ROTR Session 18

The Body: II

For a moment, only the sound of crashing waves answered Shalelu's question. Jinx brushed dust from his clothes as he peered into the open grave where Nualia lay. Cletus stood nearby, hands caked in earth, wiping them off as he turned to watch Rabie. Vannrik’s gaze flicked from Shalelu—whom he had grown to trust—to the witch. He wondered how far this would escalate. Sheriff Belor stood upright, his confusion barely hidden.
The waves crashed again. Rabie faltered. Shalelu’s question clung to him like a noose tightening around his throat.
"What is she talking about?" Sheriff Belor asked.
"I panicked..." Rabie murmured.
But the elf wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily.
"Yesterday you said it was all a dream. What is it? What happened? And where is the body, Rabie?" Shalelu pressed.
Rabie’s gaze dropped to the sea. His voice was hollow.
"I thought it was a dream. But it wasn’t." He paused. "I believe I threw her off a cliff."
Belor stepped forward, voice sharp.
"Whose body?"
"Her name was Denia Cojoc," Rabie admitted.
The sheriff’s mouth fell open. His shoulders sank.
"You killed Denia Cojoc?" he said quietly.
Rabie’s eyes widened in panic. A lump formed in his throat.
"It was in self-defense," the witch stammered, lips dry.
"WHY?" the sheriff roared. "We had been searching for her for three weeks!" In a heartbeat, his patience was gone. "WHY?!"
He took another step forward. Then another.
"That family has driven into Sandpoint more than thirty times! Every time I had to tell them we had no answers!"
Rabie flinched from the spit in Belor’s rage. He tried to speak, but the words failed him.
"You've known the whole time!"
The sheriff’s boot struck the ground with fury.
"You didn't come to me. YOU killed her!"
Then Belor paused, noticing his hand clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword. He exhaled, forcing himself to calm.
"What self-defense? What could she possibly have done?"
The Sentinels watched Rabie shrink under the weight of their silence. His excuses felt thin—improvised. The claim of self-defense didn’t match the vision they had seen.
Vannrik finally spoke.
"Rabie," he sighed, "I must say, you are not very convincing. We did see what happened in that vision."
"The vision... it lied! It wasn’t what really happened," Rabie insisted. But his words were met with skeptical glances.
"It happened," he admitted at last, "but it did not happen like that."
"So you didn’t stab her?" Vannrik asked.
"I did stab her," Rabie said. "She used her womanly charms to get me outside of town. When we were out there, she pulled a dagger on me—tried to rob me." He swallowed. "I overpowered her. I ended up stabbing her."
"You couldn’t just tell the authorities about her?" Vannrik asked. "Because hiding it from everybody seems mighty suspicious."
"I hadn’t talked to anyone in over two years. Everyone looked at me like I was some kind of freak. If I had gone to town and said I killed someone... what would you have done?"
There was no answer.
"Nobody would’ve believed me. They don’t now. What’s the difference?"
"I think people would’ve been more inclined to believe you if you had come forward immediately," Vannrik replied.
Belor closed his eyes, massaging his temples. The battle in the Nettlewood, the confrontation with Nualia, and now a resolution to a cold case—it pushed him to the edge.
"The embers of the old fire ignite the new firestorm," he muttered, staring down at Nualia’s corpse.
Shalelu’s expression was wordless, yet heavy with judgment. She didn’t need to tell the sheriff what he should do. Jinx, still silent, observed everyone closely, reading their reactions—and Rabie’s new standing among the Sentinels. Cletus stood stunned, unsure what Nualia’s funeral had become. Their heroism now seemed shadowed by dark truths.
Belor composed himself.
"You know you should have come to us. You were trained as a guardsman, Rabie. You know this."
"I’ve done many things wrong," Rabie said. "I’m trying to do good now. I hoped it was behind me. I know I made a mistake."
Shalelu gestured toward the manacles on Belor’s belt. The sheriff’s gaze swept from Thistletop to Nualia’s grave. He bit his lip.
"I will not rob the people who put their lives on the line today of their victory." He looked Rabie in the eye. "We will deal with this. But not now. Not here."
"Sheriff, you can’t be serious!" Shalelu exploded. "He admitted to murder—you can’t just let him walk!"
Rabie stepped toward her, eyes fierce.
"How many people have you killed in your life? Did they all deserve it?"
The question drew a smirk from Jinx.
Shalelu knew the answer, her home in the Mierani forest was a warzone. Many fell to her arrows. All of them deserving. But she was forbidden to speak of it. The witch was not worth breaking her vow.
"Did every single one of them deserve it? Or was there another way?" Rabie asked again.
Shalelu didn’t answer. She merely shook her head and spoke firmly.
"I will notify the family. They deserve to know what happened."
She turned to go, but Vannrik’s voice stopped her.
"Where I come from, many people disagree with the government. Sometimes, they use magic to get to the truth—to prevent lies," he said. "I suggest we acquire such a spell and subject Rabie to it. If it really was self-defense, then he should go free. But we have the means to know for sure."
"But the man is a hero," Cletus finally said. "He fought with us to save Sandpoint. Is all of this really necessary?"
Rabie straightened.
Shalelu turned to Vannrik, her voice cool.
"You have to reconsider what kind of company you keep, Vannrik."
"Shalelu!" Cletus called after her. "Thank you again for informing us about Thistletop. Everything we achieved last night was possible because of what you did."
"Thank you," she said softly. "Good luck out there."
Then, Shalelu disappeared into the Nettlewood.
The sheriff knelt beside Nualia’s grave. He began to fill it with his bare hands—each fistful of earth thrown harder than the last.

Turning stones

The Sentinels approached the rickety bridge to Thistletop, their footsteps cautious on the weathered wood.
"Is he alright?" Cletus asked, glancing back. Behind them, the Sheriff was still furiously hurling dirt into the open grave. Vannrik didn’t answer—his thoughts were tangled with questions about Rabie.
"Maybe we should leave the Sheriff alone for a while. He seems to need some solitude."
Still no response. Cletus looked next to Jinx, hoping for a reaction. The tiefling just raised a brow. The gnome’s skin subtly shifted in hue, mimicking the stone beneath their feet. Nualia’s fires had altered Jinx in more ways than he thought.
Jinx remained silent.
So Cletus turned to the witch.
"Rabie, you’re not going to pull off another murder like that, are you?" he asked, hoping a little sarcasm might cut the tension.
"Of course not," Rabie replied quietly. "I made mistakes. I’m not planning on making them again."
"If I understand correctly, from your point of view it wasn’t even murder."
"No," Rabie said, though hesitation lingered in his voice.
Cletus gave a short laugh. "Well, that solves it, right?" The bridge swayed beneath his cheerful deflection.
"No, it doesn’t," Vannrik said gravely.
From across the bridge, the Sheriff still watched them.
Sensing the need to pivot, Cletus offered, "Anyway, now that we’re still at Thistletop, I must admit I was kind of hoping to go home with at least a little more gold." He stepped onto the island. "I’m sure there must be some spoils left."
"Speaking of the island... Did anyone see that scholar?" Jinx asked as he stepped onto solid ground.
"Yes. I want to make sure that she’s okay too," Vannrik added.
"You mean Lyrie?" Cletus asked. "I haven’t seen her anymore, no. But if she’s really as passionate about her findings as she claimed to be, then she would be still around."
He turned to the jagged silhouette of the fortress.
"Maybe even inside Thistletop."
Jinx nodded. "Yes, I would like to find her. I have some questions about her papers on Thassilon."
"And I want to know if there are any Thassilonian treasures left," Cletus admitted with a sly grin. "To help rebuild Sandpoint, of course."

  By the time they reached Thistletop’s entrance, Belor had crossed the bridge and caught up, brushing dirt from his fingers. He did his best to ignore the raising tension.
"Like I said, we cleared most of the fortress. If not all."
"So it should be safe?" Cletus asked, uncertainty creeping into his voice.
The Sheriff nodded and led them into the central throne room.
The chamber was grimly decorated. Tattered furs lined the walls—firepelt, dog, and even horse hides. Four square timbers supported the ceiling, each one impaled with dozens of severed hands in varying states of decay. At the far end, a crude throne was piled high with hides. Dog skulls served as armrests. A horse skull loomed over the back like a leering crown.
To the north lay a door. Inside, they found a bedroom: a strange contrast of squalor and splendor. Silk sheets draped over a canopied bed—stained with dirt and blood. The ornate headboard, carved with cavorting satyrs and nymphs, had been battered nearly to splinters. On the floor, rugs of hide and dirt. A wall was covered in nailed-up horseshoes. A ragged padded chair and broken desk completed the scene.
The room to the northeast housed a crude armory—goblin-sized armor, dogslicers, and dented shields. To the south, dusty workbenches stretched along the wall.
Belor wandered back to the stairs leading down and opened another door. Inside: a barracks strung with hammocks.
"I’ll have the soldiers sleep here," Belor said. "I heard there were more quarters below. You can settle there if you want. Shall we head down?" The Sheriff led the Sentinels down the stone stairs into the dusty, long-abandoned feast hall. Their boots echoed off the stone floor as they passed through a southern door and into a narrow corridor, curving sharply to the right.
"I heard from Jacob that there was another passage, leading deeper into the complex," Belor said as he took the lead. "Now that we are here, I’d like to ensure no stone goes unturned. We’ll investigate in the morning."
The Sentinels nodded in agreement. As they turned the bend, five doors revealed themselves along the dim corridor, stretching out like fingers of the fortress.
"For now, we rest," the Sheriff added with a tone of finality that made it clear there’d be no debate.
Behind the first door: chaos. Clothes lay strewn across the floor, a whetstone sat forgotten in the corner, and a half-eaten meal of smoked salmon and stale bread rested on the nightstand. The bed was rumpled, unmade.
The second room to the north was a stark contrast—immaculately kept. A low dresser stood near the corner, a hefty piece of obsidian pinning down a stack of papers. Vannrik picked up a thin brush from a nearby calligraphy set, holding it with gentle curiosity.
Could Tsuto have written his letter to Ameiko with this?
At the hall’s end, a more lavish room opened to them. A silk-covered bed stood to the north, while to the south a lantern glowed above a modest desk and chair. Cletus ran his hand along the frame of the bed—polished, recently assembled. He wondered if Nualia wanted him here.
The room to the southwest cast a sudden brightness—an everlight crystal pulsed on a desk. Vannrik quickly fashioned a leather cord and tied the crystal around his neck, its glow reflecting in his eyes. Jinx joined him, rifling through neatly arranged papers and quills.
Dust. That’s all he found—no sign of the scholar’s notes.
The final room was a far grimmer affair. The stench hit first—musty, iron-tinged. The bed was blanketed in matted gray and black hair. Blood marked the stone in crusty streaks, and a grotesque pile of birds’ feet lay heaped by the bedside.
"I’ll take the smelly room where we found the bugbear," the Sheriff said without flinching.

  Though the fresh beds tempted them, the Sentinels resisted rest for a little longer. Vannrik checked their wounds with practiced efficiency. In the larger chamber, Cletus emptied their gear-laden sack onto the floor. Each item was accounted for, none were picked by Goblin hands. Vannrik started the task of counting coins salvaged from the sea chest.
Rabie examined the more curious items. He tested the mysterious liquids: one, a shapeshifter’s elixir—favored by spies; the other, a healing potion. Cletus murmured a detection spell, his magic helping Rabie separate the enchanted from the mundane.
That’s when the witch picked up Nualia’s falchion.
Revulsion seized him. A wave of blasphemous whispers coiled through his mind, spoken in the voice of the Mother of Monsters herself. The blade slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground.
"This sword from Nualia is cursed," Rabie announced, his voice hollow.
Jinx leaned in, eyes narrowing. "It is? Or it could be?"
"It is. I’m sure of it," Rabie said without hesitation.
"Cursed by what?" Jinx asked, not ready to let it go.
"Lamashtu," Rabie spat, as if saying the name left a bad taste.
"But what does it do?" Vannrik pressed.
Rabie shook his head. "Only bad things will befall the one who wields this blade."
"I suggest we destroy it," Vannrik said simply.
Jinx raised a brow. "Is there nothing we can salvage? Can we break the curse maybe?"
"I have no idea," Rabie replied. "But I don’t want to touch it anymore."
"I can carry it," Vannrik offered. "I’ll take it back to town. If it can be salvaged, we’ll try. If not, we destroy it. Does that seem fair?"
"Fair. I wouldn’t want to destroy it now without a thorough investigation," Jinx agreed.
Rabie turned back to the pile. He appraised the dagger fromt he throphy room—valuable. The tiger-shaped trinket could empower a sword’s arc. He examined a dark obsidian gem but couldn’t decipher its purpose. He touched Nualia’s necklace—its aura was undeniable. Magical. But something about it made his skin crawl. He tossed it aside.
Then came the gown—a sleeveless keyhole-shoulder design with a scooped corset and flowing skirt. There were hardly any tears, someone wealthy might pay handsomely for it.
Jinx picked the medallion from the floor.
Through his studies he could easily identify the seven pointed star. The Sihedron Rune— it represented Thassilon’s seven virtues of rule, and the seven schools of magic in their archaic view on the arcane. It shimmered faintly with enchantments: one to toughen flesh, another to preserve the dead with Peaceful Rest.
By the time they lay down to sleep, Vannrik had tallied their coinage: 743 copper, 339 silver, and 38 gold.
Faint voices echoed from the grand bedroom. Cletus was talking to Andromeda, recounting the day’s events. The weapon's voice—once a low, angry growl—had mellowed into relief.
Jinx caught two parting words in the darkness: "Next adventure."

The Tentamort

Exhaustion claimed the Sentinels fast and fully. Their sleep was deep, dreamless. But peace never lasts.
A piercing scream shattered the stillness of the night.
The Sentinels jolted upright, adrenaline snapping them awake. Without pause, they grabbed only what they could carry and sprinted down the corridor. The scream came again—eastward, through an unexplored section of the complex.
Vannrik was the first through the door, leading them into a refuse-choked storage room. The air reeked of salt and decay. The sound of crashing waves echoed through a natural tunnel ahead.
"Please, Abadar, I will never complain about promotions again!" came the familiar, panicked voice of Jacob.
The passage curved sharply before opening into a wide cavern. The floor was unnaturally smooth, worn by time—or worse. A veil of nettles and vines swayed in the breeze from the Gulf, framing the grisly scene.
Jacob dangled helplessly from the cavern ceiling, ensnared in the writhing limbs of a monstrosity. The creature—leathery, bloated, squid-like—was the size of a barrel, with twitching eyes and a tangle of gnarled tentacles. Two appendages gripped Jacob: one thick and crushing, the other thin and tipped with a stinger.
"Help me!" Jacob shrieked, thrashing in the creature’s grip.
Jinx darted past Vannrik and drank a potion, mist curling from his skin with the scent of ginger.
"Save me, Mister Jinx!" Jacob cried, wide-eyed and pale.
Vannrik moved behind the gnome, preparing his strike. He shaped his kinetic energy into a concentrated snowball and hurled it—smashing into the beast’s hide. The creature shrieked and lost its grip on the stalactites, dropping several feet and dragging Jacob down with it.
Rabie and Ghurab arrived, the raven trailing its unsettling halo of maggots. With a caw, the insects surged forward, gnawing at the monster.
"Come on, Cletus!" Andromeda’s voice echoed from behind.
"You’ve got to help them!"
"No, no, get in the moment, Andromeda. We need to make our entrance very flamboyant!" Cletus replied, clearly savoring the chaos.
Inside the cave, the creature spasmed and drove its stinger deep into Jacob’s chest. The young man gasped. Poison raced through his veins. Then, with a sickening force, the muscular tentacle jammed into his mouth, injecting something vile into his body.
Jinx’s expression tightened, but his hands stayed steady. He recognized the creature now.
"It’s a Tentamort," he muttered to himself. Ambush predator. Nearly mindless. Single-minded once it snared prey. It wouldn't stop until Jacob was devoured—or worse.
Seizing the moment, Jinx drew his bow and let an arrow fly. It struck true, embedding into the Tentamort’s rubbery hide. The monster shrieked, its hold on Jacob weakening. The boy plummeted, smacking into the polished cavern floor, unconscious and bleeding.
Vannrik unleashed another volley—shards of ice piercing the creature’s flesh. The Tentamort clung weakly to the ceiling, exposed and vulnerable. Maggots feasted on its wounds.
Rabie muttered an incantation, weaving a spell of slumber. The Tentamort slowed. Its twitching eyes darted in confusion.
"Cletus, I hear fighting in there!" Andromeda’s voice rose again.
"All right, then!" Cletus replied with mock defeat. "Go on and finish it! Claim all the glory for yourself, Andromeda!"
The sword darted past Rabie, unleashing a radiant beam of light—but it missed. The flash startled the creature. With a wet screech, the Tentamort writhed toward the curtain of vines. The maggots burrowed under its skin as it squeezed through the cave mouth.
Moments later, the Sentinels heard a splash—the thing had fallen into the gulf below.

There was no time to celebrate. Rabie and Vannrik were upon Jacob in a flash. Vannrik unleashed his healing waters, quickly working to stem the bleeding and close the most obvious wounds. Jacob stirred beneath his touch, eyes blinking open as he clawed his way back to consciousness.
A weak smile crept across Jacob’s face. He opened his mouth—likely to thank them—but then his expression shifted. The color drained from his skin. His hands flew to his belly, and panic bloomed in his eyes.
“Something’s wrong! I can feel it!” he gasped, looking wildly from Vannrik to Rabie. “Something’s wrong!”
Belor burst into the cavern, armor half-on and hanging over his shoulder in a tangled mess. He scanned the scene, confused and alarmed.
“What’s going on here?”
Vannrik barely looked back. His voice was low, steady. “Some weird octopus thing implanted its eggs in Jacob.”
“Something’s wrong, Sheriff,” Jacob repeated, clutching his abdomen. “This isn’t good.”
Andromeda floated forward, her tone grim. “This is beyond our capacity to heal. Cletus and I can’t help you.”
Cletus leaned in, his brow furrowed. “Jacob, why were you patrolling here in the late hours of the night?”
“I just needed to take a piss,” Jacob replied, baffled by his misfortune. “I just thought this was a quiet place, you know. Then it came from the ceiling.”
His voice was trembling now, laced with fear and weakness. “I don’t feel so good, Sheriff. Is it ok if I lay down?”
Belor nodded silently.
As dawn crept into the cavern, its rays filtering through the vines at the entrance, the Sentinels gently carried Jacob to one of the bedrooms. There, Rabie and Vannrik unfolded the healer’s kit gifted by Mayor Kendra Deverin and set to work, doing what they could to fight Jacob's condition.
Meanwhile, Jinx and Cletus had returned to their rest—but something didn’t sit right with the tiefling. They had risked their lives, nearly died... and for what? The reward felt hollow.
He thought of Ripnugget’s sword that Jinx now used. The blade bore runes—runes of potency, meant to enhance its strength. He couldn’t help but wonder: how much more effective could Andromeda be with such enchantments?
His gaze drifted to the sack holding the recovered gear. He pulled out Nualia’s falchion and studied it. Rabie’s story echoed in his mind, sowing doubt. Was it cursed?
He sat staring at the weapon, thoughts turning, until Jinx appeared in the doorway. The gnome raised an eyebrow, then motioned silently for the blade. Cletus passed it to him.
Jinx examined it with measured confidence—no superstition, just precision. He turned it in his hands, inspecting every detail.
“Tssk.” A wry grin spread across the gnome's face.
Though the falchion carried profane associations—it functioned much like a holy symbol for spellcasting—Jinx found no signs of a curse. He held the blade up and tapped just under the hilt, revealing two small, glowing sigils: a rune of potency to guide its swings, and a rune of striking to sharpen its edge.
“It’s definitely not cursed,” Jinx said, almost cheerfully. “It’s a pretty decent weapon if you ask me.”
Cletus nodded in approval. “Could you do me a favor, Jinx? Could you transfer the sword’s magics to Andromeda’s grip?”
With a silent nod, Jinx got to work.
Hours passed. In one room, Vannrik and Rabie battled the mysterious disease inside Jacob. In the other, Jinx and Cletus meticulously worked to transfer the runes from Nualia’s falchion to Andromeda’s weapon.
All the while, Belor paced the hallway, impatience and dread wearing grooves into the stone floor beneath his boots.

Stern faces

Eventually Rabie and Vannrik informed Belor that Jacob’s condition was stable, for now. “In the northwest, beyond the room with the archeological equipment, there is a passage that leads deeper down.” the Sheriff said. Their encounter with the Tentamort had made one thing painfully clear—Thistletop still bristled with danger. They couldn’t afford to leave anything lurking in the shadows, not with Sandpoint at stake.   They backtracked past the goblin Graffiti, and the meeting hall, into the chamber where they had last seen Lyrie. Jinx let out a breath of relief upon spotting the archaeologist’s notes untouched on the table. He flipped through the pages—sketches of wall carvings, annotated translations. His eyes narrowed and he scoffed softly; one sketch depicted the Tentamort. That would’ve been useful a few hours ago. Since Lyrie hadn’t returned to retrieve her research, Jinx pocketed the notes. For safekeeping, of course.
At the far side of the room, a cleverly hidden door stood ajar. Behind it, a narrow stairway spiraled down deeper into the rock. The Sentinels and the sheriff exchanged a determined glance—there was no turning back.
A level below, a stone door near the staircase hung open. The once-detailed carvings on its surface had been all but obliterated by time and vandalism—chisel gouges and hammer marks leaving only scattered remnants: fragments of gemstones, outlines of crowns. The floor sloped downward toward the west, and the defaced wall held traces of ancient inscriptions.
Jinx squinted at the text, eyes tracing the damaged lettering. He raised a hand. “Hold on, let me read this.”

"……..
For him
Hoards vast
My life
For Runelord Karzoug
My blood
For Xin-Shalast"

  The word "Runelord" jumped out at him—one of the rare terms that surfaced in the few surviving records of ancient Thassilon. The rulers of Thassilonian realms had borne that title. And Xin-Shalast... it was thought to be a myth, a city of gold and silver hidden somewhere deep in the Kodar Mountains.
“How long ago did those Runelords live? A hundred years, two hundred?” Cletus asked.
Jinx shook his head gravely. “Their empire ended with Earthfall, around ten thousand years ago.”
The room beyond was supported by two pillars. In many places the stone walls, floor, and ceiling were caked with ancient grime and soot. Alcoves in the north and south walls contained partially damaged statues of a man in robes clutching a book and a glaive. The entire room was canted toward the west, and whatever ancient upheaval caused the complex to tilt knocked the statues from their bases so that now they lean against the western walls of their alcoves.
Cletus eyed the walls uneasily, noting the long, ragged claw marks gouged into the stone. “I guess someone didn’t like this.” He stepped closer to the more intact statue. “This is the Runelord then?”
“Could be.” Belor muttered.
Cletus looked to the others, his voice lower. “Do you think Lyrie could be down here?”
The question hung unanswered in the dim air, trailing into the silence like a warning.

  The silence shattered as Jinx raised a hand. “Wait!” he exclaimed, pointing ahead to the corridor beyond. The short hallway sloped upward toward the east. Oddly, just five feet past the western door, the floor suddenly changed—gleaming, polished, unlike the dusty stone that coated the rest of the dungeon.
“This might be trapped.” Jinx added, eyes narrowing. Sure enough, the gaps between the stones looked wider here, especially around the shining slab. Something wasn’t right.
“Vannrik!” Cletus called out, almost cheerfully. “Did you hear that? It’s trapped! That’s good news isn’t it?”
The Jadwiga arched an eyebrow in quiet skepticism. “Your definition of good news might differ from mine.”
Cletus grinned wide, unfazed. “It means that there is something of value down there.”
He poked his head around the corner, taking in the hallway beyond. Two stone statues—stern-faced men clutching glaives—stood in alcoves flanking the corridor’s walls. Just past them, in a third recess, a partially collapsed statue slumped over, its upper half missing. Only a ragged stump of stone remained.
“Another broken statue..” Cletus muttered to himself. “Didn’t they say that Sandpoint was built on the border between two Runelord’s domains?” He didn’t wait for a response. “But this place seems dedicated to only one Runelord.” He paused, puzzling over the implications. “Could it be that the broken statues didn’t depict this Runelord but someone else?”
He shook his head—speculation could wait. Right now, there was a trap to bypass. “How to avoid the pressure plate…”
Fortunately, the pressure plate, though hidden, wasn’t all that large. One by one, the group leapt over it with practiced ease, landing safely on the other side.

  To their right, the door was closed. To their left, it stood open, revealing a chamber bathed in eerie illumination. Wide stone ledges of red marble curled around the room’s walls, lit by four flaming skulls, each perched ominously in a corner. Three worn chairs sat amid a chaos of collected oddities—books, scrolls, preserved body parts, bones, teeth, jars filled with malformed creatures floating in brine, and taxidermied limbs.
At the room’s northern end, a large round fountain bubbled with frothy blue water, casting a steady, hypnotic gurgle.
The Sentinels fanned out cautiously, eyes scanning every surface. On one of the stone ledges lay an open leatherbound journal. Paging through it, they unearthed the tragic narrative of a lost soul: a foundling raised in Sandpoint, her heartbreak after losing a child, the creeping descent into madness, and finally, her zealous devotion to Lamashtu and the arcane secrets of the Runewell.
“The Runewell” Cletus muttered, eyes narrowing as recognition clicked into place. “More writings of that mad-woman.” He paused, a sliver of pity slipping through. “She truly was lost, wasn’t she?”
“I think she was, yes.” Jinx said softly, his voice edged with sadness. “Shall we take her journal with us?”
With a nod of consensus from the group, Jinx carefully tucked the journal into his pack.
“Now, for the other door. Andromeda, are you coming?” Cletus asked, motioning to the unopened path across the hallway.
“You won’t be leaving without me, you’d be dead!” the blade snapped, voice ringing with unshakable confidence.

Shadows in the deep

They opened the next door, revealing a large L-shaped hallway cloaked in silence. At its southern end loomed a pair of heavy stone doors. Their surfaces were carved with the haunting image of two skeletons, arms outstretched to grasp a skull floating between them. Eastward, the corridor narrowed, ending in a circular carving that climbed from floor to ceiling—an intricate illusion of tens of thousands of stacked gold coins. On closer inspection, each coin’s edge was etched with tiny, spiked runes.
The Sentinels shared a look, then pressed forward, their steps soundless, their weapons ready. Together, they reached the morbidly carved southern doors—and pushed them open.

  Four stone pillars rose to meet the domed ceiling as the Sentinels entered the chamber. Along the shadowy walls, alcoves cradled upright sarcophagi, still and ominous. Light from Vannrik’s glowing crystal and Rabie’s spell dancing on Ghurab sent eerie shadows slanting across the room—stretching across the pillars, the sarcophagi, and a familiar statue of a stern man brandishing a glaive.
At first glance, it seemed the tomb was a dead end. The group fanned out, probing for hidden passages or inscriptions.
Then came the shriek.
A translucent hand—icy and spectral—latched onto Rabie’s throat. Energy drained from him as the shadow of the statue unmoored itself from the base and moved, alive with malevolent will. Two pinpricks of red light flared where its eyes should be. More shadows emerged from the alcove and from the back of the room, their forms dark and twisted.
The entity released Rabie’s flesh only to seize his very shadow. It yanked viciously, like trying to peel a soul from its body. The witch choked, pain radiating from deep within.
At the rear of the chamber, Jinx watched in horror and unsheathed his weapon. How were they supposed to fight shadows? One lunged at Vannrik, slammed his head against the wall, and clawed greedily at his shadow. Vannrik screamed as tears opened at the base of his shadow. Then, another shadow pounced, fighting to claim his essence.
“Andromeda, are shadows unholy creatures?” Cletus asked, his tone suddenly serious.
“I don’t know and I don’t care!” the blade roared back, hurtling into the fray. “Away with you!” Her edges blazed brilliantly under the enchanted light. She slashed through the darkness, each strike shredding trails of mist. The shadow shrieked, a sound like hollow wind through tombstones.
Rabie clutched his neck, reeling. “I hate this place!” he groaned, then summoned his fury. With a gesture, he conjured a barrage of magical shards. Two ripped through the shade clutching his shadow, while another sliced what remained of the one Andromeda had ravaged.
“Get behind me!” Belor ordered, stepping forward to shield Rabie. His sword swung wide, carving into the shadow, though it still lingered—stubbornly holding form.
Vannrik’s limbs trembled, his strength fading. But he rallied, summoned the wintry aura that clung to him like a second skin. It formed into a warhammer of swirling frost and snow. He brought it down with a roar, sending the shadow sprawling against the far wall. Yet it scrambled up, relentless in its hunger for his soul.
Meanwhile, the other shadow clung to Rabie’s essence with unnatural persistence. Magical shards and Belor's blade had weakened it, but it would not let go. It pressed an elongated hand to Rabie’s face, and he cried out in renewed agony.
Jinx, seeing his moment, made a desperate dash past the statue. He sprinted to Vannrik’s side just as the shadow lunged again. The gnome slashed low with his shortsword, slicing into its leg-like vapor. As he locked eyes with it, a chill ran through him—it radiated hunger, ancient and insatiable.
“Andromeda! I got him pinned!” he called. The creature turned from Vannrik to Jinx. It worked—its focus had shifted. But the price was steep. Jinx gasped as the shadow’s touch raked across him.
“Not to worry Jinx!” Andromeda shouted, leaping between the remaining shades. “You got them prepared, I can get them both this way!” She spun, her blade a blinding arc of steel.
“They also can hit you easier, Andromeda!” Cletus called from behind, unable to help himself.
“SHUT! UP! CLETUS!” she snapped, slicing clean through the creature attacking Jinx. It dissolved with a ghostly wail.
“There’s only one left of you,” Cletus taunted, voice laced with smug mirth. “Maybe you want to retreat back to the Shadows!”
Rabie’s legs quaked, but his resolve held firm. He raised a trembling finger toward the greater shadow and launched a volatile bolt of flickering energy. It phased in and out of visibility, missing its mark.
Belor didn’t pause. He continued his assault, hacking through the shadow’s form. Wisps peeled off with every blow, and the creature responded with a shriek so unnatural it made the hair on their arms stand up. Cletus cheered him on.
“Hey Shoanti!”
Hack, slash.
“Your people have lived in Varisia for a long time…”
Thrust, sweep.
“Did the Runelords come before or after your people?”
Pivot, arc.
“This is Shoanti land!” Belor roared, bringing his sword down in a mighty chop. The blade cleaved the shadow from head to groin. It split apart, howling, before vanishing into the ether.
Panting, Belor leaned on a nearby pillar, surveying the aftermath. Around him, the Sentinels staggered to their feet, dazed but alive.
“Between us and the Varisians, I believe my people have lived here the longest.” he said between labored breaths.

All that glitters kills

While Vannrik busied himself with treating the worst of the injuries, Cletus gave the crypt one last scan. Something caught his eye—a subtle irregularity in the western wall. Two nearly invisible horizontal slits, just wide enough to hint at something more. He leaned in closer and ran a hand over the stone until he found a loose panel.
With a grin tugging at his lips, he pressed the stone.
“Another chance for riches guys, there is a hidden tunnel!” he announced, practically bouncing with excitement. He waited just long enough for the others to gather before he pressed onward. “There must be some Thassilonian treasure somewhere.”
He crept down the passage, which veered right and then descended via a narrow stairway that burrowed deeper into the earth. Cletus whispered under his breath, “Calistria, come on…” invoking his patron with hopeful reverence.
After a few more turns, the Sentinels reached a stone door. Cletus leaned in and took a deep, exaggerated sniff.
“I smell gold!” the tiefling declared with a grin.
“Those Runelords predate even the god Aroden,” Andromeda said, her tone dry and skeptical. “I can’t imagine there is anything holy behind that door. Anything of TRUE worth.”
“Shut up Andromeda.” Cletus groaned, shoving the stone door open with an impatient grunt.
The room beyond had partially collapsed, revealing a wide tide pool that shimmered in the flickering light. What remained of the chamber’s walls were carved with intricate, breathtaking murals—treasuries bursting with coins, gems, and lavish relics of a forgotten empire. On the eastern side, an immense carving dominated the wall: a towering mountain with its peak sculpted into the visage of a grim, stern, face. Below it sprawled a palace and, further still, a majestic city nestled in the valley.
Even in ruin, the place reeked of opulence.
The tide pool itself held the shattered remnants of once-great wealth—toppled urns, broken stone chests, had spilled its contents of coinage and gems. They lay scattered amongst the rusted bones of ornate armor and weapons.
Without hesitation, Cletus leapt into the pool, wading through the scattered treasures of an age long past. The others followed close behind, their boots splashing through the brine.
Vannrik’s gaze locked onto something massive resting beneath the surface—a coral-encrusted helmet, easily large enough to fit a giant. Nearly five feet wide, its faceplate bore a twisted expression of fury, complete with sculpted fangs and bared teeth. Its surface glinted faintly beneath the coral, unmistakably golden.
The sheer magnificence of the hoard made it hard not to smile.

  Then the helmet moved.
Water churned as it rose, revealing not just a relic, but a creature. From beneath the helm emerged immense, chitinous claws and spindly legs that scraped against the pool’s stone floor.