There’s no time to grieve for Krask, as the battle with Karzoug’s apprentice has yet to find a conclusion. Khalib sends a burst of powerful magic missiles at Barnaby before throwing a tiny, glowing, orange marble on the middle of the floor. The Chaos Beast peeks around the corner of the ice wall, but is nearly instantly taken out.
Meanwhile, Fyn’s bone devil scoops up the marble and runs down the hallway, suspecting it is a bomb of some kind. Barnaby and Trace close in on Khalib, who is far outnumbered now that he is separated from his summoned creature. He tries one final spell before succumbing to the party’s might. They are, after all, fueled by their anger at the loss of Krask.
Instantly, they gather around Krask to try to work out a solution. Is it possible to bring him back? They rifle through their accumulated belongings and spellbooks to see if there’s anything useful. Fyn cycles through the scrolls before arriving at a Scroll of Planar Ally. It’s not a guarantee, but perhaps Trace can beseech Sarenrae for something that could help.
With deep reverence, Trace calls out to his deity.
Trace reaches out through the aether, harnessing his bond between himself and Sarenrae. As he concentrates, time gradually slowwwwwssss down. The crystalline clouds coming from their breath hang in the air like forgotten stars, and the blood still trickling out of Krask’s ears seems unnatural, like a misplaced glob on an oil painting.
Trace, looks down and see that a small green bud has formed in the center of the flower motif on the pommel of his sword. It grows before unfurling its beautifully iridescent bright blue petals, speckled with tiny golden flecks.
“Your journey has been long, Trace of House Fellwinter. You have grown much since you put your shovel to the dirt of the Halcyon Hills and buried that poor girl. As unfortunate as the circumstances were, it truly was the catalyst that brought you into my arms.”
“You have been a loyal servant, although not without setbacks. Avaxial, the pit fiend, whom you allowed to walk free from Skull’s Crossing. Justice Ironbriar, the Magnimarian cult leader whom you allowed a hesitant forgiveness.”
“You are no stranger to my tenets, Trace of House Fellwinter. Compassion. Temperance. Redemption. If one can be redeemed, then they should be allowed the opportunity.
“But of those you have offered this choice, the cruelties born within their hearts taint their minds, pushing them to the brink from which there is no saving.
“It pains me to see one of my devout so easily influenced by the many voices around you. And if their hearts and intentions weren’t as noble, I would be inclined to cut you off entirely from the gifts you have been bestowed.
“And yet, you ask for more.”
The recently bloomed flower on the pommel, loses some of its vibrancy, and wilts.
“Trace of House Fellwinter. You are tasked with ending the events that threaten to thrust this world into generations of chaos and death. It is time for me to practice my own teachings, and consider this to be your own opportunity for redemption. What is it you seek to accomplish this task?”
“Let it be known, I will not bend others to my will, nor will I force them into actions that align with my own ambitions. But I can bring you someone who can accomplish what you seek. It will not come easily, but this singular chance is all I can give. It is the extent of my mortal intervention. Pardon my nomeclature, but please don’t fuck it up.”
“I believe in you Trace. And that is why I must be so hard on you. You must not fail.”
And with that, the flower blooms once more before dissolving into a smattering of stardust.
They suddenly hear the sound of rushing water as, from the pooled blood rises a glowing ethereal figure. She is lean, but muscular, wearing a simple dress of tan cloth. Her long flowing white hair seems to be constantly dripping, but at the same time blows in the non-existent breeze.
The woman reaches up and wrings out her hair, splashing a veritable torrent of water over the ground.
“Hello. I am Jaassnaah. You must be quite important for me to have been summoned here on your behalf. What is it you need,” she looks around, “and where are we?”
She laughs. “What you ask for, surely you don’t understand the cost. Everyone seeks our powers, leading to outlandish tales about living in lamps and granting wishes in sets of three.”
“These are outdated tales told by women whose minds run more freely than their mouths and men lacking the comfort of a warm body beside them. Such a gift requires immense sacrifice, for death isn’t meant to be temporary. So what do you going to offer me in return?”
She goes ahead and makes the following proposals:
Trace: The Dawnflower has told me much about you, and your proclivity to muddy the waters around the tenets of your faith. Would you give up your ability to interpret Sarenrae’s intentions, acting solely as her judge, jury, and executioner without allowing emotion to cloud your judgement?
That is to say, if someone deserves to be denied redemption, you would deny it, and strike their mark from this world.
Barnaby: Even just standing here, I can tell that your name is Barnaby Daryngton, a name that you pride yourself in heavily as you build your story. Would you give up that legend, so that nobody would know of your exploits or the name behind the man?
Fobias: There is a strong connection between you and this creature (gestures at Richard). Quite the specimen. Would you part with him, never to be able to communicate with the creatures of the woods, losing companionship?
Fyn: I can feel the power emanating from your wise mind, elf. Would you give me that power, and be reduced to common rabble, unable to comprehend the intricacies of the burgeoning spellbooks of this world?
She wrings out her hair again, this time over Krask’s lifeless body. Instead of spilling over the ground, the water envelops the kobold, lifting him upwards in a smooth sphere of aqualine liquid. Krask’s mouth opens, and the sphere begins to shrink as the water pours into his throat, gradually lowering him back to the ground.
“Goodbye.” Jaassnaah vanishes as a fountain of water erupts from Krask’s mouth as he coughs and relearns how to breathe. The sudden speeding of the flickering from the magical scones on the walls signals that time is back to normal.
The party retreats to Fyn’s demiplane to heal and rest up. They spend eight hours, regaining their resolve and practicing up on the new abilities that they received from LEVELING UP!
When they return to Karzoug’s domain, they see that Khalib’s body is gone. Without wasting any more time, they advance on the nearest set of double doors and open them.
At the far end of the room, a heavily armored woman stands at the ready. Her light bronze helm curves outwards to the sides of her head like metallic horns, and her brilliant purple cape flows down from the thick hair of a wooly mammal on the backside of her pauldrons. She wields a gigantic, curved scimitar that appears to be made entirely of gold. Closer up in the room, a trio of storm giants stand with bows taller than the party, awaiting orders.
A thin man with bone-white pale skin and curly waves of white hair sits askew on the throne, his legs draped over the armrests. A platter of simple baked biscuits sits on his lap. As door is opened, he is mid-bite, and he sits up, causing the platter to clatter to the floor.
“Oh Barnaby good you’re here! Pardon my crumbs.” He brushes off his embroidered vestments. “Pay up, Viorian. Nice new body by the way, Barnaby, mm” The armored woman sighs and hands the white-haired man a pair of golden coins.
“It’s probably about time that we’ve been properly introduced. Just two passerby always meeting but both too shy to speak up and make the first move. I’m Moniker, or at least that’s what everyone calls me.”
He pushes himself off the throne, stands up, and walks behind the armored woman, Viorian, stretching to pat his hands on her shoulders twice.
“Barnaby Daryngton…a man I know seemingly everything about, except for one thing. Your name! I’m talking, of course, about your REAL name Barnaby. Such a fun name to say, it really rolls off the tongue. what is it though, Chellish? Varisian? Where does it come from?”
“Barnaby, I’ve watched you slink and slunk around the world, selling your lies to whoever would pay for them. A victimless crime, right? WRONG. Remember when you were a Hellknight, Barnaby? Oh the good old days!” Moniker gestures to the rest of the party. “Can you believe it? Barnaby, a Hellknight?! It’s ridiculous!”
“And because of one little errant noble with an inclination to drink a little too much and a penchant for forgetting to pay a portion of his taxes, you Hell Knights stormed into a remote village and burned everything to the ground. Razed it all. Right there! Homes, livestock, people – you incinerated them all, broke their bodies, and let them burn.”
“And you went along with it. Because you couldn’t blow your cover. All the other times I’m sure you weaseled your way out of it, but not this time.
And as I hid amongst the flaming wreckage, my skin boiling off my body, I saw you drop a feather. Hellknights don’t wear feathers, Barnaby. But I saw you drop it and proceed to run through innocent villagers with your sword.”
“I lost everyone and everything. Everything except that feather.” And he pulls out a bent, crumbled yellow feather, dirty with age. “I believe this belongs to you, Barnaby Daryngton.” He drops it to the ground.
“But I’m hear to make amends. For as I followed along with your little story, I came across Karzoug. And he was very interested in you, in all of you actually, but especially Barnaby. Well, maybe I am projecting a bit, forgive me.”
“You’re going to die Barnaby. If it’s not by me, it’ll be by him. That’s it. That’s how the story of Barnaby ends. Oops. Spoilers. I do hope it’s by my hand though, I’ve been saving this space for the final name.” His fingers absently run over an area of his tunic that isn’t embroidered with names.”
“Barnaby, you’ve spent your entire life being somebody you’re not. Essentially, by not being yourself, you have only been a nobody. And honestly, once Karzoug is done with you, you won’t have a body at all.”
“So what’s the point of fighting it? Here I am, giving you the opportunity to be somebody again. Well, Karzoug is giving the opportunity, I’m merely the messenger. That, and the leader of the Barnaby Daryngton Fan Club. But he’s giving you a chance to have a rightfully-granted station. No lies. No deception. Barnaby can be someone.”
“His power is beyond reason. Think about it – a body in stasis for thousands of years, while others collect souls to power his runewell and bring about his return. The first Runelord to Rise, Barnaby, and you could be a part of it, instead of just a sad lamenting song sung slightly off key in the corner of a dingy backwater tavern:”
“Barnaby Daryngton, fool of hearts,
What made in strength, he lacked in smarts
A poser, imposter, and dullard yet,
Paid off his life, a bloody debt.”
“It’s so depressing Barnaby. So, what do you say? Are you going to be somebody, are you going to be gone?”
What will Barnaby’s response be? Can the party handle this many combatants at once? What’s Barnaby’s real name?