Rendylyn looks down at little Treesa, then up at Rayse. She has a type--strong and arrogant--and has hate for her mother. She must come to think of Asmodeus as her father, rather than any mere human who might fail her. This one shows his confidence and his ruthlessness, always. Such a carefully maintained facade speaks of inner fragility, the brittleness of iron. He must be tempered.
She looks sidelong at Vormog. Haunted by his losses and failures. I must learn to command those ghosts, lest they fade into uselessness.
She has an impulse to pat Posh on the head for luck, which she restrains. We are blessed indeed to have a fool with such potential. But he seldom displays a jester's cruelty. I shall have to seek the embers of sadism within him, and fan them.
It takes her a moment to spot Dargon, quiet and on the sidelines. His young faith in Asmodeus is essentially transactional. The Dark Prince can work with that. My labor will be to convince him that he will receive more the more he contributes.
The young priestess smiles benevolently at them all. What games she will play with them!
|
Vormog understands Rendylyn's words and sees the wisdom in them. He thinks for a while after the others spoke and says "I am a combat tactician, tracker and interrogator. I've read that those like me are called inquisitors. I have spent a lifetime trying to be worth Asmodeus' power, but he gave it to me in a different way that I hoped. Still, I train myself to know when to be furious and when to be patient."
When Vormog mentioned being a combat tactician, Rayce commented "We should practice sparring again, later when this test is over. The two of us should be able to anticipate each other, single out an enemy and wreck them."
After satisfying the group that the door is not trapped, Dargon steps aside and someone opens it.
The air in the chamber is dry and warm, tinged with the faint scent of oil lamps. Stone walls rise close, each block fitted with the care of a master mason, but without ornament. This is a place for keeping — not for comfort, though someone has made it comfortable enough.
A narrow cot stands against the far wall, its blankets neatly folded. A table with two chairs holds a pitcher of clear water and a plate of untouched bread. Beside it, in a straight-backed chair, sits Sir Balin of Karfeld — armor buckled, sword in its scabbard, back as straight as if he were before a king.
Beside him, one hand resting lightly on the table's edge, stands Timeon. His clothes are clean, his face pale and gaunt, his wounds wrapped with care. The moment you step into the room, his eyes light up — recognition flaring behind them. He knows you — or rather, he knows the faces you wear now. The circlets have given you Mitran visages, and to him that means safety, righteousness, home. His lips part as if to speak your names.
Balin notices. His gaze sharpens, turning from Timeon to you, weighing each of you with a soldier's suspicion. You see the slight narrowing of his eyes, the flex of one gloved hand over his knee.
"You travel far, brothers and sisters," he says slowly. His voice is low, measured — the voice of a man who has been alone too long and trusts too little. "And you come at a strange time."
He rises from the chair with the fluid motion of someone who has been coiled for days, waiting for something to happen. His boots click once on the stone floor. He takes a step toward you, stopping just short of arm's reach. Then, without further preamble, he begins to sing.
His voice is strong, trained for the echoing naves of Mitran halls: "Whose light first broke the shadow of the world?"
The last note hangs in the air, a bright thread of sound stretched thin between you. Timeon turns toward you expectantly — this is the moment when the faithful answer. The melody is simple, familiar, the kind every Mitran child knows. Balin's eyes lock on yours as he waits for the next line.
The test is not in the words alone. It's in the way the music rises and falls — the cadence, the breath, the final note that must land true.
The pause lengthens. Timeon smiles faintly, certain you will answer. Balin's hand hovers inches from his sword hilt.
Those words awoke unhappy memories of his forced attendance at the Mithran youth camp. The reply enforced by a switch for inattentive pupils was seared into Rayse's brain. Rayse's singing voice wasn't very good though, he could never get the pitch right.
Turning to posh he whispered something in his ear and hummed several bars of a tune.
|
|
When Vormog sees sir Balin, it takes all his self-control to not charge the man. This is his captor, the man who made sure he'd spend his entire life in mines, wasting all his potential and his youth. But he knows, he must be smarter than that. He stays silent and only clutches his hand around the longspear he carries.
Vormog isn't playing the part of a Mitran devout, only a mercenary. He is not supposed to know how to sing this song correctly, so he doesn't try. Instead, he starts to think "This is interesting. He doesn't think he is in danger. He must be living in an illusion, of which our disguises are only a small part."
Vormog focuses his gaze on Timeon, thinking "Perhaps this boy is the key to our success. We should exploit him as much as we can." He unconsciously turns to Rendylyn for guidance.
Treesa knows the song. Her mother and father had sung it back and forth to each other as if it were real music rather than a religious chant. But she hadn't paid enough attention to memorize it and her singing voice wasn't....
Fortunately she sees Rayse speak to Posh. Maybe Posh could sing the words properly? She pauses to wait while clearing her throat. They'd been down here long enough to make her voice 'dry'.
Rendylyn can't help but be impressed: The knight has chosen a fine shibboleth. She hasn't the faintest idea what the proper response might be, and leaves the problem to the adults.
Instead, she focuses on Timeon. Has even an hour passed since they took him upstairs, and ordered the servants to keep him isolated? It seems unlikely he would have made his way back down on his own. He's either here by Cardinal Thorn's machinations...or he's not here at all.
Instead, she focuses on Timeon. Has even an hour passed since they took him upstairs, and ordered the servants to keep him isolated? It seems unlikely he would have made his way back down on his own. He's either here by Cardinal Thorn's machinations...or he's not here at all.
Timeon's face goes from hopeful to horrified when Treesa begins to sing the verse. Balin, who was suspicious to begin with, furls his brow seriously. Still, you got the words right, you're confident.
Now Sir Balin takes a deep breath and clears his throat, as if working out a piece of hastily chewed food that got stuck in his windpipe. He sings: "Who shields the meek and scourges the wicked?"
|
|
Knowing the right answer, Vormog is unsure of whether he should speak or not. His hatred for Sir Balin could show, but he could wrap it in a devotion disguise. Yet again, his disguise is not of a devout, but of a mercenary.
Still, he bows his head as if for respect. In reality, he just wants to hide some of his expression when he says "Mitra, Father of Mercy, Sword of the Righteous.", then he pulls his head back up and says "Sir". Again, his tone is firm, as if to show military precision, but it is just the fire burning in him.
Treesa stares hard at Sir Balen as Vormog responds. She remembers her mother scolding her many times and tried to channel that disappointment/anger. "I'm NOT much of a singer, but the devil that runs this place can respond with the proper answers to these chants. You're going to summon him with this noise. We're here to rescue you. We thought we had gotten your squire to a safe haven. How did he get back in here?"
Rendylyn fumed inside. Were they going to be able to stumble through a whole stinking hymn? Or...might she turn the challenge on its head?
As soon as Vormag barks out the second response, Rendylyn jumps in with the third call, her high voice ringing out like the pure tones of an innocent young boy:
"Whose love shines both on the faithful and fallen?"
Posh stood just behind the others, lips parted as though a note might stumble free — but none came. His eyes darted left, then right, and at last he settled into a glassy stare, slack-jawed and vacant.
One hand plucked nervously at the curl of his mustache, trying in vain to coax it into some semblance of shape; the other adjusted the tilt of his broad-brimmed hat by a hair, as if the angle of the feather were of more importance than the knight before them.
He swayed on his feet, blinking owlishly at Sir Balin with the dull, beatific grin of a simpleton who had wandered into the wrong room, clearly more concerned with the fall of his hat’s brim than the cadence of a hymn.
Better they think me a fop than hear me butcher their chant outright… he thought grimly, though outwardly he looked every inch the hapless dandy, lost in his own little world.
Vormog knows the words, but does not possess the voice to give them life.
Sir Balin's stare fixed like a spear on Treesa as her words spilled forth. His eyes flashed with sudden, cold clarity.
"Lies."
The single word cracked like a whip. "You are no rescuers. No servants of Mitra would speak so. The hymn unmasks you." His hand closed on his sword-hilt — but then Rendylyn's voice lifted, clear and sweet, carrying the next line of the liturgy.
The sound struck him still. The young cleric's tone rang true — too true. He knew the words, knew the cadence, and though suspicion burned in his breast, his heart stumbled at the sound of what felt like piety. For an instant, it was as if the walls of the dark chamber melted away, and he was a boy again beneath cathedral arches, hearing the choir's echo.
Timeon gasped with sudden hope, tears springing unbidden to his eyes. "Sir Balin — don't you hear it? They know the song! They must be—"
Balin silenced him with a raised hand, still staring hard at Rendylyn. His grip eased slightly from his sword.
"Your voices… are true. For now." His words carried little warmth — but enough concession to stay his blade. "I do not know who you are, or why you are here, but Mitra will reveal your hearts. And if they prove false, I will see you fall. Mitra's mercy ends where blasphemy begins."
The hymn ended, the silence that followed taut with suspicion and reluctant trust. For the moment, they had passed the test.
Balin sheathed his blade with a metallic snap, the echo of steel against scabbard hanging in the chamber like a final verdict. His posture remained rigid, but the fire in his eyes had dimmed, replaced with a furrow of thought.
"I remember…" he said slowly, the words drawn as if from deep water. "The Old Moor Road. The ambush. I fought — I know I fought. But then…" His gaze drifted, unfocused, searching shadows for memory that refused to come. "Two days? Three? I cannot tell. My mind… it is as though the hours have been wrapped in gauze. I wake. I sleep. And always these walls." He pressed a hand to his temple, then shook his head with a growl of frustration. "Yet I am fed, bandaged, given water and rest. I am… treated. Not as a prisoner should be." His eyes hardened again, suspicion rekindling as he looked upon the disguised PCs. "But the boy…"
At that, Timeon flinched. His eyes dropped, his body still bearing the memory of pain no bandage could erase. His hands trembled against his sides, though his voice wavered in protest. "It was her, Sir — the devil-woman. She… she showed herself when she took us. She broke me. I thought you dead, but she spared you." His voice cracked, thick with shame. "Why? Why you, and not me?"
Balin's jaw tightened, but he gave no answer. His silence said enough. The question haunted him too.
At last, he drew a long breath, turning back to the party with a grim look. "I do not know what design has placed me here. Perhaps Mitra has shielded me for some purpose yet to be revealed. Or perhaps…" His voice dropped to a low growl, edged with dread. "…this is a honeyed snare of the Adversary. His agents cloak themselves in fair voices, even the sacred hymn, to beguile and corrupt. The Dark Prince tempts by seeming salvation."
Timeon looked between them all, pale and desperate. "But… if Mitra spared you, Sir, then maybe he spared me too. Maybe they are the answer." His eyes fixed on Vormog and Rendylyn with pleading urgency.
Balin peers up at each of you expectantly.
Rendylyn opens her eyes wide and chirps, "Gosh, sir, if anyone can explain what's going on, it's the Oracle!" Let their trust in my 'innocence' be the snare for whatever chain of falsehood we can forge.
Posh’s ears pricked at Rendylyn’s high, clear tones, and without hesitation he swung his Sprightlyre round into his hands. His stubby fingers danced across the bronze strings, coaxing out a soft, steady undercurrent to the hymn — not strong enough to lead, but enough to catch and carry the melody forward.
“Yes, yes, keep on, dear. You’ve the voice, I’ll give it the legs.”
The little gnome swayed with the rhythm, bright eyes fixed on his companions as if willing them to join in, plucking cheerful flourishes between the solemn bars. Each note shimmered faintly in the chamber, a buoyant counterpoint to the knight’s austere call.
If we cannot master their words, perhaps music will lend us courage… and cover the cracks in our performance, Posh thought, lips twitching into the shadow of a grin as he played on.
|
|
Vormog regrets he is not a better liar. He chooses to keep his mouth shut, and not spoil the gambit. He wishes the others would remember what they are supposed to find in these dungeons. They are supposed to find a pendant of silver and sapphire. He looks at Sir Balin, trying to see if he is wearing it.
Teresa’s face shows rage for a moment. She listens to the others, Sir Balin, and the boy that appeared to be his squire Timeon.
”Lies?”
”You damn yourself with your own words. So be it. We worked hard to get here, struggled against our honor to deceive the enemy here. The devil-woman is but a servant of the foul lord here. I asked about your squire because we rescued him already, and took him to a safe refuge until we could reach you. And yet, here he is. And you test us, denying our rescue efforts.”
”Very well. As you have chosen, draw your sword and die in combat. You won’t accept rescue but we cannot leave your body for the enemy to use. We’ll take your head so they can’t animate you with a demon to deceive us.”
”Sir Rayse. May Mitra guide your strikes and protect you from this fool! Make it an honorable and clean death.”
Rendylyn stares incredulously at the little witch. How--exactly how, by Belial's blistered ballsack--did she come to think Asmodeus would want Sir Balin to get a one-on-one fight rather than Dargon's dagger in his back? What game is she playing?
Shaking off her surprise, Rendylyn quickly decides that backing Treesa's gambit, whatever it is, is her only real choice. "May Our God bless us, and guide the warrior whose heart is most filled with His fire to victory!" she cries.
Sir Balin and Timeon had been responsible for dragging, metaphorically if not entirely physically, Rayse to the mines. Rayse was no coward, he'd stand tall and proud to the gallows if that was to be his fate. Still he found he couldn't stand the presence of sanctimonious old fart, it was time to end this charade.
Rayse smiled at Sir Balin, all cool and collected as strutted around him as he spoke, "Do you know what I think Sir Balin? I think you are old, smelly and confused, seeing enemies in every shadow. You must have made poor Timeon's life a living hell! Speaking of which, allow me to introduce you to a very good friend of mine..."
The moment Sir Balin was between Rayse and Vormog, Rayse suddenly drew steel and attacked with a flashy, powerful over head chop!
"Deceivers!" shouts Sir Balin as first Rayse and then Vormog cut at him with their weapons.
"No!" Timeon cries out in horror.
Enemy NPCs
"Sir Balin, no! Your squire's not to blame!"
Rendylyn lets the syllables of an infernal command trill out as if they were another verse of a hymn, then gasps in feigned horror as it takes effect.
Posh will attempt to disarm Sir Balin...
Later Rayse chafed at not speaking to Timeon, but he'd just gotten a taste of blood and rage filled his veins. Sir Balin had been part of his humiliation and THAT WOULD NOT STAND!
Rayse's sword fell mercilessly once more towards the old knight.
Treesa shakes her head. "Fool! We aren't the evil you sought. But you will die now."
While Posh and Vormog confuse Sir Balin, Treesa's cackle fills the room with ominous dread. Rayse puts another deep gash into the knight and Rendylyn tries to make things even more interesting for poor Timeon.
The devout Mitran cannot be so easily swayed. Finally able to draw his sword he takes a mighty swing at Rayse.
"Back to the Hells with you!"
He trades blows with the tyrant, each man looking badly wounded.
Meanwhile, Timeon steps back. He's clearly lost his mind, as it was in a fragile state to begin with. Dargon moves to ease the young squire into the afterlife.
His blade lances into the unarmored boy, not quite killing him outright but changing the horrified expression on his face to one of pain.
Treesa sees the slash on Rayse and tries to cast her last healing spell on him.
Rendylyn draws back from the fight, then pits her will against the Mitran's again. "Come to me, Sir Balin. Leave off fighting, and come to me."
Yes.
Sir Balin withstands another of Rendylyn's mind tricks and Vormog's blow bounces off of his large shield and impeccably shiny and robust plate armor.
Rendylyn hisses in frustration as Sir Balin shrugs off her enchantments. Then let us have the smell of burnt flesh, instead! She glares at him until the air is a rush of combustion between them.
Posh scuttles a few steps to the side, keeping himself well away from Balin’s reach. With a sly grin he flicks open his folio, withdrawing a pinch of butter wrapped in waxed parchment.
"Let us see how the shining knight fares when his grip is less... steadfast."
He chants quickly, fingers waggling as he smears the butter between thumb and forefinger. The words slither out like oil on stone — "Glissaro, slipparin, fallum draste!" — and with a sharp gesture he points at Balin’s blade.
A sudden sheen of impossible slickness coats the hilt and guard, the steel glinting unnaturally as though dipped in lamp oil. The once-proud weapon looks ready to slide straight from its master’s gauntlet.
Let him try his holy hymns now — even Mitra’s chosen will struggle to swing a sword with butter for a grip.
Rayse gritted his teeth as the old knight's sword bit into his body, a moment later he felt Treesa's spell knitting parted flesh. Reacting on reflex, he thrust trying to exploit a weakness in Sir Balin's stance.
Posh works his trickery on Sir Balin, targeting the knight's longsword with a slick layer of grease, making it difficult to hold onto!
Bah! Balin manages to hang on to his weapon, this time.
Like Vormog, Rayse has trouble finding a weak spot in the Mitran's gleaming armor. His sword attack is knocked aside and clatters harmlessly against steel.
Timeon drops to his knees and cowers, praying through a sputter of spit and snot as he clasps his grievous wound. Dargon merely smiles at his victim and drives his blade into the young squire's flesh.
More pain is inflicted, but not the killing blow.
Sir Balin continues to attack Rayse, who he sees as the greatest threat.
The knight strikes true, and he wheels around to see who will be next to face Mitra's wrath!
Then Rendylyn hits him with a firebolt! This time, Balin's defenses are penetrated, and the flame melts flesh inside his steel shell. He screams: "Mitra! I have failed! I have failed... the last words fade to a whimper as the knight is consumed and falls with a loud clamor to the stone floor.
Dargon moves quickly to finish off Timeon.
The squire does not bother to defend himself, and Dargon's rapier pierces the young man's heart.
Combat Over.
Posh moves immediately to Rayse with his wand…
When Rayse falls Treesa moves over to him. She doesn't have any spells left other than cantrips. She casts stabilize, then realizes it wasn't necessary as Posh uses the cure light wounds wand. "Rendylyn? Could you use a charge from the Infernal Healing wand? We don't know that the challenges are over."
With Rayse's wounds mending she moves over to examine the body of Timeon. Was this the same young man that they'd taken upstairs? "I must have misread something. I thought this Timeon was a fake and maybe we could confuse Balin!"
She reaches down to take the holy symbol. "A lot nicer than my mother's. He must have thought a lot of himself. And with pride goeth his fall! It looks like what we were supposed to find."
"And worth a bit of coin!"