The Otari Misfits - Session 3 & 4

Kobolds and Traps

Peering through the peepholes in the vault, Avdiy spots kobold shapes moving in the dim chamber beyond. Mortarion, after studying the mechanism, nods—he knows how to use it. The Otari Misfits take their positions, bracing for battle. Then, with a decisive pull of the lever, the trap is sprung. A row of spikes erupts from the floor of the northern room, the sharp clang of metal piercing the underground silence. A pained yelp follows as one kobold crumples, clutching a wounded leg, while the others scatter in alarm.   Glandallin wastes no time. He throws open the door, revealing the full extent of the chamber—once a grand audience hall, now a ruined husk. At the far end, a broad staircase ascends to what was likely a throne, its regal presence long erased by time. Banners hang in tattered remnants from the ceiling, pillars stand in solemn silence, and a faded tile pattern is barely visible beneath layers of grime.   The Misfits charge into battle. Fire, steel, and machinery clash against the cunning tactics of the kobolds, who skirmish with practiced agility, darting in and out of cover, striking from the shadows before retreating again. Among them, the Kobold Trapmaster proves the most formidable, his precision and cunning making every movement a deadly dance. Yet even his skill cannot withstand the onslaught. Avdiy’s mind reaches into the depths of his psyche, unraveling it thread by thread until the trapmaster collapses, his will utterly shattered.   As the dust settles, Igni rifles through the remains of the fallen leader, his claws curling around a crude necklace—just a simple copper chain, but its pendant is something else entirely. A cracked fragment of an enormous eggshell, its ivory surface veined with eerie red streaks. Though it is no larger than his palm, the egg it came from must have been massive. The fragment feels oddly warm, a strange comfort settling over him as he holds it.  

The Descent

With their foes defeated, the group presses forward, descending the stairs at the far end of the hall. Avdiy leads the way as the spiral steps carve ever deeper into the earth. The air grows heavier, thick with the scent of damp stone and something fouler—blood, perhaps, or decay. At the base of the stairs, they emerge into what is clearly a defensive outpost.   A table has been overturned on one side of the room, forming a makeshift barricade. On the opposite end, crates and barrels have been stacked to create a second line of cover. It is a bottleneck, a trap of its own, and before Avdiy can fully take it in, a sharp thwang splits the air. Pain blossoms in his gut. He stares down at the crossbow bolt embedded in his flesh, hands fumbling to grasp it before his vision goes dark.   Glandallin is the first to react. The dwarf barrels forward, kneeling beside his fallen ally and pressing the healing potion they had found earlier to Avdiy’s lips. The psychic remains motionless, lost to unconsciousness. Gritting his teeth, Glandallin shifts his gaze toward the attackers—two kobolds, their weapons gleaming in the dim light as they crouch behind their cover. With a roar, he surges forward, his war axe raised high.   Mortarion hurries to Avdiy’s side, attempting to administer one of his own healing syringes. The needle pierces flesh, but the concoction fails to take hold. The psychic remains limp in his grasp. Meanwhile, Igni turns his focus to the battle. He hurls fire toward the second kobold, but the reptilian warrior is quick, already ducking behind the table, anticipating the attack. A moment later, another bolt whistles through the air, embedding itself deep in Igni’s abdomen. The pain is immediate and searing, but the kobold sorcerer grits his teeth and channels the flames around him, willing them to burn brighter. With a flick of his claws, the fire surges forward, engulfing his attacker. The chamber fills with the acrid scent of burning scales and the shriek of a dying kobold.   Mortarion, seeing no other choice, abandons his efforts to heal Avdiy. Gripping his morningstar, he strides forward, swinging for the wounded kobold still smoldering in the flames. But the creature, writhing in agony, flails so wildly that it inadvertently dodges the attack.   As the embers fade, the kobold somehow manages to reload its crossbow, lifting the weapon with trembling hands. It fires at point-blank range, the bolt punching through Mortarion’s armor, embedding deep into the mess of flesh and metal beneath. The inventor staggers but does not fall.   And then the kobold sees it. A shape rising behind Mortarion, its form grotesque in the dim light. The exposed sinew of Avdiy’s warped anatomy shifts, parting like flesh riven open. From within, numerous bloodshot eyes emerge, unblinking, staring. A terrible silence follows.   Then, without warning, an invisible force explodes outward. The remaining kobolds convulse violently, blood spurting from their eyes, ears, and snouts as their bodies crumple to the floor, lifeless.

 

Respite

Avdiy lingered in the haze of his near-death, caught between the waking world and the void beyond. He had nearly stood before Groetus, the God of the Endtimes—the Harbinger of the Last Days. Had he been called too soon? Or had fate cruelly denied him a glimpse of the world's inevitable ruin? The answer did not matter. What mattered was that he was still here.
Around him, the Otari Misfits gathered, weary and wounded. Their bodies bore the marks of battle—cuts, bruises, the slow ache of exhaustion. They had descended seeking stolen fish, only to uncover something far worse. The tunnels beneath Otari were no simple storerooms; they were the threshold to a forgotten menace, lurking just below their feet. And that menace led directly into the basement of the Fishery.
Emerging from the depths, the Misfits stepped back into the dim light of the late afternoon, greeted not by the scent of fresh fish but by its absence. Tamily Tanderveil stood behind the counter, her usual warmth shadowed by worry. The stolen supplies had left her with little to prepare, and the Misfits’ battered state only deepened her concern. They explained what they could: the fight below, the dangers they had barely survived, and the need to recover before venturing down again.
The day was not yet over, and Otari still held resources they could use—supplies, medicine, anything to strengthen them for the challenges ahead. The tunnels weren’t going anywhere. The creatures below would still be waiting. But next time, the Misfits would be ready.
The group spend their afternoon resupplying at Otari market and even visiting the Dawnflower Library, a temple and library dedicated to Sarenrae. They are offered healing from the priests there, and are ensured that their services are free as long as the wounds are suffered directly in service to the town.
They do make an odd group, two creatures whose flesh had been warped beyond recognition, a kobold and a wild dwarf. As they walked through town they were met by stares, and followed by whispers. The stares may not have been hateful, but they were everpresent.
As the Misfits find their way back to the Otari Fishery they are offered hammocks in a backroom to rest in. Through the walls they hear the activity of sailors and townsfolk reveling in gambling and other entertainment. But, now what they needed was rest.

The forgotten Crypt

The following day, the Otari Misfits descended once more into the depths, retracing their steps from the Fishery’s basement into the dark tunnels below. They passed the tangle of spiderwebs and the familiar fork in the path, where an untouched barricade still loomed—a makeshift wall of old wooden planks and broken barrels. The day before, they had chosen to let sleeping beasts lie. But after what had transpired, they could no longer afford the risk of an ambush from behind.   Mortarion, ever the expert in both creation and destruction, made quick work of the crude blockade. His hands moved with practiced precision, dismantling the structure piece by piece without a sound. When the final plank was removed, the tunnel beyond lay still. Whatever waited on the other side had yet to stir—for now.   Weapons in hand, the Misfits pressed forward. Glandallin gripped his battle axe tightly, muscles coiled like a spring. Mortarion raised his shield, his morningstar hanging heavy in his grip. Igni moved with fire licking at his form, his presence radiating heat. And Avdiy followed with sharpened senses, his mind primed for the unseen threats ahead.   Beyond the barricade, an ancient burial vault awaited them. The corridor wound downward, ending in a crypt bathed in eerie blue light from a flickering torch. Rows of alcoves lined the chamber walls, each cradling a rotten wooden coffin. At the room’s heart, a raised stone platform bore a heavy sarcophagus, its surface worn with time.   Then the silence broke.   The lids of the coffins trembled. Wood splintered as skeletal hands clawed their way into the open air. From atop the platform, the stone covering of the sarcophagus shuddered, then slowly began to slide.   Avdiy clenched his jaw—these creatures were no living minds to manipulate. He was useless against them. He cursed under his breath, searching for another way to contribute. Sensing his vulnerability, Mortarion stepped into position, shield raised to cover them both. With a sharp motion, he activated the hidden mechanisms within his armor. Steam hissed from concealed valves, heat surging through his grotesque form as his power armor roared to life. Tremors wracked his body as the enhanced strength took hold. He swung his morningstar with brutal force—and missed, the sudden rush of power still unfamiliar in his limbs.   Glandallin needed no adjustment. With a furious battle cry, the dwarf surged past Mortarion, his great war axe blazing with golden fire. He brought it down in a mighty arc, severing a skeleton’s spine in a single stroke. The undead thing collapsed, its bones clattering to the floor in a smoldering heap.   Across the room, another skeleton burst into flames as Igni hurled a searing ember. The kobold grinned as blackened bones crumbled into dust, the scent of scorched marrow filling the air.   One of the remaining skeletons lunged at Mortarion, scimitar flashing. The inventor deflected two strikes with his shield, metal ringing against metal, but the third came from an unexpected angle. The blade found a gap in his armor, slipping through and biting deep.   Avdiy seized his opening. Electricity crackled to life at his fingertips, arcing from one undead foe to the other in a jagged web of power. The zombie that had emerged from the sarcophagus shuddered as its decaying flesh blistered and peeled, filling the chamber with the nauseating stench of burnt rot.   The creature staggered but did not fall. It lurched toward Mortarion, dead eyes locked onto him.   By now, Mortarion had mastered the tremors in his suit. His movements, once erratic, now felt precise—lethal. With monstrous strength, he brought his morningstar down upon the zombie’s head. The first strike shattered its skull. The second reduced its putrid remains to pulp. By the third, nothing remained but twitching gore.   As silence returned to the crypt, the Misfits stood among the remains of the dead, the blue flame still flickering in its sconce. The battle was won. But the depths of Otari had more secrets yet to unveil. And the crystal's pale blue light would aid them, Avdiy decided. He took the crystal to light their path and Mortarion lifted a shield, emblazoned with a lions head from the crypt.

 

The mermaid statue

Descending once more to the lower level, the Otari Misfits moved past the site of the kobold ambush, their steps echoing in the darkened halls. With dread, the Misfits saw that someone, or something had removed the corpses. They veered westward, entering a rectangular chamber that, despite its ruinous state, held an unexpected sight—a fountain of pristine water.
At the fountain’s heart stood a marble statue of a mermaid, frozen in an eternal gesture, her lips pursed as if about to blow a kiss—or perhaps a whistle. The water shimmered, revealing something glittering at the bottom, tantalizing yet just out of reach. Embedded in each corner of the pool were strange mechanisms, their purpose unclear. One in the southwest corner lay shattered, its pieces strewn across the stone floor.
The Misfits were neither seasoned tomb raiders nor master thieves. So when the fountain lurched to life in a whir of ancient mechanisms, they realized too late that they had walked into yet another trap.
The mermaid statue twisted unnaturally, targeting them with bursts of high-pressure water that slammed into their bodies like battering rams. The force sent them reeling, their footing unsteady on the slick stone floor. There was no pattern, no rhythm—just a relentless onslaught of punishing jets.
They needed a solution, fast.
Mortarion’s mind raced, piecing together the function of the remaining mechanisms while dodging another blast that nearly knocked him off his feet. Avdiy, sharp-eyed and ever analytical, called out observations between the chaos, pinpointing weak points in the trap’s design. The others, battered but determined, fought against the tide, striking at the mechanisms with all their strength.
It was a brutal struggle, but in the end, their combined might prevailed. With a final, well-placed strike, the machinery ground to a halt, the statue’s relentless assault ceasing as abruptly as it had begun.
Bruised, drenched, and breathless, the Misfits took a moment to collect themselves before pressing onward. Whatever lay ahead, they had already learned one hard lesson—this place did not welcome intruders.

 

More fuel for the funeral pyre

A narrow hallway stretched north, leading the Misfits away from the dreadful mermaid statue and its treacherous trap. Ahead, a heavy stone door barred their path, but it did little to muffle the sounds from within. Pitiful yaps, broken sobs, and shrill, grief-stricken wails seeped through the cracks, filling the corridor with an eerie lament.
Igni pressed his earhole against the cold stone, his reptilian features twisting into a solemn expression. His kin were mourning.
The Misfits exchanged glances, a silent understanding passing between them. There was no turning back.
With a forceful stomp, Glandallin kicked the door open. The hinges groaned, and the stench of rot and mildew poured into the hallway.
The vast chamber beyond was a crude mess hall. A long wooden table stretched across the west side, flanked by old benches. Filthy knives, shattered plates, and decayed scraps of food littered the ground, the remnants of better days. But it was not a place of feasting anymore.
The corpses of kobolds—those slain the day before—were carefully arranged upon the table. Their fallen forms were surrounded by trinkets, bits of fabric, and scraps of fish bones, crude offerings of farewell.
To the east, burrows carved into the stone wall served as sleeping chambers, each filled with straw mats and tattered blankets. A home, turned into a mourning chamber.
At the sight of the intruders, the six remaining Kobolds shrieked in unison. Their cursed tongue spat venomous hatred, their tear-streaked eyes burning with vengeance. There would be no words to end this. No pleas, no surrender. Only blood.
Glandallin wasted no time. With a thunderous roar, he charged forward, swinging his great axe in a wide arc. The nearest kobold had no time to react—the weapon cleaved through flesh and bone, splitting the creature in two. The one beside it barely managed to duck, the deadly steel whistling past its head.
Mortarion surged in beside the Dwarf, his morningstar wailing through the air. It struck home, drawing a spurt of crimson as bone cracked beneath the force.
From the shadows, a kobold hurled a rock, the jagged projectile striking Glandallin’s shoulder with a dull thud. He barely flinched. His gaze snapped toward the culprit—a cowardly kobold hurriedly reloading its sling. Before it could strike again, Igni plucked a flickering ember from the air and flung it toward the wretch. Flames erupted, and the creature shrieked as fire consumed its scaly hide.
Kobolds were cunning. At least one would be hiding, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Avdiy’s many unseen eyes fluttered open beneath his twisted flesh, sensing the slip of a shadow into one of the burrows. But no creature, no matter how elusive, could hide from the entropic foresight of Groetus. The psychic focused his mind, pushing the breadth of his power into the darkness. A heartbeat later, a heavy thump echoed from the burrow. A lifeless body hit the ground.
Then another.
There were more than they had expected.
The element of surprise was fading. Glandallin’s axe swung wildly, but the kobold was adapting, ducking low and weaving between broken furniture and stone pillars. It scurried over the rocky terrain, putting distance between themselves and the raging dwarf.
Mortarion’s armor whirred as he engaged its power source, sending it into overdrive. But the brief moment it took to steady his weapon arm was all the kobold needed. It scurried up a raised plateau of jagged rock, hurling more scavenged projectiles from above.
A second later, fire bloomed atop the plateau. Igni’s flames found their mark, and the screeching kobold writhed as it burned.
Avdiy turned his focus to another burrow, sending a ripple of psychic force into the darkness. A final strangled cry, and silence fell.
The fight was over.
In mere moments, the number of dead kobolds in the chamber had nearly doubled.

 

Zolgran

The Misfits searched the warren, gathering whatever supplies might aid them in the battles ahead. They collected three jars of oil, two healing potions, a sack of twenty silver pieces, and a single feather token—its magic still intact. Among the scattered belongings, they also found goods worth selling: bolts of fine silk cloth and a painting of an adventurer astride a horse.
With their spoils secured, they scaled the rocky plateau, where a tunnel yawned open, leading deeper into the darkness below. Mortarion halted abruptly, raising a gauntleted fist to signal his allies to stop. Movement flickered in the chamber ahead.

  Stealth was the goal, but exhaustion and Mortarion’s heavy armor betrayed their approach. Their footfalls echoed down the passageway as the tunnel opened into a vast, natural chamber.
A gaping pit split the floor at its center, its depths unknown. Across the way, a stone ledge rose above the room, and atop it sat an ornate throne—entirely out of place in the rough-hewn cavern. Seated upon it, a regal kobold adorned with an oversized fishbone crown narrowed her slitted eyes at the intruders.
"Kill them!" she snarled, gripping the throne's armrests as two Kobold guards leapt into action at the foot of the stairs.
Mortarion barely had time to raise his shield before a crossbow bolt clattered against its steel surface. Peering over the rim, he spotted one of the kobolds retreating up the stairs, frantically reloading its weapon while its companion steadied its aim.
The second kobold took its shot. But before the bolt could fly, Igni’s flames roared to life, engulfing the scaly archer in a fiery embrace. The creature shrieked, throwing itself against the stone wall in a desperate attempt to smother the fire. Through the agony, it locked eyes with Igni—a traitor in its mind—and, with a final snarl, loosed its projectile.
The bolt struck true.
It buried deep into Igni’s belly. His flames flickered, his breath hitched, and then—darkness. He collapsed, motionless.
A second bolt whizzed past Mortarion, embedding itself in the cavern wall behind him. Avdiy turned his attention to the throne and unleashed a mental surge, his power seeking to shatter minds. The still-burning kobold, caught in the blast, spasmed once before crumpling lifelessly to the floor.
But the kobold queen remained. Her grip tightened on the armrests as she weathered the psychic onslaught, eyes fluttering for a moment before she wrenched herself free of the mental assault.
"You will die in dragonfire!" she roared, slamming her staff into the stone floor. Three bolts of magical force flew in erratic arcs, passing the defenses of Mortarion, and over Igni's fallen form, and they barraged into Avdiy one by one.
By then, Glandallin was already charging up the stairs. His axe swept low in a vicious arc, but the retreating kobold guard leapt over the swing, landing nimbly. With a clatter, the creature discarded its crossbow, the loaded bolt firing harmlessly down the steps. In a flash, it drew a jagged blade and thrust downward. The steel bit into Glandallin’s shoulder, drawing blood—but only a scratch. Nothing more.
Avdiy knelt beside Igni, uncorking one of the healing potions they had salvaged. He poured the crimson liquid down the kobold’s throat, watching as a thin layer of skin sealed over the gaping wound. Igni's eyes fluttered open, hazy with pain but burning with determination.
Above them, the queen raised her staff again. A second incantation rippled through the air, slithering into Glandallin’s mind. Fear, primal and suffocating, coiled around his thoughts. The kobold’s numbers had seemed endless. The promise of dragonfire was not an idle threat. His resolve wavered.
But something else stirred within him.
Rage.
A roar erupted from his throat, defiant and unrelenting. He surged forward, swinging the flat of his axe with brute force, slamming the guard against the cavern wall. he barely had time to react before the dwarf pivoted, twisting his weapon, and brought the blade down in a savage arc. Golden flames licked along the edge as steel met flesh—cleaving the kobold's face in two.
Mortarion stormed past, his armor hissing as hidden valves expelled bursts of steam. His morningstar crashed into the queen’s arm, drawing a sharp yelp of pain. But she did not falter. Not yet.
Then the fire came.
Flames erupted beneath her feet, forcing her to scurry back, hissing in pain. Her eyes darted downward—to Igni, barely standing, his outstretched arm still wreathed in flickering embers.
The kobold queen bared her teeth. He was still in the fight.
Avdiy stepped beside his friend, his fists clenching. The air crackled with electricity, arcs of blue-white lightning dancing between his fingers before surging toward the queen. The bolt struck her squarely, her body convulsing as charred scales peeled away.
The ground beneath her burned hot as coals. Her enemies closed in—Glandallin, axe poised to strike, Mortarion advancing through the flames.
"You will not defeat me, dwarf!" she spat, tightening her grip on her staff. "I, Zolgran, will lead the Stonescale tribe to glory!"
With a defiant snarl, she unleashed another barrage of magical darts. The arcane missiles battered into Glandallin, forcing him back, his balance wavering. The fear spell still gnawed at his mind, clouding his vision, dulling his strikes. Mortarion, too, struggled to navigate the burning floor, unable to land a decisive blow.
Zolgran sneered, her forked tongue flicking out in satisfaction. Victory glimmered in her eyes.
Until the elemental fire struck her in the face.
Igni’s projectile sent her reeling, but even as she stumbled, she lifted her staff, readying another spell. Hatred fueled her movements, her gaze locked onto her traitorous kin.
Then she froze.
Her body stiffened, as though gripped by invisible chains. Her eyes crossed, confusion flashing across her features. Blood leaked from her nostrils, her mouth, her earholes. Her fingers spasmed, struggling to form the next incantation.
Then she fell.
Zolgran toppled from her raised perch, her lifeless body crumpling against the stone floor.
Avdiy exhaled, his lips curling into a knowing smile. His spell had taken effect.