Out of the Abyss, Session 1.4

The Monster Mash

Cast:

Zern- a duergar cleric of Asmodeus. Wizened and experienced, he is nonetheless beginning to doubt his divine quest, now that he's surrounded by idiots. 

Nosey- a half-elf paladin of Ao, who has recently decided to turn over a new leaf and reach out to her fellow refugees. In particular, she is very protective of Topsy & turvy, a pair of svirfneblin twins. 

Frec- a Halfling monk who seems very serious, and says little. No one knows what to make of him.

Kian- a green dragon-born barbarian suffering from some serious amnesia following his capture. 

Angel- a drow ‘cleric’ of Vhaeraun hiding a variety of dark secrets. 

It was a graveyard smash!

The Faerzress sang through Angel’s mind as he dashed across zyrchwood.

He felt it steady pulse in his soul, flickering in time with his Dancing Lights in the distance. The young elf counted the vibrations as he ran, keeping careful pace. It was important, after all. They were on a tight schedule. It was only a matter of time before the camp noticed the escaping prisoners, and they couldn’t afford to get caught before they reached the falls.

But there was no need to worry. A dozen times, Angel felt Mystra’s Weave reach out to him; and a dozen times the Underdark’s wicked lifeblood pounded in protest. Thirty-six then, Angel thought bitterly. Thirty-six seconds. They were making excellent time. At this pace, everyone would probably make it out alive…

Well… almost everyone.

In the distance, the sounds of battle wafted up over the heads of the escapees. It was Buppido and Ront, clearly. From what Angel could tell, the pair of them were fighting at least eight drow and their quaggoth servants. Angel’s Dancing Lights weren’t the only ones hanging above the pair’s heads anymore either: balls of light now covered the south end of camp, sounding alarms left and right. And more drow were coming, flooding out of the barracks to the agonized shrieks of their comrades.  

The caster shivered one such scream cut the night. Bippido’s words from earlier that evening echoed across his mind. ‘Easy to kill.’ ‘Such delicate constitutions…’ Truly, Angel wasn’t sure which group he pitied more: his fellow prisoners, whom he had sent to their deaths? Or perhaps the poor saps who had to fight them first? In either case, he had only himself to blame…

The drow sighed, shaking his head and resuming his counting of the Faerzress. He didn’t have time for this! He had concerns more pressing than stupid feelings… and guilt least of all. That was for bleeding-hearted surface folk! For good-willed fools who didn’t understand… what it took to survive down here!

But Angel was not such a fool.

And his heart was about as far from ‘bleeding’ as it was possible to be.

As the roaring waters of the falls rushed over the assault team, Angel skidded to a halt. He pulled up alongside the handrail and examined the murky depths below. They were utterly unchanged: the landing still clear; the waters, silent as the grave. Good. Excellent. That was just what they needed. The remaining prisoners shuffled up behind the drow in short order. Nosey was the first, having kept pace the entire way despite the two confused svirfneblin she held beneath her arms. She was also, Angel noted with some disquiet, the only refugee who didn’t look worse for the wear.

All of the others followed shortly thereafter, huffing, puffing, and clasping at their sides. Some collapsed onto the zyrchwood, gasping for breath; and everyone was eyeing their leader with looks of displeasure. Inwardly, Angel swore—and did his best to mask his own, unlaboured breathing. Right. Mortals. He’d forgotten how low their endurance could be. It wasn’t a problem he much encountered anymore…

For Angellon Melarn had a secret—a horrible secret:

He was turning into a monster.

In fact, Angel was fairly certain he was turning undead—and had been doing so since the day of his birth. Ever since… Well… that didn’t matter. But his curse was the reason such a lithe elf could sprint across a work camp: he barely needed to breathe these days. It was also the reason he was keeping time with pulses of magic: his own heart beat too infrequently to count. The shadows in his flesh protected him from injury, sealing wounds almost as quickly as mundane weapons could deal them. That was how Angel had stood up against the Velkynvelve guard so long in the first place.

In fact, if not for his curse, Angel doubted he’d have been anywhere near Velkynvelve… He doubted he’d even be a Nightshadow. Likely, he would have been back in Menzoberranzan, sitting pretty on some Matron Mother’s lap. A pampered patron perhaps, instead of a…

(Lich.)

(Monster.)                                         (Neromancer.)

(…Weak-hearted fool!)

“Oi! Elf!”

The sound of a winded dwarven voice echoed up the bridge, and snapped Angel from his brooding. The speaker was Zern Musgardt, who had just pulled up alongside Nosey. The duergar looked utterly exhausted, but was remarkably still kicking. His eyes narrowed as he beheld Angel, clearly noting the drow’s lack of fatigue. Fortunately, if Zern harboured suspicions, he was keeping them to himself:

“All right. We’re here,” he grunted. “Now who’s going over first?”

The cleric’s tone suggested that he was absolutely not volunteering for such a task; and nor did Nosey look too keen at the idea of leaping into the unknown with her two juvenile charges. Since the rest of the refugees looked like drowned rats, it was fairly apparent who they expected to lead them. Thus, with a sigh, Angel regarded the duergar, fully prepared to volunteer…

Unfortunately, there was one more surprise for Angel that night. It was the last, most carefully guarded component of the sorcerer’s curse: its source. And, unfortunately, it chose that precise moment to strike:  

…

…+…~*~…+…

+… ANGEL!!! …+

~*~…+…~*~

…

The voice was ethereal, unnatural—and it had been invading Angel’s mind for the last 119 years! Normally, the contact was a mere annoyance: a backdrop of harp music that the sorcerer scarcely noticed anymore…

But not today. Today, something was amiss. Today, the voice—the phantom’s cry—was amplified, shrieking like entire choir! Shrieking with terror! Angel’s lethargic heart gave a painful throb, and he doubled over, clutching his chest. His words of assurance slurred into an agonized scream—one that matched the cacophony in his head! Shit! This was the worst timing he could possibly imagine! Too many witnesses… and one of them Zern! He couldn’t let… had to regain… control—!

Unfortunately, the voice was still screaming.

In fact, it was getting louder. 

…

…+…~*~…+…

+… ANGEL! Angel, Help! Hurry! …+

~*… I dunno what to do! Stuff’s gone!.…*~

+… Kian’s in trouble and he’s scared and—! …+

~*…And there’re these boxes! And—! ...*~

+… Angel! They’re gonna DIE! …+

~*~…+…~*~

…

‘They’re not the only ones!’, Angel thought bitterly. His heart was pounding, his limbs were numb, and his senses growing dull. His chest had grown so tight, the elf struggled to draw breath. Necromancer or not, the strain would tear him apart if it kept up!

And with each ethereal cry, the pain only intensified. Shit, shit, shit! That idiot spectre was amplifying himself somehow… And however he was doing it, he was drawing too near to the Material Plane!

But the voice in Angel’s head was apparently unaware of these things. It seemed not to know that it was killing the body that hosted its wayward spirit. And, moreover, it had no idea the effect it was having on the startled, surrounding refugees! Somewhere at his rear, Angel was vaguely aware of other people calling his name. Shouts resounded as refugees looked for snipers in the rafters. Crap! Of course, he should have realized. He probably looked like he’d been fucking shot!  Dammit. Those idiots would get themselves killed—and looking for snipers that didn’t exist!!

Argh! Damn that bardic fool!

If something wasn’t done soon, they’d all be dead! And thus, with all the willpower he could muster, Angel blocked out the sensory input of the world around him—the screaming, the shuffling, the blood pounding in his ears. Instead, he turned his focus inward: toward the part of his being where the taint of death burned brightest. Towards…

‘Lazarus!’

Angel choked at the incorporeal voice.

‘Lazarus, stop it! You’re hurting me!’

The effect was, mercifully, immediate.

The ethereal presence—Lazarus—gave a tiny gasp, and withdrew at once. An invisible veil descended back between the two. Between Angel and Lazarus. Between host and houseguest. Between the living… and the dead. With a ‘pop’, the pressure inside Angel’s mind relinquished; the vice inside his chest loosened, and the drow could breathe easily once more. It was as if nothing had been amiss in the first place.

Still doubled over on the zyrchwood, the sorcerer sighed with relief. Thank god. He was all alone in the Material Pane again—as he should be! And, as for Lazarus… The Nightshdow murmured a brief thanks to the incorporeal being who still lingered at the edges of his consciousness. The faintest of whimpers echoed in reply, but it now sounded distant, muted. It echoed, Angel knew, from the Ethereal Plane… the domain of ghosts.

‘Now then,’

Angel thought towards his companion,

“Explain again—calmly this time!

Tell me what’s the matter.’

For a moment, Lazarus hesitated, clearly afraid to do more harm. Then he spoke again, but this time in a whisper. A nice. Safe. Whisper. The little phantom likely had no idea how he had punctured the Material Plane earlier—but he sure as hell wasn’t risking it again!

…

…+…~*~…+…

+… Angel, I’m sorry! …+

~*…  But Kian needs help! …*~

+…He’s in trouble and I like him, Angel.…+

~*…Please say you’ll save him! ...*~

                                                           +… Please! I’ll be good! …+                 

~*~…+…~*~

…

Lazarus’ voice was quieter now, but its tearful quality carried even across the planes between them. Dammit. That bloody fool.  When would Lazarus learn his lesson about compassion? It was compassion that got the two of them into this mess! Compassion that had left Lazarus dead… and Angel a monster. But, despite the circumstances (the pain, the danger, the hypocritical statements about good-willed fools and their bleeding hearts…), Angel found he couldn’t refuse the phantom. He couldn’t refuse his…

‘Fine,’ the Nightshadow sighed,

‘I’ll save Kian. Now go away, Lazarus.

People are staring at us…’

That was greeted with a ‘Yipe!’ and a curt ‘Yes sir!’ from the Ethereal Plane. Then Lazarus’ sparkling presence was gone. And, though it pained him to admit, Angel lamented the quiet void left in its wake. ‘Someday, Laz,’ the elf thought bitterly to himself. ‘Someday, we’ll be together…’

But not today. Today, there were more pressing matters at hand. And thus, taking only a moment to catch his breath Angel opened his eyes and glanced up to a pair of worried stares. Zern and Nosey, to no one’s surprise, were looming over their injured teammate. Cute. Sweet. Goddamn them. Shaking the pair off, Angel drew to his feet—and thanked Vhaeraun they were mercifully steady!

“I’m fine,” the drow said at once, answering the divine duo’s unasked question. He glanced between duergar and half-elf, gaze cold as ice. Even if he was giving in to Lazarus’… eccentricities… he sure as hell didn’t have to let his teammates know about it! He still had a reputation to uphold, after all. “But the stealth team’s not. They’re in trouble,” he continued curtly, “Don’t ask how I know; but it suffices to say that I’m the only one that can help them. And that means—!” he added, staring down both acolytes, “that you two have to lead!”

…

Zern Musgardt was not one to blaspheme…  But…

By the Bouncing Balls of the Overgod! Asmodeus must be insane!

Zern had asked for guidance. He had asked for signs. And, what had he been sent? A crazy ‘paladin’, claiming she could summon the powers of Ao! A cry-baby barbarian with some kind of memory loss! A monk who hadn’t said two words before they began! A ragtag bunch of misfits, who looked more likely to keel over than to be of any use. And, to top it all off: the only refugee with any redeeming, devious qualities… had just screamed bloody murder and run away into the shadows.

If this was the ‘dream team’ Asmodeus had seen fit to assign his Chosen, then Zern had a few bones to pick with his new patron deity…

Particularly since, at the moment, Zern was standing over a hole. In fact, he was standing over a rather deep hole at the edge of a waterfall. Oh, Zern could see to the bottom, all right. And that was saying something, because the duergar was fairly certain he was the only one in his ‘assault team’ who could make such a claim. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was his damn teammates! Somewhere to his left, ‘Nosey’ was screaming about protecting her “babies”. And somewhere to his rear, the gaggle of other prisoners were all moaning and blubbering—they sounded about ready to start a riot! Zern was not particularly happy about any of it. Especially since, in Angel’s absence, it looked like he was going to be leading the charge over the Hells-forsaken waterfall! Argh, it was infuriating…

As the idiots around him continued to make a ruckus, Zern stared ruefully into the darkness. He eyed the  place where their token drow had disappeared, but of course Angel was long gone by now. That boy was a strange specimen… strange indeed! First he hadn’t even broken a sweat on the mad dash over here. Then he’d suddenly collapsed, clutching his chest like he was having a bloody heart attack! Hell, Zern had thought for a moment that the dumbass had drawn sniper fire! And then he was gone again. Without a word. Without an explanation… Now, Zern might not know much about elves, but he was pretty damn sure that was abnormal. Especially since the other elf in the group (he cast a furtive glance at Nosey) seemed equally confused! Argh, did the gods ever work in mysterious ways…

In any case, now was not the time to be worrying about it. Zern was on his own here—and he was not going to miss his one chance at escape! Not to the likes of friggin elves and their drama!

“Oi!” Zern called, glancing up from the railing and regarding the chaos at his rear. “Who needs that damned elf? Now I’m getting out of here with or without him. Who’s coming with me?”

At first, there were no takers. In fact, at first an awkward hush fell about the group of nervous prisoners. But then, from the back row, a growling voice spoke up: “I’ll go, then!” The speaker, to Zern’s surprise, was Derendil—the crazy quaggoth who fancied himself a drow nobleman. He drew up beside the duergar (and Zern, to his credit, did a bang-up job of not looking intimidated) and clapped him on the shoulder. “We noblemen are the ones who lead charges, right? And if my kinsman was brave enough to sally forth into the unknown, then I shan’t disappoint!”

A thousand colourful insults danced on the tip of Zern’s tongue, but he bit them back with incredible force of will. This cleric had seen a lot of strange things in his day, but this bloke was just too much! He didn’t care what Derendil fancied himself—there was no way in Asmodeus’ Hells that any self-respecting drow would talk like that! And a noble least of all! Then again, beggars couldn’t be choosers…

“All right, fine,” Zern mumbled, grabbing the quaggoth by the arm. Then, with a dirty glance at Nosey, the pair leapt over the edge. The fall was actually quite a bit farther than Zern had expected. In fact, about forty feet down, the duergar’s mind flashed momentarily with panic: What if this was all a trick? What if it wasn’t a coincidence that Angel had disappeared, just when it came time to jump the falls? After all, it was mighty strange that such a high-ranking drow had been captured in the first place… Could he have been a plant? It was possible, it was possible! But then… what drow would have the balls to feign heresy? Why, that meant death in their society! Or maybe they were all just a distraction! While Angel took a third route out of the camp! …But the only other way out was the lift and—! Argh!

Sploosh!

By the time Zern hit the water, all his paranoia was gone. Well, almost all of it. For the landing was clear, and the pond plenty deep, just as Angel had promised. Instead, a new wave of panic rose to the surface of the cleric’s mind: Asmodeus’ teeth! What the Hells was he thinking!? He hadn’t been out to swim in Dark Lake since he was a wee lad! Pathetically, the duergar flailed his exhausted limbs, trying desperately to figure out which way was up!

Fortunately, swimming wasn’t as hard as he had remembered. In fact, it was almost as if the water itself was giving him a little boost! As if it was gently lifting him to the surface, rising along with the dwarf as his feet sank into its… sticky… semi-solid…

Oh, crap.

When Zern at last broke the surface of the water, it was to a passionate round of shrieking —all of it Derendil’s, of course. And the reason for the quaggoth’s blubbering couldn’t have been more apparent:

This was not water in which the duo was wading. This was an ooze. In fact, this was a massive grey ooze, fat from the years of refuse it must have eaten out of Velkynvelve’s lake. At the moment, it had Derendil almost up to the ribs, and the quaggoth was screaming bloody murder! (Presumably as his flesh was being sheared from the bone, so Zern supposed he couldn’t blame the poor fellow.) Fortunately, that meant the beast hadn’t quite noticed Zern. The duergar had apparently earned a free ride without yet drawing the monster’s ire… Though, he had no doubt he would be next! Just above, the other prisoners were shrieking in terror—nearly as loudly as Derendil, actually. The quaggoth’s screams must have alerted them that something was amiss. Nosey, notably, was leaning over the edge of the railing, her 'children' set down at her side. She was shouting into the darkness, calling Zern’s name. In fact, she looked about ready to jump the falls herself if she didn’t get an answer…

Dammit.

This was all very inconvenient!

And, to make matters worse: Derendil’s screams were now becoming ineffective gurgles. Hmm, so he was almost dead, then. Damn. That meant Zern was almost out of time… (Compassion for the quaggoth was, of course, not a factor.) Argh, this situation just kept getting worse! And, no sooner had Zern thought such a thing, the gurgling stopped. Shit.

The ooze turned… er… well it did a sort of swishy thing in the water. And Zern supposed that was like turning. In any case, the beast suddenly seemed to… regard the duergar standing atop its… er… head? (Ooze anatomy was a complicated thing!) With a great sloshing of its gelatinous form, the beast reared upon the surface of the water. Then, it did the most terrifying thing Zern Musgardt could possibly imagine: It spoke.

‘FLESH FOR THE FACELESS LORD!’ the grey ooze screamed—telepathically, Zern supposed. Then again, Zern wasn’t supposing any too hard at the moment. In fact, as the creature launched into attack, as it grabbed at the duergar’s ankles and prepared to swallow him whole…

There was only one thing the humble cleric could think of doing:

Pray!

…

Kian twiddled his claws, anxiety increasing.

Dammit! 

The dragonborn was truly starting to question his own sanity. Surely, the stress had all gone to his head! He’d finally cracked! That was why he was hearing voices, and entertaining crazy notions of escape… of rescue… There was no way anyone was coming for them. Of course there wasn’t. He and Frec were doomed to die here, trapped in their indecision. Or they would caught by the guards, as soon as they turned around. What had he been thinking? It had been foolish to come here in the first place! Now, would Kian reveal them both? In a mad rage? When he inevitably snapped? That sounded plausible, right? At least more so than magic rescuers, or angelic messengers…?  

Kian wasn’t sure. He hadn’t been sure about many things lately. Not since whatever horrible circumstances had caused his capture—had wiped his memory. The wildest things seemed like good ideas, when one had lost one’s identity. Like raging. Raging seemed like a great idea. Or hearing voices. He’d done well by that notion today! Like having… hope. But if Kian was sure of one thing, it was this:

No one was coming for him. (Of course not. Who would rescue you?)

No one ever came for him. (Your own best friend abandoned you here.)

That was not his life. (Betrayed… by your…)

‘KIAN!’

The dragonborn suddenly startled as a new voice cut across his consciousness. For a moment, the barbarian’s heart pounded in his chest, and his mind whirled into a panic. By Kord’s mighty Blade! Had they been spotted? Were they about to be—!?

Then, a breath later, the great warrior relaxed. No, it couldn’t be the guards. They’d never call a prisoner by name. And, moreover… that voice sounded familiar…

Kian glanced from side to side, scrutinising the surrounding darkness. It took him several seconds, but at last the barbarian spied what he was looking for: a pair of blood-red eyes, glowing with annoyance. There could be no mistaking them.

Angel sighed as Kian met his gaze. His breath fluttered a black half-mask—the one Zern had salvaged earlier—which now obscured the lower portion of his face. Kian wasn’t quite certain when the drow had arrived, for he had heard no one enter. Then again… (you weren’t really paying attention!) At his side, Angel’s left hand was flying in a series of arcane-looking gestures. A moment later, his tenor voice rang in Kian’s mind, heavy with irritation:

 ‘About time!’ the drow hissed telepathically. He was clearly using the same spell he had cast during work duty. ‘I’ve been shouting at you for ages, you great oaf!’

Kian felt himself flush slightly at that accusation. He had no doubt it was true. He’d been so consumed in his own panic… (his own memories)…he’d lost contact with the surrounding world for a while. But, there was nothing the barbarian could do about that now. At least he hadn’t gotten them caught…

Kian blinked around at the scene—and was thankful to see that the guards were still terribly distracted. Then he glanced down at his own hands, wishing ruefully he could cast magic… maybe then he could respond—explain!

‘Message is a two-way spell, idiot,’ Angel’s voiced sighed, ‘Just think back.’

Oh. Well. That made things remarkably easy! Ignoring the insult, Kian screwed up his face in concentration (across the way, Angel rolled his eyes). ‘Angel!’ he mentally yelled with surprise, ‘How did you know we were in trouble?’

Now it was Angel’s turn to look flustered.

‘D-don’t worry about that,’ he said dismissively, ‘Just tell me what’s going on!’

Confused, but pressed for time, Kian shrugged. He’d clearly hit a nerve… not that he’d meant to. But, in any case, it would have to wait till later. Right now, they needed to sort out this gear—and get the hell out of dodge! As succinctly as he could manage, the urchin summed up what he and Frec had discovered: the cart was gone, their gear was lost. There were, however, a few crates remaining…

At the mention of crates, Angel’s eyes flicked toward the far wall, where the boxes lay stacked. ‘Standard Commission,’ he read easily, scanning the complex glyphs, ‘Likely the gear they issue their Hunters. Actually… we could make use of these. They should at least contain basic arms.’

Kian nodded, solemnly.

All their gear really was gone, then. Kian didn’t have many worldly possessions—other than Mark the Mouse. (And… frankly the barbarian’s stomach churned uncomfortably any time he considered his lost pet…) But it was still a resounding disappointment. Losing their gear meant no gold, no identification—no clothing, potentially! Then again, there was nothing they could do. And Angel was right, much though it hurt to admit: poor gear was better than no gear. When Kian looked up again, the drow in question was signing at Frec, clearly conveying the plan to the Halfling. Sighing softly, Kian moved into position, ready to grab a crate once Angel gave the command. The elf gave another wave of his arm, and an incorporeal hand appeared on the air. But this one was not like Angel had conjured this morning. This one was a glove made of pure shadow.

 ‘Mage Hand,’ he explained, answering Kian’s unspoken question. ‘So we needn’t make multiple trips. Now, grab a crate and run. We don’t have time to dawdle. We need to catch the others at the falls!’

At his side, the dragonborn saw Frec nod curtly, twitching with eager energy. Kian, on the other hand, till had his reservations. ‘But… what about food? And water?’ he thought back at Angel.‘Shouldn’t we stop by the mess hall?’  

The drow shuffled uncomfortably at the suggestion, for reasons Kian couldn’t quite fathom. ‘No,’ Angel replied with a note of finality, ‘We don’t have the time. It’s too risky.’

‘But—!’

‘Kian!’ Angel yelled abruptly. The dragonborn was so shocked by the sound, he nearly tripped over a zyrchwod crate. He glanced back over his shoulder, fully prepared to give the drow a piece of his mind! Angel, however, was no longer in position. Instead, he hovered a pace behind: eyes closed, and his face lined with pain. His right hand was massaging his temples, while he held the left strangely close to his chest.

  For a moment, Kian thought he might be injured, and debated moving into the open to lend his aid. Before he could make his decision, however, Angel’s mask rippled with a shaky breath, and he opened his crimson eyes once more. ‘Kian, I know this is asking a lot, but please trust me,’ the drow whispered, his magical voice suddenly much quieter than it had been before. ‘I know my way around the Underdark,’ he continued, ‘And I promise: if you listen to me now, you will not go hungry.’

The barbarian’s hands twitched at his sides as conflict warred in his mind. Trust a drow? It was the damned drow who had captured him. Who had mocked his notions of faith, and trust. Who had—! (Who had… what?) Well… that didn’t matter. But to take this leap of faith would be insane! And yet—!

And yet…

(Who are you to call others crazy?)

(You who listen to little voices in your head.)

Slowly, the dragonborn felt his head nod of its own accord. ‘OK, Angel…’ he thought back at the elf, ‘Just this once… I’ll trust you.’

Judging by the look on the acolyte’s face, he was just as surprised as was Kian.

…

Meanwhile, Zern was praying—praying his arse off!

He was surrounded on all sides now: ooze above, ooze below, ooze everywhere! There was only one hope left. It was unlikely to save them… unlikely as Hell! But, by all that was unholy, Zern was not going to lay down and die—not without a fight! That was the duergar way. Besides, if all of this really was part of Asmodeus’ grand plan… well…

Then presumably this would work!

Thus, brandishing his holy symbol like a sword, Zern murmured the words of the most detestable spell he could imagine: Guiding Bolt. It was an old spell, dating back to a time when his people had walked the likes of the…(Eugh!)…Surface! And it was everything Zern was not. Where he was careful, it was sloppy. While he was wicked to the core, it had a bit of goodness about it. And, where Zern walked in darkness, this spell was made entirely of—!

Sparkling light

swirled around the duergar as he chanted.

It was a disgusting—a mockery of the darkness in his soul! But it came to the duergar nonetheless, just as easily as any other spell in his arsenal. Like—like it wanted to help him! To save him! Argh! But the whole affair was sickening! But Zern continued the chant, and in mere seconds light filled the air around him. It gathered in the centre of the nine-pointed star, making it shine like a torch. Then, preparations completed, Zern closed his eyes.

As he uttered the last words of his prayer, he braced himself for an acidy demise…

Light exploded across the cavern.

It blasted across the lake, in a wide radius burst so bright it burned Zern even through his eyelids! Bloody spell… why did it have to be so damn powerful now? So damned bright? Would it mock him all the way to Hell? But then the entire cavern shook—shook with an unnatural shriek of pain! And Zern was momentarily surprised! For, that wail was not his own! In fact… it seemed to have come from…

No.

It was impossible!

Peeking with one squinted eye, Zern beheld the dark grotto. It was still terribly bright all around him, Guiding Bolt still lingering upon the air. He glanced to and fro across the uncomfortable illumination, looking for his foe. Looking for the slimy tentacle! The one that would surely attack! Surely! Any moment now… But no attack came. And no attack would come. In fact…

A little ways in the distance, the surface of the lake made an unnatural bubbling noise. Upon its surface, the grey ooze floated—or at least, what was left of it! For, in fact the ooze was dead! Its gelatinous body squished and burbled, smouldering in the wake of Zern’s radiant attack. The great monster had been felled… by a single spell! By a low level spell! It—why, it was a miracle! Still standing atop the slowly-sinking corpse, Zern fell to his knees, hands raised high unto the darkness above.

And, as the stealth team skidded to a halt above, it was to one more resounding cry—one which shook the very stalactites of Velkynvelve itself:

“PRAISE LORD ASMODEUS!!!”

Zern Musgardt would never doubt his faith again.