Session 92: The Heartbeat Beneath the Sun

Frevr day, 6th of Apollo 500 CD

It is the evening of the 5th of Apollo. The lamps in Baroness Dagwyn’s master bedroom in Soteropolis flickered low, their light dimming with the sigh of a long day’s end. The weight of duty pressed against her shoulders — hours of council debates, endless petitions from merchants and guildsmen, and the unrelenting expectations of her title. As she slipped beneath the silk sheets of her feather bed, her thoughts drifted — not to the city’s politics or the day’s victories — but to her companions. It had been nine days since the Shining Eclipse was last seen. Nine long days with no word, no trace, no whisper of their fate. She told herself that adventurers’ work often stretched into weeks, that danger was their companion, not their foe. But still… she cared. And with that care came unease. In the adjoining guest room, Corporal Kratos Tempest, a broad-shouldered half-orc of the Order of the Red Dragon, prepared for rest as well. Assigned by decree of the Duke—under orders from the King himself—to serve as her personal bodyguard after the recent assassination of a council member, Kratos wrestled with resentment. To him, this felt less like honor and more like exile. To Dagwyn, his presence was an unwanted chain. And yet, both carried the same weariness. Sleep claimed them gently, in rare and blissful stillness.

Until the light came.

A searing brilliance tore through the dark, wrenching Dagwyn from her dreams. The warmth of silk and feather vanished — replaced by the cold bite of stone beneath her. The familiar scent of lavender sheets gave way to damp air and dust. Her fine nightgown was gone, replaced by her worn adventurer’s leathers. Her pack rested beside her.

Kratos stirred with a start, instinctively reaching for his weapon. His training took hold even as confusion flooded his mind. The Baroness — no longer draped in noble attire — knelt beside her gear, her expression one of disbelief. He’d never left Soteropolis before. He’d certainly never seen a place like this. At the center of the chamber sat a massive, broken clock, its golden face fractured, gears exposed like the ribs of a fallen titan. Some of its cogs still turned, grinding unevenly with a rhythm both mechanical and wrong. Where its hands should rest was only a pile of ash — pale, brittle, and faintly pulsing with a cold shimmer of light. The air thrummed. Something unseen moved, like time itself had begun to breathe. As their eyes adjusted to the dim glow, they saw two doors ahead: To the left, a doorway veiled in sickly green haze, shifting like toxic mist. To the right, a portal of absolute blackness, so deep it seemed to swallow even thought. Dagwyn steadied her breath, her voice a whisper between heartbeats. “Where… are we?” Kratos’s hand tightened around his sword hilt, his tusked jaw tense. “Wherever this is, my lady — we’re not alone.”

Meanwhile—beyond the veil of absolute blackness that Dagwyn and Kratos can only see from afar— the companions of the Shining Eclipse awaken. The conjured dome that once shielded them still hums faintly with fading energy, its edges flickering like dying starlight. The air is thick with age and memory; every breath feels drawn from a world long buried. Here, in the Tomb of the Broken Sun, the silence is not absence—it is awareness. Somewhere deep within the stone, a faint heartbeat echoes… the same one Arceven had felt before. Steady. Faint. Ancient. Like the pulse of a god entombed but not dead. The obsidian walls glisten with unnatural sheen, rippling as if reflecting memories rather than light. Shadows drift across them—some shaped like men, others like beasts, all out of sync with time. The tomb groans softly, a sound like stone breathing. Beyond the chamber, halls stretch into unseen depths where shadows slip between the cracks of time, flickering in and out like broken fragments of reality. The floor bears sigils that once sealed something vast… something betrayed.

As the eighth hour wanes, the shimmering black veil that cloaked the chamber fades like smoke in sunlight. Shapes begin to take form—familiar silhouettes emerging from the darkness. Baroness Dagwyn’s breath catches as she recognizes them.
The companions of the Shining Eclipse—her allies, her friends—stand before her, worn from battle but unmistakably alive. Beside her, Corporal Kratos Tempest reacts instantly. His training surges to the forefront as he steps protectively in front of the Baroness, his hand gripping the hilt of his weapon. The armor these strangers wear is foreign to him—scarred, ancient, marked by symbols he doesn’t know. His instincts scream danger. But before steel is drawn, Dagwyn’s calm voice cuts through the tension. There is no fear in her tone—only relief. She speaks their names, one by one. Kratos hesitates. The confusion on his face deepens as he watches these battle-worn figures greet her in turn—familiar warmth in their eyes, concern in their words.

How could they know her?
How could she know them?

After the shock of reunion, the companions gather in the soft glow beneath the fading dome of light. Rations are shared, water passed around, and for a brief moment within the tomb’s oppressive silence, warmth returns to the world. They eat and speak quietly—laughter mingling with relief. It has been a ten-day since last they saw one another, and though the air carries the scent of dust and time, there’s comfort in familiar voices. Corporal Kratos Tempest sits slightly apart from them, his posture still rigid with discipline. Eyes sharp, he listens—taking in every word, every gesture. These strangers speak to the Baroness as equals, even as friends. And she, a noble of Soteropolis—his charge—speaks back with the confidence of a seasoned adventurer, not a sheltered court official. As he observes, Kratos begins to notice things he cannot explain. The leathers she now wears bear the same crest worn by several of the knights among these companions—the Order of the Phoenix, if his ear for heraldry serves him right. Others, however, wear no crest at all, but rather the sigil of a guild he recognizes from the docks district of Soteropolis—Acquisitions Incorporated. Their conversation drifts to names he doesn’t know.
A dragon called Puff. A magician named Harry Houdini. He cannot tell if they seek two beings or one, but both names carry weight the others seem to understand. When the meal ends, the Baroness rises—no hesitation in her movements, no trace of the refined grace she showed in court. She shoulders her gear, checks her blade, and takes the lead, moving toward the next chamber without a word. Kratos rises as well, half out of habit, half in disbelief. This is not the noblewoman he was assigned to protect. This is a warrior, a commander, moving with purpose and skill. He follows, still bewildered, his every instinct torn between duty and awe—watching the Baroness of Soteropolis vanish into the darkness of the ancient tomb, leading a band of heroes toward whatever fate awaits beyond the next door.

The companions step through the archway and enter a vast oval chamber—45 feet wide, 70 feet long, and 30 feet high. The air feels heavy, ancient, charged with the hum of magic that never sleeps. The walls are carved from smooth, polished obsidian, veined with delicate inlays of gold that shimmer like liquid fire. The arched ceiling, upheld by cracked marble beams, seems to ripple faintly in the flickering glow of braziers that burn without fuel, their light caught in the mirror-black stone. As the last of the party crosses the threshold, the air stirs—and the walls come alive.
Illusions bloom like living paintings, vast and grand, unfolding in haunting sequence across the chamber.

At first, the scenes are beautiful—six noble figures standing proudly before a radiant city of white towers and sapphire waters. They are robed in glory, their faces serene, their bearing regal. Dagwyn and Kratos exchange uncertain glances; they do not know these people, yet the sorrow in their eyes feels real, palpable. The illusion shifts. The six kneel before a radiant figure—the Egyptian goddess Sekhmet, her lioness eyes burning with divine fire. Her blessing falls upon them like sunlight… and then, almost imperceptibly, it darkens. The warmth fades. Their faces twist in agony. The gold of her touch turns to black fire. What they believed to be a gift of power becomes a curse eternal. Next, the illusions turn savage. The six chosen walk the streets of their once-great kingdom—Atlantis—their skin pale, their eyes hollow with hunger. Screams echo as they fall upon the living, their fangs piercing throats, draining life in a crimson tide. Blood paints the white stones of the city as the sky above burns with divine wrath. Kratos, a knight of the Order of the Red Dragon and a holy Paladin, grips his holy symbol tightly. His face is drawn in revulsion and disbelief. “Abominations,” he mutters, his voice low but trembling with restrained fury. The final vision plays out upon the wall. The six cursed figures stand upon a cliff overlooking a vast ocean, their heads bowed beneath a blood-red sun. The waves crash below, carrying whispers of despair. Their once-noble forms are now hollow and monstrous—eternal prisoners of their own hunger. Then— A voice echoes through the chamber. A laugh—low, thunderous, and cruel. The laughter of Sekhmet. It rolls through the chamber like an earthquake, making the braziers flare and the golden inlays pulse as though alive. The very stones seem to shudder beneath her mocking mirth.

After the haunting illusions fade, the companions take a moment to breathe—to collect themselves and to explain to Baroness Dagwyn and Corporal Kratos what they have witnessed.

They speak of the truth behind the vision:
that the city shown in the illusions was Atlantis, once the radiant heart of the ancient kingdom of Zavbue, and that the six noble figures now cursed with bloodlust are the first vampires, creations of Sekhmet’s betrayal.
What was meant to be divinity became eternal damnation.

Kratos listens in silence, his face grim. Dagwyn absorbs the tale with wide-eyed disbelief, her mind struggling to reconcile legend with reality.

The companions then move on, deeper into the Ziggurat’s second level, and soon find themselves before another chamber.

The doorway opens into a vast, perfectly square hall, fifty feet by fifty feet, with a ceiling that rises thirty feet above. Unlike the long corridors they have traversed before, this room feels unnaturally balanced, its geometry oppressive in its precision. A narrow stairwell of black basalt descends along the western wall, vanishing into darkness. To the north stands a sealed bronze vault door, its surface engraved with the image of chained figures kneeling before Sekhmet, the lion-headed goddess towering above them, her claws resting upon their bowed heads. On the eastern wall lies another passage—its threshold carved with faintly glowing sigils that seem to rearrange when looked at directly. Across every wall, Atlantean runes spiral outward in concentric squares—like a labyrinth of secrets, each glyph shifting subtly, refusing to remain still. The air hums faintly, and the chamber seems to breathe with a presence of its own.

Then the whispers begin.

At first, they seem like echoes of the companions’ own footsteps. Then, words take shape—voices from no single direction, whispering truths long buried:

• “The Six Chosen… their blood reshaped, their souls bound… cursed, not blessed.”
• “Bring the Halfling to the altar on Mermaid Island—he knows the path to the hidden temple.”
• “Name the well… the Twelve Guardians—for their chains will hold the curse, or shatter the world.”
• “One of light fell hardest… his wings torn, his blade blackened—now a Death Knight, our enforcer.”
• “Atlantis believed its sun eternal… but Sekhmet laughed—and the shadows grew long.”

Each voice is different—some pleading, some mocking, some weeping. The echoes layer atop one another until they form an eerie harmony of despair and prophecy. Those who listen too long begin to lose all sense of time. Minutes stretch into hours, seconds loop endlessly. Dagwyn feels her heartbeat slow, Kratos’ grip on his weapon tightens as if awakening from a trance. Realizing the danger, the companions quickly usher everyone from the chamber before the whispers can claim more of their minds. The bronze vault remains unopened—a choice that, though unspoken, feels like a narrow escape. Something behind that sealed door wanted to be heard. The companions of the Order of the Phoenix pressed onward, descending into a chamber measuring sixty feet long by fifty wide, its ceiling rising twenty-five feet overhead. Twelve stone sarcophagi lined the walls—six to each side—each carved with the solemn visages of Atlantean nobles and priests. The air was unnaturally still, thick with the faint scents of dust, dried incense, and the metallic tang of ancient blood. Murals sprawled across the walls, depicting the Six Chosen of Atlantis in haunting sequence: first, as proud nobles selected by Sekhmet; then, kneeling as they received her “blessing.” But the scenes darkened as their bodies and souls were twisted into vampiric abominations—their faces contorted with despair, betrayal, and the agony of eternal hunger. The story of their damnation played out endlessly across the walls, each brushstroke pulsing with divine cruelty. A faint hum reverberated through the stone, as though the chamber itself remembered every whispered secret of its cursed history. Shadows stretched unnaturally long in the flickering torchlight, and several members of the Order could swear the sarcophagi lids trembled, reacting to their presence. Jasmal’s instincts flared—the primal sense of undeath pricking at her soul.
“Something stirs here,” she hissed, warning the others. Dagon and Arceven exchanged glances, curiosity winning over caution as they approached the sarcophagi. Karrin and Marik, unease etched across their faces, urged haste—“We should not linger.” But curiosity proved fatal. When Dagon’s hand brushed the lid, a hollow boom echoed through the chamber. The air grew cold, the torches guttered, and with a rasp of ancient stone and dust—ten mummified figures rose from their tombs. Their jeweled eyes burned with unholy light, and the scent of the grave filled the air.

The battle was on.