Viruinne springs into the air once again, flying to the far side of the hill and landing. It takes a deep breath, then releases it as a powerful blast of acid.
The bralani acts in a blur, conjuring up a wall of wind. The acid and wind collide in a horrible storm, but a great wyrm's power is not so easily put aside.
** spoiler omitted **
(-4 AC, -3 rounds rage)
With their foes constantly moving, Cuetzpalli is struggling to keep up. He flies after the dragon, taking one reckless swing at the black thing.
Already injured, Farrukh is doused in acid and barely holding on to life. He brings his shield up and hunkers down behind it in a defensive posture, essentially taken out of the fight for now.
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Cuetzpalli's sword slashes deep into the tree's foul flesh. Its horrifying song transforms into a high-pitched wail. The Mournful Song is badly hurt... but not as badly as its wound-sharing host.
But Viruinne is silent, even as a mirroring wound streaks across its neck. It stares into nowhere, appearing strangely lost in thought.
"I can hear nothing." it says, its voice a low, rumbling growl. "Nothing at all. The music, it's... stopped."
It shudders, grimacing in sudden agony as the tree contorts. "How lost I have been. The mighty Viruinne the Garden has grown blind and stupid indeed, if it now lets some caprice as small as the laws of time bind it to this doom!" Its voice rises. "Damn the words of fate! Cut this thing apart! Our wounds are shared and it is tougher than I, but if it is weak enough, I might be able to paralyze it, and we might cut the thing out of me yet!"
It lands on the ground and turns to face its parasite. It cannot seem to reach the thing with its claws or teeth, but sigils pour from its jaws like acidic saliva, crafting ancient dragon-magic into blinding fire.
Carina readies her bombs and starts throwing them at the night twist!
Tanith continues channeling the boundless vitality of his mighty patron.
A glance to his bralani companion and a nod at Farrukh sends the message to keep the warrior on his feet.
"Oh! Wow, that actually did something? Alright, then..." EBen says, excited enough that he practically stumbles over the words to his next spell. He makes a series of plucking motions in the air; his shadow, flwing across the ground, matches his motions, but where it plucks, tiny shards of darkness gather in its hands. Eben winds up his hands and makes a hurling motion at the singing tree, his umbral reflection doing the same, but while Eben's hands seem to be pantomiming, the shadow shards thrown streak across the ground, then launch into the air, turning from darkness into burning light.
All four of Carina's bombs find their mark, and briefly the Mournful Song is illuminated in a wreath of alchemical fire. It shakes and thrashes as Eben's shadowy missiles pepper it with minor pains.
Clunk, still invisible and sensing that the night twist is losing its resolve, charges straight into battle. He reappears in a shower of sparks and--
--hacks deep into the tree, fully severing a root.
The Mournful Song howls. For a moment, its shrieks almost sound like words, curses in an alien tongue abandoned long since the world was still young.
Viruinne's form is contorted in pain, but its eyes glow with steely determination. "Hold! No more! Let me bind it in place..."
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Ancient sigils spill from Viruinne's toothy maw like living things, massing into a single ring of gleaming arcana. The dragon seems to struggle a moment, its mouth moving as if trying to piece together a sound it cannot hear.
And then it speaks a single word of power, and the howling night twist shakes and flails like a reed in a hurricane.
The magic settles, and it goes still.
"Now, quickly, Carina," the dragon hisses, shuddering in pain, "cut it out."
Carina springs into action, moving to cut the night twist free from the dragon!
Carina springs into action, moving to cut the night twist free from the dragon!
[dice=Heal *Good Hope, Moment of Greatness*]1d20+29+2+6
[dice=Action Point Boost]3d6
Ancient sigils spill from Viruinne's toothy maw like living things, massing into a single ring of gleaming arcana. The dragon seems to struggle a moment, its mouth moving as if trying to piece together a sound it cannot hear.
And then it speaks a single word of power, and the howling night twist shakes and flails like a reed in a hurricane.
The magic settles, and it goes still.
"Now, quickly, Carina," the dragon hisses, shuddering in pain, "cut it out."
Astraden feels a faint niggling feeling, as if she should rankle at an accusation made by some cosmic force. But she calls "Off!" to the shadow demons, and approaches the scene of the surgery.
"Just give me a signal and I'll heal," she tells Carina.
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The enormity of the task would in theory make the surgery an easy matter, but Carina already spotted the fine filaments trailing from the roots of the Mournful Song deep into the tissue of the great wyrm. Even with Viruinne lying on its stomach and staying as still as possible, she needs the help of her stronger partymembers to reach some areas or to hold enormous roots up while she crawls underneath. She is covered in gore and ichor. The foulness coats the roof of her mouth, drips into her eyes, clogs her throat like revolting, carrion-sweet oil. A few times she has to retreat just to brush away filaments that have begun to creep beneath her protective gear.
And the tree does not cooperate. Even as Carina works, she can feel the foul, ancient thing squirming and writhing beneath her scalp. The spell holds it from striking her, keeps it too dazed to fight back, but it can still tense its hideous musculature, twitch and burrow away from the knife.
But Carina has been doing this for years, and over the last six months, she has gotten very, very good at cutting out parasites.
The music of Eben's spell rings in her ears, guiding her slices, steeling her resolve. She doubles her efforts, noticing the tree's struggles beginning to solidify, realizing the single precious minute is almost up. Her heart is pounding. She can feel Viruinne's pulse, fast and frantic as the dragon struggles to control its involuntary pain spasms. She can feel the drumming of the Song start to creak back to life, can feel its voice echoing in her mind, whispering, hissing, screaming, howling, promising horrors beyond despair mere seconds from now.
Eben's song, though, echoes louder.
And then, with one last incision, the drumming stops. The tree twitches, flicks, and then spills off of the dragon's back like wet seaweed. Viruinne tenses, then goes almost totally limp, its eyes squeezing shut in desperate, devastating relief.
Everyone feels a sensation sort of like their ears popping. It's like a ringing they didn't even notice has finally dropped away. The interplanar distortion breaks apart, and the world returns to normal, fiery leaves dulling back to their oily hues. The night twist is gone, and where it once stood at the clearing's center there is now only a black, charred snag bound with rusting iron chains.
The forest is back to its true unpleasant nature, and yet... something is different. The forest feels different. The ichor dripping from the leaves looks more like ordinary pitch. The shadows seem shallower, the canopies above less oppressive.
For the first time in millennia, the Mournful Song is perfectly silent.
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Carina starts gasping for breath.
"...I need a vacation."
After healing, Astraden watches the wretched dragon lying on the side of the hill. "It looks smaller, man."
"Surgery like that is going to leave a hell of a scar", Tanith quips once the gruesome task is done.
"Nice work Red. We've seen a lot of miracles but what you just did ranks near the top."
”…can’t take… all the credit for that. Had a great operating crew helping me.” Carina says in between gasps for air.
"Not gonna lie, I never thought we'd be able to resolve this without killing both of 'em. Good work."
Cuetzpalli blinks in confused silence, not really believing what he just saw. "Damn. What now?"
"We should go back to the Fountain of Dreams and say, 'Well, well, well,'" Astraden says.
"Wait."
The dragon shudders, then slowly half-rises, gazing upon the party in weary determination.
"You have released me from my sworn duty and cleared the music from my head. For that, I, Viruinne, will forever owe you a debt. You should know I do not take those lightly."
It hacks and coughs up a bit of black phlegm. The substance sizzles where it strikes the grass.
"I must stay here and rest. You must go to the Well and bid the Wild Watchers open the library to you." It regards Farrukh with what might be curiosity. "All of you. I no longer believe these prophecies to be inerrant. Go back and watch them begin to shatter."
The journey back through the Doomshroud is surprisingly calm. Peaceful, almost. The forest seems to breathe easier, and it feels more like travel through an ordinary jungle or marsh than a cursed place. Perhaps decades from now, the forest will be worthy of a new name. Provided that by then Tilagos still stands, and people still live to name it.
The party returns to the moss-choked, weatherbeaten old brick well, which stands thirty feet from where the party arrived.
As before, the well initially appears abandoned.
Clunk's gaze lingers on the well. He looks at the party, then back at the well. Farrukh notices the inevitable's gaze lingering on that grassy mound resting against the stone bricks.
"This unit worries," he says, his voice hoarse like rusty metal, "that you are all... making a grave mistake."
"Why's that? Do you sense something we can't?"
"Why, just because we're about to break down an ancient prison of abominations-slash-archive of things that should't be known?"
"You worry too much, Clunk. We can't stop Kyuss from being unleashed on the world if we don't open up the library." Astraden reflects that Clunk wasn't there when they met Lashonna. "Look, how bad could it be? I really don't think Krathanos will actually manage to track down Olidammara."
"My concern is not..." Clunk pauses, sounding frustrated. "This library, the information within. I am--this unit is concerned about how the custodial entities intend to--" It's not often that the inevitable stumbles over his words. "Contacts on Mechanus have indicated--"
The first of the Wild Watchers, the one called Tylanthros, shimmers back into existence. "So. You are back. Have you completed the trials we presented to you?"
"Harrowdroth- not giving anyone any bad dreams anymore. The Night Twist- quiet forever. Krathonas's belt... right here." Eben points at Tanith. "And the feather of the Roc King... right here." He points at Astraden.
Cuetzpalli pats the inevitable on the shoulder, trying to comfort him. He offers Clunk an encouraging smile while Eben talks.
Tylanthros's eyes narrow as he regards the feather in Eben's outstretched hand. "I see. And this was retrieved from his living form?"
"Oh, absolutely." Eben says with complete (feigned) confidence.
Astraden looks innocent.
"We found some living flowers that you might have liked too. Unfortunately they all died in a Darl Qethos-related fire. We defeated those guys too, if it's worth any extra points."
Tylanthros's head tilts slightly to the side. "I see. And after that?"
His voice shakes with unconcealed anger.
"We know that the Roc King is dead. Killed needlessly, senselessly. An ill omen, no?"
When the mark is on to you... make it their own fault.
"Yeah, that was really sad. Pity you guys let a creep like Darl Quethos onto the road to your little quest. If it had just been us, well, things would probably be different. Pretty sure I could charm the feathers off a roc." He gestures to the feather. "As it is, we had to pull this of Quethos's decapitated body. Damn shame."
"It turns out undead, mind flayers , and efreet aren't too concerned with who or what they kill. Who knew?" Farrukh adds, helpfully.
His eyes blaze with indignation. "We--We do not presume to exclude any from the test, only to confirm they will be able to use what they learn. You think you are qualified to decide that? No one being should have such power. All we are created to do is point the way and hold the door closed."
The spirit seems genuinely flustered by Eben's prodding, but his temper remains white-hot.
"Well, in this case, that door led to the Roc King meeting the wrong group first. Say, you're druids, right? Can you reincarnate him? We didn't have the right... sacred oils, or whatever."
"Or if you have diamonds, we can try and raise him from the dead. Look, are you going to take the feather or not?"
Astraden puts her sword hand on her hip.
Tanith casts Astraden a glance, impressed. "You can raise birds from the dead too?"
"Well, in this case, that door led to the Roc King meeting the wrong group first. Say, you're druids, right? Can you reincarnate him? We didn't have the right... sacred oils, or whatever."
His glare holds for a few seconds. Then he drops his gaze. "We have no such means. We are not druids. We are what the druids left behind."
He stalks towards the well. "And you suppose yourselves now worthy of seeing the truth. Of learning the location of the dracolich's fractured soul and taking the battle to Its general." His voice rings with anger. "All you will accomplish is shattering our delicate detente. As long as the cage is hidden, Dragotha will act cautiously, commanding Its armies from the shadows. But when you fail, and the essence of her unlife returns to her..." His fists clench, and he stops short at the well, turning back to you. "You go not to avert the prophecies, but to complete them."
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"What is the purpose of the trials you set, if not to prove that we're ready for the challenge Dragotha brings? We defeated an ancient bringer of nightmares, in seconds. Harrowdroth never knew what hit him, literally. We silenced an abomination of the mind, and the ancient dragon it had enslaved as a mount. We even managed to spare the dragon, through an absolutely epic surgical strike. A literal surgical strike. And we bested Krathanos, a god. Tanith here wrestled him to the ground. And that's on top of the army of darkness that the Vecnan brought with him. How can you look at that and actually think 'They'll fall against Dragotha, no question?'"
