Chronicle: Session 17, End of Arc 1

With a stifled gasp, Tsalta runs to Bobby and falls to her knees beside him, frantically searching for even the faintest sign of life. She finds none. He’s motionless, already cold to the touch, his body riddled with bruises and lacerations, one of his arms all-too-obviously broken. He’s no pretty sight. No matter how much Tsalta disliked him, gods, she’d never wish on him a fate like this.

“Uh, Tsalta…” Nothing’s gaze is trained on the Gnomish message on the floor. She knows she’s the only one in the room who can read it. Oh, she really doesn’t want to have to tell her this, but it’s pretty important that she know. Tsalta sees the kid’s pained expression, and braces for what she really already knows is coming. “What does it say?”

Nuth tells her. No-one directly mentions Rosa in the conversation that ensues, but she’s there between the lines as the party agree that it’s probably pretty vital that we get a move on and find a way to pass the barrier. (Fergus investigates it, chipping away the stone to the side, and discovers that the magical surface moves in to fill the gap.)

Faeleth hangs back, looking around for any clues that might explain what happened here, any signs of a struggle. There’s no marks that indicate that the fatal altercation was in this room, but just beyond the barrier she sights faint smears of blood on the steps, and the story they tell isn’t pleasant. Bobby must have dragged himself here on his hands and knees, likely using the last of his strength to draw up the barrier behind him and leave that final message before succumbing to his wounds.

Nothing scuffs out one of the chalk runes by her feet, and watches as the barrier ripples in response. When the distortion passes, she’s pretty sure it’s a little more translucent than it was before. She points it out to the others - it’ll probably fade if all the runes are cleared away, so she starts to scuff out the others.

As she does, Faeleth shares what she’s deduced with Tsalta. It doesn’t sit easily with her - “Hold on, Nuth, think. Why did he put up this barrier?” She temporarily stops her efforts, but...let’s be real, here. He probably cast it to try and protect himself from whatever attacked him. He left a message, so he felt there was a chance he’d be found here.

Tsalta’s still concerned. What if whatever killed him comes for us when we take the barrier down? It’s hard to deny that it is a possibility, but still there’s only one logical way forward here, what choice do we really have? Turn back? No. We’re here now. The clock is ticking.

But perhaps a little caution can’t hurt. Let’s see how Cerios is doing, at least. Tsalta pulls out the box containing his stone of farspeech, and when she opens it the party hear the distant sounds of clashing blades and battle-cries. “That’s no bar fight,” murmurs Fergus. On a closer listen, they can hear guttural jackalwere snarls - the assault on the ruins is probably underway, and if the battle plan is all going as intended that means the demon hunters are close by.

Well, there’s no way to communicate with the squad right now. The best that can be done is keeping the stone tucked behind Tsalta’s ear, so she can listen in on the battle and know whether they prevail. “I guess we keep going, then,” Tsalta says, resigned. The last of the runes is scrubbed away under Nothing’s boot and the barrier flickers, then vanishes. There’s a rush of air from the stairwell as it dissipates, it whistles down the tunnel like a sudden gale. In its wake, all is still and quiet once more.

Before she leaves, Tsalta kneels by Bobby’s body one last time. She unclasps his cloak and slips one tiny ring off of his finger, ignoring the odd look this gains her from Nothing - is she seriously *looting* Bobby? (She’s not.)

The party look up at the dark stairwell looming before them. It’s time, isn’t it?

Up they go, falling into single file as the rough stone steps grow narrower, the ceiling lower, until Tsalta’s forced to stoop and Faeleth’s ears are brushing the top of the stairwell. At the top of the steps is a short tunnel, blocked off by a featureless wooden panel.

Nothing peers around Tsalta’s side, frowning at this strange obstruction. What is that? A door? A trap? Tsalta uses the head of her warhammer to give the panel a careful push. It’s heavier than she expected, but it does give...then catches, as though latched or locked. She relays this to the others, then looks to Nothing - can she burn it?

“I can burn it.” Leaning around Tsalta, wand arm outstretched, Nothing casts forth a flash of dark flame that blasts a smoldering hole into the wood. Through the hole, blazing books go flying - and from the other side of the panel, there’s snarls and shouts as the bookcase catches fire.

It’s safe to say that the party’s presence has been noticed.

Tsalta kicks down the bookcase-door, revealing a room swarming with jackalweres, all of them rushing to take up arms. But they don’t attack straight away, no - they step away to either side of the room, all the better to let the Collector get a good view of her unexpected guests.

Against the back wall, reclining on her opulent chaise longue, the Collector looks up and smiles a smile that doesn’t even begin to touch her eyes. Her gaze is icy, and there’s something even more chilling about her lilting, harmonic voice to hear it in person. *“Ah, my dears. I knew you were coming, but…”* she tilts her head a little as she eyes the burning bookcase, *“I didn’t expect you to arrive this way.”* She shakes her head as she laughs quietly to herself, leaning back and giving the party a slow clap of mock congratulation.

“Neither did we, to be fair…” Tsalta says with an impressive amount of nonchalance as she nocks a silver arrow, draws, and fires at one of the jackalweres. As one, they charge, and all hell breaks loose.

One jackalwere staggers back with the fur and flesh of his shoulder seared and smoking from a streak of Nothing’s arcane flame. Another meets Fergus’ silvered blade as the dwarf throws himself furiously into the fray, the wound sizzling as it tries to push away its assailant. Despite knowing full well that repeated punches in the head don’t do much to these creatures, it certainly doesn’t stop Fergus from trying, and under the onslaught of his hammering fists the jackalwere pulls away…and it really should have looked to see who was behind it. Faeleth thrusts her rapier neatly up through the side of its jaw and out through its temple on the other side. The jackalwere crumples as she withdraws her blade and brings it around to slash across the chest of another, parrying its scimitar with ease.

For a exhilarating moment, it seems as though the party might carve their way through the lot of them - and where would the Collector be, then, without her retinue? Unfortunately, it’s only a moment. It’s uncanny how fast the tide turns.

Glowing yellow eyes surround Fergus as the crowd of jackalweres advance on him. For every eerie gaze he averts his eyes from he finds himself caught staring into another. With every ounce of willpower he’s got, he fights back - he won’t sleep, not this time, he’s wise to their tricks! But one of them manages to hold eye contact for just a moment too long, and no amount of determination can push away the sluggishness as it washes over him and pulls him under. His staff slips from his fingers, clattering on the stone tiles as Fergus falls in a heap to the floor.

A pair of jackalweres run at Tsalta with a net, and they cackle as they throw it over her and pull her to the ground, struggling against the mesh of ropes. Across the room, the lamia begins to murmur an incantation, the air shimmering around her hand as she raises it and points at Faeleth.

Faeleth looks up in time to see the Collector snap her fingers, and then she sees no more - the world goes pitch black and utterly silent. She can’t even hear herself breathing. The faint rush of air is all that alerts her to the scimitar arcing down towards her, and she only narrowly ducks the oncoming blade...into a pair of rough, clawed hands that grab her, and wrest her down onto the cold stone.

Nothing looks around - at Tsalta, thrashing in the net as she’s dragged across the room. Fergus, collapsed and surrounded. Faeleth, with her frantic wide-eyed unseeing stare, nearly slipping free of the jackalwere’s grip before it snatches her wrists and pins her to the floor.

Shit, shit, shit. If she can just thin the ranks, Nothing thinks, she can kick Fergus awake and maybe they can still take them all on… Two of the dog-men look messed up pretty bad already, so if she hits them with a Scorching Ray, then-

-that plan goes sour as fast as you can say “counterspell”. The Lamia raises her hand and Nothing’s wand chokes out a stifled sputter of embers. The Collector laughs softly under her breath, her smile only now reaching her eyes as they flash with amusement. The jackalweres laugh too. The one she burned before turns his sickly yellow gaze on her, and Nothing crumples as consciousness deserts her.

Everything has gone just about as wrong as it could have gone. As the Collector watches with a wry smile, the jackalweres strip the sleeping party members of their belongings and throw them into cells. Faeleth feels her rapier wrenched from her grasp, and she struggles fruitlessly against clawed hands that hold her down, unable to fight back as the jackalweres divest her of her weapons and gear. They don’t get it all, though. Even without her sight, Faeleth succeeds in twisting and turning such that they don’t catch sight of one silver dagger that she tucks away inside her clothing. It’s not much, but at least it’s something.

Tsalta is hauled across the room, and as she’s pulled around the corner she sees the cells - rows of cages, packed with children. Halflings, elves, dwarves, humans - tens upon tens of filthy, terrified little faces watch as Tsalta is dragged to a cell of her own. She thrashes in the net, frantically trying to look for a child who could be her little girl, her Rosa. Did she sight a flash of auburn hair? She can’t tell - it could just have been her own braids in her peripheral vision, she can’t find it again.

*“I’ve seen the things you can do with this hair of yours...”* The jackalweres stop dragging their captive and snicker in anticipation. The lamia pads over, and lowers herself down beside Tsalta, her huge paws folded over one another as she smiles down serenely. The jackalweres pull back enough of the net to reach in and haul out Tsalta’s hair, which the Collector gathers over one arm. With her free hand, she draws an all too familiar curved and jagged dagger. *“There’s an easy way to solve this problem.”*

It’s swift and unceremonious. With each hissing pass of the blade, another skein of Tsalta’s treasured auburn locks falls away to the stone. The jackalweres sift through the severed braids, throwing any belongings they find there with the others in a pile across the room. (There are some small mercies. The Collector is not thorough. She doesn’t trouble with cutting away the braids that frame Tsalta’s face, unconcerned with the little beads and baubles woven into them - her father’s heirloom bead remains with her. Nor does the lamia catch sight of the stone of farspeech tucked away in the plait above her ear.)

And then she’s dragged into the cell, the door slamming closed behind her, as the room fills with the acrid scent of Tsalta’s hair as it is burned away to cinders.

Out in the main chamber, the runes on the archway glow to life with a soft blue light.

--

A whole hour. That’s how long Faeleth spends robbed of sound and sight, huddled in the corner of the cell. The dagger secreted away under her clothes is scant comfort - it’s little use to her like this. She sits motionless, alone in the silent dark, breathing fast and shallow. A whole hour.

Fergus slowly stirs to consciousness, blinking as he takes in the sight of Tsalta, her auburn mane reduced to an uneven nape-length mess, slumped disconsolate against the bars. She looks so much smaller somehow, like she’s lost some integral part of what made her...her. Even having known her for such a short time, Fergus can guess at how much her hair meant - to grow and maintain those braids would have taken years upon years. He sits up, and asks what happens.

“Well,” Tsalta says, “they didn’t kill us while you were asleep.” There doesn’t seem to be any rancor in her tone, just dull resignation. She pauses for a moment, gazing listlessly out at the glowing gate, and sighs. “I suppose that part’s yet to come.”

It’s hard to deny the situation looks pretty dire. Fergus crosses his legs and props his chin on his hand. “At least if I’d died in my sleep I’d not have known about it.”

Nothing doesn’t even notice that Faeleth is sharing her cell when she wakes up - she springs to her feet and throws herself furiously at the bars, kicking and screaming all manner of obscenities. “NO. No, no, no, this isn’t happening! Fuck! What the fuck happened?” she shouts, arguably at Tsalta and Fergus, though in truth it’s more of a general lament.

One of the jackalweres nearby takes notice of the sudden commotion. He prowls over, drawing the tip of his scimitar over the bars as he passes - though to Nothing’s satisfaction he steps back to keep her cell at arm’s length. “Shut up, or I’ll gut you where you stand,” he growls, and she falls silent, glowering.

With her aimless fury spent, and no other options left, Nuth throws herself back down onto the floor of the cell - and finally notices that she’s not alone. “Faeleth?” she asks, “Faeleth, are you okay?” She certainly doesn’t look okay - she doesn’t look up, she doesn’t respond at all. “Faeleth?” Nothing reaches out gingerly to tap her on the shoulder, and Faeleth jolts like she’s been stung, shrinking back from her touch.

“What’s wrong with her?” Nothing looks around to Tsalta, who shakes her head with a sad, soft sigh.

“I don’t know what she did to her, Nuth. Try putting her hand on your horns, so she knows it’s you.” Nothing takes Faeleth’s hand - she resists for a moment, then lets herself be guided so her fingertips meet the crooked grooves of Nothing’s left horn. “It’s me, yeah?” Nuth reassures, despite knowing the words of comfort won’t reach her, “It’s okay, it’s fine, it’s just me.” A fraction of the tension dissipates from Faeleth’s posture. Her hand lingers on Nothing’s face for a few seconds longer, just to ground herself - that’s Nuth’s hair, there’s the point of her ear. (It’s a strange and quite uncomfortable experience for Nothing, who doesn’t know exactly what to do about this unexpected physical contact. She sits there and bears it, for Faeleth’s sake.)

*“It’s time to begin,”* says the Collector, poised beside the archway. *“Bring the first child.”*

There’s little the party can do to intervene as the Collector’s plans are put into motion. The first group of children - a trio of halflings - are wrested from one of the cages and marched across the room by the jackalweres. Tsalta reaches out through the bars to them as they go by, offering reassurance, asking if they’re okay. Their wide eyes turn to her, one opens their mouth as though to speak but the jackalwere gives them a rough shove forward, and they hurry away.

The first of the children is brought forward, trembling as she grabs his wrist and roughly turns his hand to display the open palm, and the halfling lets out a stifled whimper as the Collector draws her dagger across his hand and presses it to the archway. The blue light of the runes shifts colour, the entryway swirls and illuminates - both in a vivid yellow.

*“Check,”* says the Collector, and a jackalwere steps forward and leans into the light, his head and torso vanishing through the portal. When he withdraws, he shakes his head. It’s not that one. She pulls the child’s hand away, and with a flick of her wrist the runes one after another return to that pulsing pale blue, the portal dimming.

And so that process repeats - bringing forth child after child to cut their palm and smear the blood upon the stone and stoke the runes to life in some new shade of yellow. Every time it is declared unsuccessful.

As another group of halflings is pulled out, Nothing finally sees a familiar face. Trailing at the back is Sally - her clothes dirty, her upper arms sporting rows of dark bruises from the jackalweres’ grip when she was dragged before the scrying pool. Half in panic, half in relief just to see her alive, Nuth rushes towards the bars, calling out Sally’s name. Sally turns, and her eyes go wide with fear as she sees Nothing’s face - she quickly turns her back and all but shoves to the front of the line just to put distance between the two of them.

Tsalta sees Nothing’s face fall. “Don’t,” she says, as the tiefling opens her mouth to call out again. She keeps her voice gentle but firm, “You don’t want to cause any more harm to her by making a stir. Don’t.”

Nothing looks to Tsalta and back to Sally, and makes a choked little sound of distress, but obeys and says no more. Gods, she wishes she’d lied to the kid at Moira’s instead of being a fucking idiot and trying to explain in a way that made her sound completely insane. She should have kept her close, she shouldn’t have let her out of her sight. Nuth watches Sally step forward, presenting her hand to the lamia and allowing the blade to cut into her skin with only a wordless wince, utterly unresistant.

Meanwhile, Faeleth finds her senses returning to her - slowly, but even the muffled sound of voices and the blurry return of the room’s dim lighting is received like air to a person drowning. As the world resolves back into focus around her, she gasps, “I can see!” The others turn away from the spectacle at the archway at the sound of her voice after Faeleth’s long silence. Tsalta gives the elf a rueful smile. Much as she’d like to welcome her back, she’s only got bad news: we’re stuck here and they took all our stuff.

Not *all* our stuff: Faeleth covertly allows the party a glimpse of her carefully concealed dagger.

The testing of the children continues - the Collector has moved on to the dwarves, their blood turning the runes a deep crimson red. And yet she’s not finding what she seeks - with every failed attempt she grows more restless, her tail twitching in irritation.

“Oi!” Nothing steps forward, taking hold of the bars of her cage and leaning in all the better to make herself seen, and shouts, “Why not try me, eh? Give me a go, who knows, maybe my blood‘d do something! Or are you savin’ me for someone?”

That gains her the Collector’s personal attention. She motions to her lackeys to keep hold of the children, and she pads over to Nothing’s cell until they’re face-to-face. She laughs a low, soft laugh. Her golden tresses sway as she shakes her head. *“My dear, I am not foolish enough to test the blood of Mammon’s herald.”*

“Worth a try, though, weren’t it?” Nothing manages to hold her voice steady, keeps her chin held high, returning the Collector’s gaze with a smirk that makes her look far bolder than she feels. What would she have done if she’d been let out, anyway? Run for the pile of stuff and hope she found her wand there? Ugh.

The children in the cages shrink away from the bars as the lamia prowls by, and the sight of it makes Tsalta’s heart ache for the poor wee things. She begins to sing. It’s an old dwarven tune for calling in the cows for the evening - her father used to sing it to her as a girl in his gruff baritone when she was sad or having trouble sleeping. She hopes the wordless rolling melody, rising and falling, might help to soothe them a little as it did for her. It’s not much, but it’s all she can do. The dwarven children take note first - it is a Fryberg folk song, after all, and some of the little faces are the spitting image of people Tsalta knew from home. A few begin to hum along quietly, and soon many of the children’s attention is trained on Tsalta as she sings, drawing what comfort they can from this small kind distraction.

As the Collector stalks back to her place by the archway, Nothing turns to Faeleth, and asks, “Was that...his name? My, you know.” It feels weird asking her. But also it’s felt weird for days *wanting* to ask her about her family, so. “My dad?”

Before Faeleth can even answer, deep and dark and *irritated*, a voice sounds inside Nothing’s head so loudly that she jumps and exclaims aloud. *“IT IS ME, YOU FOOL.”*

“Oh! Okay.” She’d never asked! She quickly retracts her question - “Actually, Faeleth, don’t worry about it.” And the voice rumbles again, this time more quietly. *“Give me time to prepare.”* She can feel him more keenly now than ever, her patron - Mammon, she called him - it’s almost a blurring of where she ends and he begins. There’s her hatred of the Collector, oh, she feels that. But the seething, the bitter disgust that courses through her, so all-encompassing that she can do little but stand and tremble with fury...no, that’s not coming from her.

“Are you alright?” Faeleth places a careful hand on Nothing’s shaking shoulder. She shakes her head - yes? No. She’s not sure. She’s feeling a lot right now, sorry, but it’s...good. She thinks it’s good. Help is coming.

Still more children are herded to the gate. An hour passes. More dwarves. An hour passes. More halflings - Nuth sees Oscar, she sees Pip, little Tim. The last cage is close to emptied, the final group mainly comprised of young humans.

There’s no mistaking the resemblance when the party catch sight of the girl with the auburn hair. There’s only one person any of them knows with curls of that colour and texture, and the set of her features is oh-so-familiar. Nothing looks to Tsalta, mouthing '*is that her?'.* Tsalta looks back with eyes already welling with tears even as she doesn’t stop singing. It’s Rosa, it has to be.

And if there was any doubt that this is Tsalta’s little girl, Rosa’s next course of action quite thoroughly cements that she is her mother’s daughter. She takes the first few steps out of her cell, before bringing her elbow back hard into the jackalwere’s gut, causing him to double over wheezing - but as she turns to run, a second dog-man steps across her path and shoves her forward hard enough to make her stagger. And at the same time, behind Tsalta’s ear, a voice whispers low and urgent - “Where are you? We’re ready.”

She whispers back, “With her. Help please, castle, castle, castle.”

She hears one long exasperated sigh, and then a rallying cry - “ASSAULT!” - the stone of farspeech cracks and crumbles into a fine scattering of dust on her shoulder. Moments later, from outside the walls, everyone hears the battle-cry of the demon hunters as they begin their charge.

And for the first time, the Collector truly loses her composure. She stands to full attention, tail lashing and claws unsheathing as her head whips round towards the commotion, barking an order to the jackalweres - *stop them!* (Apparently, the language our dear Collector uses to address her lackeys in this moment is in fact too colourful to repeat. Goodness gracious. Such foul language from such an angelic face.)

As she does, just for a moment, everything flickers. The room is in ruins - daylight filters through the crumbling walls, and beyond the demon hunters’ clash with the jackalweres outside is clear to see. Then it’s gone - the walls solid and whole again, as the Collector composes herself.

If there’s any time to try to make an escape, it’s now, but how?

From behind Fergus, there’s a screaming howl as a jackalwere is launched head-first *through* the wall behind him, emerging from the solid stone to connect with the bars of the cell with such force he can *see* its spine snap, jutting awfully between its shoulderblades. Then another tumbles across the top of the cell to skid lifeless across the stone. The party all catch one another’s eye - okay, that wall there is one hundred percent illusion.

In hope of finding some area of the bars that is also illusion, Tsalta reaches her arm out towards that back wall...and feels a tiny hand reach up and take hers. Confused, hopeful, she pulls back her arm, and there holding her hand is Gandalf, of all people!

“You were hard to find! Where were you?”

She blinks a couple of times. “Hey, babe.”

It’s safe to say nobody was expecting to see him here! Though he still leans heavily on his staff for support, the gnome’s eyes twinkle with a lucidity that only Tsalta has ever seen before - gone is the doddery, lecherous madman. This is a Gandalf with purpose.

This is a Gandalf who can bust us out of here.

Taking a little bow and offering a warning to stand back (that everyone takes very seriously - this is Gandalf, after all), the gnome holds out his staff before him and murmurs a few words of incantation...and the resultant blast of force rips the backs of both cages clean off, wrenched up and away through the illusory wall.

Team Jailbird break for it. Gandalf holds up a hand to Tsalta, and she spares a moment for him, dropping to one knee. He takes one of her huge hands in both of his, and meets her gaze earnestly. “I’m sorry.”

“Later,” Tsalta says.

And he lets her go.

The Collector is having a very bad day! She’s just ordered almost all of her minions out to fend off the demon hunters, and now her captives are free of their cages and it looks like she might have further company any second. Furious and desperate, she yanks Rosa towards her and slashes the girl’s palm with her dagger, thrusting her bloodied hand onto the stone archway with a hiss of frustration. The runes illuminate in shining green, and when the jackalwere leans out of the portal he does so with a grin - “This is it…”

Where a second ago the Collector was vicious and tense as a coiled spring, all of that cornered fury melts away. The angelic smile washes back over her features, and she becomes a vision of blissful serenity once more, and it’s hard to say which way she’s more terrifying. Rosa breaks for it the moment the lamia’s grip on her wrist is released, and when one of the jackalweres grabs for her she ducks, slams her elbow into its ribs and keeps running.

“YES, BABY!” Tsalta calls, and the girl looks up, confused to be addressed, “That won’t hurt them, sweetheart, but YES!” Pointing to the pile, she calls out, “Rosa, grab that bow, please!”

Rosa snaps to attention at the sound of her name, a spark of understanding in her eyes, and she dives at once for the pile of weaponry. As she does, the jackalwere swings for her, this time with his scimitar, but she deftly ducks the blade, not stopping for a second. Nuth follows close on her heels, and on the edge of her vision she sees the other jackalwere’s eyes begin to glow...she averts her gaze and keeps running.

As for Fergus, he barrels out into the room, fists flying in a furious assault on the closest jackalwere he can reach - although to little effect. Faeleth streaks past him with all the elven fleetness she can muster, and is first to reach the heap of confiscated belongings. Sighting the glint of a rapier’s slender blade in the pile, she grabs for it, only to discover that

1. It’s not hers.
2. It’s not magic.
3. It’s not useful to her in the slightest!

The Collector does not hang around. Taking advantage of the chaos and the fact that most of the party are too busy hunting for weapons to pay close attention, she makes her exit. *“My work here is done. I must take my leave.”* She leaps atop her chaise longue, reaches behind it, and the floor below swings open - she vanishes into the darkness below.

Nuth makes it to the weapon pile, dropping to one knee beside Faeleth and frantically searching for her wand, or her staff, or anything that could help her, throwing things aside in the process - bits of armour, swords, a rapier...Faeleth sees the glint of golden filigree as Nothing grabs the very weapon she was hunting for and throws it yet further away from her!

The jackalwere pursuing Nothing fast catches up with her now that she’s no longer running - she sees it bearing down towards her out of the corner of her eye. She twists around, extending a hand, and from her palm bursts a flash of red light that clips the dog-man’s shoulder, searing the flesh and fur, staggering it but not slowing it in the slightest. The rusted blade of the jackalwere’s scimitar comes slashing down towards her, but the arcane shimmer of her Mage Armor ripples across her skin and the blade slides away, leaving her untouched.

Snarling, the Fergus’ jackalwere lunges in for a bite, but finds its face gripped in the dwarf’s hand. It snarls into his grip, jaws pinned shut, and he shoves its face aside so it snaps at empty air.

Rosa actually physically wades into the pile, seeking out the first bow she sees, which she grabs and holds aloft with a triumphant grin, bright-eyed with excitement - “What next?” “Arrows, please!”

(The swirling smoke within the gate is beginning to roil and spark, the glow of the runes growing ever brighter...)

Beside the gate, Fergus throws himself with reckless abandon upon the jackalwere, his open palms finding only empty air with every strike as the dog-man growls and twists out of the way. The two human children cower, rooted to the spot with fear.

When Tsalta reaches the pile, she finds no room to maneuver with so many other people busy searching. “Get out of the way!” she calls, but Nuth flaps a hand behind her - “Alright, alright, alright, just a second!” She doesn’t move, determined to find her wand or her staff or her-

Hold on a second. Was that Faeleth’s fancy fucking rapier she just chucked on the floor over there? She scrabbles for it, and throws it back over to its rightful owner. “There ya go!” And as she turns her eyes back to the chaotic mess of belongings, she catches the gleam of dark polished wood - her wand!! YES! Now we’re talking! She grabs it and springs to her feet, ducking under the jackalwere’s arm as it takes a second swing, running for the open floor of the room where she can put her magic to better use. The jackalwere turns to follow, sees its fellow embroiled in one-to-one combat with Fergus (bleeding now from a slash to the shoulder), and goes instead to aid the fight.

Rosa surfaces from rummaging with a single arrow clutched in her fist, turning to Tsalta for input. “Not quite - close! Shinier!” Her daughter nods, and returns to the search. She sights the glint of silver, and points - “There! I found one!” Shoving Tsalta’s bow into her waiting hands, Rosa wades deeper into the mess of belongings to retrieve a single silver arrow, holding it out too for Tsalta to grab. Without hesitation, she takes it, nocks it to the bow and fires straight into the back of one of the jackalweres harrying Fergus, which lets out a high yelp of pain.

(The sounds of battle outside draw nearer.)

Fergus slams his open palm into the jackalwere’s sternum, sending it flying backwards into a bookcase. Books tumble out over the creature’s head as it falls to the floor, yet more dislodging as it attempts to scramble back to its feet.

Whatever illusion the Collector had held over the castle flickers once again, but this time it does not return, fading in its entirety. The opulent drapes around where the Collector’s chair stood reveal themselves to be only tattered and faded banners, and through the holes in the the crumbling walls the battle outside is clear for all to see.

As for the gate...it seems those on the other side have noticed the door is open. With the clicking of mandibles and the skitter of insectoid feet on the stone, quasits begin to pour forth from the portal. Mammon’s voice thunders in Nothing’s head as she unleashes a blast into the jackalwere Fergus had just thrown across the room into the bookcase. *“WHAT ARE YOU DOING - CLOSE IT!”*

She replies aloud, too startled by her patron’s admonishment to worry about anyone else hearing her talking to the air. “How? How do I close it!?”

*“CLEAN THE BLOOD.”*

The jackalwere on the floor finally finds its footing and turns on Tsalta, leaping to snap at her before pulling up short, jaws agape as it realises its mouth is level only with Tsalta’s waist and there’s no way it’s going to be able to get its teeth around that! Its eyes go wide and fearful as Tsalta smiles sweetly down at it - she’s not meant to be smiling, this was supposed to be their master’s day of triumph and ohhhhhh no.

Over her shoulder, she tells Rosa, “More arrows, red bottles, shiny arrows. You’re doing great, sweetie!” (Rosa keeps sifting, the pile growing shallower but wider as she sifts through and throws things aside.) She drops to a knee beside her daughter, ignoring the rattled jackalwere to instead hunt for close-combat weaponry. There’s plenty of that, but none of it silver! Ugh!

Fergus rushes the other jackalwere, jabbing the heel of his hand into its chest...and failing to notice the cowering child stood behind it! It’s probably a good thing the impact isn’t as strong as intended, as the poor kid luckily is not hit with a high-velocity jackalwere. Instead, he cringes and whimpers as a clawed hand grabs his shoulder, the dog-man steadying himself as though against some piece of furniture. Fergus turns on its friend instead, and this one does indeed go flying, slamming against the far wall.

“We need to clean this fuckin’ blood!” Nuth shouts, loosing a crimson blast at one of the quasits. Hoping to scare them into scattering, she snarls at the rest in Infernal, “Get out of my fuckin’ way!” Their pupilless eyes blink in confusion, because demons...don’t speak the devil’s tongue. Because demons and devils are different things. She forgot that they can’t cross-communicate.

Rosa’s not having as much luck as she’d like...plenty of bottles are in the pile, yes, but none of them are red! She holds aloft a little green phial to Tsalta with an apologetic grimace and asks, “Is this anything?” Whether or not it’s anything, she takes it regardless - “Dunno! I’ll have it anyway, babe!” The search for ammunition is not going well for Tsalta either - she huffs in frustration as she pulls out a silver arrow from the pile...in two pieces.

It’s the other jackalwere’s turn to get punted across the room by Fergus, and it has the poor luck to land prone within striking distance of Faeleth, who does what Faeleth does best, delivering a piercing wound that doesn’t kill it, but...it’s safe to say that dog-boy is not looking so hot. With her free hand, Faeleth pulls out her silver dagger, holding it up - “Hey, Fergus!” It looks like he could use it - throwing the beasts around is all well and good, but it helps to be able to hurt them! He dashes over to grab it from her hand with a curt nod of thanks.

The quasits, all at once, vanish.

“Oh, you little shits!” Nuth recognises it immediately as her own favourite trick - Invisibility. But she reckons she knows how to deal with that...she runs straight into the midst of where they were, and hopes they’re all still nearby as she pulls her arms in, crossed over her chest, curling in on herself as she mutters an Infernal invocation. Tendrils of darkness erupt from her shoulders and back, lashing viciously at anything within reach...and those quasits reappear as quasit confetti, a spray of dark ichor and demon blood raining down on Nuth and all the ground around her. She unfurls with a jubilant laugh as their life force siphons into her.

Rosa thrusts a quiver of silvered arrows into Tsalta’s hands, beaming with pride at having found so many! Tsalta grins back, and crouches down, patting her shoulder in invitation - “Climb aboard!” Scrambling up to ride piggyback, Rosa clings tight as Tsalta stands and gets ready to put those silver arrows to work, careful to keep her daughter out of reach of the jackalweres’ slashing blades. With a bow and arrows on hand, her little girl riding on her shoulders, Tsalta is finally starting to feel more like herself - sure-footed, sturdy, and ready to give these creatures what they very well deserve. She looses an arrow straight into the throat of the jackalwere by the bookcase, pinning it there where it chokes and scrabbles for a few moments before it falls limp.

(From the cells, some of the older children cheer - Tsalta hears familiar Dwarven battlecries as the kids in the cells shout encouragement and celebrate the defeat of one of their captors.)

Fergus breaks away from the fray to try and spy his mason’s tools among the chaos, but no such luck.

The last jackalwere discovers that, unfortunately for him, Faeleth is beginning to find her flow. With her rapier back in hand, no longer is she caught in the frantic adrenaline-fuelled frenzy of escape - now she is swift, cool, and efficient. Almost lazily, she flicks her blade across a jackalwere’s throat and back again, and with one last flourish steps back as the creature slumps with a gurgle, dark blood spilling onto its chest.

(Another resounding cheer goes up from the cages as the children see another of their captors slain.)

Nuth hears a skittering behind her, and moments later there’s a stabbing pain in her leg as the quasit sinks its claws in. Hissing in through her teeth, she looks down to see the last of the little demons is visible once more. Her pained grimace turns to a grin. “There you are.” (Another quasit steps through the portal and stops in its tracks, sniffing the air and taking in its surroundings, realising the fate that befell the first wave…) She tries to shake the demon off, more intent on reaching the gate and following orders, and though she breaks free of its grip its claws rake across her skin in the process - ow, ow, ow!!

But never mind that! Bundling the edge of her sleeve around her hand and spitting on it, Nuth starts to furiously scrub at the smear of blood on the archway. As she does, the swirling mist within slows and fades. With a smirk, she locks eyes with the last survivor of the first quasit wave. “You ain’t gettin’ back in there now.”

It stares back. Its gaze darts to the closing portal, back to Nothing. In Common it says, “Aw shit...”

Pulling another arrow, Tsalta takes aim at the quasit...and gets a natural 1. Great! As she goes to fire, Rosa shifts and slips a little on her shoulders, throwing her off-balance. With that lurch, her arm jerks backward reflexively and she can feel the bowstring, already taut, stretch to its limit and she braces for it to snap.

And that’s when Tsalta gets a natural 20 on her luck die, because that’s how Team Jailbird rolls - ones and twenties, no in between! The string does in fact not snap, even though it really should have, displaying the uncanny resilience of what can only be a magically enhanced weapon. The arrow still flies wide, of course. Nuth feels the rush of air as it streaks between her horns, and yelps, “Oi! Careful!”

Fergus continues to seek his mason’s tools - clearing the blood doesn’t feel permanent enough, he wants to *dissemble* the gate. Alas, looking through all the cloaks and rags and shoes and bags make it quite a task to find something so small and unassuming as his toolbox...

The last remaining quasits don’t stand a chance. Faeleth runs her rapier through the first, bisecting its lower body as she pulls back the blade, and the second meets its end in an explosive burst of red light from Nothing’s wand.

As they take a moment to breathe, and as the children cheer louder still and call out thanks, the party realise the sound of battle from outside has fallen quiet. There is no more clash of steel, no more jackalwere snarls. There’s the clanking of armoured footsteps before the main door flies open, and the demon hunters arrive at last, Cerios at their helm. All are breathing heavily, their armor bearing dents and scratches that were not there before - clearly, it was a battle hard won. Darius has an arm looped around Cerios’ shoulder, limping heavily and wincing with every step. Zandar, to the amazement of all, is painted head to toe in glistening ichor, his muscles rippling, an axe in either hand. Bloody hell. And to think we thought him little more than Cerios’ doddery old secretary… (Gandalf clears his throat conspicuously as Tsalta gapes.)

Looking around the room at the bodies of the jackalweres and what little remains of the quasits, seeing that the rest of the Collector’s forces are already dealt with and the gate is inactive, the demon hunters stow their weapons. Cerios regards the scene with a wry smile.

In the lull, Rosa scoots round on Tsalta’s shoulders, and asks, “So...are you my ma?”

As Nuth goes to search for the rest of her belongings with the others, Cerios catches her eye and motions her over. “Nothing. May I take you aside for a moment?”

She goes with him into the next room, and pops herself down on a piece of masonry as Cerios motions for her to take a seat beside him. He lets her get comfortable, and meets her eye with a warm smile. “So, Nuth. You’ve proved yourself a worthy member.” At his praise, a grin starts to spread across her quasit-gore-spattered face - man, she wishes they’d seen her pop ‘em. “And I think by now you’ve likely realised our common connection.” He taps the emblem of the blazing skull on his pauldron, and says, “We bear the symbol of Mammon.”

Nothing gawps. Then she scooches in closer, wide-eyed with amazement. “Hold up, you’ve known the whole time?” Cerios nods. “Mate, I was always worried one of you lot was gonna shank me if you found out! You knew the whole time and I didn’t even know his name till today!” The relief of having someone know of her pact and not only accept it but approve of her is remarkable.

“He works in his own ways. But yes, we’ve known about you for quite some time. Do you know how long it takes to make one of these crests?” He taps his pauldron again, and Nothing’s grin only gets bigger ‘cause he’s gonna say it takes ages, this is cool as shit. “Weeks.” There it is! There it is! She lets out a breathless laugh of delight as she fetches her custom cloak from her bag and looks it over - now he says it, yeah, there’s no way it was made in three days. Fucking awesome!

He lets her have her moment, and then his gaze grows more ~~Cerios~~ serious, he draws her back down to earth. “He has taken many steps over many years to bring you here today. We need ask only one small favour from you, Nothing. In exchange, we will let you deal with the lamia yourselves - she’s clearly given you personal grievance. It seems only fair.”

Well, she certainly wouldn’t turn down a little help in the fight if they’re happy to offer it actually, but anyway...what’s this ‘favour’ then?

Oh, not much at all. Just a drop of her blood.

She frowns, uncertain. Something feels sketch. “Dare I ask why?”

At first, Cerios looks as though he’s about to explain, then reconsiders. He claims it will be easier for her to understand with a little context. “Bring her forth,” Cerios calls, and at his command a figure clad in the demon hunters’ armour enters the room - a tiefling woman, her horned head shaven bald, her deep red skin adorned with intricate tattoos.

Sanity inclines her head with a smile. “Nothing, it’s been a long time.”

The budding unease, the prickling down Nothing’s spine that had begun at the moment Cerios made his request, only grows at the sight of Sanity in the flesh. It’s not eased in the slightest as the commander explains that her aunt has been operating as a double agent. But Nuth does her best to smile as she greets her, and lets Cerios continue to explain: Sanity did what she did only because it was asked of her by Mammon - she, like Nothing, like her mother, is of his bloodline.

The pieces all start to click into place, and Nuth’s stomach drops with the queasy realisation that she’s been played this whole time. She didn’t end up orphaned and on the streets because of some grudge among backstabbing nobility, she ended up orphaned and on the streets because that’s where Mammon wanted her to be. All just so he could come to her aid, to play the enigmatic benefactor and render her his indebted dependent.

“All we need, Nothing, is a drop of your blood, to call forth Mammon himself. Please, join us, as we rule dominion over these lands.”

She swallows hard, managing to arrange her face into what hopefully looks like quite benign surprise and not abject horror. Can she have a little time to...think on it? That sounds like a big life decision to make so quickly, after all...

“Of course,” Cerios replies. “We’re not going anywhere.” His smile drops abruptly. “And neither are you.”

Fuck.

The time Nothing is out of the room is enough time for everyone to start re-fitting themselves with their gear from the pile. (That includes Fergus’ mason’s tools…)

The children call out thanks from the cages, their little faces bright and hopeful now that help is here and their captors are no more.

The moment she’s ushered back into the room, Nothing makes a beeline for the cells, desperate to reunite at last. But before she’s even taken a few steps in that direction, Cerios clears his throat and inclines his head towards the gate. “Don’t you have other duties to attend to?”

Right now? He said she had time to think! She entreats him to allow her some time - “I just want to see ‘em! It’s been *weeks.*”

“You can see them from here, can you not?” Cerios’ voice is cold. Fearful though she is, she’s having none of that. She’s got priorities. He *said* she had *time*. Five minutes to see the kids, that’s not a big ask, is it? Reluctantly, Cerios relents, but stations Zandar to observe her the whole time. Nuth rushes to the cages, calling for her friends and reaching through the bars for them as they all come forward - even Sally, though unlike the smaller children she hangs back out of her reach. Nuth gestures out to what little remains of the jackalweres and quasits - “Hey, hey. Did’ja see that? They’re gone, blew ‘em away, see! It’s gonna be okay, alright? It’s gonna be okay.”

(“Roll deception or persuasion, don’t tell me which,” says the DM. As your chronicler, I confess that neither I or Nothing knew which I was rolling for.)

Try as she might to keep a brave face for the kids, her smile is forced and there’s a tremble to Nothing’s voice that she can’t disguise. They can all see clear as day that she doesn’t know herself if what she’s promising is true. She stands, and asks, “Can anyone let ‘em out?”

“In due course, yes,” comes Zandar’s reply. He starts to shepherd her towards the gate now, away from the kids as she continues to promise them she’ll be back real soon.

There’s a tense stand-off as Nuth continues to insist she’s got things to do first, that the Collector needs dealing with urgently. Then, and only then, will she make her decision. Mammon's voice rumbles in the back of her mind - *attend to your duties* ­- but for the first time, she refuses him. Time, that’s all she’s asking for.

“You heard him.” Zandar glowers, but before he can kick off about it further Mammon himself intervenes: they cannot force the child if she is unwilling, as they know full well. Zandar spits at her feet in disgust but says no more.

“Later, okay? Later.” Nothing turns her back on Zandar to collect her bag and belongings from the pile before returning to the rest of the party.

What nobody pays attention to during all this drama is Fergus. Chisel in hand, he’s been surreptitiously chipping away at the gate, picking all the right points to structurally weaken it…

“So, you’re Tsalta?”, Rosa asks as she’s gently lowered back down to the floor from her mother’s shoulders.

“Aye. I’m your ma.”

Rosa smiles up at her, and for the first time Tsalta can really take in her daughter’s features. She’s the spitting image of herself when she was young - the dusting of freckles across her cheeks, the wild mane of auburn hair, the dimples when she smiles. Her gnomish side shines through too, of course, in the upturned button nose, but most of all in her ears which stick out comically to the sides, large and rounded with just a subtle hint of elvish peak.

Most striking of all, though, are her little girl’s eyes. One is a rich hazel, but the other is a green so vivid it quite literally glows.

“Uncle Bobby told me lots of things about you!”

“Good things, I hope?” Rosa nods, auburn curls bobbing - good things, yes, although her uncle left quite a lot of gaps in his stories. Oh, and he said something about...good books?

Oh dear. Tsalta laughs and shakes her head. Those books aren’t something Rosa is ever going to read, not ever. Trust Bobby to have even mentioned them… She quickly changes the topic, asking Rosa her age (“About thirteen by now, Uncle Bobby reckoned?”) and answering any questions her little girl might have. One of those questions happens to be the identity of her father...but before she answers that, she feels the need to go talk to Gandalf personally.

Now that he’s not flinging jackalweres around and breaking bars, the old gnome looks so much smaller than before, so much more frail. It’s as though the years have caught up with him all at once, and the solemnity of his expression belies the weight that lies heavy on his shoulders. There’s no more manic twinkle left in Gandalf’s eyes today.

Tsalta meets his gaze sternly. “Do you remember now?” He nods. The better part of a week ago, it all came flooding back. “I’m not happy with you. I’m not. You did a bad thing.”

“You must know my heart was in the right place-” She cuts him off there, uninterested in his justifications. His motives hold no meaning to her against the sheer magnitude of his transgression, the utter betrayal of trust. Her only concern is whether Gandalf has a desire to be a figure in his daughter’s life or not. “No,” he says, “I don’t think that would be wise. She is better off with you - and you are better off without me.”

So that settles that. “So you’re not forever wondering,” Tsalta says as she returns to Rosa’s side, “that’s your da.” Her face scrunches in confusion and distaste as she looks across the room at the gnome - him? But...he’s *old*!

“He was more sprightly years ago, babe.” At that, Rosa’s button nose crinkles all the more - gross! She gives a little involuntary shudder - she’s seen plenty of horrors in this past few days but...seeing the gears beginning to turn in the wee girl’s head, Tsalta tries to steer the conversation back to its intended track before Rosa can further traumatise herself by mentally mapping the mechanics of her parents’...relationship. “Anyway! Basically, he’s your da. I’d like to explain properly another time.”

Her demeanor suddenly serious as can be, Rosa nods understanding. “You’ve got to kill that bitch.” (“Damn right!” Nothing chimes as she strides over, geared up and ready to go.) Tsalta agrees, but...Rosa can’t come with, okay? She needs to stay safe. “Where will you go?” Rosa answers that she’ll probably go with the other children, she’ll be waiting in Einhorn when all this is over.

As this conversation happens, there’s the clanking of armour as Cerios strides furiously across the room to where Nothing stands, and seizes her by the collar of her cloak. It’s a dramatic departure from his previous soft-spoken demeanor, and startling in the extreme to be on the receiving end of. “You’re not doing to do the deed?”

“Later! Later, yeah? *She’s* gotta be dealt with first!” Nuth wrests herself free of his grip and stares him down even as his eyes begin to glow like coals and the shadows of the room seem to coalesce around him. When he next speaks, it’s in a voice that Nothing knows well, but one the rest of the party are hearing for the first time as it rumbles thunderously from Cerios’ mouth.

*“ENOUGH! IT IS HER CHOICE. SHE IS THE HERALD, NOT YOU.”* Mammon’s fiery gaze then turns on Nothing, *“BUT KNOW THIS, CHILD. THERE WILL BE CONSEQUENCES SHOULD YOU FAIL.”*

She looks back into those glowing crimson eyes and gives acknowledgement. (There’s a strange flash of pride as Mammon chastens Cerios for daring to get shirty with her, but it’s quickly replaced by anxiety - she can bow her head and say she’s listening but what will she actually do? She doesn’t want to do this! She *can’t* do this. She doesn’t want to rule dominion, she just wants her kids safe.) The burning light fades, and then Cerios is himself again, shock and fear written across his fine-boned features.

After a moment’s pause, he averts his gaze. “We will attend the children. Do as you must.” He does not look Nothing’s way again after that, and it’s clear that she’s being pointedly ignored. The demon hunters begin work unlocking the cages and searching the bodies of the fallen jackalweres.

And still they don’t notice Fergus - until, that is, in his frustration with the finicky magically-reinforced stonework he pulls out his hammer and knocks the keystone clean out.

*….CRASH.* The gate falls to a useless pile of rune-covered rubble. Everyone turns to see Fergus standing proud amongst the settling dust. Cerios wheels around at the sound, and in moments he’s cleared the distance between himself and the dwarf to tower over him, livid. “Fucking dwarf! What have you *done?*”

Fergus isn’t cowed. He gestures across the room to the groups of displaced children being chaperoned by Cerios’ troops, and explains matter-of-factly: “I promised to protect these. Disarming the gate protects them.” There’s that flicker of crimson light in the drow’s eyes again, but this time he seems to push back against it, that same flash of fear across his face in its wake. Cerios takes a steadying breath.

“Know this, dwarf,” he points across the room to Nothing, “*she* will bear the cost.” His frustration is evident in his every syllable, and he scoffs and turns his back on Fergus once more - after making a pointed display of taking back Nothing’s white velvet cloak. “Now you’ve done your damage, you may as well make yourself useful. Deal with the Collector.”

“See?” Fergus says to the rest of the party, “Never liked that guy. Now let’s go get her!” And with that, he takes a running jump into the open void where the chaise longue once was. Cannonball!! Except, of course, he’s a monk. The rest of the party’s shock is understandable but unnecessary - he floats down like a leaf on the breeze. Unfortunately, the rest of the party don’t have access to such convenient methods of descending a thirty-foot drop, so Fergus is stuck waiting below while the others figure out exactly how to get down.

(Tsalta hands Rosa one of her silvered shortswords before she leaves. She coos with pride - “Oh, your first weapon, oh my wee babe!” At that, Rosa chuckles and shakes her head - it’s not her first! See? She demonstrates, running through a couple of drills to display that she is indeed well used to handling a sword, the blade flashing in the light from the room’s torch-brackets.

Tsalta is impressed. “Did Bobby teach you that?”

“Yes, Bobby taught me.” She beams with pride as she secures the sword at her hip. “I can’t wait to see him again!” Oh no. :( Now’s probably not the time to tell her, so Tsalta just gives her daughter’s shoulder a little squeeze and promises to see her later in Einhorn, where they can talk some more.

...As for Gandalf, well. She gets as up in his grill as one can get when you’re about four times the size - crouched over him real close up, emphasising just how much bigger than him she is. “Listen. I’m *not* happy with you. But...where are you going to be?”

“Where I always am.”)

Fergus is stuck milling around at the bottom of the trapdoor shaft for the time it takes for these conversations to happen and for the rest of the party to figure out how to get down.

Habit is a terrible thing. Tsalta, forgetting herself for a moment, leans over the hole in the floor and reaches over her shoulder to let down hair that isn’t there any more.

Peering into the opening, Nothing spots a ring of Abyssal runes on the walls below - well, that explains how the fall wouldn’t be a problem, those likely hold a Feather Fall spell! They don’t look to be active, but that’s probably because they’re triggered by the lever on the nearby wall. Time to test that theory! She resets the lever.

Fergus finds the stone corridor cast abruptly into greyscale. “Wha-” And then the light returns as Nothing floats down beside him. “I didnae know you could do that too!” She points up - nah, it’s just the runes up there! One by one, the rest of the party make the descent into the dark.

Everyone is, of course, wary of traps. But Tsalta has an idea - she lifts her summoning horn to her lips and blows. From above, there is a triumphant moo as a cow feather-falls gracefully from the trapdoor. It’s a wonder to behold. Bracing for something to go terribly wrong (and by terribly wrong, we mean emotionally damaging), Tsalta orders the cow forth down the hallway.

It goes exactly as you might expect. It trots merrily forth, and half-way down the corridor the ground vanishes from under it, and it plummets. The noise of the following impact does not sound healthy in the least. Tsalta emits a squeak of distress, and Nuth gives her a little pat - hey, it’s okay. Better the cow than us, yeah? It’s a fake cow anyway, it’s made of magic, it ain’t real.

(She actually has no clue if conjured cows feel pain. They might. But it’s better if that idea is pushed as far away from Tsalta as possible, probably.)

So now there’s a ten-foot void in the floor, and it looks like the only way across is to jump. Tsalta and Faeleth are both confident in their ability to clear the distance, but Nothing and Fergus eye the pit with uncertainty. Even moreso after approaching it, and discovering the bed of spikes below. “OH GODS,” wails Tsalta, “OH GODS, OH NOOOO.” The cow, it transpires, has not vanished. Nuth insists even more forcefully that it’s not real, because Tsalta’s eyes are streaming at the pitiful sight of the creature trying to extricate itself from...multiple impalements. Oh no. :(

(I have no idea if this exchange was in canon or not, but leaving it out would be a crime.

Faeleth - “It was a painless death, Tsalta…”

Cow - (pained and tragic mooing)

Tsalta - “BUT IT’S STILL ALIVE ;A;”

Faeleth, lying through her teeth as the mooing continues - “It’s air escaping.”)

Clearing the gap is easy for Tsalta and Faeleth, who make the leap and throw a rope back for those less athletically inclined. Nuth ties it around her waist, and with a little help from Tsalta makes the landing, albeit gracelessly, stumbling as she touches down on the other side. Fergus does the same, Immovable Rod ready in hand for if something goes desperately wrong, but again Tsalta gives a tug on the rope as he jumps and the whole party are across without incident.

With one last feeble moo, the conjured cow vanishes into a puff of sparkling smoke. See? Fake cow. Tsalta takes some solace in that, at least, because up until that moment the poor creature had seemed so heartbreakingly real. Now she thinks on it, it was identical to the one she summoned the first time - hopefully it doesn’t have memories.

On the party goes, the corridor narrowing before it reaches a corner. Fergus waves his quarterstaff around the bend, but there’s no response. Cautiously, carefully, everyone moves on, watching their feet lest they trigger another trap. There’s no more nasty surprises, the stone remains firm beneath their feet as the tunnel takes another bend. Beyond, the tunnel comes to an end, but set into the wall are three sturdy-looking doors. There don’t appear to be any other ways forward.

As Faeleth scours this area for traps (there are none readily apparent - this hallway seems functional rather than designed to waylay intruders), Fergus examines the doors themselves for clues as to which one is the path we need to follow. All seem well-used, though the middle door looks a little less so, with fewer of those tell-tale scuff-marks made by repeated openings and closings. On closer inspection, he determines this is because the door is a more recent installation. Reinforced, too, by the look of it, in a way the other two are not. Hmm. He shares this with the others - “This door here is very new - and protected, aye, well-protected.”

In an attempt to suss out the contents of the rooms, Nuth starts peering through the keyholes in sequence. The first appears to be a storeroom of wines or ales - booze barrels of some description, anyway. “Looks like a wine room…” (Fergus perks up at the sound of that. Alcohol, she says?)

The second seems to have a keyhole cover. She’ll come back to that.

The view into the third room is obscured by what seems to be the side of a table. It’s too tall to see what’s atop it, and too close to see what’s beyond it.

So, wine barrels, a super secure room and tables. “I’d put my bet on the second, if I’m honest,” says Nuth. After all, security is for things you don’t want people breaking into, isn’t it? But Tsalta wants to be more thorough, looking for things like unbroken cobwebs - and finds them only on the second door. It can’t have been used recently unless the spiders down here are remarkably fastidious in their spinning, and that possibility is mooted by the presence of dust on the threads. The other two, however, are clear. They’ve likely both been passed through within the last day.

Nothing still isn’t convinced. What if the ‘unused’ door is another illusion? But at her touch she finds it perfectly solid, the dusty webs brushing tangibly against her fingers. No bullshit happening with this door. She’d still like to know what’s inside, so she manifests her Mage Hand on the opposite side of the door and lifts the keyhole cover as she peers through. Inside, she sees several barrels shoved up against the door.

“What do you see?” asks Tsalta.

“Huh. Someone’s barricaded this.”

That piques everyone’s attention. “How strong is your Mage Hand?” asks Tsalta, and Nothing laughs. Not strong at all, and sure ain’t strong enough to shift a barrel! She tests the handle and finds the door not to be locked...and takes a step away, gesturing in invitation to the door - “Ain’t locked, so...Tsalta, would you?”

She delivers a first battering kick, and there’s the scrape of wood on stone as the door shunts open a crack. Tsalta peers through the gap and sees only barrels. A second kick, and the door flies all the way open, barrels flung against the walls of the room. (“Roll initiative.” OH NO)

It was fortified for a reason. Two glistening cubes of clear jelly begin to slime their way towards the doorway...no thank you! Tsalta takes a step back, drawing her bow and launching an arrow into one of the things with an unpleasant squelch on impact. The arrow hangs suspended within its mass - did that do anything? It’s hard to tell...

And here, Team Jailbird do something they’ve never done before. A sensible thing. Team Jailbird look at the oozes and decide that, you know what? Actually fuck this!

As she releases a blast from her wand to try and stave back the approaching ooze, Nuth says, “Tsalta, can you just...shut the door?!”

Before she can answer, Fergus pushes past her and slams the door shut. “We don’t want tae deal wi’ these. We’ve got somethin’ else to chase.”

There’s a brief discussion of the slimes - will the door hold them? Fergus thinks so, his expert eye for architecture tells him that the construction is solid indeed, as proven by the fact it remained intact under an assault that might have broken another door from its hinges. And what about the barricade? Nothing ponders on the stories she’s heard from adventurers passing through the local taverns - she’s heard talk of slimes, and the way they can ooze around a container and shift the contents over time. The barrels were probably on the other side of the room, once. Maybe even in the barrels themselves.

Faeleth, however, remains disconcerted. Who says they didn’t block the doorway on purpose? “Does nobody have any concerns about why a gelatinous ooze would want to *barricade itself inside a room*? What reason do *monsters* have to barricade themselves in places?”

Nuth insists that slimes are mindless, but it’s not enough to shake the unease Faeleth experiences at the idea of the Collector being a horror enough that such creatures would hide away from her. Perhaps it’s just projection. Ever since that blind and silent hour, she’s not felt quite herself, not as sure, nor as steady.

Well, either way, there were no visible exits in the slime room. Unless given good reason, it’s safe to say we’re not returning to it! Nothing slides the bolts on the other side shut with Mage Hand, just to be safe. “Which room next?” Tsalta asks, “Wine barrels, or table?”

Table room?

Nothing opens the far door just a crack. (“I just want to say, I’m not a bad man,” says the DM as this action is suggested, and everyone laughs because we don’t know what’s coming.) She is greeted by a stench so horrific that her eyes water - the air is putrid with the smell of death and decay. She shuts the door, covering her nose with her sleeve. “Gods, that’s...ugh. Fuck. Awful.” How about we try the cellar door instead, actually?

So Faeleth picks the lock on the first door - it’s a fiddly process that takes a few minutes, and the others wait impatiently as she painstakingly manipulates the pins.

While this is happening, Tsalta, spurred by morbid curiosity, takes it upon herself to look inside the door the party decided not to mess with.

She wishes she didn’t. Bile rises in the back of her throat and it’s a struggle to keep from retching - not just from the smell, but… This room is a torture chamber, and one that’s been well-used. Everywhere, bloodstained implements of horror - a stretch rack, an iron maiden, the walls are lined with stands of thumbscrews and pliers and gods-know-what else. And at the back wall, slumped in a chair fitted with leather restraints, is the body of an elven woman.

She’s gone - long gone. It looks like she’s been through everything this room had to offer, and then some - the bruises, the burns, the broken bones, the tapestry of wounds is hard to even look at. One side of her face is covered in dark, dried blood, the socket above bereft of an eye.

Tsalta leaves, still fighting back nausea. She pulls the door closed behind her. She has a terrible feeling about the body. “Guys, you might want to take a look in there. Just to warn you, there’s...a very, very, very dead elf. Just in case any of you know who it is.”

There’s a soft clunk from the lock. Faeleth looks up, and her eyes meet Tsalta’s. She sees the look on her face, soft and apologetic and laden with an awful, unmistakable implication. There’s a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. It can’t be, surely. What the Collector had said before...It was a lie. An empty threat.

But Faeleth goes to check, because she has to. She opens the door, and at once the room feels airless, the twisting dread coalescing into something that spreads icy through her veins. If only it were possible to believe the sight before her to be an illusion, but when she rushes inside and takes her mother’s cold and broken hand in her own it’s all too real.

“Oh, it isn’t…” murmurs Nothing, queasy realisation dawning the moment Faeleth bolts through the door. Tsalta nods with a quiet, sad sigh, and moves to stand with her back to the door, to give Faeleth a moment of privacy. But the Collector doesn’t even let her have that. Disembodied laughter sounds from every direction in a gleeful, mocking harmony.

*“I see you have found my present to you, my dear.”*

No-one dignifies it with a response. The silence hangs heavy as the rest of the party wait in the corridor.

“Are you alright, Faeleth?” Tsalta asks, from outside the door.

“Not really.”

Her mother is still wearing the charm bracelet. There’s something about seeing it that wrenches at her - that her mother kept it, with all those little spun-silver trinkets that a younger Faeleth would bring home to add to the chain. Stolen, of course, the lot of them. Nobility can afford to replace their pretty things when they go missing.

But now, the fine silver links are dulled with dry blood that smudges Faeleth’s fingertips as she undoes the clasp, her hands leaden and imprecise in a way they never are. Tsalta sees this, and she pulls out her waterskin, taking Faeleth’s shaking hands in hers and pouring until most of the silver shines once more and Faeleth’s hands are washed clean.

Tsalta puts an arm around Faeleth’s shoulders and shepherds her gently away towards the door. “I think you’ve seen enough.”

Nuth offers the only comfort she can think of under the circumstances: the prospect of retribution. “We’re gonna fuckin’ kill her, yeah?” Faeleth doesn’t answer.

Well, this is all awful. Let’s try the last room left unchecked. Fergus opens the door to the first room, which is exactly what it looks like - a wine cellar, full of barrels both full and emptied, stacked up around the walls. There’s wine stains on the floor here and there, and the faint smell of stale ale.

If there’s ever a time when Fergus could go for a drink, now is definitely one. He’s hardly going to feel guilty raiding a monster’s cellar. Nothing, meanwhile, searches for hidden doors, since there has to be a way through somewhere. (Tsalta hangs close to Faeleth, who isn’t doing anything at all and barely seems to register her surroundings.)

While on the opposite side of the room Nuth is pushing at and peering under barrels in search of trapdoors or levers, Fergus stumbles across the answer to this room’s mystery by sheer accident. As he selects a barrel whose contents look worth tapping, Fergus’ hands meet not wood but air, passing through into the keg without resistance. “Wh- there’s nae alcohol! What?”

Well, there’s our secret door.

But in truth, Fergus is more preoccupied with the fact that barrel held no booze. (Perhaps he’s feeling like a little liquid courage would help today. Perhaps he’s just that Dwarven.) He taps one of the real barrels instead, and though it’s old stale ale it’s still ale, and that’s all he was after.

“This has gotta be the way, right?” Nuth takes a look back at the others and then steps through the illusory stack of barrels, finding indeed a passage on the other side. Unlike the rooms and hallways behind her, this tunnel seems naturally formed - the stone tiling gives way to craggy rock. “Yeah, come on through. Found a tunnel, this has to be the way.”

The tunnel twists and turns, meandering without any discernible rhyme or reason. The party’s footsteps echo alongside the drip of water from the cave roof - beyond that, it is silent, devoid of any signs of cave-dwelling animals or the like.

And then after some minutes of walking, carved into the wall, is the first sign of manmade construction - an alcove, occupied by a single statue. The stone woman stands tall and imposing, her powerful arms crossed, staring out at the opposing wall. Nuth holds out an arm to signal the others to stop - this feels familiar.

“Statue here. Dunno if it’s a trap. Might just be scenery, but...” The prospect of being smashed against the wall again is not appealing. Tsalta peers at the statue, and while she can’t discern anything about its potential as a trap, she can appreciate the design - those arms put hers to shame!

Forgetting entirely about how Mage Hand exists, Nothing rolls a candle across the ground ahead. And there it is, her suspicions confirmed - a rune flares to life on the floor and the statue’s eyes illuminate, obliterating the candle in its entirety with a trio of bright white arcane blasts.

“Yep. Seen that before.”

“Will it do it again?” asks Tsalta.

“Yeah, any time anythin’ crosses it.”

She demonstrates: a second candle is reduced to a spattering of wax across the cave wall. Tsalta proposes a test to discern whether we can pass without doing anything fancy - perhaps it’s only the rune itself, that specific spot on the floor, that is the problem. She tosses a candle of her own over to the other side, and indeed, the statue does not react. “Alright, everyone see where that was?” Nuth looks around to confirm everyone was paying close attention. “Faeleth? You see where that was?” Faeleth nods. Okay. Good. With careful steps, the party edge around the rune and pass by unharmed.

Let it never be said that Team Jailbird do not learn from past mistakes.

The hallway exits onto not a room but a cavern. Stalactites hang from the roof high above, and stalagmites jut up below. The party’s careful footsteps return to them in a hollow echo as they step onto the slick stone. On the far side of the cavern is a wrought iron gate. Tsalta and Nothing eye the ceiling with great suspicion - could there be more lurking darkmantles? But Fergus casts his eye over the dripping spires of stone and offers his assessment: were they creatures, the water would likely not run off their hide like that. The roof is all natural stone, there’s no need to fear an attack from above.

The rock formations necessitate that the party cross the cavern in a weaving path, wending their way through the field of stalactites. Faeleth sets off ahead, dead set on reaching the other side of the room, her usual attentiveness to her surroundings absent.

(“Did I get you to roll for initiative?” asks the DM. “No? Roll for initiative.” Not for any specific reason, but you know.)

Nothing and Tsalta follow, more wary, weapons ready in hand, as Fergus breaks off to go along a different branch of the path, the better to check the room for traps.

Now, here’s the thing. The party spent so much time checking the stalactites that they didn’t pay any attention to what lay below. Maybe if they had, they’d have noticed that a couple of the stalagmites were bleeding from deep claw wounds. If Faeleth had been herself, watchful and alert instead of distant and dazed, she’d have seen the stalagmite beside her open up its gaping toothy maw before it sunk its fangs into her arm.

FUCKING MIMICS.

There’s a silver lining - even in this state, Faeleth’s quick with her rapier. She plunges it into the mimic’s mouth. When she retracts her blade, she does so with a sweep to the side that rends its wide mouth a whole lot wider, and all the grip goes out of its bite as it shies away, huge tongue lolling.

Fergus, too, finds a mimic closing its jaws around his arm - the wound stings like hell, what the hell do these things have in their saliva?

In her attempt to aid Faeleth in fending off the creature, Nuth fires an Eldritch Blast, but she’s so startled that she stumbles backwards, the flare streaking towards the roof...where it connects with a stalactite above. With a crash and a shower of broken stone, it plummets, spearing clean through the mimic below with a spatter of dark blood. (Nat 1s followed by Nat 20s on the luck die seem to be a talent of this group!)

Tsalta comes to Fergus’ rescue, bearing down with her warhammer on the ersatz stalagmite. Today has been shitty enough without being attacked by these things, she is absolutely done with this, and with all that frustration to power her one hit is all it takes. The already wounded mimic’s jaws fall slack on impact and it moves no more.

It’s safe to say Nuth is a little jumpy now - as the party make their way across the rest of the cavern, she trains her wand on every stalagmite she passes, muttering to herself. “Thought it was the roof we had to watch, turns out they’re on the bloody floor…” Tsalta provides Fergus with a potion - that bite wound looks nasty. He gratefully imbibes, and the punctures begin to seal over, the burning sensation fading away.

The lock on the gate is dealt with without discussion or hesitation: Nothing points her wand straight at it, and with a flash of crimson it falls away in pieces, as does a good amount of the rusted metal of the gate itself. “There you go.” She pushes the gate open, the hinges squeal. She looks over her shoulder. “You all comin’?”

Everyone knows that the Collector can’t be far. The cuts rent into the mimics’ hide were no doubt from her claws, and there’s just something in the air, a weight, a certainty that beyond this gate she’s probably waiting.

Tsalta nods. “Yeah, we’re coming.” She sees Nothing forge ahead, and steps forward, “Maybe not at the front?” Nuth turns and huffs the frustrated huff of someone who knows the person talking to them has a point but doesn’t want to admit it. Tsalta insists. “Just from previous experience.”

She takes the point, and grudgingly falls back to let Tsalta take the lead.

There’s the flicker of torchlight ahead, and slowly the party move towards it. Before them, the tunnel widens, opening into another large cavern. It seems, unlike the last, man-made. Braziers are set into the walls, there are no stalagmites - only flat, rough stone.

And there, within, the firelight gleams off of the white fur of the Collector’s pelt, the spun-gold waterfall of her hair. She turns at the sound of footsteps, her eyes narrowing as the party step into the chamber. For the first time, the Collector seems openly irritated - her tail twitches as she eyes her pursuers venomously. With a sardonic smile, she says, *“Sorry, my dears. Today is not the day you catch me.”*

She turns to leave.

There’s the snap of a rope, and the crash of metal as the doorway she was poised to flee through is abruptly blocked by a falling portcullis. Confusion, then fury, passes over her features as an elderly voice rings out from beyond - “I hope they slaughter you where you stand, you archaic whore!”

Nothing’s eyes light up. She knows that familiar Red Larch accent - is that fucking Moira who just said that? She knew it! She knew Moira couldn’t have been part of the Collector’s plans! Jubilant, she shouts, “YES! YES!! FUCKIN’ GET ‘ER, MOIRA!”

Where before the Collector had rarely exuded anything other than eerie calm, now the lamia is cornered she looks positively feral. In a low, melodic undertone, she says, *“There’s only one way to deal with you, I see. I will have to kill you myself.”* Her vicious claws rake the stone as they unsheath.

As one, the party brace themselves. This is it.

No soothing methodical trance washes over Faeleth now, no - the skin of her knuckles pales from how tight she grips her rapier, the hollow numbness in her chest replaced with a cold and burning fury at all this monster has taken from her.

The Collector’s eyes meet Nothing’s, and there’s a shimmer around her hand as she raises it towards her. A vicious smile spreads across her face, and she indicates with a languid open-palmed wave to the rest of the party.

*“Blast them away.”*

For a second, she feels the Geas trying to take hold, the fingers of her wand hand twitching against her will. And then there’s a surge within her, Mammon’s presence washing through her in an overwhelming wave, expelling that insidious force as a voice that is not her own snarls deep and dark and furious from her mouth, *“This one is spoken for!”*

There’s a flicker of something - irritation, fear? - in the lamia’s eyes. It’s gone as fast as it appeared. She tosses her golden tresses disdainfully, composing herself, rearranging her features into that cool, complacent mask*. “Never mind. If I’m not here, you can’t hurt me.”* With a whispered incantation and a brief but intricate hand motion, she vanishes in a twist of arcane smoke.

“Nah, she’s still here!” Nuth knows magic bullshit when she sees it - she’s witnessed enough illusions by now. Without hesitation, she trains her wand on the place the Collector should be...and with an explosive flash of crimson against her flank, she flickers back into view.

“Nice fuckin’ try.”

(OOC, Lubby declares this to be the most badass thing Nothing’s ever done.)

Fergus rushes in, shortsword drawn, but his blade meets only the air as she slips out of the way. But she doesn’t avoid Faeleth’s rapier as she thrusts it deep into the Collector’s flank, marring her pelt with a streak of glistening red. Eyes blazing, circling around ready for the next strike, Faeleth is unlike the others have ever seen her - never before in battle has she worn anything other than a wry smirk or that blank, focussed stare. Tsalta bears down on the lamia with her warhammer with a shout, battering into her flank with all the force she can muster - for Rosa, for Spindle, for Bobby, for Faeleth, for those poor wee children, for everyone who lost their lives and suffered in the name of the Collector’s awful scheme.

The Collector snarls under the onslaught, her beautiful features twisted with animalistic rage - gone is the smug taunting mastermind, in her place a cornered beast. A dark wisp of arcane energy wreaths her hand as she turns on Fergus, reaching for his forehead, and at her touch he feels a sudden and unpleasant sluggishness come over him as the curse takes hold. She grins, and rears up to swipe at him with a massive paw, and still reeling he misses his chance to avoid it. He’s thrown to the ground, bleeding profusely from the clawmarks rent across his face and shoulders. He does not move from where he falls.

“OI!” Nuth shouts, dart ready in hand, “OI, YOU BARE-CHESTED BITCH!” The goading certainly achieves the desired effect - the Collector’s head whips round to face Nothing, her expression livid, snarling as she retorts, “You...infernal whore!”

Um, the *fuck* did she just call her? The insult only stokes Nuth’s fury, but that very anger thwarts her: she readies her shot and pulls her throwing hand back with such vicious force that the dart slips from her fingers, flying backwards and shattering against the wall behind her. All that dart practice, and for what? Nothing growls in frustration as she tries to line up her next shot - oh, she’ll get her next time for sure...

Faeleth rushes in once more, hissing frustration as her rapier misses its mark, but she brings the dagger in her other hand around and it strikes true; she punches it deep between the lamia’s ribs, feels the blood pour hot on her hand. She makes sure to twist it on the way out. The Collector’s death will no doubt be cleaner and quicker than she deserves, but she takes her vengeance where she can.

Tsalta lets loose an arrow into the Collector’s shoulder, who with a hiss of pain snaps the arrow shaft off with one hand. Though the glare she shoots Tsalta is spiteful, the lamia’s attention returns at once to the thorn in her side - with a snarl, she lunges for Faeleth, and her vicious claws rake through the elf’s armour like it’s cloth, and through her skin like it’s paper. Blood flecks the stone tile in the wake of the lamia’s strike. Faeleth staggers backwards and falls, consciousness deserting her as the green leather of her armour turns awash with red.

The Collector’s snarl turns to a feral grin as she watches Faeleth collapse, and then she crouches and springs towards Tsalta, claws slashing. It’s a good thing she’s got a Goliath’s hearty build, because to a person half her size the wounds would likely be lethal.

Nothing fights the urge to rush in and try to do something - she is a person half Tsalta’s size, she knows she wouldn’t last a second if she were to be fallen upon. Instead, she holds her wand arm as steady as she can and casts three searing rays of dark fire - but oh, not steady enough, only the one of them strikes true. The assault seems to be taking its toll, though - when next the Collector moves, she’s not putting weight on one forepaw, her breathing is heavy even as the anger burns bright in her eyes.

The distraction gives Tsalta time to lift her phial of bubble gas to her nose and inhale, and with the surge of energy coursing through her she skirts behind the lamia to Faeleth’s side and frantically empty a potion into her fallen companion’s mouth - she can not, will not, let her die here. Faeleth’s eyes fly open, she sputters and drags in a ragged gasp. However, the Collector takes notice at the sound.

*“Now, that simply won’t do.”* Faeleth just manages to scrabble out of the way as a huge paw swings down towards her, and the second frustrated swipe at Tsalta is only a glancing blow - she barely feels it through the warm and buoyant glow from the gas.

Now that the lamia is preoccupied, Nothing seizes her chance to run in closer - she’ll need to be nearer if this is going to work. A jagged bolt of fizzing, crackling light streaks towards the Collector from her wand, connecting them like a tether, and where it strikes it begins to trace an erratic line of scorched fur. Faeleth pulls herself to her feet, steadies herself and plunges her rapier in deep, right through the shoulder of the Collector’s leonine body. The already wounded leg falls limp in its entirety, dragging useless as she moves.

No-one falls today! Tsalta circles behind the lamia again, empties another of her potions into Fergus’ mouth before she tries to fall back and break away from the fray. She lets out a choked cry of pain as claws rake at her back, but she keeps running, clearing the distance she needs to draw her bow.

The injury Faeleth dealt her is not one the lamia takes lightly - enraged, vengeful, she does not pursue Tsalta, instead turning her fury on the elf who cost her the use of her limb. Rearing onto her hind legs, she swipes out at Faeleth once again and this time strikes her not across the body but her head and neck. She’s thrown to the ground by the force of the impact, a chunk ripped out of one ear, a row of deep gashes across her cheek all the way down to her collarbone. The white-knuckled grip on her rapier falls slack.

If Fergus had not noticed the jagged dagger in the Collector’s hand before, he has little choice but to notice now as she sinks it into his shoulder. *“When I kill something, I like it to stay dead…”*

He grits his teeth through the pain, shaking his head. With a low laugh, he says, “I’ve been near dead so many times, it takes a lot to keep me down.”

The lamia actually chuckles in response. *“Oh, if I didn’t have to kill you, you would have made a good pet…”* Her laughter is cut short as Fergus plunges his shortsword into her side, and as he withdraws it the bolt from Nothing’s wand surges brighter still. The lamia cries out, a shrill agonised scream, as the electricity courses through her with renewed ferocity - and then another of Tsalta’s arrows pierces the Collector’s human abdomen, the arrowhead coming clear through the other side with a spurt of blood. She gasps, and clutches the wound. Her lion’s body stumbles.

It’s clear that she’s on her last legs. Beaten, bloodied, her pelt as charred black and crimson now as it is white, the Collector’s every movement is laboured, each breath she takes comes slow and ragged. Sweat beads her brow, her golden locks in disarray, plastered to her clammy skin.

But still she smiles, and still she is cruel and spiteful, even as her paws start to buckle beneath her.

She drops her dagger. Her hands dance around one another in an elaborate pattern as she chokes out a final incantation, and the room fills with dreadful images, scenes that play out one after another -

The party see Holgar as the cave roof crumbles in above him.

They see Spindle, half-conscious as the manticore tears him from Tsalta’s arms, grasping him in one wicked paw and slamming him down again and again and again until he lies still and glassy-eyed on the cavern floor.

They see Hand, his eyes wide, choking, gasping for air that doesn’t come as the dagger is drawn slowly through his throat.

They see Bobby, running, bleeding, torn at and harried by jackalweres as he flees down the steps and falls to his knees, desperately scrawling runes onto the floor.

They see Albert, branded, tortured to compliance.

They see Faeleth’s mother in the midst of the torture, as she screams and cries and pleads - she can’t tell them where her daughter is, she doesn’t know, she hasn’t seen her for years. She doesn’t know.

And among these horrors, images of things that could have been.

Rosa, swinging from a noose. The children of Red Larch, dead upon the floor of their cells. Dwarves enslaved in chains, strangers to everyone but Fergus, who knows every face, because they are his family.

All the while, the Collector laughs, low and mocking, revelling in this one last chance to make her enemies suffer.

With the last of her strength, she lashes out for the only person she can reach. And the last of her strength is more than Fergus could ever have anticipated, the blow is devastating - he goes skidding across the stone with a wide smear of blood trailing in his wake, and he lays motionless as yet more crimson begins to pool beneath him.

The hissing and crackling of the Witch Bolt stops abruptly as Nuth lowers her wand and reaches into her bag.

She knows it’s stupid, knows it’s sentimental, knows she could have held that spell and killed her on the spot but gods damn it, she just watched Spindle die again and it’s as raw as the day it happened. That kid should have been here. She owes him this. She stood by that bedside and she swore that she’d put these darts though her fucking eyes for him and she is not going to break that promise.

(And this is the part where I, your chronicler, roll a fucking 8.

The dice gods are cruel.

But someone’s been hoarding her Twist of Fate all game, staunchly refusing to use it no matter what. Lubby takes her card and writes, simply, “The dart hits.”)

The moment it leaves her hand she knows she fucked up the shot. There’s not enough momentum. It’s going to fall short and skitter useless across the tiles.

But it doesn’t.

There’s a gust of impossible sourceless wind and as if in slow motion, those still standing watch as the dart is buoyed back up by some unseen force. They see the swirl of mist that envelops it, spiralling out into a cloud of dense white fog that fills the room until it’s all anyone can see, blotting out all those cruel visions of death and despair.

Nuth’s eyes widen, her heart soars - she knows it’s him, fuck knows how but it’s him! Tsalta wells up without even realising it.

And then the fog clears, and when it does, the illusions are gone.

The Collector staggers. Her front paws collapse beneath her, and with a dull thud she falls to the ground, lifeless, Spindleshanks’ dart lodged deep into her eye.

It takes a moment for Nuth and Tsalta to process it. The Collector is dead. It barely feels real. Then everything snaps back into sudden focus - this is no time to stand stunned, not while their friends are still bleeding out on the floor. Tsalta rushes to Faeleth’s side, pulling her into her lap and pouring a potion down her throat, steadying her as the moment her eyes open she scrabbles for her rapier and tries to haul herself to her feet - it’s over, Faeleth, it’s okay. It’s over.

Fergus is next, the last of her potions spent on sealing the awful lacerations across his chest. He struggles out of her gentle hands, ready to continue the fight, and then his eyes fall on the Collector’s body and he stills, understanding dawning.

Together, Team Jailbird stand, the lamia dead before them.

It’s over.

We won.

END OF ARC 1