Adventure Log XIIII

THE TEMPLE OF URGATHOA PART 1

———————1————————

The wooden cargo lift creaked and groaned as it descended into the darkness beneath the Hospice of the Blessed Maiden. The space was cramped, barely large enough for the party to move in without touching. Air thick with tension, each member of the group was lost in their own thoughts, their minds racing with the possibilities of what awaited them below.

Nightingale stood near the controls, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his rapier. His eyes were sharp, scanning the dimly lit walls of the shaft as they passed, his ears attuned to every creak and shift of the wood around them. He had a bad feeling about this place. Something about the Hospice had felt off from the moment they arrived, and now, descending deeper into its bowels, that feeling had only intensified.

Byron was crouched slightly to fit his large form in the confined space. His claws twitched reflexively, ready to strike at the first sign of danger. The feral instincts that had served him so well in battle now had him on edge. He could feel the oppressive weight of the earth around them, the closeness of the walls pressing in on his mind. It was as if the very air down here was different - thicker, tainted with something unseen yet malevolent.

Trevor, ever the protector, stood next to Byron at the front of the lift, his massive frame taking up most of the space. His muscles were tense, every fibre of his being on high alert. He hated enclosed spaces like this, where his strength was less of an advantage. But more than that, he hated the unknown, and right now, they were heading straight into it. His thoughts drifted towards Otto. He hated the thought that he may be hurt, imprisoned or worse. The half-orc then looked at Taylan and remembered the young elf’s narrow escape from the goblins. They couldn’t afford to lose anyone else, not now.

Taylan double checked his wand placements and component pouches, ensuring that in the heat of the battle to come he’d be able to grab exactly what he needed. He noticed Trevor looking at him and gave an encouraging smile. Taylan knew this was dangerous, but they’d faced danger before, and he was confident with his found family at his side they’d be triumphant again.

Calli, standing in the centre, was uncharacteristically quiet. Her sharp mind was already running through possible scenarios, planning reactions for a variety of contingencies. Thinking that enemies could be waiting for them when the lift came to its final destination, she conjured an image of Dr. Davaulus, hoping that distraction would buy them valuable time to close the distance.

The lift shuddered slightly, causing everyone to tense up even more. Trevor’s hand tightened around the haft of his axe, ready to strike at the first sign of danger. Byron, almost ritualistically, stretched his neck from side to side, whilst Taylan simply gripped his wand hard. Calli’s eyes flicked to the ceiling, then to Nightingale, who met her gaze and gave a small, reassuring nod.

The lift finally came to a halt with a heavy thud, the sound echoing ominously in the confined space. The doors creaked open, revealing a waiting squad of Grey Maidens. They formed two lines in front of the double doors, each one a barrier of steel and resolve, as impenetrable as the doors they guarded. The back row had crossbows trained on the group, while the front had shields up and swords at the ready. One called out to them before they even stepped out of the lift. “Halt, who goes there?” The maiden seemed to falter when she recognized Davaulus in their group, though. “Doctor, what’s going on? We were sent word there was trouble. Who are these people?” There was a hint of uncertainty in her tone, as if she sensed something was off but couldn’t quite place it.

Byron stepped out first, “My name is Byron, there’s no trouble here.”

Calli puppeted the silent image of the doctor to follow after making calming motions with his hands, and Calli picked up the conversation while the others moved out of the cramped lift behind them. “We’re The Flowers. There was a brief misunderstanding with Dr Reiner here, so he’s temporarily mute, but we worked it out. He helped us understand it’s far better to be on his side than against it.”

The maiden who spoke, inscrutable behind her helmet as they all were, paused and then spoke again to the doctor. “Are you under any duress?”

The doctor rolled his eyes and did a slow turn, waving both his hands in the air to show he was unharmed and unrestrained. Meanwhile the party was fully assembled across from the six Grey Maidens and able to take in their surroundings. They were in a wide, dimly lit corridor stretching out before them. The air was thick with the scent of decay and something else - an underlying, acrid smell that hinted at alchemical concoctions.

The scuffed walls began to reveal a gruesome scene. The stone had been plastered over, and the once plain surface was now covered in lurid murals that made the party’s blood run cold. The paintings depicted skeletons cavorting gleefully among the dead, the twisted imagery portraying a vision of Korvosa fully succumbing to the horrors of blood veil. The artwork was disturbingly detailed, the rotting corpses of men, women, and children strewn about like discarded dolls, their faces frozen in expressions of terror and agony.

There was a wooden door to either side of the long room, one north and one south. But it was the double doors on the east wall directly in front of them that truly captured their attention. They were massive, dominating the mural like the gaping maw of a beast, leading into the very foundation of Castle Korvosa as depicted in the artwork. Two scythe-wielding skeletons decorated them, hollow eye sockets seeming to leer at the party as they moved. The doors seemed almost alive, as if they were waiting for the right moment to spring open and unleash whatever horrors lay behind them.

The leader of the Grey Maidens was not so easily convinced. She regarded the illusion with a long, scrutinising gaze before turning back to her comrades. “I need to confirm this with Rolth,” she declared, her tone brooking no argument. “Wait here.”

“Tell him we saw what Jolistina did at the Carowyns. Fabulous work. She sends her love,” Calli remembered the feelings of warmth in the deranged clowns memories and hoped if nothing else he’d be curious enough about her fate to show himself.

The other Flowers exchanged wary glances, their hands instinctively moving closer to their weapons. They knew the charade was thin, that it wouldn’t hold up under too much scrutiny. But they had no choice but to play along for now. The leader of the Grey Maidens turned toward the double doors, raising her gauntleted hand to knock—but instead of striking the wood directly, she deliberately rapped on the wall beside the door.

The subtle action didn’t go unnoticed by the Flowers. Nightingale’s eyes narrowed as he caught the motion, his mind racing. The way she knocked, deliberately avoiding the door itself, suggested that the door was more than just a barrier. It was likely trapped, rigged to spring some deadly mechanism on anyone who tried to open it without the proper precautions.

The Grey Maiden’s knock echoed dully through the corridor, and the group waited in tense silence. Trevor’s grip on his axe tightened further, his knuckles white under the pressure. Calli’s heart pounded in her chest, each beat a countdown to what might happen next. Byron’s eyes flicked to every shadow, every movement, his feral instincts on high alert.

After what felt like an eternity, the door creaked open just a crack, revealing a sliver of darkness beyond. The Flowers held their breath, waiting to see what—or who—would emerge from behind the foreboding doors.

But instead of Rolth stepping out, a figure draped in tattered, dark robes appeared. The man exuded an aura of decay and malice. His face, pale and drawn, was adorned with pustules and sores, as if he wore the marks of every disease known to the world. He was a priest of Urgathoa, the goddess of physical excess, disease, and the undead.

His eyes, gleaming with a sickly light, scanned the group before settling on Calli. A twisted smile formed on his cracked lips as he took in the sight of the illusionary doctor. He seemed amused, perhaps even intrigued, but there was a cruel intelligence in his gaze that made the Flowers uneasy.

“Only the Doctor and one party representative may enter,” the priest rasped, his voice like the whisper of a dying man. He pointed at Calli, “Her. The rest of you shall remain here.”

Calli knew they couldn’t afford to split up; the odds were already stacked against them, and the idea of walking into whatever trap lay beyond those doors with only an illusion for protection was out of the question.

“I don’t go anywhere without my entourage,” she replied flippantly. Straightening her posture, she continued. “We stay together, or we don’t go in at all.”

The priest’s smile faded, replaced by a cold, dangerous glare. Without another word, he turned on his heel and disappeared back into the darkness, shutting the door behind him. Leaving the Flowers alone with the Grey Maidens.

Nightingale, seeing the situation reach its breaking point, made a quick decision. There was no other way out—they would have to fight. He placed a hand on Byron’s back, whispering an incantation under his breath. Magic coursed through his fingers, crackling with energy, and in an instant, Byron’s form began to swell. His muscles bulged, his frame doubled in size, and the air around him seemed to hum with the sheer force of his presence. The man was now a mountain of muscle and fury.

Byron let out a primal roar that echoed through the chamber, shaking dust loose from the stone walls. Without hesitation, he charged forward, his massive form barreling toward the Grey Maidens like an unstoppable force of nature. The ground trembled beneath his feet as he rushed into the fray, his claws extended and ready to tear through armour and flesh alike.

The leader of the Grey Maidens barely had time to react before Byron was upon her. She raised her shield, bracing for the impact, but the force of Byron’s charge was too great. His clawed hand crashed into her shield with the force of a battering ram, sending her stumbling back. The other Maidens moved in, their swords gleaming as they closed ranks around Byron, but he was a whirlwind of rage and power, slashing and striking with relentless fury.

Taylan, suspicious of the way they’d tried to get Calli alone, wrapped a protective spell around her like a shield of light as she started to sing. Her bardic music once again made her companions feel more effective in battle. 

Trevor, feeling the magic course through his veins and not to be outdone by Byron, let out a roar of his own as he joined the fray. His axe swung in wide, deadly arcs, cleaving through armour and bone with terrifying ease. He was a blur of motion, his strikes powerful and relentless. One Maiden tried to block his blow with her shield, but the force of his strike shattered it into splinters, sending her sprawling to the ground. Without missing a beat, Trevor brought his axe down, ending her struggle with a swift, brutal strike.

The Grey Maidens were well-trained, disciplined, and deadly, but they were facing something far beyond their expectations. Byron’s massive form was a storm of claws and teeth, ripping through armour as if it were paper. He slammed one Maiden into the wall, the stone cracking under the force, and with a swift motion, he tore her helm from her head and crushed her skull with his bare hands.

Nightingale, staying at the edge of the melee, provided crucial support. His rapier flashed as he parried a strike aimed at Calli, and with a quick thrust, he drove the blade into the attacker’s throat whilst arcs of lightning crackled though their flesh. Blood sprayed from the wound as the Maiden crumpled to the ground. Nightingale pulled his rapier free and spun and struck another Maiden, throwing them off balance.

Despite their ferocity, the Grey Maidens fought back with all the skill and training that had made them feared throughout Korvosa. The leader, regaining her footing, barked orders to her remaining soldiers, directing them with cold precision. They struck at Byron with coordinated attacks, their swords finding gaps in his defences. But even as their blades cut into his flesh, Byron’s sheer size and fury made him almost unstoppable. He shrugged off blows that would have felled a lesser man, his eyes blazing with a primal rage.

Taylan, seeing an opportunity, cast his burning hands at two Maidens standing together. Fire exploded all around them. The flames wreathed, danced and gorged at their flesh as they screamed in agony. The heat was severe and instantly they fell to the ground, lifeless. The smell of charred and burnt skin filled the room.

The remaining Maidens hesitated, their resolve faltering. But Trevor and Byron gave them no chance to regroup. Trevor’s axe cleaved through one Maiden’s torso, nearly cutting her in half, while Byron crushed another underfoot, his massive weight and strength unstoppable.

Nightingale, seeing the battle turning in their favour, focused on the last remaining Maiden. With a swift, precise motion, he struck his rapier in the side of her chest., the force of the blow knocking her to the ground. Electricity once again flooded down his rapier into his assailant, causing her to shake, tremble and convulse as it shook by an earthquake. Nightingale withdrew his blade, and the maiden clutched at the wound, gasping for breath, but her eyes quickly glazed over as life drained from her body.

The battle was over as quickly as it had begun. The corridor was littered with the bodies of the Grey Maidens, blood pooling on the stone floor. The heavy silence that followed was broken only by the ragged breathing of the Flowers, each of them feeling the weight of the battle they had just fought.

Byron, still enlarged, looked down at his bloodied claws, his chest heaving with exertion. Trevor wiped the blood from his axe, his face grim but determined.

Nearby, Taylan surveyed the charred remains of the enemies his burning hands had engulfed in flames. The scorching heat of his spell had turned the tide of battle, incinerating several Grey Maidens in a blaze of fire that still crackled faintly on the stone floor. His eyes, usually calm, now flickered with the lingering intensity of his magic, and a thin trail of smoke rose from his fingertips as he clenched his hands into fists, ready for whatever came next.

Nightingale, ever composed, took a deep breath and surveyed the scene, his mind already calculating their next move. The smell of singed flesh and burnt leather hung heavy in the air, a grim reminder of the deadly dance they had just survived. Calli began checking the fallen bodies for clues or keys they might need ahead.

They had won the battle, but they knew this was only the beginning. Beyond those doors lay the true horrors of the Hospice, and the necromancer Rolth awaited them with whatever dark plans he had in store. The Flowers steeled themselves, ready to face whatever came next, knowing that together, they were a force to be reckoned with.

———————2————————

As the Flowers took a moment to catch their breath after the intense battle, they noticed something unsettling about the fallen Grey Maidens as Calli removed their helmets. Each of them bore scars on their faces—deliberate, calculated cuts that marred their once-beautiful features. These weren’t battle wounds but something far more insidious, as if someone had purposefully taken away their beauty as part of a cruel ritual or punishment.

"These scars..." Calli whispered, her voice tinged with horror. "It’s like someone did this to them on purpose."

Nightingale, always the pragmatist, nodded grimly. "The kind of thing a sadistic necromancer might do," he muttered, his thoughts immediately turning to Rolth. With a swift motion, he cast Detect Magic on the double doors. A faint, sickly green aura emanated from them, telling him there was something necromantic at play, but the exact nature of the magic remained elusive.

"It’s necromantic, but I can’t tell what it does," Nightingale said, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Could be a trap, a curse, or worse."

"Let’s not take any chances," Trevor said, gripping his axe tighter. "We should check the other doors first, see if we can find any clues before we charge through those."

The party quickly agreed, and they began to investigate the other doors.

The southern door creaked open to reveal a small, dimly lit room. A number of crates were stacked haphazardly against the walls, most of them covered in dust. In the centre of the chamber, a particularly large crate had been dragged into place, with four mismatched chairs and stools arranged around it, as if it had recently been used for some kind of meeting or gathering.

"Supply room?" Byron speculated, peering inside, his sheer bulk making it hard for him to truly investigate. "And makeshift breakroom, by the looks of it."

"Nothing of interest here.” said Trevor “Let’s keep moving."

The door to the north opened into a chamber filled with cabinets and low benches. The room had an eerie, sterile atmosphere, as if it were some sort of preparation room. From pegs on the opposite side of the room, several beaked plague masks hung, their empty black eyes glaring with soulless, unblinking stares.

"This must be where they keep their plague doctor outfits," Taylan said, stepping cautiously into the room. "Creepy."

Calli moved closer to the masks, examining them. "It’s like they’re watching us," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid of disturbing the oppressive silence in the room. The hollow eyes of the masks seemed to follow her, casting an eerie shadow over the party.

“Don't put them on,” said Nightingale.” We have no idea what necromancy is attached to these things” She stuffed one into the party Haversack to better examine at a later time.

The others shared his discomfort. The room was filled with the unsettling presence of dark leather robes, high boots, and wide-brimmed hats arranged neatly in the cabinets. Solid canes hung from hooks, their polished surfaces gleaming faintly in the dim light. These items, while ordinary at first glance, carried an ominous weight—the uniforms and tools of the plague doctors who had been roaming the city, spreading more fear than hope.

Taylan’s gaze swept the room, his sharp eyes catching a detail the others had missed: a door set into the east wall, almost hidden in the shadows. He nudged Nightingale and pointed toward it. The party exchanged a look, understanding passing between them without the need for words. This was their way forward, but it also meant stepping deeper into the unknown.

Careful not to disturb anything, they moved as one toward the door, their footsteps barely making a sound on the cold stone floor. Nightingale reached the door first, his hand hovering over the handle. He paused, listening for any movement on the other side, but the silence was thick and unbroken.

Calli, sensing his hesitation, whispered, “We have to keep moving. We can’t stay here.”

Nightingale nodded, gripping the handle with a steady hand. As he pushed the door open, the group was greeted by a chilling sight. The room beyond was a stark contrast to the sterile, ominous chamber they had just left. Numerous black-sheeted cots were arranged in neat rows, their satin coverings and overstuffed pillows giving them an unsettling resemblance to funerary beds rather than places for the living to rest. The air was heavy with the scent of stale incense and something else—something rotten.

The walls of the room were adorned with evenly spaced skulls, their hollow eye sockets filled with flickering candles that cast an eerie glow. The dim, wavering light from these macabre jack-o'-lanterns bathed the room in an unsettling ambiance, making the shadows dance and twist in unnatural ways. The faint, constant flicker of the candlelight seemed to make the skulls grin even wider, their expressions frozen in eternal mockery.

Footlockers and shelves lined the room, filled with personal belongings, worn boots, and a few scattered weapons. It was clear this was a barracks of some kind, a resting place for those who served the twisted purpose of this place. The room, though devoid of life, seemed to pulsate with a residual energy, as if the walls themselves had absorbed the fear and despair of those who once slept here.

Byron, still towering in his enlarged form, ducked slightly to avoid brushing against the low-hanging skulls.

Calli moved forward cautiously, her eyes scanning the footlockers and shelves. "This doesn’t feel right," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the candles. "Why would they leave this place unattended?"

Nightingale’s gaze swept across the room, taking in every detail. The cots, the skulls, the footlockers—it was all too methodical, too orderly. "This isn’t just a barracks," he said quietly. "It’s a statement. Whoever set this up wanted to remind everyone who slept here that death is always near."

To try and keep the party’s nerves from getting the better of them Calli had her magical image of Doctor Reiner begin walking across the room in a ridiculous fashion. Steps too large, limbs moving in exaggerated and clownish ways. Only Taylan laughed, but it seemed to diffuse the tension slightly.

Nighingale turned his attention to the two doors in the south. Moving cautiously, he pressed his ear against one, straining to hear through the heavy silence. The sounds that reached him were unsettling. Shuffling footsteps and a faint, eerie noise that resembled tree branches scraping against a windowpane. The noises were disturbing and seemingly out of place, hinting at something far worse lurking beyond.

With a deep breath, Nightingale stood back and flicked his wrist at the door, opening it with an arcane gesture. The scene that greeted them was more horrific than anything they had yet encountered. The room beyond was a grotesque display of decomposition. Dozens of rotting corpses lined the walls, their withered and sagging faces contorted into sneering expressions, their broken fingers clawing futilely at each other. The floor was also covered with a ghastly layer of rotting bodies; shattered forms twitching in their death throes, bones and splintered limbs grasping hopelessly.

This was someone's sick and twisted attempt at art. The living dead were trapped behind thick glass walls and beneath a floor of the same material, their horrific forms on display as though for some twisted exhibition. The glass, now smudged and smeared with the remnants of the rotting dead, provided a clear view into this hellish display.

To make matters worse, the room was filled with a horde of free roaming zombies and skeletons, their decayed forms moving with an unnatural, jerky motion. The stench of death and decay was overwhelming, and the sight was enough to chill even the most hardened adventurer.

Trevor’s face darkened with resolve. "We need to get them to come to us," he growled, stepping forward and attempting to taunt the undead horde. His strategy was to draw them out one by one, reducing their numbers rather than risking being overwhelmed by the entire group. His voice echoed with a fierce determination as he provoked the undead, hoping to lure them closer.

But Taylan, seeing the potential danger in Trevor's approach, laid a calming hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, Uncle Trevor," the sorcerer said, his voice steady despite the chaos. "I’ve got this."

Without hesitation, Taylan raised his hands, his fingers weaving through complex arcane gestures. The air around him crackled with magical energy, and then, with a surge of power, he unleashed a colossal fireball into the room. The spell roared to life, engulfing the horde in a blazing inferno. Flames erupted, scorching and incinerating the zombies and skeletons in a spectacular explosion of heat and light.

The fireball’s fury consumed everything in its path. The undead, already decaying and fragile, melted and exploded in a grotesque display of burning flesh and splintering bones. The heat was intense, and the room filled with the nauseating stench of burning decay. As the flames roared, the foul diseases that had clung to the undead were released into the air, creating a noxious cloud that surged through the room.

Had any of the party been too close, the diseases would have been a dire threat. But Taylan’s powerful spell had cleansed the room of the immediate danger. The glass walls and floor, though cracked and scorched, held fast, containing the remnants of the horrific display.

The Flowers stood in the doorway, their faces reflecting a mixture of relief and revulsion. The room was now a smoldering ruin, a testament to the sorcerer’s fiery prowess and a reminder of the dark, twisted nature of their enemies.

The party walked over the charred remains of the undead into the bloodsoaked room. To the south they saw two doors, to the west were the necromantic double doors they knew not to touch, whilst another set of double doors lay to the east. They decided to head South first.

Nightingale eased one of the southern doors open, and a horrifying sight met his eyes. The room was dominated by eight stark iron beds, each one grimly adorned with rusty shackles and tattered leather straps. On these beds lay a number of bound individuals, each showing varying degrees of awareness. Three zombies, two unconscious in the worst throes of Bloodveil, and one dead but unturned. Their collective groans formed a chilling, mournful symphony that filled the chamber, a macabre soundtrack to their torment.

Scattered between the beds were several small tables, covered in grimy utensils, strange vials filled with murky liquids, and an assortment of wickedly sharp tools. The eastern wall was marred by a large, deep red-brown stain, a ghastly reminder of a body that had been savagely torn apart in this very place.

A pair of sturdy iron doors stood at the far end of the room on the west wall, their presence hinting at more horrors beyond.

Without hesitation they moved to dispatch the three patients who were clearly zombies, beyond saving. Byron, still bearing the remnants of his earlier transformation, and Nightingale, his rapier drawn, and Trevor with axe at the ready, struck down the bound zombies with swift efficiency.

But their eagerness to rid the room of these horrors came with a perilous cost. As each zombie submitted, its rotting body exploded in a sickening burst of contaminated matter. The air became thick with the foul stench of corruption, and an ominous cloud of disease spread throughout the room. The party, though momentarily overwhelmed by the stench and potential threat, managed to avoid succumbing to the plague, their resilience and fortitude proving their saving grace.

Once the immediate danger was neutralized, they agreed there was nothing they could do for the unconscious captives at that moment, they’d have to come back for them if they managed to survive the trials ahead. Instead, they turned their attention to the sturdy iron doors at the far end of the chamber. Nightingale examined the lock, realising that brute force alone wouldn’t be sufficient, and with suspiciously practiced efficiency burned it out with well placed acid splash spells. The corrosive magic splashed against the locks, eating away at their mechanisms until they fell open with a clatter.

Beyond the iron doors, the chamber revealed itself to be a grim prison. Cramped iron cells lined the walls, each door fitted with thin slotted windows reminiscent of those found in a dungeon or asylum. The floor was strewn with straw, flecked with faint bloodstains that hinted at past suffering.

As the party stepped into the cell block, their eyes were drawn to the five prisoners held within the cells. The sight was both relieving and heart-wrenching. Four of them cringed away from the doors, fearing they’d be the next subjected to the cruel experiments, but one stood with fists ready to put up a fight. Trevor’s eyes widened in recognition. The defiant man was Otto, his friend and a fellow adventurer.

“Otto!” Trevor shouted, rushing to the cell where his friend was confined. Misunderstanding the presence of the half orc, he first began berating Trevor for having fallen in with such an evil cult, but he was quickly corrected as to the nature of their visit. The old priest sagged in relief.

“Trevor,” Otto croaked, his voice weak but filled with gratitude. “I didn’t think anyone would come for us.”

The other prisoners, though appearing weary and frightened, shared Otto’s relief. They looked up with a glimmer of hope, their eyes reflecting their desperate desire for freedom.

Calli recognised Otto as the priest in the memory she’d stolen from Doctor Reiner, and immediately dismissed the image of him, not wanting to cause any of the survivors more trauma. “We need to find a way to get them out of here. They won’t be safe until we can ensure this place is fully cleared.”

Otto began to curse the circumstances and people who had brought him here. Trevor had to quickly hush Otto though, who was about to use strong language (like damn and bloody) in the presence of the party's only lady. “Let’s keep the language civil, Otto,” Trevor interjected firmly.

Otto, clearly mortified, quickly composed himself. “My apologies, my lady,” he said, his voice now steady. “I’ve been held captive here for too long.” He continued, explaining the nature of their grim surroundings. “This cursed place is a temple to Urgathoa, the goddess of disease and the undead. It’s overseen by a beautiful high priestess who speaks of death as a kind of divine gift. There’s also a particularly disturbing figure here, with both elven and rodent features. He’s involved in the creation of the Blood Veil. He has a laboratory further east in the complex  from here. It’s a grotesque and horrifying place.”

Nightingale nodded, then turned to Otto. “We’ll take care of that. Can you lead the others to safety?”

Trevor stepped in, “Safety can be found at Trails End Otto. It’s a safe haven away from the chaos”

“Chaos?” queried Otto “What do you mean old bean?” 

With a heavy heart Trevor replied “Old Korvosa is now quarantined. You can’t get in nor can you get out. But worse than that, it’s also been overrun by dangerous clown-like gangs hellbent on violence. It's a battlezone over there. It’s a grim situation.”

Otto’s face fell as Trevor mentioned the gangs. His eyes were filled with concern as he asked, “And what about the orphans I cared for?”

Trevor’s expression grew sombre. “I was able to get them out. But I’m afraid many of them didn’t make it due to the plague. I’m sorry.”

The weight of the news was almost too much for Otto to bear, but he managed to compose himself. He took a deep breath, stealing his resolve. “Thank you for telling me, my boy. Thank you.  I’ll lead the others out.”

Quickly realising that the captives could be in danger when they emerged from the lift, Nightingale hit upon a brilliant idea. They were to disguise themselves as Grey Maidens. They simply had to take the armour from the warriors they had vanquished at the bottom of the lift. Then they just had to walk purposely in military formation out of the building. They could even carry the two unconscious victims from the previous room out with them.  No one would stop them. It was brilliant plan.

Otto agreed and then guided his fellow captives from the complex, his demeanor a mix of gratitude and sorrow. They parted ways inside the large chamber walled and floored with the dead, prompting Otto to reveal the official name of the dark ballroom. “The Princess’ Bacchanal.” Warning him not to go through the necromantic doors but around through the side rooms, they said their goodbyes. As they departed, the party’s focus shifted back to their primary goal: finding Rolth and the enigmatic high priestess.

With Otto and the prisoners safely on their way, the party readied themselves to continue their search, knowing that the heart of the darkness lay further within the complex.

———————3————————

Before moving through into the next room Calli cast a small resistance boost on each of them, worried that there would be more foul substances they’d have to overcome before the day was over.

Byron, still enlarged, pushed open the double doors. They were greeted by a powerful and acrid stench of chemicals that filled the air, making their eyes water. The chamber they entered was vast, its high ceiling shadowed by three enormous metal vats that loomed over them, each standing over six feet tall. These vats bubbled ominously, releasing a noxious green-brown mist that curled and swirled around the room.

Above, a network of sturdy catwalks spanned the space, suspended about ten feet from the ground. The catwalks provided access to the vats, where shadowy figures might have once manipulated whatever vile concoctions the vessels held.

Encircling the upper walls was a grand mosaic crafted from white, black, and green stone. It depicted a macabre scene: a colossal, half-decomposed woman in flowing black veils danced amidst a desolate landscape of the dead, the undead, and the dying. The imagery was both mesmerising and horrifying, adding a sense of dread to the already oppressive atmosphere.

The party’s eyes were drawn upward as they noticed six priests of Urgathoa stationed on the catwalks. Dressed in dark, flowing robes, they moved with a practised, eerie grace, attending to the bubbling vats below. Each priest's face was partially obscured by a hood, but their eyes gleamed with a cold, fanatical light. In their hands they held a vicious looking scythe which as one they dipped into the vats.

Among them, a figure stood out: a man with a rat-like face, his pale skin marred by blotchy scars. He wore heavy leather robes, each pocket visibly stuffed with an assortment of surgical and mortician tools. The man's presence was imposing, and his attire suggested a readiness for grisly work. The thick leather of his robes creaked as he shifted, the bulging pockets hinting at the grim instruments he carried. This was, unquestionably, the Necromancer, Rolth Lamm.

Rolth had been waiting for them, and as soon as the doors opened he released a spell at the first person he saw. Byron felt his body start to seize up, but was able to shake off the paralyzing effects.

Taylan seized the moment, his hands weaving complex patterns as he conjured a blazing fireball. The inferno roared through the room, scorching the priests. Their robes caught fire and their screams filled the air, but they remained standing, though severely injured.

Calli, determined to neutralize Lamm, cast a similar hold spell back at him, but it fizzled against the necromancer’s defenses. Frustration flashed across her face as Lamm smirked, unaffected. Taylan and Calli then ducked to the sides of the door and out of sight.

Trevor, not one to be deterred, hurled a thunderstone at a cluster of priests. The explosive bang rang out, deafening them and sending several staggering back in pain.

In response to the chaos, Nightingale invoked a shroud of magical darkness, plunging the chamber ahead into an inky void. All opponents, save the one deafened from Trevor’s attack, were suddenly unable to see a thing. The casters within would be unable to target the party further.

But the darkness was not without its drawbacks. The wicked priests began chanting, healing their side of some damage the fireball had done. Taylan was also able to pick out Rolth’s voice casting spectral hand, and warned the others to be wary of it. The one priest not caught in the darkness repeated Rolth’s Hold Person spell on Byron, and this time it took hold. The barbarian and all his rage was bound inside an immobile shell.

Little Focker wrapped himself protectively around Byron’s shoulders and glared at the priest with malevolent eyes.

Taylan cast another fireball, sending a wave of heat and flame through the room. Howls of agony came from the darkness as the priests within burned in a fire they were unable to dodge.

Calli resumed her magical song, giving her companions what small aid she could.

Trevor charged into the fray, only to discover that two plague doctors had been hiding among the shadows waiting for someone to enter the room. The one closest swung down at him with a heavy wooden stave, but Trevor dodged his clumsy strike and retaliated with a powerful swing of his axe, cleaving one of the plague doctors in half.

Gale stepped in and took the blow from the second masked doctor, and swiftly dispatched him in a crackling burst of energy.

But the battle was far from over. Four more plague doctors emerged from underneath the catwalks, rushing in to club at the duo. One of them managed to crack Trevor upside his skull, but Nightingale was able to avoid further hits.

As Nightingale fought back, he electrocuted another plague doctor, sending jolts of lightning through the creature.

Byron focused all his will into breaking free of the magical hold.

The magical darkness spell suddenly disappeared, revealing four of the cultists laying charred and unmoving, but two remaining priests near Rolth released more holding spells on both Nightingale and Trevor. Gale resisted, but Trevor wasn’t as lucky. The half orc stood paralysed. His body, unable to move, made him an easy target.

The deafened cultist summoned a spectral scythe into existence, setting the spiritual weapon to joining the crowd now attacking Nightingale and Trevor.

As the chaos of battle surged, Taylan's eyes flared with arcane power. A beam of raw magical energy erupted from his gaze, his magic missile spell taking the form of a deadly laser. It streaked through the doorway past his team and burned into one of the plague doctors trying to bludgeon Gale.

With Rolth visible to her again, Calli repeated her attempt at holding. This time her arcane energy coiled around the necromancer, binding him in place. Lamm struggled against the magic, but the spell held him fast, rendering him immobile and vulnerable.

Angry at being momentarily helpless and surrounded by so many foes, Trevor broke out of the hold spell one of the priests had struck him with. He roared with renewed strength as he broke free of his confinement, his axe swinging with newfound ferocity.

Nightingale continued his relentless strikes and conjured a bolt of electricity that crackled through his sword and struck one of the plague doctors. The electric surge coursed through the plague doctor’s body, causing him to convulse violently before collapsing in a smoking heap. He followed up with a viscous slash into the plague doctor Taylan had damaged.

Little Focker, satisfied his master was no longer vulnerable, flew overhead of the skirmish and breathed a silvery mist on some of the attackers in mele below. The drake's magical blast engulfed a priest, leaving him disoriented and stumbling. In a moment of befuddlement, the confused priest flailed wildly and struck himself with his own weapon, inflicting serious injury as he grappled with his altered perception.

Byron, finally able to join the fray, used his immense strength to wreak havoc on the remaining enemies. His colossal claws lashed out, tearing through two of the priests with savage force. Their bodies were torn apart, their resistance crushed under Byron's overwhelming might.

However, the battle wasn’t over. Two additional magical scythes, summoned by Rolth’s priests' dark powers, materialized in the air. One scythe slashed toward Trevor, narrowly missing him, while the other whirred toward Nightingale. The blade cut deep into Nightingale’s side, a fresh wound adding to the toll of battle. The magical scythes continued to flit through the air, adding a deadly layer of chaos to the already tumultuous fight.

The battle was reaching its zenith, a maelstrom of spells, steel, and sheer willpower. Taylan's eyes blazed as he unleashed a focused barrage of magic missiles at Rolth Lamm. But the spell met an invisible barrier, creating a shimmering distortion in the air. The missiles deflected harmlessly off the shield that Lamm had previously conjured to protect himself.

Amid the chaos, Calli kept singing and keeping an eye on the damage her friends were taking, in case one needed any urgent healing.

Nightingale, and Trevor dispatched more of the assailants with bloody skill, clearing a path for the others to begin moving up the walkways towards Rolth and the remaining two priests. Taylan blasted one with his eyebeams, while Calli made an attempt at talking the priests into turning on Rolth to no avail.

Byron, his massive form moving with surprising agility, ascended the gantry with his immense strength. From his elevated vantage point, he charged toward Rolth Lamm, who remained ensnared by Calli's spell. The air was thick with tension as Byron’s claws glinted menacingly in the dim light.

The magical scythes swept through the air, grazing Nightingale but missing Trevor by a hair’s breadth.

With a powerful burst of speed, Trevor sped up the ramp behind Byron. He swung off Byron’s immense arm to propel himself with devastating force, his axe cutting a deadly arc through the air. The blade met its mark with a resounding crunch, cleaving through yet another priest’s defences and sending the foe sprawling lifelessly to the ground.

Finally, Byron, his rage boiling over, reached Rolth and unleashed the full fury of his strength. He lunged toward the statue-still necromancer, his claws extended in a vicious, unrelenting assault. With a final, thunderous swipe, Byron’s claws found their mark. The necromancer’s head was torn clean from his shoulders, rolling away as his body fell, lifeless, to the floor.

Taylan’s magic missiles again struck the final priest as Calli and Gale closed the distance, but it was Trevor who reached her first and sent her to join her companions in whatever afterlife awaited them.

The chamber fell silent, save for the crackle of residual magical energy and the laboured breaths of the victors. The Flowers had emerged victorious, their battle waged against the forces of darkness ending in a climactic and bloody triumph.

With Rolth Lamm's head rolling across the wooden walkway, a heavy silence settled over the chamber. The foul stench of chemicals and charred flesh lingered in the air, a grim reminder of the carnage that had just unfolded. The party stood amid the wreckage, each member catching their breath, their bodies aching from the battle.

Calli looked from Rolth’s head to Byron’s claws and raised an eyebrow, “Like father, like son. It’s a shame we can’t get any more information from him, though.”

Nightingale, still reeling from the damage he had sustained, surveyed the room with a wary eye. The vats of bubbling, toxic liquid continued to emit their noxious fumes, but with the priests and Lamm dead, the immediate threat had been neutralised. However, the image of the half-corpse woman in the mosaic above seemed to leer down at them, a silent promise that their trials were far from over.

"We need to move," Nightingale finally said, his voice cutting through the tension. "This place is still crawling with Urgathoa’s followers, and we’ve not found the priestess, yet"

Trevor wiped the blood from his axe, his expression grim. "And if the Blood Veil was created here, we need to destroy whatever remains of it. We can’t let that plague spread any further."

Now that battle was over, so did the magical enlarged effect that had enlarged Byron. He had enjoyed the experience and was sad it was over. Byron let out a low growl. "If that priestess is anywhere near as twisted as Lamm, she won’t go down easy. But we’re not leaving until we’re sure this place is wiped clean."

Little Focker, perched on Byron’s shoulder, let out a soft, reassuring rumble, as if to agree with his master’s assessment.

Calli and Taylan took out their curing wands and began seeing to the party’s wounds. Taylan, voice full of optimism, cheered everyone on. “We’ve got this! As long as we’re together we’ll be okay.”

Nightingale glanced at the door to the north and the double doors leading further east. “Let’s check the door to the door to the North first” he said, then looking back at his companions and said "Stay sharp. We move as one, and we finish what we started."

With a final nod, the Flowers gathered themselves and moved towards the door. As they passed the decapitated body of Rolth Lamm, Byron gave it one last, contemptuous kick.