ROTR Session 9

Summer of 4704

Three years before the Goblin Raid on Sandpoint   Denia Cojoc wound one of her long black braids around her fingers, her amber eyes fixed on the rugged expanse of the Lost Coast. The wagon creaked beneath her as the caravan trundled forward, each turn of the wheel pulling them closer—closer to Sandpoint, closer to him. She had thought of little else since they veered from the well-worn Cyrusibakari route onto the Kasapakari, the shift in course stirring something restless in her chest.   Beside her, Big Petru guided the reins with the patience of stone, while Petru—never Little Petru—sat humming under his breath, oblivious to her impatience. They would not hurry. Not even for her.   The last time she was in Sandpoint, she had spoken to the boy—brief words, fleeting, but enough to linger. He had been quiet, withdrawn, his gaze shadowed by something unsaid. Mystery suited him. It made her want to pull him into the light. Back then, she couldn't convince him to dance with her. This time, she would.   The wagon rolled past Sandpoint’s welcome sign, and she traced the words aloud, as if speaking them into existence: “Welcome to Sandpoint. Please come to see yourself as we see you.” Beneath the inscription, a mirror glinted, and for a brief moment, she saw her own reflection staring back—amber eyes, dark braids, a girl on the edge of something she couldn't name.   As the caravan settled in a circle outside town, the pull in her chest grew stronger. She fought the instinct to slip away into the streets, to seek him out immediately. Instead, she turned to the Gnome fortune-teller for a harrow reading. Grandma could have done it, but Denia knew her grandmother’s protectiveness would cloud the cards.   The gnome’s fingers moved deftly over the deck, flipping over a single image: The Crows. Most would call it an ill omen. Denia saw it differently. She had noticed the faint silhouettes of birds carved into Sandpoint’s wooden facades, quiet remnants of something old, something waiting. Maybe it was a sign that she belonged here.   Maybe it meant something else entirely.   Because no one ever saw Denia leave Sandpoint.   For two weeks, the Cojoc family combed the town, their voices threading through the streets, calling her name. Every alley, every shadow, every whisper turned up nothing. When the caravan finally left, they carried only silence where Denia had once been.   And every time they returned to Sandpoint, they were welcomed not with answers, but with renewed grief—the hollow ache of a clan still waiting for the lost daughter who never came home.  

Rova 29th 4707 AR

Present day

The Meditation chamber

Rabie tried to block out the relentless moaning of the zombies as he wrested the impressive sword from Koruvus’ misshapen hand. He stowed the weapon in his backpack, along with the Goblin’s other belongings. But the zombies remained, and so did the threat they posed to Sandpoint—despite their imprisonment.
"We can't leave these things alive. Imagine if they crawl out and get to the town," the witch said.
Vannrik was thinking the same. "Yes, I agree. I found them quite distasteful to begin with."
Shalelu checked her quiver. "I have some arrows to spare."
The kineticist was more pragmatic. "It's fine. I'm not restricted by arrows; it's probably better to save yours."
The elf didn’t argue.
Jinx, despite his curiosity about the Thassilonian ruins, couldn’t sit idle. "Yes. And I do have spells to put an end to these walking abominations."
And so, the Sentinels set to work, ridding the world of this vile taint.
Once the battle was over, Shalelu approached the gnome. "Koruvus almost got you there. His blade didn’t strike true, did it?"
Jinx let out a dismissive chuckle. "No, no, no. You guys protected me well. And, of course, I’ve got the fortune of my cards!"
The Elf smiled. "That’s good."
She glanced over as Vannrik dropped a block of ice into the pit. It vanished into the darkness with a thud and the sickening crack of bone. The last lingering moans faded into silence.
"That seems to be all of them. I guess we watch our step and head south?"

  The Sentinels crept through the narrow tunnel. Along the way, they came upon an opening to the east, revealing a twisting spiral staircase that once led downward. Now, however, it was clogged with immovable rubble and debris. Further south, they were met by a door.
Vannrik gingerly pushed it open and was greeted by an odd sight.
The chamber beyond was a fifteen-foot-diameter sphere. Several objects floated lazily in midair—a ragged book, a scroll, a bottle of wine, a dead raven surrounded by a halo of writhing maggots, and a twisted iron wand with a forked tip. But the most unnerving feature was the walls. They were plated in sheets of strange red metal, which rippled every so often with silent black electricity. The shifting energy coalesced into strange runes—or even words—far too frequently for it to be mere coincidence.
Jinx squinted, recognizing patterns in the rippling black light. To get a better look, he leaned in closer. As he did, a sudden sensation of weightlessness overcame him. With perhaps too much confidence, he stepped inside—and found himself floating.
"You guys see this?" he chuckled.
As he drifted through the room, the gnome made out snatches of Thassilonian words crackling through the electricity. "It's a text of some kind—words of anger, or perhaps wrath," he mused, carefully steering away from the dead raven.
He spent some time studying the room’s enchantments while his companions hesitated at the threshold. Jinx remained silent, contemplating the nature of the levitation spell. Despite the ominous surroundings, the chamber had an oddly serene atmosphere. Floating through the air was... relaxing. Perhaps the space was once used for meditation?
With a gleeful grin, he invited the others to join him.
Vannrik, Ghurab, and Rabie entered, leaving Shalelu behind to guard the passage. The sphere soon became crowded, making it trickier to avoid the raven and its squirming entourage.
Vannrik reached for a floating bottle of wine. The label read Director’s Choice—brewed by the Two Knight’s Brewery in Sandpoint.
Jinx, meanwhile, maneuvered toward the ragged book. Flipping through its pages, he frowned. It wasn’t written in Thassilonian. He drifted over to Rabie and held it out.
The witch scanned the text and nodded. "This is written in Abyssal—the language of demons."
Nearby, a scroll bounced weightlessly against the wall within Vannrik’s reach. He nudged it toward Rabie. "Care to take a look at this?"
Jinx, making sure nothing escaped his notice, reached for the floating iron wand.
All the while, Ghurab had been eyeing the maggots writhing around the raven’s corpse. Before long, he pecked at some of them.
Vannrik frowned. "Are those maggots magical in any way?"
Jinx shook his head. "Nope. But you could taste them—you’re good at that kind of thing, right?" The gnome’s laughter sent him spinning lazily through the air.
Vannrik rolled his eyes, despite appreciating the joke.
"I did hear about you trying—and succeeding—at the Hagfish Challenge," Shalelu quipped uncharacteristically from the hallway.
"Yeah... that was quite the experience," Vannrik admitted.
Shalelu’s levity didn’t last long. "If you’re all quite finished, I don’t see a way forward here. Shall we get your feet back on solid ground?"
"I like floating," Jinx admitted, "but you’re probably right." He grinned. "I feel taller now."   As Vannrik stepped onto the solid stone floor of the hallway, a sharp sting shot through his recent wound. Shalelu was right—this was no time to waste. Still, they couldn't press on unprepared. While the Jadwiga tended to his injuries, Rabie focused on identifying the magical items they had recovered. Meanwhile, Jinx shuffled his mother's harrow cards, centering himself in the familiar ritual.
The wand's purpose soon became clear—it could summon and manifest the undead from thin air. The scroll, on the other hand, contained a spell that allowed the caster to inhale deeply and exhale a gout of flame.
By then, the Sentinels knew they had lingered long enough. Two paths within the underground complex remained unexplored: the hallway leading east from the chamber bearing Alaznist’s statue and a side passage between the meeting and storage rooms. After a brief deliberation, they circled back to explore the former.

A kiss by the washing pool

The hallway to the east ended at another stone door. Vannrik glanced over his shoulder at his companions—everyone was ready. He pushed the door open, bracing for an attack, but none came. Instead, he found himself looking into a circular chamber.
At its center, water rippled quietly in a stone pool, its rim lined with skulls. Jinx smirked. Maybe we can fly again, he thought.
Rabie, however, was less amused. “This place is eerie,” the witch muttered, dashing the gnome’s hopes.
Crossing his arms and tapping his foot impatiently, Jinx lingered near the entrance while the others stepped inside. As Rabie and Shalelu inspected the pool, Vannrik was already making his way to the door on the far side of the chamber.
Through the reflection in the water, Shalelu’s keen eyes caught movement above. “Up there!” she pointed.
Clinging to the domed ceiling, shrouded in shadows, was a monstrous creature—a bat-winged, fanged head with a long, snaking tongue and writhing tendrils. It watched them with hungry eyes, coiling its limbs in preparation to pounce.
Jinx sprang into action, stepping into the room as a translucent shield shimmered into existence before him. He pulled back his hood, revealing his third eye, and extended his arm. From beneath his sleeve, Misery, his cindersnake, slithered forth with a menacing hiss. “Look at this!” Jinx growled, the sound shifting into a serpent’s hiss.
For a fleeting moment, the creature recoiled, slinking higher into the shadows. Its answering hiss lacked the venom of true confidence.
Its hesitation was all Shalelu needed. She squinted and loosed two arrows in rapid succession. The first punctured its leathery wing, the second severed two of its tendrils. The dismembered limbs fell to the ground, writhing like independent creatures.
Rabie, impressed by his gnome companion’s boldness, let the influence of Ghurab and his patron manifest. His eyes glowed an eerie purple as he intoned, “You have no place here.” A spell of mental intrusion followed. Blood dribbled from the creature’s nostrils, mouth, and other unnatural orifices. Above, Ghurab circled, harrying it with harsh caws and croaks.
The creature suddenly inhaled, its jaw distending unnaturally wide. Then, it shrieked.
The piercing, ear-splitting wail sent the Sentinels reeling, clutching at their ears. Jinx felt his limbs go numb, his body locking up as he collapsed to the floor. His harrow cards scattered around him.
With the gnome helpless beneath it, the creature seized its chance, launching itself from the ceiling with a sickening flutter of its wounded wings.
Vannrik reacted instantly, crafting and hurling a barrage of jagged ice spikes. Some missed, but many struck true—embedding in the creature’s grotesque skull and shredding its wings. The monster wavered midair before plummeting.
Jinx could only watch, paralyzed, as the foul thing crashed down upon him, bile spilling from its maw. The acrid liquid splattered across his mother’s cards, defiling them.
Rabie was at his side in an instant, yanking the creature off and hurling its corpse aside. It took a few moments before Jinx could move again, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
Shalelu, standing at a distance, covered her nose and mouth. “What is that?”
Vannrik scowled at the oozing corpse. “Ugly,” he answered flatly. “It’s ugly.” Jinx picked up his harrow cards with tender care, brushing them off before joining Rabie in examining the slain creature. The witch studied it with a furrowed brow, uncertain of its nature, but Jinx found something oddly familiar about it.
“This seems like a Vargouille,” the gnome murmured, tilting his head as he inspected the monstrous features. “Judging by the look of it, I’d guess it’s from Hell. Or maybe the Abyss. It’s all the same in my opinion.” He hesitated, rubbing his chin. “Might be poisonous, though. I don’t feel weird now, so I can’t be sure.”
Vannrik rolled his eyes. “Well, I wasn’t planning on eating it.” He turned his attention to the pool at the center of the chamber.
“I think it’s especially the saliva that could be dangerous,” Jinx continued, undeterred. His gaze flicked to the elf. “Shalelu, you’re a hunter. Any thoughts?”
Shalelu frowned as she crouched beside the corpse. “I spend my time in the woodlands and plains, even parts of the Storval Plateau. I’ve never seen anything like this in the wild.” Her nose wrinkled as she examined its unnatural form. “This isn’t a creature of the natural world. Like Rabie said—it has no place here.”
Vannrik, still focused on the pool, called their attention to it. “The water refills itself,” he noted. “It purifies, too.”
Jinx’s ears perked up. “Could we drink it?”
Vannrik shrugged. “I think so. But given where we are, I’d still be suspicious.”
Rabie, however, shook his head. The odd serenity of the chamber told him the pool wasn’t meant for drinking. “This used to be a sacred place,” the witch mused. “A place for ritual cleansing—to wash away the filth of the world above before entering the sacred halls.”
Jinx’s curiosity deepened. “That’s interesting. Do you think it could help us moving forward?”
Shalelu wasn’t convinced. Her eyes swept over the chamber, taking in the ominous details. “I wonder what kind of sacred place has torture devices,” she muttered.
“Maybe it stopped being sacred at some point,” Vannrik suggested, “and someone else took over.”
Rabie dipped a finger into the pool, letting the water run over his skin. It was fresh and slightly cold—like a high mountain stream. Without hesitation, he washed his hands, face, and neck.
Jinx considered doing the same but hesitated. “I don’t want to wash the ginger off,” he admitted to himself. Instead, he turned his attention to the unopened door to the east. “Well, Vannrik, the honor is yours.”
Vannrik glanced around. The group was ready. He pushed open the door, revealing a short, narrow hallway—fifteen feet long, ending in yet another door.
The Sentinels exchanged wary glances before pressing forward. Beyond the second door, they found another stairway, spiraling upward. Like the first, it was blocked by debris and rubble, impassable.
A dead end. Only one unexplored path remained.

The waters of Lamashtu

The side path between the welcoming chamber and the storage room widens into what appears to have once been a small shrine, for to the northeast, steps lead up to a platform of gray stone. Sitting atop the platform is an ancient altar, little more than a jagged block of black marble with a shallow concavity on top. This basin is filled with what appears to be filthy water. Behind it stands a towering statue of a jackal-headed woman with a third vertical eye in the center of her forehead, heavily pregnant, with feathered wings like a raven's, a snake's tail, and taloned feet like a vulture's. The statue holds two deadly blades—kukris.
"That is none other than Lamashtu," Vannrik said with quiet dread. "The Mother of Monsters."
Rabie nodded in agreement. "Indeed it is." The witch left the gruesome implications unsaid. Through his occult studies, he had learned the terrifying truth of Lamashtu, the Mother of Monsters. A fiendish queen and nightmare given form, she birthed many of Golarion’s monstrous races after slaying the god Curchanus and stealing his dominion over beasts. To gain power over the unborn, she devoured her own womb and later regenerated by consuming a thousand stolen infants. Her milk could nourish, poison, or mutate, and she spawned monstrous offspring by stealing the seed of men in their sleep. Her touch brought stillbirths and deformities, and her nightmares haunted the minds of the living. Her ultimate goal was to twist all creatures into her monstrous brood, reshaping the world in her image through chaos and corruption.
Rabie looked at Jinx, seeing the same recognition in his eyes.
"It's strange to think that only a few feet below the peaceful folk of Sandpoint, there is something so profane," Shalelu said.
"We should definitely destroy this," Vannrik added. "Maybe not right now—we don't know if we would attract something's attention and be caught flat-footed—but we should get rid of this. This is a heinous god."
"Does anybody want to take a closer look at the water?" Jinx asked, to no one in particular.
This drew a sharp gaze from Shalelu. "You cannot be serious."
Jinx took a step back and gave a dismissive chuckle.
"I think it's best if we stay away from the water," Rabie said.
Vannrik smirked. "I have a better idea." He approached the altar and the bowl, focusing intently on the mastery of water.
The kineticist found that the water in the basin provided resistance to his control. This was an oddity that the Jadwiga had not encountered before. It took significantly more effort, but the water evaporated into a fine mist nonetheless. Through his work, Vannrik did learn a bit more about the substance.
Drinking the Waters of Lamashtu could temporarily twist the mind and body. Repeated daily doses over many weeks could cause permanent changes that were rarely beneficial. The sight of Koruvus' misshapen body came to mind.
"This water is truly vile—it can mutate you if you drink it," the kineticist said. "It resisted my powers to destroy it." As he did, he saw the basin slowly refilling.
The Sentinels spent some time mixing the waters of the washing room with the filth of the basin, hoping to purify it. But Lamashtu’s corruption ran too deep, too vile to be undone so easily. They vowed to return with Father Zantus and his priests to finish the task. For now, they turned their focus to the looming double doors to the south.

The Cathedral of Wrath

Vannrik put his weight into the doors, forcing them open with a heavy groan of stone on stone.
Beyond lay an immense underground cathedral. Stone doors flanked the entrance, while the walls were carved with jagged, alien runes. In the center of the chamber, a large pool gleamed, its deeper section encircled by polished human skulls impaled on stone spikes. At the far end, twin staircases rose to a pulpit, where a triangular pool bubbled and churned with liquid the color of molten amber. Wisps of steam or heat rose from it, yet the room itself was deathly cold.
Fluttering above was a wiry, bat-winged creature with curling horns and malevolent, beady eyes. Jinx and Rabie exchanged a glance. A Quasit. They knew these demons were birthed from the sloughed-off sinful essence of spellcasters. Most served their creators as familiars, but those who outlived their masters became free-willed, seeking passage back to the Abyss. Many, unable or unwilling to pledge servitude to greater demons, remained on the Material Plane, scheming and sowing evil, waiting for fate to grant them a path home.
Jinx knew Quasits were resilient, cunning, and nimble—but they were also small and fragile.
The creature’s face twisted with fury. “Who are you, and why do you defile Mother’s sanctum?” she hissed.
“I think this is the Quasit,” Rabie murmured. “The one from Tsuto’s journal.”
“Answer me,” the demon snapped, venom thick in her voice.
Jinx reacted instantly. “We are friends!” he said, voice light with feigned ease.
“That remains to be seen.” Her clawed finger leveled at the gnome. “Now, why have you defiled Mother’s sanctum?”
Jinx didn’t waver. “We did not defile anything.”
“Your presence here says otherwise.” Her thin lips pressed tighter, her patience thinning with them. “Now, why are you here?”
The Sentinels exchanged quick glances. Shalelu had an arrow already nocked, waiting.
Rabie’s revulsion finally broke free. “This is not your Mother’s sanctum,” he said firmly, squaring his shoulders as he met the demon’s gaze. “This is Sandpoint.”
The Quasit’s fanged grin widened as she studied him. “Oh, witch. One more time—why are you here?”
Rabie’s voice was steady. “To cleanse Sandpoint of evil.”
The demon’s wings beat faster as she hovered above the bubbling pool. “You belong here, witch. Step closer.”
Rabie shook his head. “I’ll stand with my friends.”
Vannrik stepped forward, glancing at his companions. “Any objections?” The meaning was clear.
None came. Before the last word left his lips, two arrows streaked past, aimed for the demon.
Both arrows struck true—one tearing through the thin leather of the Quasit’s wing, the other plunging into her side, drawing blood. But the wicked grin remained.
Rabie’s anger flared easily within the Cathedral of Wrath. His veiny purple eyes narrowed. “Foul demon,” the witch growled. The Quasit remained unfazed, curling a clawed finger toward him in a beckoning motion.
“You will not win this fight,” Rabie continued, weaving a spell to unravel the demon’s mind.
“Come, come,” she repeated, voice like a taunt, her laughter dripping with malice.
Above, Ghurab circled Rabie protectively, cawing in eerie mimicry, “Not win this fight, not win this fight.”
Vannrik stood firm, drawing from the watery aura surrounding him. Three large icicles formed between his fingers, and he hurled them at the demon. The shards missed, shattering against the cathedral’s vaulted ceiling.
The Kineticist raised his shield, bracing for retaliation. But there was none—only laughter as the demon faded from sight.
Jinx lifted his arm, allowing Misery to slither forth. The snake flicked its forked tongue, sensing the air. It was close. Jinx pointed a gnarled finger. “I told you we were friends, but since you don’t want to play… you have to die.”
“Where did it go?” Shalelu called, frustration in her voice.
Rabie stepped through the double doors, entering the cathedral proper. He strained his ears, listening—but found nothing. Preparing for what was to come, he wove a translucent purple shield before him.
A sudden gust of air.
His eyes widened. The Quasit flickered into visibility, her dagger slicing through the space between them. Rabie barely managed to raise his shield before the second strike. The blade bit into his bicep instead of his heart.
She withdrew the dagger, Rabie’s blood smearing its ancient metal. Studying it with sick delight, she purred, “Let’s feast on your anger.”
With erratic wingbeats, she retreated toward the triangular pool, dodging another barrage of icy needles.
Vannrik stepped closer.
An arrow streaked overhead, striking the demon’s arm. Her wings faltered, her breath growing ragged. She dodged the next shot, but before it could shatter against the stone wall, it froze—suspended midair.
“Can I borrow that?” Jinx asked, holding the arrow in place with invisible force. With a snap of his fingers, it reversed mid-flight, flinging back toward the retreating demon. It grazed her thigh, drawing a thin line of black ichor.
The Quasit turned to look at Rabie—but what she saw made her hesitate. His hateful, unnatural purple eyes locked onto her. And for the first time, something resembling fear flickered in hers.
“You can’t hurt me,” the witch stated. His arms moved in a precise pattern, shaping void-born energies into translucent, shadowy tendrils that lashed out at the demon. “Die, horrible creature,” he spat.
Her limbs withered. Her papery skin pulled tight over brittle bones. Her wings barely kept her aloft.
But here, in the Cathedral of Wrath, anger was power. She hovered above the bubbling orange pool, eyes gleaming with cruel intent.
“Maybe I can’t hurt you,” she mused, voice sharp with malice. “But who can you hurt, witch? Let’s find out.”
She released the bloodied dagger. It plunged into the churning liquid with a violent sizzle. The pool hissed and bubbled, its orange glow intensifying.
Then the vapors rose.
Mist twisted into humanoid shapes—a woman with two long braids, her eyes catching the amber light; a hooded man with a feathered cloak, bare-chested, silent. They moved toward each other in an embrace.
Then the man raised a dagger and drove it into the woman’s heart.
The vision dissipated.
Shalelu’s breath hitched. She turned to Rabie, then to the pool—just as a clawed hand broke the surface.
With a low, guttural growl, a Wrathspawn emerged from the waters—born from an act of wrath.
The glow of the profane pool dimmed as the Wrathspawn emerged, but the Quasit’s laughter only grew, echoing through the Cathedral of Wrath. Strength returned to her small, withered body as she hovered above, taunting Rabie. “Who did you hurt, witch?”
The Wrathspawn lunged down the stairs with terrifying speed. It leaped, its claws tearing through Rabie’s flesh. Blood dripped from both of the witch’s shoulders as he fought desperately, barely keeping its snapping maws at bay.
Vannrik had no time for the spawn—his focus was locked on the demon. She needed to die. From a safe distance, he shaped his kinetic aura into a watery crossbow and let loose an icy bolt. The shard punched through the Quasit’s shoulder blade. Without hesitation, he raised his shield. “Rabie, get behind me!”
Shalelu had a clear shot, but doubt clouded her mind. Her hands shook. Was this real? Could this be stopped? She loosed three arrows, but only one found its mark, creating another jagged tear in the demon’s wing.
Jinx, still in the hallway, kept his distance. He extended his hand, and one of the impaled skulls lifted from the spikes. “Catch this!” With a flick of telekinetic force, he hurled it at the demon, but she spun effortlessly around the projectile. The bone clattered uselessly behind her. Unfazed, Jinx pulled a card from his Harrow deck—the Stars. “You got this, Rabie!”
Rabie staggered behind Vannrik’s shield. “Lies,” he hissed, clutching his wounds. “All lies.” He wanted to disappear—from the Quasit, from his friends, from the monsters. “It wass all a dream…”
He turned his focus to the Wrathspawn, attempting to trap it within the same dreamlike state. The creature faltered, its eyelids growing heavy as exhaustion crept over its frenzied body.
The Quasit sneered and pressed a clawed hand to her chest, dark energies swirling as her wounds sealed. Then, she pointed at Vannrik, whispering an incantation in a language that made the Sentinels’ skin crawl.
A sudden, consuming terror crashed into Vannrik like a wave. His pale complexion turned ghostly white, his pupils narrowing to pinpricks as his breath came in ragged gasps. His heart pounded in his ears, drowning out the battle around him.
The Wrathspawn, undeterred, scrambled toward him, claws scraping against stone. It lunged past the shield, its ragged teeth sinking into Vannrik’s flesh. Pain and sickness surged through him—an echo of the horror he’d felt earlier that day.
He fought desperately, raising his shield to deflect the flurry of teeth and claws. Amid the chaos, he formed an icy spear in his free hand and struck out, but the Wrathspawn was too close, too relentless—he couldn’t land a solid hit. He needed space.
Across the battlefield, Shalelu’s arrows clattered uselessly as the Quasit dodged with uncanny agility.
Jinx saw the battle turning against them. He left the safety of the hallway.
“Jinx!” Shalelu called in alarm.
The gnome darted past Vannrik’s melee, barely avoiding a swipe from the sluggish Wrathspawn. The next card he drew was the Hammer. “It’s been a while,” he chuckled with a grin.
Electricity crackled from the card, arcing wildly between the Wrathspawn and the Quasit. For a moment, the cathedral was bathed in pale blue light, overpowering the pool’s sickly glow.
Rabie clung to his denial. “Dreams can’t hurt me.” Shadowy void tendrils erupted from his hands, wrapping around the Wrathspawn, sapping its strength. Its muscles shriveled, its movements slowing. Rabie’s lips curled into a mad grin, laughter spilling from him unbidden. He barely managed to focus long enough to conjure another shield.
The Quasit retreated, her eyes locking onto Jinx. “I will give you something to laugh about, gnome.”
As if on command, Jinx erupted into wild, uncontrollable laughter. His body convulsed, his knees buckling as he struggled to keep standing.
Despite its weariness, the Wrathspawn was driven by one thing—hunger. Its teeth clamped down on Vannrik’s spear-arm, and the beast threw its weight against him, trying to drag him to the ground. He barely held on, his shield shaking under the force of its relentless assault.
Shalelu saw Vannrik faltering. She slung her bow over her shoulder, drawing her sword instead. “I won’t leave you alone,” she vowed, charging in. She slid beneath a wicked claw, positioning herself to flank the Wrathspawn and tip the odds in her friend’s favor.
Jinx, still giggling between gasps, forced himself to draw another card—the Crown. His mind reached out, launching a bolt of psychic energy. It struck the demon, disrupting her with a shriek of pain.
"Enough!" Rabie’s voice rang through the cathedral, raw with desperation. He lashed out with void tendrils, willing the nightmare to end—but his magic faltered, weakened by his own uncertainty.
The Quasit had enough as well. Dark energies stitched her wounds closed, sealing the gashes and mending her tattered wings. With a sickening clatter, the arrows embedded in her flesh fell to the cold stone floor. Shalelu’s sharp eyes tracked them—just in time to see the demon shrink, her form twisting and compressing into that of a mere bat. In an instant, she darted toward the double doors, seeking escape.
The Wrathspawn, however, had yet to sate its hunger. Its gaze snapped toward Shalelu, drawn to her anguish. It lunged, its jagged teeth sinking deep into her chest. The elf gasped, her body stiffening, her black eyes going dark with something terrible—something the others could only guess at.
The creature shuddered in vile ecstasy, grasping at her leg with clawed hands, eager to pin her down and feed again.
Shalelu fought like a cornered animal. With a desperate kick, she drove her heel into the beast’s knee, knocking it to the floor. It scrambled to rise, but she was faster.
With a primal scream, she brought her sword down in a savage arc. The first strike slashed its throat open, dark ichor spilling across the stone. The second plunged deep into its chest. The Wrathspawn twitched, then stilled. It was over.
Vannrik wasted no time. Seeing Shalelu’s blade burst from the monster’s back was all the confirmation he needed. He spun on his heel, breaking into a sprint after the fleeing Quasit.
During his stride, he raised a hand, summoning a volley of icy spikes. With a sharp flick of his wrist, they shot forward. The largest spike struck true, impaling the bat mid-flight.
The Quasit screeched, twisting violently as her form unraveled, morphing back into her true shape. She plummeted to the stone floor with a sickening thud.
Dead.
Vannrik didn’t need to check for a pulse—the gaping hole in her chest was proof enough. Without hesitation, he turned back to his allies.
He knelt beside them, calling forth his healing waters, the magic knitting together their worst wounds. But even as he worked, he knew his own injuries would need tending before long.
Shalelu moved quickly, checking the side chambers, but found nothing of use—only rotting robes and shriveled tomes, the remnants of whatever dark purpose this place once served.
Meanwhile, Jinx and Vannrik approached the raised pulpit. The Jadwiga reached into the bubbling orange waters, lifting the bloodied dagger from the triangular pool.
Jinx studied the pool’s magic, his eyes narrowing as he traced the ancient energies humming around it. He needed only a glance to know—this was something powerful. Something far beyond what they had just witnessed.
They had only scratched the surface of its potential.
And that study could start now.
"Rabie, are you okay?" Jinx called, looking down from the pulpit. His voice was softer than before, edged with concern. "I saw something... strange in that vision. Or whatever it was."
Shalelu had barely taken her eyes off the witch since regaining her breath. She stepped forward, her gaze sharp. Too sharp. "Yes," she said, her voice tense. "What was that?"

Rabie stared at his feet.

"It was just a bad dream." he lied to himself.