BOOM! Fobias and Trace are hit with negative energy that bursts from the sarcophagi. Fyn quickly drops into the hole and teleports them back up to the surface before the trap can do any more damage.
Understanding the nature of this magical trap, Fyn and Krask decide to go down together and hopefully figure out how it works. Another blast of energy erupts from the coffins. Fortunately, Krask weathers the storm and shuts down the trigger.
Now, the party is able to discover the contents of the sarcophagi. First, Fyn finds a stack of eleven spellbooks. Primarily written in common, they contain some minor Thassilonian notations. The second coffin contains additional spellbooks and a mound of gems and treasure. Not bad for a few minutes of work.
The third sarcophagus is the most valuable find of all. Inside, a lantern glows with an eerie green light. Several chains suspend the lantern in the middle of the coffin.
It’s Azaven’s phylactery!
Trace and Fobias don’t waste any time. They hack away, chipping at the stone and metal until the entire thing shatters. Azaven’s deep, hollow voice echoes through the Crypts one last time.
The Cellar Guardian
With the primary business taken care of, the party heads the final unexplored area of the Crypts. Hardly any wine remains; Azaven gave the party nearly all of the remaining bottles.
Unfortunately, a guardian still protects this room. It is a clay golem with the body of a snake but the head of a Sihedron Rune. Fyn recognizes this as Lissala, the goddess of runes. It lunges forward to attack the intruders.
It’s hardly worth calling this a fight. Krask’s arrows find immediate purchase. Barnaby and Fobias pour critical hits from their ears. That’s just an expression to say that this fight is incredible one-sided, unfair, and practically pointless.
All that time spent biding her time clearly caused this golem’s talents to wither away.
Before leaving the Crypts, the party addresses the negative energy portal. Not seeing an easy way to destroy it, they agree that the next best thing is to seal it off from the world. On both sides.
Fyn shapes the stone to block the doorway from view on either side. That should be enough…right?
After a quick day of rest and restoration, the party picks their poison. In their hunt for Vraxeris, only two wings of the Runeforge are left to explore: Pride and Sloth. Well, if we continue going clockwise, Sloth is the only logical choice. Much to the GM’s chagrin.
As they enter this wing, Trace gags from the stench, his coughing bringing him to his knees where his face is inches from a sickly green splash of liquid across the floor.
Trace’s mind wanders as he stares at the green pool. That green color begins to grow in vibrancy and lighten as the camera pans out to reveal a sprawling meadow.
Dog Days of Summer
Thousands of bright daisies and daffodils dot the rolling hills which extend endlessly underneath a clear blue sky. There is a soft breeze, pushing the long grass this way and that, a natural dance concocted by Gozreh Them-self.
A few towering trees accentuate this beautiful tableau, and we see a younger man lying in the shade of one of them. Several bushes provide visual interest, their berries bouncing in the wind. A spotted pony lazily pulls tufts of grass from the base of the trunk nearby, chewing with content, its saddlebags off to the side along with some rope and a shovel. A brass engraving marks the bridle: Bill.
As we get a little bit closer, we see the man’s auburn curls and soft features. A woven baskets rests nearby, open. Its contents are sprawled out around him; a half-empty jar of lush, rosy marmalade, a loaf of bread, the bones of game birds. Two wine glasses stand upright next to a discarded bottle.
Trace stretches out on his half of the blanket, picks a blade of grass, and begins to chew it absent-mindedly.
He lies back, moving a straw hat to cover his eyes. We don’t see any armor or any weapon besides a small knife; just common clothes and a sense of carefree whimsy.
Trace closes his eyes and his breathing begins to slow. The tips of his fingers are stained red, presumeably from the marmalade, and he licks them in a half-hearted attempt to clean them off. He exhales and lets sleep overtake him.
The camera pans out on this scene, showing the vibrant landscape swaying gently, for just a moment, it appears as though something is protruding from the bushes behind Trace.
Something, that looks like a feminine hand, extending out from the bush, palm-up, lifeless…
Into the Festering Maze
Back in the Festering Maze of Sloth, Trace sees his hair, not quite as glossy. His skin lacks the trademark Paladin shine that comes with service to others.
Most of all, he feels tired, thinking back on his leisurely walks through colorful meadows with Old Bill. Lounging in the tall grass, warmed by the sun. He thinks of himself, staring blankly through the majority of the interactions that the party has had since his soul got deployed, settling for laziness and lethargy. Moving only when the party needed healing or assistance in combat.
Ah, to be content with some rest and relaxation. These blissful feelings wash over him, and he sees the room as it was originally intended. Crystal clear canals and pools, for meditating, reflecting, bathing, and soaking. He sees people smiling and laughing while lounging on plus divans, padded benches, and soft beds where the virtue of rest was pursued. It fills Trace with the re-invigoration that comes with a fitful sleep.
He receives a +1 on all skill checks, attack rolls, and saving throws while in the Festering Maze of Sloth.
Meanwhile, Trace and Barnaby feel sick. In fact, the entire party feels ill and nauseous from the noxious fumes.
What does the Festering Maze have in store for this party? Did Trace kill someone? Does anybody have any Pepto Bismol?