Caleb raised an eyebrow as the fey began to kiss the others, and stiffened when his own turn came. He took it fairly passively and resisted the urge to shudder as he tasted the rot. Whatever Whisper had done to her, it clearly had been painful.

He blinked when she pulled away, feeling the presence he’d barely noticed fade from his mind, a growl resting in the back of his throat before he nodded in genuine gratitude to Frilogarma.

“You sure we have time to be resting like that? Just shy of nine hours left, time is a precious resource,” He said, looking Bristle’s way, drawing his crossbow in preparation for their next stop. Something told him werewolves were less likely to listen to reason than the others they’d met so far.

Hester moved her silver dagger from its usual place into her belt.  "Let's go meet some werewolves." She said.

"I am hoping we can make time," Bristle replied to Caleb as she handed the boatman two coins and boarded the skiff. "The spells I prepared today were oriented more toward mountain climbing than dealing with Whisper. And I consumed quite a bit of my spell power already, helping everyone recover from elevation sickness. I should only need an hour or so this evening to do what I need to do, but we can see what our situation is like at the time."

Before sitting, Bristle turned to address the queen one last time. With a slightly mischievous glint in her eye, the cleric said, "Lady Frilogarma, I do have one last set of questions before we leave, if you don't mind. Firstly, what is a question you think we should ask you before we leave? And secondly, what is the answer to that question?" It seemed like a very fey-like thing to ask, and Bristle was glad it had occurred to her before they moved on.

"Our home, which we've not seen in long ages." "Not since we walked the trees of the First Lands, before ever we heard the name Whisper, or felt her withering curse." Frilogarma smiles at Firea in particular.

Then Bristle asks her questions, and the queen of the fey seems to consider. After a moment, she speaks, once again in that dualistic voice. "The question you should ask is, what will you sacrifice, in the name of victory?" "And the answer is, whatever it takes."

She waves a hand and floats back out, over the rift, into the darkness.

The thanadaemon once again takes its handful of coins, and guides the barge out, over the rift to the bowels of the earth. There, it grins a death's-head grin back at you, and - drops. The skiff falls straight down, air rushing past faster and faster as you freely fall into the great chasm that, so they say, goes to the Vaults of Orv themselves, as deep as the Dead Vault, further than any has gone and returned in living memory, falling and falling and -

Splash. You're in water, the skiff coming to rest in an underground lake without damage. The thanadaemon, chortling softly, guides the boat forward, over skeleton after skeleton that lies in repose beneath the chill water of this lake. It appears to be fed by a river that cascades over the falls behind you, and continues out ahead.

But in between is an island, and on that island, along with corpses, are a trio of werewolves. Each is in hybrid form, humanoid but clearly inhuman, covered in grey fur. Each has Abyssal runes painted on their hide in what is clearly fresh blood, the source of which appears to be a human corpse that lies between them with its throat torn out.

The smell of incense, blood, and magic is thick in the air. You just interrupted a ritual, and the ritualists don't look pleased at this disturbance. Claws and teeth are bared, and the lead ritualist growls, the kind of thick, primal growl that starts deep in your throat and ends deep in someone else's.

"We apologize for our intrusion," Voh'ren calls out, raising his hands to show he means no harm albeit still standing on the skiff just in case. "We merely wish a moment of Lord Jezelda's time. Ascal of the Chanac, now known as Whisper, is moving to return to life. We seek to end her. Chance of the Chanac, Lady Crocutiel, and Mistress Frilogarma have granted us their blessing. We would ask for Jezelda's as well."

Bristle considered the fey's advice and decided to mull it over in her mind fora while. The daemon's boat ride certainly did not help her to do that. By the time they landed in the familiar underground lake of bones, she felt about ready to hurl.

The feeling passed quickly though as she noticed the werewolves. Their ritual looked... interesting. She cast some guidance upon herself as Voh'ren spoke up and tried to determine what it was that the ritual was supposed to accomplish. She shared what she knew with the others even as Voh'ren continued to attempt diplomacy.

---

22:00, Today: Bristle Chonk rolled 18 using 1d20+13.  Knowledge: Arcana/Religion, with Guidance - ritual.

Caleb had gone to wait in the boat with his crossbow out, silently passing over another pair of coins to the daemon as the others asked their question. He clutched the side of the boat one handed as it fell, gritting his teeth to deny the daemon the pleasure of hearing him yell as they fell into the darkness.

He adjusted quickly to the change though, and once they reached the island approached the werewolves with his weapon raised. His eyes burned with loathing of the creatures in front of him as he saw their victim dead on the ground, and he returned their growls with his own bared teeth, a clear challenge. He raised his crossbow and for an instant, he seemed ready to open fire, diplomacy be damned.

But in that void, in the moment between inhalation and exhalation where you lined up the kill shot, he did something he'd rarely done in his professional career. He hesitated. For a brief instant, he saw Crocutiel, ragged and skeletal, having fallen victim to the loathing and condemnation inside him right now. He saw the wolves, saw past the aggression and the growling and the claws, and saw something... unexpected, in their eyes. Fear. Animals backed into a corner, ready to lash out in desperation against the big scary monster come to kill it. In that instant he would have sworn he heard a familiar mocking laugh on a nonexistent breeze as the symbol about his neck tightened like a noose, a warning, even if it was only in his mind. In that moment, he saw past the fur and the fangs, and he just saw people. Not civilians, not enemy soldiers, just people, frightened and trying not to show it. In that moment, Caleb the Soldier was gone.

Caleb the Sarenite released the breath but not the bolt, a certain tension escaping his shoulders as he moved out of a combat ready stance, lowering the weapon but not shouldering it entirely, still mindful of where he was. He unloaded the bolt and stowed it back in the quiver, before glancing to Hester. "This'll go easier if you put the knife away Hester, you're putting them on edge," he said, before turning his full attention to the werewol- people. "You should listen to my friend, we're not here to fight. We need to talk to Jezelda about a mutual enemy, and then we'll go."

Hester is more concerned that Lady Filogarma considered that question worth asking since the answer seems so obvious. Perhaps though, what is important is which half asked and which answered.

The werewolves glance one to the other, clearly taken aback by this. Finally, long moments later, the leader of the ritual manages a half-growled, "We were...we were just asking for her guidance. We can ask that as well." Warily, she recites another line of Abyssal, calling on Jezelda for guidance and asking for insight into what to do to guarantee the pack's survival in the coming weeks.

A few moments later she goes stiff before...growing. Within moments, the previously human-sized lycanthrope woman is the size of a giant, towering over you with heroic proportions. Her eyes are burning coals, and when she flexes her hand, her claws are the size of daggers.

"I know what you want, mortals. Catch." She flicks her hand, and tosses a glowing orb at Caleb. Upon closer inspection, it is made of countless tiny bands of glass, no thicker than a ribbon, each engraved with delicate patterns. "A cage woven of the dictates of a dying god. Strike her. It will hold your prey in space and time for...ah, you can't understand the math. It'll hold her long enough."

Caleb took a half step back as the lead werewolf called out to her god, and apparently was answered. Tension began to reform as the demon made itself present, but he kept his weapon down, removing one hand from it to catch the orb, and began turning it over, inspecting it from different angles. “So how does it work? Do we have to smash her over the head with it, do we say a magic word, will it just spring to life when it gets close enough to her, what?”

"Strike her," Jezelda repeats, clearly irked by the question. "Hit her, throw it at her, shove it up her ass if you want, it doesn't matter. It'll activate when it touches her."

"Thank you for your gift, Lord Jezelda," Voh'ren says, bowing his head respectfully. He turns to Caleb, and gives his comrade a soft grin of gratitude.

"And thank you," he says to the soldier-turned-Sarenite, "for backing me up."

"Great, now go kill the bitch. And remember, oh champion - for the rest of her very long life, Sarenrae will know that her chosen hero had to go to a demon for help." Jezelda grins wide, and then begins to shrink, the werewolf ritualist returning to her own body. She collapses, murmuring thanks, before remembering her situation and staring warily at the group as they return to the thanadaemon's skiff.

Her eyes don't leave until they do, coinage paid and the boat vanishing.


The next stop is in a stream, one that seems barely large enough to support the skiff's weight. All around is thick, old-growth forest, dense underbrush and canopies of evergreens and various leafy trees. There's a feeling of age to the place as deep as that in the necropolis, though of a very different sort.

"Close as I go to the dragon's lair, it's just to the north." The thanadaemon waits for everyone to disembark, nods politely, and then pushes the skiff out into the stream again, vanishing a moment later.

Last stop.

Voh'ren is able to guide you to the north easily enough, and you make your way through the dense forest easily if not as fast as you'd like. Perhaps an hour passes before you see a valley in front of you, a sort of huge depression in the earth. There, nestled into the trees, is the dragon's lair.

The hoard (of course there's a hoard) doesn't look like what you'd have guessed, most likely. Rather than huge heaps of coins, there are countless art pieces scattered around, each one tastefully arranged and of impeccable quality. There are also countless bookshelves, and alchemy tables, making it clear that the space is as much workshop as it is resting space.

The dragon himself lies curled up at the center of the valley. He's...enormous is an understatement. He's not large in the way you associate with animals, not even huge beasts like elephants. He's huge in the way you associate with buildings. His scales gleam like emeralds, blending into the trees, and he opens one yellow eye to watch as you approach. Orcs and various undead creatures are spaced out around the rim of the valley, and some few within it, clearly acting as servants.

Hester moves to place herself directly in the line of the dragon's sight as he opens his eye.  This is definitely not the recommended course of action either for rogues or for sorceresses but it's what she's doing.  "Greetings", she says as politely as she can, "I would be surprised if news of our coming had not proceeded us for we have crossed the Styx more than once today in coming to seek your help, our last help as the rest have been gathered, in destroying the creature that calls itself Whisper, to my shame an ancestor of mine and soon to be a dead and forgotten ancestor."

Caleb shrugged at the demon’s mockery, laughing a bit on the inside at the thought of him being champion of anything. He stowed the orb carefully in his pack before turning to join the others on the boat. He stopped before reaching it however, turning back to face the werewolves. “Before I go, there’s something I want to tell you three. If you’re at all tired of living like wild animals, terrified of the day hunters come with silver axes and arrows to mount your heads on their wall, make your way to Almas. Go to the House of Soothing Radiance and ask for Mara Cavendish, tell her Caleb Miller sent you. She can help you get a new life, one where you don’t have to worship and murder for a demon which I think we all know doesn’t really give a damn about any of you. Spread the word around to any others in your pack. Think it over long and hard, yeah?” He said before climbing into the boat and being whisked away.

Caleb whistled as they came upon the dragon’s hoard. He was no patron of the arts, but he knew quality when he saw it. Then he took in the dragon. His eyebrows shot up as he took in the beast, all the stories he’d heard about dragons had undersold them. He kept his weapon shouldered, but stepped forward with Hester, clearing his throat to relieve some of the inherent unease of being face to face with something so enormous and intelligent. “Like she said, we’ve come a long way, and you’re our last stop. Everyone else agreed to help, so how about you? You want a witch dead?”

Voh'ren grimaces as he spots the Orcs in the area. He does not know if they are willing servants or kept as slaves. Most Orc cultures respect strength, and there is nothing stronger in the area than the humungous dragon. However, the possibility that they are slaves rankles him.

He also is unsure of how they would see his presence. Thus, the Half-Orc stays silent, letting the others take the lead in negotiations and using this as an opportunity to catch his breath after an hour of pathfinding.

During the encounter with Jezelda, Bristle watched with curiosity but did not really have much to add. However, she had been ready to cast a sanctuary spell on herself or an ally if things got too rough. Luckily it didn't come to that.

Bristle did hold back a smirk when Jezelda poked fun at Caleb's deity though. Then admittedly felt a small amount of amusement when Caleb tried converting some of her followers in turn. But of course Bristle knew that both were in the wrong. After all, if the orb Caleb held truly was "a cage woven of the dictates of a dying god," it meant gods could die. So naturally Death was a greater force than either a demon lord or Sarenrae.

That was the musing that boosted Bristle's spirits as she trudged through the forest in her armor, struggling to keep pace with the others. But when they came upon the dragon's lair, it consumed the entirety of her attention. How could it not? It was nearly like walking into a dream. Almost. The dragon's setup was much like what she would like to own someday. The books, the undead, the henchmen? Wonderful. Although she would probably have fewer trees and more bones…

And probably no dragon. At least not a living one. Well, maybe, if it shared her same interests. Which it appeared Zedoran did. As her companions began speaking their words to the magnificent creature, Bristle only had a few of hers to add for the moment.

"Crocutiel also mentioned that you may be able to heal what ails us. After all, you are Zedoran, master alchemist. The climb to the top of Mount Callahan earlier today took quite a toll on some of us. Elevation sickness. And the trek through your ancient woodland didn't do us any favors either."
This message was last edited by the player at 03:41, Mon 09 Aug 2021.

Hester's thoughts were unlike those of Bristle.  She would grow, eventually, although not too soon she hoped, to become something powerful and other, perhaps not unlike Whisper but without the stupid selfishness.  She would find somewhere distant to contemplate the world emerging only to help but she hoped only when she had all the information.  She could see the damage Whisper had done with her betrayals and she would not do the same.

The ancient dragon contemplates for a time. You can smell his breath, fetid like any predator's, but with an edge of acridity that gives it a sort of sharp scent.

And then, in a low and rumbling voice, he says: "No."

There's a momentary delay, and then he expands on that. "Look. I'm not like the others. I don't have some deep grudge against her. I just don't like competition. If she's that close to coming back, and you're the ones trying to stop her, I don't see much reason to bet against her, and I don't see much reason to get on her field of view as a threat. It's nothing personal."

He yawns, showing teeth that could pierce a halfling lengthwise with ease, and starts to rest his head back on his foreleg when he spots Bristle - and more importantly Bristle's skeletal bear. His head rises again, his eyes focusing on the undead creature.

"That's an interesting creation. Sloppy technique, needs refinement, and of course the raw materials are of limited interest, but the concept is sound, and I like the feedback mechanism - is that based on Kroutier's research? I rarely see his work in the flesh, so to speak, it's not a popular mechanism. Have you tried incorporating a Truedale loop in the input site? It might improve efficiency of energy transfer from the Negative, give you more lifespan on the enchantment."

Caleb hadn’t expected a flat denial like that, but to his credit he rebounded quickly. Once Zedoran had finished talking about things far over his ability to understand, he spoke up.“That’s not a smart position, you know. Whisper’s not the sort to let competitors stay alive and un-maimed for longer than she has to, so she’ll be coming for you sooner or later. You’re obviously powerful, but so is she, and when you go up against her it’s at the risk of everyone on your side being subverted to hers after a few nights. Seems to me like you stand to gain from her death, less competition and all that. We’ve got the others to support us, giving us the best real chance of putting her down for good. Our chances only get better if you help, and if we fail it doesn’t do anything but put you a bump or two higher on her kill list, because I can promise you’re already on it.”
This message was last edited by the player at 22:58, Mon 09 Aug 2021.

Having Zedoran turn his gaze directly upon herself and her bear was… unnerving at best. He could swallow them both in one bite, easily, but luckily his interests were academic in nature. Even so, Bristle had been caught off-guard. Both by Zedoran's questions and by his flat refusal to assist their group. But thankfully Caleb had provided enough time for her to help the man craft a counter-argument.

Once Caleb finished his point, Bristle took a step forward to speak up again. At first it sounded as if she were ignoring her companion's points, but that was not the case by the time she finished.

"The bear was created out of necessity, from remains dredged up from Jezelda's lake of bones. He is… inelegant, but serves his purpose. I did use some bits of Kroutier's research for the animation process though. Good eye. I used a bit of inspiration pulled from the Morgenstein Codex too. I would have loved to use a Truedale loop too, but the situation at the time did not allow such a luxury. However..." Bristle reached into her pocket and withdrew the rat skeleton residing there and held it up in her palm. She took a claw from her other hand and mad a long gash across its ribcage. The critter's fast healing took over and the ribcage began mending immediately.

"Check out that energy transference from the Negative. As you can see, I still had to use the bodies that were available, but I was able to make them much more robust than one might expect. Most of us here have one on our bodice to wake us up should Whisper put us to sleep with her magic. Sure, it isn't efficient, but it was what we had available to us at the time. And it does what needed doing. Perhaps you can think of our little group in a similar way. We may not be the perfect solution to the Whisper problem (and she is a problem, at least for your future), but we are what is available. We are 'inelegant, but serve our purpose.' And given the proper treatment, we can even be more robust than we appear." She ran a claw along the side of the undead rat one more time. Letting it heal itself again to really drive the analogy home.

"Oh, that is interesting. Bothering with a Rosenn mechanism for something that small? Admirable craft. You've no idea how rare it is to get to talk to another animator with such devotion to the field, truly." The great dragon heaves a sigh, heavy with the stink of meat and poison.

"Bother, I suppose if I want to discuss it with you further you have to be alive afterwards, or at least intact. Very well, I suppose there's no helping it. I won't join you on your little foray, but if you would look at the workbench to your left, second shelf on the left third row back should be some grey bottles? Those will heal what ails you."

"As for more specific things...hm, yes, I think I can afford this. The workbench to your right, second back, has a black vial on the bottom shelf on the right. It contains an exceedingly valuable toxin, derived from...oh, you don't have the time for me to get into trade secrets. Anyway, it's designed as a spiritual venom to make things that can dodge death do that less. Coat your weapons with it, and Whisper will not be able to escape to another refuge this time - it will weigh her down and drag her to Abaddon."

The dragon grins. It's an uncomfortable sight. "Oh, and for you, cleric - you have nothing of more substance than that bear? Allow me to correct that. A competitor of my own breed recently had the temerity to intrude on my lands, thinking me dormant. I was going to sell his remains for  parts, but if you'd like, you're welcome to the body, it's no great loss to me."

Bristle was about to move toward the work benches to gather the potions and toxins Zedoran had offered when he mentioned the dragon body. She paused mid-step, eyes wide. A look of pure joy was plastered upon her face, like a peasant who had just been given a free mansion. "I- Yes! Yes, I would like those remains very much! Thank you!"

The cleric had been regretting not snatching a few more scraps from Jezelda's lake while they were there, but now she had access to a figurative necromantic smorgasborg! The cleric of Death was excited, to say the least. To her friends, she commented, "If I end up dying during our next venture, please bring my body here. Perhaps my reanimated corpse could help pay back Zedoran over the years for his wonderful gift..."

Hester nodded.  "If I survive and you don't, then I will bring your remains here Bristle." She smiled a smile that had more place on Bristle's own face than her own.

"But let us not worry about that yet. Let us kill the bitch first."