes with Vannrik—the last barrier between captivity and freedom.
Fortunately, the Jadwiga had come prepared. With Eyeoor stabled safely back in Goblinsquash, Vannrik still carried feed. Moving with the practiced ease of a stablehand, he retrieved a sack from his pack. Holding it steady, he approached with gentle, measured steps. His posture was familiar, routine—part ritual, part reassurance.
Vannrik studied the animal closely. Its flanks were raw with chafing, deep scratches marking where ropes had dug in. The goblins had taken care not to kill it—but they hadn’t bothered with feeding it either. Now calmer, the horse stood panting, ribs sharp beneath its matted coat.
Vannrik stepped forward, letting the soft hum of kinetic energy ripple from his hands. The soothing aura materialized in the form of water. Vannrik went to work..
"Boy, you have just performed three of the works of mercy. To feed the hungry, to heal the sick, and to liberate the imprisoned. I am proud of you," Andromeda said, her voice warm with approval.
Vannrik smiled. "I will close the door. I suggest that we get the horse out of here when we leave. Although getting him across the bridge will be a challenge."
"We can worry about that later," Cletus muttered, casting a wary glance toward the looming watchtowers above.
Rabie found it hard to hide his worries. What if a villain tried to use the horse to escape. He could only hope that their new frozen barricade would halt any escapee.

Goblin poop

The Sentinels slipped out of the kennel through a door to the north, entering the main building. A narrow hallway greeted them, the air thick with a foul, organic stench. The corridor bent sharply to the right, ending in two doors—one to the north, the other to the south. The group paused to ready themselves as Vannrik stepped forward and opened the southern door.
Inside, they found only a round table surrounded by mismatched chairs—likely a meeting room, abandoned and unremarkable.
The door to the north told a different story. As it creaked open, the smell intensified, drawing involuntary grimaces from the group. The corridor beyond was shorter, barely ten feet, with two doors along the western wall.
Rabie approached the first door with caution and eased it open. He immediately gagged. Vannrik, investigating the second door further down, barely heard Rabie’s alarm.
"Don't go in there, guys!" the witch blurted, staggering back from the overwhelming stench. He braced himself against the room's west wall, nearly retching.
Then he noticed something odd—a narrow panel, seemingly out of place. Swallowing the bile in his throat, Rabie steadied himself and stepped cautiously over the rank pit that served as a Goblin latrine. With a gentle tug, he slid the panel aside to reveal a small, hidden alcove.
There, tucked behind layers of filth and rot, sat a heavy oaken chest, the kind built to endure the chaos of the sea. A thick lock secured its contents. Despite the setting, Rabie’s face lit up with excitement. He pulled out his tools with eager hands, the reek momentarily forgotten.
Too eager.
As the lock gave way with a soft click, a hidden mechanism sprang to life. A rusty blade slashed out from the chest’s iron-bound edge, catching Rabie across the wrist. Blood welled up instantly, dripping freely as the blade slowly retracted with a mocking creak.
Rabie staggered back, clutching his arm. “I don’t think that lock likes me,” he hissed, wincing in pain as he leaned against the wall—careful again to avoid the pit.
“I think it’s more a job for you, Cletus.” "Do you want me to tend to that?" Vannrik offered. He didn’t wait for a reply. Briny water swirled in his palm as he stepped forward. "Yes please."
Cletus decided to take his time, careful not to trigger the trap again. Eventually the lock relented.
Inside the heavy, iron-bound chest lay the amassed plunder of the Thistletop goblins—a chaotic trove hoarded over years of scavenging, raiding, and bloodshed. The contents reeked faintly of seawater, smoke, and old leather, speaking to origins as diverse as shipwrecks, merchant caravans, and the broken halls of rival tribes.
Atop a tangled heap of tarnished copper and silver coins gleamed three platinum pieces—strangely untouched by time, as if resisting the filth around them. A leather pouch spilled open beside them, revealing dozens of raw, cloudy green malachites—poorly cut, many flawed, their luster dulled but still whispering of value if treated by a skilled lapidary.
Half-buried under coinage lay a chain shirt, sized for a human and surprisingly well-preserved. Its links shimmered faintly with the oil of disuse, yet bore no rust. Next to it, a curved scimitar rested—a finely balanced blade with masterwork etching along the fuller, hinting at distant desert craftsmanship.
A pair of gleaming iron manacles, polished and pristine, lay coiled like a threat beside a gold holy symbol—Sarenrae’s fire-winged angel. Nearby, a necklace of polished jade beads sat tangled around a bolt of fine blue silk—a noblewoman’s gown, edged in silver thread. Though creased from years of storage, it still radiated the quiet dignity of wealth and lost elegance.
This was no mere stash of goblin trinkets. It was a graveyard of stories—forgotten victims and stolen hopes, hiding here behind the goblin waste.

The second door creaked open, revealing a narrow stairway hewn directly from the stone, descending into the island’s depths.
“Is there a cellar beneath this fort?” Cletus mused aloud as they cautiously began their descent.
The stairs spiraled deeper into Thistletop, the air growing colder and damper with each step. At the bottom, Vannrik—leading as always—eased open another door. It swung inward with a low groan, revealing a broad, dimly lit chamber.
A large wooden table dominated the room, surrounded by scattered chairs. The tabletop was cluttered with crumpled papers, maps, and scribbled notes. To the north, a slate board leaned against the wall, covered in faded chalk markings.
At its center, a detailed map of Sandpoint stood out clearly, its presence immediately clarifying the room’s function.
This is where they planned the raid.
Cletus plucked one of the notes from the table, scanning it quickly. “These mention something called Sinspawn. Supposedly, they live in catacombs beneath Sandpoint.” He glanced up at his companions, brow furrowed. “Does this make any sense to you?”
“We killed them,” Vannrik replied, calm and matter-of-fact.
Relief flickered in the tiefling’s expression, tempered quickly by curiosity. “Okay, good. What do they look like?”
Vannrik’s gaze darkened as a shudder ran through him. “They wield ranseurs,” he said grimly, the memory clearly unwelcome.
Cletus raised an eyebrow. “So… anything with a ranseur is a Sinspawn?”
Rabie stepped forward, brushing aside some of the papers. He grabbed a piece of charcoal and began to sketch swiftly on the back of a note. His hand moved with precision, rendering a crude but accurate depiction of the Sinspawn’s grotesque face.
“It looks like it has a broken jaw,” Cletus observed, peering over Rabie’s shoulder.
“Yes, Cletus, they do!” Rabie answered, oddly enthusiastic despite the gruesome subject.
“And they say I’m ugly,” the tiefling quipped, tossing the paper back onto the table with a grin. His eyes swept the chamber once more, tone turning serious.
“So… a war room. Then the warlord must be somewhere nearby.”
Two doors presented themselves—one to the southeast, one to the southwest. As the group considered their options, a subtle change in the air drew their attention. Andromeda hovered slightly, her blade tilting as though straining to listen.
"I hear something scratching behind this door. There is something alive in the room next to us."
If a sword could grin, she would have. Her voice rang with gleeful anticipation.
"Shall we go in, blades drawn, cry out to our gods, and purge the evil from this place?"
Rabie exhaled slowly, steadying his nerves. "That's why we're here."
"Then take position, brave men," Andromeda intoned with ceremonial flair—then added, with a condescending lilt, "...and Cletus!"
Floating forward with a subtle hum, Andromeda angled herself and wedged her crossguard behind the door handle. The metal creaked slightly as she pressed inward, pushing the door open.
A sharp hiss met them.
Tense, ready to strike and defend, the Sentinels prepared for the worst—
Only to find a white housecat, glaring at them from the shadows.

Akenja

"Oh, it's just a kitty," Andromeda sighed.
The Sentinels stepped cautiously into the chamber. A Garundi woman sat at a large wooden worktable near the center of the room. The surface was cluttered with scrolls, books, stone tablets etched with sharp, spidery runes, and fragments of carvings clearly chipped from statues or bas-reliefs. To the north, shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, sagging under the weight of picks, brushes, lanterns, and other tools suited more to an archaeological site than a Goblin warren.
The woman jolted upright at the sight of the intruders. Her eyes darted to a dagger resting near the center of her workspace. But before her fingers could so much as twitch toward it, the room filled with strangers—and not the kind she could intimidate.
The cat hissed at each newcomer, fur bristling. The woman hesitated, her hand hovering above the dagger.
Andromeda floated in first.
"I advise you to stay very calm," the sentient blade told her evenly. "And don't grab any weapons," she added, her voice now edged with warning.
The woman backed away slightly from the table, hands up, moving slowly.
"Are you with the goblins?" Rabie asked.
"I'm just here to study the ruin," the woman replied, her tone defensive but not hostile. Her accent marked her as someone who hadn't grown up in Avistan. She gestured toward the research materials on the table, then at the equipment-packed shelves behind her.
The white cat hissed again, this time preparing to bat at Vannrik’s approaching hand. But the Jadwiga knelt gently and extended a hand. The cat sniffed, then allowed itself to be petted.
"I was offered a chance to study these ruins," the woman continued. "The master of the goblins wants something below but she needed the help of a wizard. That's why I'm here."
Silence followed her words.
"What happens now?" she asked, voice uncertain, fear tugging at the edge of her composure.
Jinx was already scanning the papers on the table, and his eyes lit up with recognition. He understood the script—the runes etched into the parchment were ancient Thassilonian. Thistletop, he realized, had been built atop the sunken head of a colossal statue, half-buried in the Varisian Gulf. The implications were immediate.
"You're a student of Thassilon? This is very interesting," Jinx said, flipping through the research papers. He knew it would take time to glean her findings from these pages. There was a faster way. "Tell me, what did you find?"
The woman blinked at the question, momentarily surprised. But her uncertainty faded as she launched into familiar territory.
"This statue where we are right now was erected by a Runelord from long ago. A man by the name of Karzoug." She exhaled in relief—talking shop clearly came naturally. "He ruled over a country called Shalast. From what I've been able to gather, this is a border area. A couple of miles to the west, where Sandpoint is located..." She glanced at them knowingly. "I assume you are from Sandpoint?"
The Sentinels nodded.
"It was the realm of a rival of his," she went on. "These lands lie on the border between their countries. This structure was a watchpost of some sort to keep eyes on his enemies. That's what I know of the structure." Her gaze drifted upward, toward the ceiling—toward the Goblin fortress above.
Now it was her turn to ask the questions. "Tell me, did you fell the rest of the camp? Did you manage to get that idiot of a Ripnugget? Is he dead?"
"We haven't identified a Goblin with that name," Cletus replied. "We haven't asked for names."
"Was that a... druid Goblin..?" Rabie asked, thinking of the Goblin with the cougar they’d encountered in the Nettlewood.
The woman shook her head with a faint smirk. "No, that was Gogmurt. You did not slay the chieftain, then."
"What can you tell us about the chieftain?" Vannrik asked.
"And why would you want him slain?" Jinx followed.
"I don't know. For me it doesn't matter. But in general, goblins are bad, disruptive neighbors." The woman’s face twisted in distaste. "For goblins he's as prideful as they come. He's slightly more cunning than the rest of them. But only slightly. He does have more patience, however." She shrugged. "He was willing to work with Nualia after all."
Cletus furrowed his brow. "Wait, first, clear something up for me. What is a Runelord?"
The woman gave Jinx a brief, puzzled look before turning to the tiefling. "I'm sorry. I thought you were better informed."
She inhaled, steadying herself before continuing. "Long, long ago—before the Earthfall cataclysm—the lands of Varisia and even beyond were part of an empire called Thassilon. Its rulers were called Runelords. They used a very..." She paused, searching for the word. "Ancient, antique kind of magic. They were destroyed, just as basically anything living on Golarion at the time." She glanced at the group. "That's a broad description. I don't know what kind of lecture you expect from me."
Cletus tried to piece it together. "So you tell me that there are these Runelords that lived a couple of centuries ago. And one of them had a capital underneath Sandpoint?"
The woman shook her head. "No, Sandpoint lies at the border between two old Thassilonian kingdoms. From what I have been able to gather they were bitter rivals."
The tiefling sighed. "I had hoped for an explanation for why goblins would want to raid Sandpoint."
The woman looked down. "It was under the direction of Nualia, who you must know if you're really from Sandpoint." She hesitated. "She wants something that's hidden in this structure. She's a Lamashtu cultist. Nualia thinks it will make her rise in the priesthood, or something." She raised her hands slightly. "I'm just here for the history aspect. My job is to lead her deeper into the complex. Demonology is not my field of study."
Andromeda’s voice rang with judgment. "But you are indirectly helping followers to the Mother of Monsters!?"
The woman flinched slightly at the accusation, but didn’t back down. "I'm an archaeologist. And I'm performing archaeology. Who that helps is besides the point." She clucked her tongue softly. "Skivver, come!"
At her call, the white cat left Vannrik and leapt onto her lap, curling up without a care in the world.
Vannrik regarded the Garundi calmly. "It's okay. I understand. But it would be better if we cleared out the goblins. Then you can do your work in peace."
She considered that a moment. "To be honest, I do work best alone anyway. So, yes. I'm in no position to stop you. You can do whatever you want."
"Tell us about Nualia," Cletus asked quickly.
"She is as bitter as they come. She hates your village for whatever reason. She has not been willing to share that with me. She's obsessed with vengeance and what she sees as service to her dark mistress."
The woman glanced down at her cat. "I guess something happened in Sandpoint that was bad enough for her to declare war on the entire town. All she kept saying is that she wanted to offer Sandpoint up some kind of burnt offering to Lamashtu."
The tiefling looked at his companions expectantly. "Do you know anything about this?"
"She was the daughter of the priest," Jinx said, still piecing the story together.
"Adopted daughter," Vannrik corrected quickly. He glanced at Cletus to bring him up to speed. "Not a tiefling, but a celestial Nephilim. An Aasimar."
Jinx nodded, fingers thoughtfully stroking his chin. "She supposedly got burned alive during one of the tragedies in Sandpoint. We found out yesterday that she wasn't."
Cletus scowled, clearly unsettled. "I'm talking about why she would want revenge on Sandpoint. For what? You didn't tell me anything about this."
Jinx shared the tiefling's frustration. "Because it's not clear to us. Not to me, at least."
Vannrik offered what little clarity they had. "She's an Aasimar, wishing to get rid of her 'celestial taint.'" The air quotes were unnecessary—but somehow fitting.
The Garundi woman showed no sign of surprise; the information aligned with what she knew. "She has been making some progress on that." Her brow furrowed slightly. "Her arm is malformed beyond recognition."
"She's practically the opposite of Cletus here," Andromeda observed. "Why would she want to get rid of her holiness?"
The woman had no good answer to that. But she could feel which way the wind was turning and she straightened, letting her eyes settle one by one on the Sentinels.
"You know... I'm not the only help she’s hired. There’s a mercenary from Riddleport. Have you met him? A heavily armored man? Goes by the name of Orik."
Rabie shook his head.
"The bugbear?" she asked next.
"You mean Bruthazmus?" Vannrik responded.
"Yes. Have you slain him?"
"No, but we did hear that he might be present here," Vannrik answered.
"He is on this floor, to the south," she confirmed.
A Shadow crossed her face as a sudden realization struck. Her posture stiffened.
"What about Tsuto?" she asked sharply. "Tsuto went to Sandpoint."
Vannrik delivered the truth without fanfare. "Well, we got rid of him."
"There was no..." Rabie hesitated, searching for the right words. "We couldn't reason with him."
She let out a long, deliberate exhale, as though trying to breathe out whatever thoughts followed. Her composure wavered, then shifted.
"So how does this end?" Her voice had taken on a new edge. "You promised me that if I don't interfere, you will let me study in peace. That was the deal, right?"
"It still is," Jinx replied evenly. "However, I still need to come back and study this with you. If you don't mind."
"Sure," she said. "But if part of the deal is that you let me study and work in peace, then I would really appreciate it if we start that right now."
The Sentinels prepared to leave her to her work, but Vannrik turned back at the door.
"Are you wounded?" She shook her head. "No. I generally don't do any fighting."
"I suggest you lock the door. We’re about to turn up the heat of the forge, so to speak—and goblins might do strange things in their panic," Vannrik said.
"Good point," Jinx added. "What was your name again?" "Lyrie. Lyrie Akenja. And I would appreciate it if you would continue your conversation out of this room," she said, her tone leaving little room for negotiation.
And at last, the Sentinels conceded.

  "I really want to know what this Nualia is about. If you understand your enemy, if you know what drives them, then you can handle them," Cletus said as the Sentinels returned to the war room. Behind them, the heavy scrape of stone against stone echoed—Lyrie had sealed herself in, barricading her chamber.
"Can you guess?" he continued, looking around. "She was adopted. What happened to her real family? Was she treated badly by this priest? Who did he venerate? Give me something. Are you all from Sandpoint? Were you born there?"
Jinx met his eyes. "I was not born there. But I was there when it was built."
"When it was built!?" The Tiefling gawked, barely able to contain himself.
"I was born there," Rabie offered quietly.
Cletus leaned against the table, arms crossed, muttering to himself. "Someone must know something."
"Everybody thought she was dead—until yesterday," Rabie added, his voice tinged with frustration. "So no, we don't."
"She kept to herself," Jinx said. "It was rumored she had healing abilities—that a lock of her hair, or just a touch, could ward off misfortune, heal the sick, even remove warts. After a while, she stayed in the cathedral. Until the fire."
"Maybe someone took something from her?"
"Like her sanity?" Vannrik asked, half-serious.
"Maybe that's why she hates what she is. Angelic in nature," Cletus said, thoughtful.
"She had a boyfriend at one point. Maybe he was a bad influence," Rabie added.
Cletus frowned. "That wouldn't explain why she would hate all of Sandpoint."
"It could, if the boyfriend manipulated her." Rabie shrugged.
Andromeda’s voice rang with clarity. "If part of her is still a follower of Desna, then she must be given the chance for redemption."
"She's not a follower of Desna anymore. She follows the Mother of Monsters now. Even if our knowledge is limited, Nualia appears to be fully committed to her," Vannrik countered.
"I will not judge her right now. Not before I've seen the girl," Andromeda replied firmly.
"Well, we might find her and ask her," Jinx said with a shrug.
Cletus turned his attention to the southeastern door. "Well, why don't we open that door then?"
As the Sentinels moved deeper into the ruins beneath Thistletop, a faint sound reached Jinx’s ears—a muffled sobbing from behind Lyrie’s door. Through it, only a few repeated words could be made out.
"My Tsuto..."
"Looks like we hurt her feelings," Jinx muttered to himself.
 

Baying of the hounds

A narrow hallway led the Sentinels into a dim chamber. The lower four feet of the walls were smeared with crude drawings—etched in mud, blood, and old paint. Most depicted goblins committing acts of violence against humans, Horses, or dogs. One image on the north wall stood out: three times the size and complexity of the others. It showed Thistletop from a side view, the Goblin stockade perched atop it like a crude crown. A cave had been drawn into the center, and looming inside was a monstrous Goblin with snakelike eyes and a dogslicer in each taloned hand. Judging by the scale, this creature was at least thirty feet tall.
"Grotesque," Cletus observed. "Very grotesque."
A door to the south opened into another hallway, stretching thirty-five feet before broadening into a larger chamber. Along the corridor, a narrow side passage branched off to the east. To the west stood an imposing set of stone double doors, carved with horrific detail—nightmarish monsters clawing their way out of pregnant women of every race.
"The Mother of Monsters," Cletus said, his tone heavy. Vannrik nodded in agreement.
"Do you think the goblins have an entire shrine to Lamashtu down here?" the tiefling asked, eyeing the door.
"Probably," Vannrik replied simply.
"Then we would be treading on desecrated ground," Andromeda said, her posture tightening in solemn readiness.
"Lyrie also said that Bruthazmus, the bugbear, is somewhere to the south," Vannrik reminded them, his gaze shifting to Rabie’s still-fresh wounds. The Jadwiga had already begun rummaging through his pack. Jinx gave a small nod. "That's actually a good point."
Vannrik handed over some herbal concoctions—remedies to help the healing along. Cletus steadied himself.
"If there's a shrine with goblins in there, then I’ll cast a spell on Andromeda to make her stronger. What do you think? Will we be facing enemies behind that door?"
"We should be prepared either way," Vannrik answered.

With Cletus's enchantment now upon her, the Sentinels pushed open the carved stone doors.
Inside, stone fonts filled with frothy dark water flanked the entrance. Twin rows of stone pillars stretched down the length of the chamber. At the western end, shallow steps led to a raised platform, two feet above the floor. Braziers hung from the walls around it, casting glowing red smoke into the room. The light washed the bas-relief carvings—monsters feasting on terrified humans—in lurid, shifting crimson.
A black altar squatted before a massive statue: a ten-foot-tall depiction of a grotesquely pregnant woman. She stood naked and monstrous, with taloned feet, a forked tongue, a jackal’s three-eyed head, and kukris gripped in each clawed hand. One blade glowed with cold blue light, the other flickered with fiery orange.
Above the platform, two creatures hovered in the air. Large, lean dogs with oversized ears and narrow, unnatural paws—treading on air as easily as ground. They snarled.
  Then came the baying.