The Many Paths - Garen's Notes
-
A simple collection of loose parchments, upon which is written in flowing script of High Shou
The people here often speak on how you lose a part of yourself when brought back from death; I was no exception. The purpose of why I am in these foreign lands is lost, but a new path lays before me.
I should be feeling more unease given the loss, but my shoulders feel lighter even with the burden of some unknown purpose. A letter home to father explaining the situation would be a simple matter, but I have misgivings that pause my hand. I do not recall how I left or why I carry his blade.
This does however, prompt the need to put my experiences into writing. Hopefully ink will last longer than my memory.
--
“Rule One: Do not Die”
Such was the lesson gifted upon me by the elf Ting upon my arrival in the city of Peltarch. While there were other rules; involving the befriending of ghost wolves, I thought the first to be a prudent one and worth noting down.
I would learn quickly that this rule would be harder in practice with my first outing as an adventurer, straight into the Underdark. While the intention was to explore the Ettin caves, the group pushed onwards into the Deurgar maze.
While the initial skirmishes were manageable, circumstances quickly turned against us as we were lured in deeper by the gray dwarves and their ranged weaponry. I was very nearly cut down by a Deurgar in hiding, having taken advantage of our confusion and attacking from the shadows.
Of note, were it not for the divine intervention of the Gods, one of our number would have fallen in battle this day. The elf had attempted to stand his ground, firing arrows while the rest of us retreated. Perhaps his quick gesture at the temple of Tempus before our adventure had garnered him some attention? Such are the will of the Gods in these foreign lands.
I do wonder if the Celestial Court’s influence reaches this far.
--
"There are no mistakes, only lessons"As to the story of my first death in these lands,
In search of a suitable shield for combat, my companions thought it best to escort myself down into the Peltarch sewers. We were not expecting to find the completed ritual of the cultists residing below.
As we observed the ritual area, covered in a layer of blackish ooze, a guard captain stepped out from the shadows, hinting as to the location of the cultists and the artefact involved. Something demonic had been summoned, something had been empowered.
It was not far before we found the artefact, a lone obelisk surrounded by black coursing ooze. Writings of the abyssal tongue lined it’s structure but none of our number had the knowledge to translate or willing to admit to such.
The writings pulsed with green energy, summoning all manner of slimes and oozes towards it. We were forced to destroy the obelisk, cutting off its call for further creatures of their ilk.
The guard captain appeared once more from the shadows, injured this time. Congratulating us on a job well done, and that no further investigation would be necessary. We had our reservations on the matter and decided to further investigate, wishing the captain a safe journey back to the surface.
This was the first mistake.
We found a surviving cultist, his legs were gone and he was barely holding on to life. His cult had all but been decimated given the state of their dissolving bodies around him. Karrick and Aoth took charge, offering both intimidation and the possibility of healing in return for the truth.
He spoke. The cultists had infused an ooze with a demonic entity thinking to control it. They were wrong. It had taken the form of their leader, causing confusion and infighting. While hurt, it had escaped, in the form of a guard captain.
I am reminded of the story of The Painted Skin. Where the demon hid her horrific visage with a mask made of human skin, upon which she painted her beautiful human features. Perhaps I should share this story with Isolde at a later time, she takes the effort to listen when I share stories from my home.
We hurried back towards the surface, ascertaining the identity of the real guard captain on the way up as we came across his retinue, investigating the same cultist activity as we had. The hunt was on, but now on the streets of Peltarch.
--
Karrick relied on the keen sense of smell of Aoth’s lupine form to track our quarry down. I relied on the trails of black ooze leading into the back alleys of the dock district. The trail ended at the Temple lighthouse, where the demon had fooled the local priestess into healing it, ending the trail. It was last seen heading west, in the form of a pirate.
While my companions interviewed the likely suspects, I walked the perimeter, making sure none would slip away unnoticed. On the second round as I returned towards the direction of my friends, a female half-orc slipped into an alley at a dead run and I gave chase, losing sight of her as she entered the Regal Maid.
Hurrying to notify my companions, they seemed to believe the half-orc was indeed the demon in disguise and we rushed back towards the establishment to ensure there would be no more escape for the demon.
It was a busy night at the Regal Maid, attempting to keep patrons from leaving was an endeavour of its own. First a boy, then an unhelpful elf. There was hesitation in drawing the blood of innocents to test their identities, so instead we let them go.
Speaking to the employees, we ascertained that the half-orc had gone up towards the second floor and had not returned, nor had any new individuals come down. With the combination between Isolde and Roslyn’s detective work and Aoth’s nose, we cornered the demon at last in the first room above the stairs.
The demon had taken the form of a dwarf inside, the original was there as well, likely too drunk to notice his body double. Not willing to take any further risks, we finally decided to test whether the dwarves would bleed from a prick of a finger.
Knowing it’s ruse had come to an end, the dwarf furthest from us swelled with power, slamming both of its ooze covered fists into the floor. Splintering wood gave way into a gaping hole which it escaped into. With our quarry now revealed, we all jumped down after it.
We managed to corner it in a surprisingly large wash room, where it was attempting to escape via a bolted back door. With no escape immediately available, it gave up on its dwarven form, black ooze shifting once again into the familiar form of Karrick.
Karrick seem flattered by that, though that did not give him pause as he rushed to meet his double in battle. It was not expecting to be overwhelmed by our numbers, pinned against a wall of steel and flashing blades.
Changing strategy, it exploded outwards in a rush of black ichor, multiplying itself into a number of oozes. The change seemed to come at a cost for the demon, the multiple forms falling quicker to our pressing attacks.
Seemingly enraged, the battered pieces coalesced once more, forming into what I would imagine the demon’s original form to be. Towering over our heads, a mouth brimming with sharp teeth and a body of muscly sinew, and created once again with that black oozing substance.
Nearing death and fuelled by a driving hate, it renewed its assault against us. Keeping the creature pinned was all but impossible as it slipped through openings in our frontline like liquid, determined to strike at our exposed casters and bowmen.
A single moment is all it takes.
When Karrick managing to draw the attention of the demon, I lowered my guard in an attempt to flank it better.
This was the second mistake.
Its feint having worked, it lashed out towards me with the full might of its demonic strength, it’s two fists coming down like anvils.
--
I awoke at the lighthouse temple, the priestess having raised me from death.
I had not managed to uphold rule number one, but I was congratulated on accomplishing a rite of passage for local adventurers. Apparently dying to a demon would be considered as such.
I was still trying to gather my wits as Isolde stepped up to present an enchanted tower shield. It was to be mine, given my efforts to their cause. While thankful, I did not have a chance to question its origin as it was pressed into my hands and ushered into the temple to rest.
-
“To distinguish good and evil; to uphold virtue and condemn immorality”
I write now to contemplate over the happenings over the past week. Much has transpired during the short time of my return to the lands of Narfell.
--
I joined the Silver Host on their crusade into Jiyyd to be rid of the remaining demonic forces still plaguing the land. Many other adventurers had joined the effort as well, given it was towards a good cause.
This would mark the first time I would meet Sir Robert Holsmead, Torm’s voice on Toril. Every little bit the hero as tales would tell off, his presence alone was enough for our party to be instilled with some measure of his divine might.
We were stronger, faster than ever before, charging into the demonic line without fear, cutting them down with blade and arrow as we surged forward on angelic wing.
Three demonic general yet remained in the ruins of Jiyyd, and our task was to slay them. One by one they were met, beings far greater than our own; but now empowered by Torm, we were a match.
Robert made sure to check on us between every fight, even while his attention was on the strongest of these demonic creatures. Tending to our wounds as well as going as far as to bring back the dead, specifically Tyrus who had been felled in combat with the flaming skulls.
He joined our side when we faced the final demonic general, a balor, wreathed in flames. I suppose given the image, it was again something out of a fairy tale, the holy knight battling against the very embodiment of evil.
The minor magics of my weapon did nothing against it, so I did what I do best and served as the distraction; taking a number of blows against my armor and shield while my companions concentrated on its exposed flank. And given time, even the balor fell.
We returned to the Bluff tired but victorious, where we basked in our accomplishments for a time and shared many a drink. Fellow adventurers came to join the festivities shortly after, including one by the name of Reyhenna Jorino, of who I am to believe is a close friend of Isolde’s. She had never struck me as a personable sort, always with the quick abrasive word and intentional show of rebellion.
Festivities abruptly came to a close when it was announced that she was to be attending the second tribunal for sentencing.
--
While I should find a sense of accomplishment in facing the demon generals in melee combat and holding my own, I simply cannot weigh it as one of personal attainment given the divine empowerment.
It also seemed fitting that the shield I had earned in facing the demonic slime creature proved its worth further still with these outsiders.
Regardless of what others seem to believe, I am no hero. I was simply in the right place at the right time to assist.
--
Many a familiar face attended the Second Tribunal, and more still of those unfamiliar to me. As I walked up, the lady Chaevre was the subject of scrutiny. The halfling Vere of the Silver Host looked into her and told the truth that was her being. Sacrifices of children made in the name of Lady Infernus and the quest for lichdom.
Chaevre was allowed to defend herself, though lies were not tolerated. A zone of truth permeated the circle of blades she was trapped within. Following that, people amongst the audience were allowed to speak on her defense, but few knew her personably, instead speaking to the unfairness of judging and sentencing. Roslyn spoke of leading questions, Vick simply made the usual snide comments.
Chaevre was sentenced to exile. Tendrils of light wrapping around her as she was taken to a plane elsewhere to think over her crimes and find redemption.
--
This was followed by Marie Andersdottir. As was told in her truth, she had turned to the darker arts, seeking a way to bring back her brother, Talbot Anderson. She seemed resigned to her fate in exile, and instead of defending her cause, stated that her brother would kill all of the Silver Host.
While Marie may not have believed in herself, many present did. Making heartfelt pleas and examples of her inherent goodness and road towards redemption.
She was found wanting, and exiled.
--
The final individual to be judged was an elven druid, a follower of Malar.
Aoth spoke up, not towards his defense. But simply that the druid circle would be more fitting in handing a fair sentencing. Robert seemed to accept this, and for good will between the Druid Circle, accepted the release of the elf into Aoth’s hands.
--
I am unused to the heckling that the Silver Host received during the Tribunal. From where I am from, matters of grave importance are usually a respectful affair, even if one does not agree with the proceedings.
While I understand a number of the accused were friends and known companions, they did not and could not deny the evil that they had committed in their past. They were even allowed to defend themselves, and provide witnesses of their character. And given the past release of Chandra and the druid, it is not as if it were just a formality before exile.
It does no good to interrupt and make a nuisance of oneself, when one can instead try to observe, learn and understand. Through understanding, find a course amicable to parties aggrieved.
--
Sir Zachary had been sent as an emissary to Peltarch, firstly to quell their fears in regards to a Silver Host attack that was not to come, and secondly for Reyhenna to submit herself to the Silver Host for judgement.
I was not surprised in Reyhenna’s order to capture Zachary, given the impression she left upon me on the few occasions that we have interacted. The sheer speed in which the magic users appeared and spirited the man off was also commendable.
However, Sir Zachary was a good man, and the capture of him and the violent means in which he was disarmed was a dishonorable act.
I knew I would not stand with Reyhenna and by extension the City of Peltarch. This differed greatly with the adventurers I stood with, and again I could not understand why they would choose war instead of a fair judgement for sins committed.
Knowing I would have little impact on the events that would then transpire, I chose to stand with the alienated Tormtar in Peltarch, torn between their godly duty and loyalty to the city, they would be worth protecting from harm, as this war was not of their choosing.
--
“Vere is pulling the strings.”
This theory was put forth by Isolde and companions as we were whisked away from the third tribunal. I would imagine this accusation is partly based on bias given the subjects of the tribunal, and partly because Vere had her attention on Robert when he spoke to Torm.
I do not believe this is possible.
Robert channels power greater than any paladin or cleric that is known to me, I would surmise Torm is aware of him specifically. If Vere was in control and guiding Robert’s hand towards evil, I believe his powers would be stripped given the scrutiny of his god; if her intentions not outright revealed given Robert’s ability to commune with Torm during the third tribunal.
The implication that Vere being in control would mean that the power is not Robert’s and by following this line of logic, not of Torm’s. This does not make any sense given the nature of gods and their believers.
--
As I pen this, I am reminded of the demons we struck down during the crusade who on their dying breath claimed that we were following a lie. I had originally thought it in their nature to sow distrust in our forces and paid it no heed.
While we debated the issue of the Silver Host, Ting spoke of intuition, of knowing when something is wrong when all facts point otherwise. If I follow this thought on the assumption that the Silver Host is based on a lie, the question remains, where does the divine power stem from?
Would it not be simpler to ask Torm himself?
-
There were a number of adventurers lingering in the commons on the day this tale began. Kethro, Ting, Willow and finally the master craftsman Z. Folk have often spoke highly of the craftsman’s character and at the first mention of his need to find ore within the gnoll territory, all present offered assistance to his cause.
I was keen on joining their efforts not only to observe them all in action, but I had at that point, not crossed blades with the dog men. Their fearsome reputation was often mentioned in hushed whispers, more so with the bodies of adventurers carried back from their wood. I was curious.
As I was untested in his eyes, Z thought it best to detour his original route into the cave dwellings of the gnolls instead, so as to take my measure during the trip. I do not blame him for taking such precautions, as I am sure it was very much for my own safety as well as theirs.
The failings of a single individual can mean dire consequences for the whole, especially in deathly hostile territory.
--
In hindsight, the lone raven flying above head should have been an obvious omen for what was to come. It’s keen eyes tracking our movements through the woods and into the mouth of the pass, while we remained oblivious to its intent.
As we gathered and prepared for a fight with the gnolls, a shadow loomed over us, extending from a large and brutish looking gnoll standing high upon the cliff edge. Tribal markings lined its face and body, and it looked down upon us in pure contempt.
Without prompt, Ting immediately loosed several arrows into it, but it seemed to hardly notice the shafts sticking out from it’s thick fur. With a resounding bellow, it stomped a single clawed foot down upon the ground, with enough force to shatter the rockface below. Loose boulders and dirt came crashing down just before us, blocking off the route into its territory.
Curiosity piqued, and perhaps with some measure of stubbornness to get at the ore that was now barred from us, we took a detour through the path towards the old gypsy camp. The lone raven above circling above head once more.
The large gnoll awaited us as we neared the ruined gates of the path, standing on higher ground still. It swung its massive axe into the walls of the ruined structure, the decaying wood shuddering and finally splintering under the force of the singular blow. Wreckage blocked our path, denying us passage once more.
There was talk at this juncture on whether we should once again attempt another route in, through the spider infested woods, but Willow was certain we could overcome the wreckage before us. She attempted to clamber up the large pile of rubble, but found herself tumbling back down, if somewhat harmlessly, due to her heavy armor. Some quick problem solving had Ting effortlessly climb the wreckage with her elven grace, anchoring a length of rope at the top, allowing us easier attempts at the climb.
The small victory of overcoming this simple obstacle was cut short as a multitude of gnolls came charging at us, a mix of armored warriors and their younger ilk; teeth and claw bared.
I grit my teeth, finding the nerve to charge forwards, shield at the ready to meet their weapons in close combat. Z matched my steps, the two of us making up the frontline of our little group.
I leaned back just enough to avoid an axe swing aimed for my neck, teetering at the sudden change of balance, I swung my axe out instinctively, biting into the side of the gnoll warrior. Gripping hard into handle, I pulled the gnoll towards me, both to steady my footing, and for my enchanted shield to meet it in its face, sending it reeling backwards into its companions.
That was a distraction enough for Kethro, who slipped out of the shadows to cut it down with a dervish of swings, his kamas simply an extension of his arms. The gnoll’s stunned companions followed quickly in death between Ting’s arrows and Z’s blade.
--
The light had faded by the time we made it past the bulk of the gnolls and acidic fumes conjured by their leader. The canopy of the trees darkened, drowning out the last vestiges of light from the setting sun.
A short distance away, the hulking form of the gnoll leader stood, backed by a tree filled with jet-black ravens, their countless eyes turning towards us in unison, glinting a menacing red. There was a wrongness to them and at the time we attributed it to demonic influences. How wrong we were.
It raised it’s head towards the night sky and bellowed a deafening warcry. The ravens scattered in a whirlwind of feathers as the gnoll charged us.
I met it in midstride, my shield arm raised before me. It was a practiced maneuver, I would be the distraction while my companions dealt the killing blows to its undefended flank. Graced with the enhanced strength and protections of Willow’s blessings, my enchanted shield held against the first blow, and the following one. Sparks showered across the forest floor as raw strength met magical force, neither giving into each other.
Finding no satisfaction at striking metal, it made several attempts to run past me, ignoring the constant assault of Kethro’s and Z’s blades to make a beeline towards Ting and Willow. And at each attempt, it would again find me standing between it and my companions.
Its frustration led to rage, and rage led to something all together alien. The tribal markings along its entire body flared a deep crimson, veins and muscles began to stretch and grow in sickly proportions. Tendrils of steam escaped it’s bared teeth as it looked down upon us, now standing 20 feet tall.
Again, it swung it’s axe, and again, I attempted to block it with my shield.
The shield held, my arm did not.
I recall the pain vividly, the shattering of bone against the sheer weight of the monstrosity’s strength. My confidence wavered, Z calling for me to retreat, as they continued to press their attack on the gnoll. A second blow struck my shield, the pain dropping me to my knees. My vision swam as I feebly attempted to raise my shield in a desperate defense.
A hand rested upon my shoulder, Willow’s. Healing energy poured through and into my shattered arm, mending and steadying my shield arm as the third blow came down. I grit my teeth through the familiar sensation of tearing muscle.
It would be a race then, between my companions or the gnoll in dealing the death blow.
--
The gnoll fell first.
Ting sent a constant stream of arrows into it, to the point it was more pincushion than humanoid. Kethro found openings to tear into it and finally Z with his flaming blade, cutting burning chunks out of the gnoll.
I had somehow survived the constant flurry of axe blows, mainly due to Willow’s guardianship. My shield arm still shook from the forces of the gnoll’s strikes, blissfully, the pain had dulled part ways into the race of survival, but now all was numb to the touch.
With the death of the gnoll leader, the woods grew darker still as frost crept in. Snow began to fall as we hurried to start a fire and make camp. The smoke drew attention, this time of the better sort, as the familiar faces of fellow adventurers stepped out from the tree line to join us in our camp’s light.
--
We would soon learn that the gnolls had worshipped something before the demonic influences had corrupted them.
Something stronger and far older.
-
"The ashes burn once more"
This is a saying from where I am from. It refers to matters that have passed that return to influence the present. The undead of the these lands are a literal embodiment of this phrase. The still shambling corpses of those already gone attacking the still living.
I bring this up, as my next foray into the adventuring life has led me into the deeper parts of the Norwick crypts, where the mummies reside. I seem to have the unfortunate luck of being constantly thrown into the tiger’s den in regards to this local profession.
My companions were confident in their ability in handling the mummies, none more so than the halfling Fern, who’s enthusiasm for fire related spells comes only second to her thrill seeking needs. Were it not for the inclusion of both Astolfo and Reemul in the venture, I would have likely passed on the invitation.
The boat ride down to Norwick was largely uneventful,
--
There is another saying from home,
“A bad beginning makes a bad ending.”
The initial plan was to rush past the slow moving undead on the upper levels of the crypt, to conserve our energy and spells for the hardier and deadlier ones below. Astolfo and Reemul led the charge, drawing the undead away from the rest of us who would hurry towards the stairways down.
Plans have a frighteningly quick pace in which they fall apart on contact with the enemy. As soon as the two charged into the main room, an undead warrior rushed through the doorway out towards the back line. Different from the zombies and ghosts we had encountered to this point, it was quick-paced, armored and wielding a weapon in each hand.
With it blocking the doorway and cutting off our path towards Astolfo and Reemul, I had little choice but to engage it in melee with shield and axe. While it found no openings in my defenses, I was unable to land decisive blows in return. Thankfully, I was not alone.
Noting my companion’s presence, I lowered my shield and with an open palm, goaded the undead warrior to attack. Taking the bait, it barreled towards me, into the reach of Vera’s scythe. In large sweeping arcs the scythe’s blade flickered, cutting the undead down before it could finish its next step.
We rushed into the next room where the hoard of undead were preoccupied with Astolfo and Reemul’s efforts to distract them. This was again where the plan fell apart, as Fern constantly yelled for people to start making for the stairways down, while others were focused on the undead slaying. I stood between the two sides, unsure of which to follow or assist. I imagine this would make for a fine allegory for the path I walk now.
A moment of hesitation would have cost us the fight if it had been of direr circumstance, but this was not it, not yet. Sinking my axe into the closest zombie skull, I joined the others in granting a final death to the restless dead.
--
The lower crypts held new undead I was unfamiliar with, quick moving husks of the once living, and horrific giants of dead flesh. It is of little wonder that people say that these lands are cursed.
In the confines of the tunnels, combat was relatively straightforward. It was not until the first large antechamber where I would experience my next flirtation with death.
I imagine it looked harmless enough, a single undead priest wandering the middle of the large chamber. I would not have blamed either Reemul or Astolfo for charging ahead through the doorway to meet the foe, the priority being to close the distance before it could get a spell off. What was unaccounted for were the other undead casters hidden in the shadows.
Mid-charge, Astolfo was instantly held in place by a spell. The brief hesitation I had in seeing him incapacitated was opportunity enough for the undead to get past my mind’s defenses, and I too joined Astolfo in a locked state. I stood helpless as spell after spell of negative energy was thrown at us, my armor and shield useless against the arcane arts.
I briefly pondered again on the nature of my path, finding clarity within the agonizing pain of necrotizing flesh. But that too was quickly cut short as I found myself on my knees, a bottle of healing draught in hand, a reflex built upon countless hours of training.
Finding our second wind, the undead casters were quickly cut down.
--
I was not prepared for the mummies. I stood transfixed in horror as the first of their number shambled towards us, my mind screamed as my legs turned of their own accord, breaking into a run.
The others steeled with mind spells against fear, and weapons brimming with magical flame thanks to Fern and Sadi, cut it down with relative ease. Seeing the mummy burst into flame, fire hungrily devouring the dried wrappings, I begin to understand Fern’s enthusiasm for mummy slaying.
I do not blame Astolfo for belittling my cowardice, though I found it needless given the shame I already felt for running from an enemy. But I was an acceptable target given my actions, yes.
Between Toisin’s axe and Reemul’s blade, we cleared out way towards the back of the cavern system. My mind steeled and knowing what I now faced, I did not run again.
Of interest was a plaque that seemed to list the etiquette in which to pay homage and attend the court of the resident mummy lord. Perhaps a foolish notion, but the dead do have so many tales to tell.
--
Fern wanted us to slay the mummy lord.
The plan was for the pair of casters to pepper it with fire spells while leading it towards the exit, where the rest of us would be waiting to engage it. It would also allow us a quick escape if things turned for the worse.
It was a foolhardy plan, but I was biased given the unknown nature of the foe. If a common mummy was enough to break my resolve, what manner of horrors would a mummy lord bring forth?
The seconds went by as we waited by the entrance, casting what magics we had left and downing the potions required for this next endeavor. We all knew it would be a challenge, but even with hindsight, we were ill prepared for what came next.
We heard the sound of running feet, before Fern and Sadi broke out of the darkness and into the light of our flaming weapons. Behind them came the shuffling of heavier steps, slow and purposeful. As it stepped into the light, my mind broke.
--
I found myself staring at the cavern wall, the sound of combat still ringing out from behind me. How long had I been out? I took a quick and measured breath, calming my nerves as best as I could. My heart was racing, but I knew what I had to do.
I spun around to face the horror once more, expecting to lose my nerve, but the fear did not come again. Only the sight of a battered Astolfo and Toisin as they traded their blood for singular blows on the mummy lord. Reemul stood a distance away having just shaken off his own bout of fear.
The first step was the hardest, but the second came easier as was the third. Closing the distance, I ducked under an outward swing of the mummy’s arm, following through the motion with an upward swing of my axe. The blow struck true, I felt the impact of my axe, but as I pulled back into a defensive stance, it was obvious that I would do little to no damage were it not for the fire enchantments on my weapon. And spells only lost so long.
Toisin was our hardest hitter with his flaming great axe, and the mummy seemed to realize that, tearing into the dwarf at every opportunity. Expending all his healing supplies, he was reduced to waiting on the sidelines as the fight continued to drag on.
With our spells wearing off and the lessons from my encounter with the demon ooze, I kept my shield up. My now mundane axe would do no good in harming the undead, and the mummy was unable to get past my defenses. Our spellcasters were no longer throwing spells, as it had activated an item of some manner, shielding it from magic. Even with it close to destruction, we could do nothing.
At a stalemate, the mummy lord turned away from me, it’s attention now on Vera, who stood a distance away, the familiar look of terror in her eyes as she stood frozen. I moved to intercept, but slower than Astolfo did. Barely clinging to life, the color all but drained from his face, there was no hesitation as he threw himself in front of Vera.
Astolfo’s death spurred action from one of the spellcasters, who pulled forth a rod and drew upon its magic to finally put an end to the mummy.
--
The way back up was no less a challenge. We had thought to escape under the effects of invisibility, but the narrow halls and regrouping undead created a gauntlet of danger we had to traverse. And being that we couldn’t see each other, felt very much alone.
Other than a moment of hesitation when I came across a form of undead I was not familiar with; seemingly created from the corpse of a powerful warrior and a horrid visage to match, I made it back to the upper levels. Where I waited for a time before the rest of my companions arrived. Vera carrying the still form of Astolfo over her shoulders.
There was little left to do but fight our way back up towards open air.
