| Stip |
The scene below is a few different bits of text that formed the introduction to the fight against the Herald (which I had spent most of the campaign gradually setting up, with the conflict as to whether or not saving him as Iomeade asked would have terrible consequences (see earlier cut scenes). In the end they decided to save/redeem him, though the wizard and rogue thought they should kill him. They were outvoted by the Desna ranger/paladin, the Desnan Arcanist, and the Iomedean herald/inquistor. But the rogue (who worships Pharsma) ended up getting the Torc of the Heaven, and given how much the party made him pay for it, I decided that it was powerful enough to pierce the veil in the Ineluctable Prison that blinded the Gods, and let him ask questions of Phrasma. This conversation convinced him that the saving the Herald would come at a terrible cost to Iomedae.
The fight against the Herald was excellent, but in the end they dropped him into negatives. They were preparing to redeem him when the rogue went, well rogue, and murdered the Herald. Before they could process, Baphomet began his manifestation, and the session ended. We pick up Saturday with this and the start of book VI and the Battle of Drezen (which probably has my favorite stuff I've written for this campaign excepting maybe Arueshale's redemption).
But anyway, this is the introduction of the Herald, some scripted Herald dialogue I used during the fight, text for whether they saved or redeemed him, Baphomet's entrance, Baphomet potentially dying or being forced to flee (though I think the PCs are just going to use the Stole of the Inheritor and bail since a few are in tough shape and they aren't in a cohesive party state at the moment), and then their reckoning with Iomedae and the transition into book VI (I have some different starter text if they saved the Herald but it eventually transitions to the same conclusion).
I have kept a relentless pace for the campaign (start to finish it will be about 8 months of Golarion time) and for story purposes forbid spells like timeless demiplane. The crafter has been begging for an extended break, and that's what this reward is.
| Stip |
Cutscene XVII: Lords of the Ivory Labyrinth
5 Gozran, 4724 – Ineluctable Prison, The Ivory Labyrinth
You teleport into a vast chamber and stand upon a fifteen-foot-long ledge extending out over a lake of boiling tar. There is no way in or out. To the east, bone walls are supported by numerous ivory pillars, while a single statue of a goat-headed demon leers at you from the central alcove. It is carved with such uncanny precision its mere gaze feels violating. Two smaller ledges, inscribed with pentagrams, protrude into the tar lake from either side of this central ledge. A ring of pillars surrounds a thirty-foot-wide disc of metal floating ten feet above the surface of the tar, suspended at the same level as the floor in the eastern portion of the room.
The disc’s surface is inscribed with thousands of glowing runes and blasphemous glyphs. The air in the chamber stings your eyes and chokes your breath, a foul, reeking mixture of oil and decay whose corruption seeps under your skin and stains your soul.
A figure claws its way out of the tar, and strides to the center of the unholy disc. Molten sludge streams off the tarnished golden form of the Herald of Iomedae. As the tar pools to the floor, you see the armor’s once perfect surface is covered in abyssal markings. Even from this distance, Rischa and Arueshalae can see the sigils boast of Baphomet’s great triumphs over the gods of the Crusade, a profane inversion of the Acts of Iomedae. The Herald’s once lustrous wings have atrophied into a sickly approximation of a bat, almost skeletal if not for the frayed leather flesh barely clinging to them. Twin curling horns bore their way through his golden helm, and the faceplate has melted away. As you gaze into the rotting, rictus visage of the Herald, you realize this is the first time you have ever seen his face. His eyes glow a sickly yellow, a perversion of their once golden radiance.
He carries no weapons, though you recoil in horror at the sight of his hands. The skin has been completely flayed off, the wounds burbling and suppurating in response to the burning tar. But the ghastliest feature, the final proof of his fallen state, is the gaping, crumpled hole in his chest.
A sickly purple light glows from within, and the wound is covered in rot grubs and other abyssal pestilence. You can just barely make out the thinnest golden strands deep within the recess of his chest, strangled by the purple tendrils oozing from the nahyndrian crystal that replaced his heart. Despite his twisted, suffering form, he moves with an effortless grace and boundless confidence, wearing his corrupted armor like a second skin.
He stares at you, and as you look back you can feel the room around you bending and twisting. The sensation makes you want to vomit, and it takes all your will to force reality to hold its shape, to avoid getting pulled into the maddening passageways of the Herald’s tortured mind.
He begins to speak, his voice, once deep and rich with a noble, comforting resonance, is now a hollow, grating rasp.
“My friends and kindred. My would-be saviors, sent by the child-goddess. You have arrived too late. I am the Herald of the Ivory Labyrinth, champion of Lord Baphomet, and you have been sent here to die.”
PCS speak
“Iomedae has no use for me. You have been led here like puppets convinced they have escaped their strings, and your arrogance will see you dead. This is my master’s domain, and he has promised surcease from my endless pain if I gift him your lives. I have been waiting for this moment. Let us begin.” And with those words, unholy glaives, facsimiles of Baphomet’s great weapon Aizerghaul, appear in each of the Herald’s hands.
Combat dialogue
“Iomedae cannot find you here. She has abandoned you, as she abandoned me. Surrender to the Lord of Minotaurs, and partake of his mercy.”
“I was Iomedae’ s favorite servant and she did not think twice about sacrificing me. And you think she cares for you, insignificant pawns in a game whose timeline beggars belief.”
“Your Herald is gone. What remains is a clot of insanity and torment. There is no coming back from what he has endured. What are you even trying to save?”
He turns to Rischa. “I can sense Iomedae’s cheap stench on you. The whore goddess moved on to another plaything before my body was even cold. Tell me, did the b%*%$ even mourn me before she sank her talons into your soul.”
The Herald staggers under the shock of that blow, and for the briefest of moments his features soften and a faint aura of majesty pushes through the stench of corruption that surrounds him. “Please, champions. Rischa. Don’t abandon me!” he cries in a voice that is almost familiar. And then the Herald shakes his head, and snarls to himself. “Your deaths are the final step towards my ascension. There is no mercy for the lamb awaiting its slaughter. No salvation for the condemned.”
Saving the Herald
With that final atonement the Herald’s body seizes. In his chest a golden light begins to smother the purple corruption. His eyes roll into the back of his head, and he vomits up a seemingly endless stream of abyssal rot. Eventually it is purged, and he looks at you, eyes wild with terror and endless guilt. And then he collapses, limp. His body and soul ravaged, but alive.
Killing the Herald
The light leaves the Herald's eyes, the quintessence of his soul joining the Abyss to be reborn. But in those final moments, you can sense that a piece of the Herald’s soul still lingers. Just a tiny spark, but within it an infinite well of horror, pain, and fathomless guilt. You reach for it, hoping to draw it back to you, to save it from eternal torment. As you stretch out with your power, your head is full of the roar of rushing water, and the deep crushing pressure of limitless potential forced through the tiniest of apertures. You wrap your mythic energy around the one pure ember that remains. But you are too late. It slips through your grasp, and as it is absorbed into the Abyss you can swear you hear the sound of the Herald’s forever scream. And for Rischa, the endless, impossible grief of a god.
Baphomet Arrives
The Ineluctable Prison thrums with power, as if its walls pulse in sympathetic vibration with their approaching Lord. The air is heavy with the paralyzing dread of cornered prey realizing there is no way out, an ancient and primordial terror. Baphomet is coming.
A muffled roar echoes throughout the Ineluctable Prison, everywhere at once and yet somehow getting closer.
The air is thick with rage and anticipation.
You are overwhelmed by dark sensations. The taste of raw meat, the coppery smell of blood, the bright clarity of fear, the heavy rutting musk of an animal in heat, the sickly sweet rot of a recently abandoned kill. And then Baphomet is before you, here in the heart of his realm. He stands fourteen feet tall even with his stooping posture, his midnight blue wings folded tightly against his back. Though his form is emaciated, there is no denying its feral strength. A flame burns between his elongated horns, and he holds Aizerghaul, Labyrinth’s Final Edge, in one hand. His eyes betray a deep cunning and speak to a stunning intelligence that belies his bestial features. And you realize that what you faced in the Midnight Isles was only a fraction of the power he possesses here at the seat of his power.
“I HAVE DEFIED THE MOST ANCIENT BEINGS TO WALK THE PLANES. I HAVE OUTWITTED GODS AND EMERGED THE VICTOR. AND IN YOUR ARROGANCE YOU WOULD CHALLENGE ME, LORD OF THE IVORY LABYRINTH IN MY MOST SACRED OF PLACES? YOU DO NOT HAVE YOUR STRUMPET PROTECTOR WITH YOU THIS TIME, FOOLS! YOU WILL DIE HERE, ALONE, SO FAR FROM THE LIGHT OF YOUR HEAVEN.
I HAVE CRUSHED THE BONES OF TENS OF THOUSANDS OF HEROES BENEATH MY IRON HOOVES. NOW YOUR BONES SHALL JOIN THEM, AND EVEN A DECADE FROMNOW NO ONE WILL REMEMBER YOUR SACRIFICE. ALL YOUR STRIVING AND EFFORT AND NOISE IS BUT THE SLIGHTEST INCONVENIENCE. YOU ARE BUT ANTS AT A PICNIC. I WILL BE AVENGED AGAINST NOCTICULA. DESKARI WILL PAY FOR HIS USURPATION. GOLARION WILL BE RULED BY ME, ITS EVERY LIVING SOUL MY OFFSPRING, IT’S EVERY BREATHING BODY FILLED WITH MY BURNING SEED, AND IOMEDAE WILL WATCH IN IMPOTENT RAGE.
YOUR STORY ENDS HERE. THERE WILL BE NO FINAL ACT. NO SONG, SAVE THE ETERNAL MUSIC OF YOUR SCREAMS.”
Baphomet Retreats
“ENOUGH! YOU HAVE EARNED A REPRIVE THIS DAY. I AM PATIENT, AND YOUR FATE IS SEALED. TO ME YOU ARE NOTHING MORE THAN MAYFLIES, AN IRRITANT NOT WORTH THE TROUBLE OF SWATTING. YOUR LIVES ARE SO BRIEF IT IS AS IF YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD. GO, AND LIVE OUT THE REST OF YOUR TIME IN FEAR, KNOWING THAT YOU WILL BE MY VICTIMS AT A MOMENT OF MY CHOOSING.”
He waves his arm, and you are violently ejected from his prison, hurtling back towards the prime. But before you can manifest there some other force grabs hold of you.
Baphomet Killed
Baphomet stares at you in shock and hatred, and then the Abyss claims his soul. A violent tremor rocks the Ineluctable Prison, and cracks emerge in its walls as the bones begin to splinter and powder. You can feel the Ivory Labyrinth start to destabilize, its abyssal quintessence no longer given shape and focus by Baphomet’s will. Walls flicker in and out of existence, and the terrain flashes from biome to biome as the various mazes of the labyrinth overlay themselves one atop the other. Zograthy can sense a vacuum, and already there are powers moving to assert their will and dominance, to seize the Ivory Labyrinth that was once Baphomet’s, and turn it into something wholly their own. But there is a curious, deeper shifting within the prison itself, and with a start, Zograthy realizes what is happening. Asmodeus is moving to reclaim the territory Baphomet stole from him countless eons ago. Before he can share this horrifying realization, there is a flash of white light.
Iomedae-Herald Killed
You are back in Iomedae’s cathedral, in its central knave. Her avatar awaits you. The rest of the Silver Scale is here, but Waxberry and Alderpash are gone. The Herald’s broken and corrupted body lies lifeless on the stone floor. Iomedae’s human mask is stern, tense, watchful, but Rischa can sense a coldness within her, a protective wall sheltering you from the weight of her crushing disappointment, the bitterness of her unrewarded faith, and the endless clinging guilt that accrues when others bear the consequences of your actions. She is not angry, and that is somehow worse. You realize in this moment she reminds you of no one less than Queen Galfrey. Rischa may serve as Iomedae’s Herald, but Mendev’s queen is her true mortal avatar.
“Tell me what happened.” Her voice is flat and level. She asks the question despite knowing the answer, having sensed Rischa’s thoughts the moment she left the Ivory Labyrinth.
PCs Respond
“It is one thing to try and fail. There is no shame in reaching your limit, only to find your limit is not enough. There is even honor in it. But to serve and then openly defy me, or obey only because you were outnumbered…
I am well aware of Jingh’s concerns, and he will answer to me. I am not ignorant of the cosmic laws, though some of you, in your hubris, accuse me of just that. But it is I, not Jingh, not even Pharasma, who is the God of Justice.”
She faces Wick, and an uncharacteristic rage swells within her, barely contained by her avatar. Wick begins to bleed from his eyes and ears, the pain driving him to his knees, and though Iomeade does not shout, you can still make out her words over the deafening cacophony of tolling bells that emanate from everywhere and nowhere.
“It is not your place to dispense this justice, and now my Herald will pay eternally for your arrogance and my failure. But another has laid a claim on you, Bastion Wick. One you carry freely, if unwittingly. She will answer for her machinations later. For now, I have need of you.”
Iomedae masters her anger, the bells fade, and the crushing pressure abates. Wick rises shakily to his feet, as she folds you all into her gaze.
“Much remains to be done, and there is little time in which to do it. You are the weapons before me, and a general goes to war with the army they have. Rischa Cadesh, I remain in need of a Herald for the coming conflict. You have held to your faith in the face of doubt and temptation. Your soul remains valorous and true. Will you continue to shoulder that responsibility until a permanent Herald enters my service?”
Rischa answers
“As for the rest of you, there is value in failure if we allow it to forge us from who we are into who we ought to be. This is a lesson I learned as a mortal, and have carried into Godhood.
Knights of the Silver Scale, champions of Golarion, while you could not return my Herald, you defied a Demon Lord in the heart of his domain. I call upon you to do it again.
Areelu Vorlesh has finally thrown open the Worldwound. This is no longer an infection, an abyssal taint slowly corrupting a prime world. Vorlesh’s portal is consuming Golarion in its entirety, pulling the entire planet into the Rasping Rifts. Such an act will magnify his power tenfold, to say nothing of Deskari’s dominion over Rovagug’s prison or an artifact of the Starstone’s power. And I need not tell you what it means for the people of Golarion. Will you answer this final call? Will you serve, and will that service be faithful and true?”
It is only a matter of days before the abyssal roots of the Worldwound run so deep they can never be severed. I cannot interfere. The work of preventing this falls to you, my champions. Even as we speak, your enemies surround Drezen, and you lack the tools to close the portal. You are out of time.
But I am not. There is so much I cannot do, but perhaps I can do this one thing. As my Herald would remind me, I am not the god of law. I am the god of justice. And on certain rare occasions, justice may require a bending of the rules.
You are my avatars in the battle for Golarion. Protect the Sword. Secure the knife. Find the Suture. Close the Wound.”
There is a flash of white light, and you find yourself in a dining hall with a long oak table and six comfortable chairs. The air is suffused with tranquility and stillness. The frantic stress of the last eight months has lifted, and while your purpose remains carefully fixed in your mind, it has lost its immediacy. You realize with a start that you are not breathing. You touch your bare skin, and there is warmth, but no pulse. Your first thought is that you’ve died, but you do not feel dead, and this matches no description of any afterlife you know. And then you realize. You have been taken outside of time – that this space, wherever it is, consists of one frozen moment stretching out into infinity.
Curious, you explore. There are eleven doors leading out of the lab. Six open to comfortably appointed bedrooms. There is a laboratory, complete with forge, a gymnasium, a sitting room with a small recreational library, bathing room, and a well stocked kitchen. You are not hungry, and suspect your body requires no nourishment or rest in this place, but you cannot remember the last time you truly enjoyed a meal at peace, or slept in true safety. Before you left for the Midnight Fane, at least. Possibly before the fall of Kenabres. Iomedae has gifted you sanctuary, and with it time to rest and prepare. There is much to be done, and you are the only ones who can do it. The last hope for Golarion’s present, and the architects of its future.
There is a twelfth door you somehow missed in your earlier exploration. It bears no unusual markings, and looks, by all accounts, to be an ordinary door. But you instinctively know as soon as you open the portal, this space will collapse in on itself, and you will be returned to Golarion to decide its fate. You hear Iomedae’s voice in your head one final time. ‘You must open one door to close another. Go forward in light to combat the darkness.”
Herald Saved
You are back in Iomedae’s cathedral, in its central knave, before her oracular well. The rest of the Silver Scale is here with you, along with the Herald, but Waxberry and Alderpash are gone. An avatar of Iomedae waits for you. Iomedae’s human mask is stern, tense, watchful, but Rischa can sense through their connection that something within her melts, a deep inhalation the moment before suffocation. She reaches for the unconscious form of the Herald, and cradles him in her arms. Some of her divine power flows into him, and his wounds close, the rent in his chest sealing, excised of the last remnants of nahyndrian blood. You watch as the skin on his face regenerates, but before you can take your first look at the Herald’s true form his golden helm reforms around him, a mask of impartial, implacable justice. He turns his head to Iomedae and speaks. His voice is weak, tentative, but it is his.
“My lady, the power that Vorlesh stole…The Worldwound. I have failed you.”
Iomedae gently shakes her head, and smiles through her tears. “My Herald – you have fought bravely, and held on long enough to return to me. You have come home. There can be no greater victory than that.”
“I am not worthy…”
“It is I am who am not worthy of you,” she quiets him. She then turns her gaze to the Silver Scale. “Of any of you.”
The Herald disappears, and Iomedae stands and straightens.
“It will be a long time until he has recovered from his ordeal.” She looks at Rischa, and in a single instant absorbs the events of the last month. Her features darken. “Jingh will answer to me in short order. But there is much that remains to be done, and little time in which to do it…
| Stip |
We have begun the Battle of Drezen in book VI, which I have greatly expanded (it will be about 10 separate encounters over the course of the battle to push the PCs, some having multiple phases, and usually one of their NPC allies participating. Before we move over to the closing of the wound I wanted a big climax for the Crusades. I had Yaniel, Irabeth, and Galfrey make speeches to the Crusade before the battle (with PC speeches in between). I've set this up as a battle the Crusades cannot possibly win. They are going to their deaths to buy time for the PCs to lure Aponovicus into the field so they can kill her and get an artificat in her keeping needed to close the Worldwound. Galfrey's speech in particular is meant to be an elegy of the crusade. This is probably one of my top 4 things i've written for the campaign, at least in terms of my own favorites (along with the conclusion to the battle which I'll post in a few months when my players get there, Arueshale's prologue introduction, and her redemption).
Cutscene XVIII: Go Forward in Light
6 Gozran, 4724 – Drezen, The Worldwound
What is left of the Fifth Crusade, and the armed might of Mendev, is arrayed before you, filling the Drezen courtyard and the surrounding town, now a heavily fortified encampment. It is the single largest gathering of military strength you have ever seen, and it is hard not to feel a surge of pride at the sight of some many soldiers of differing faiths, races, and nations gathered in one place to do what is right and necessary. But your thoughts drift to the near inexhaustible size and power of the forces arrayed against you, and your confidence wavers. Suddenly the crusades seem a paltry and meager thing – weak and feeble mortals playing at soldiers thanks to the indulgent sufferance of demonic masters who have finally run out of patience.
With these conflicting thoughts at war in your mind you realize the ability of the Crusaders to hold their ground, to fight to the end in a battle they cannot possibly win, will come down to the story they are told. What can you be made to believe, and is it strong enough to endure the demonic wave that has swallowed the north, and about to break over Drezen?
Yaniel approaches the podium, which has been enchanted to carry the speaker’s voice across the courtyard and through the twisting and cluttered alleyways of Drezen. She is no longer the desiccated husk you freed from Minagho in the Midnight Fane almost two months ago, weak and frail from years of imprisonment. She stands tall and strong, and while she does not carry herself with Galfrey’s regal bearing, or Irabeth’s ramrod conviction, she radiates an earthy, playful goodness that drives back the shadows in your heart. In your brief acquaintance with Yaniel you find you feel better about yourself when she is near, especially after your crushing loss of the Herald.
She crowds out the spaces where recrimination and regret might take hold, and in the light of her gaze what you previously understood as a flaw or weakness within yourself is revealed instead as a core component of a larger design, necessary imperfections whose contrast illuminates your finest qualities. The greatest hero of the Fourth Crusade has joined the Fifth, and your heart is glad for her presence. She clears her throat, and smiles.
“I am Yaniel, paladin of Iomeade and I greet you, my fellow crusaders. I have journeyed here from your past to fight for our future. For almost thirty years I have been tortured by the demon Minagho, rescued not two months ago by the Silver Scale and our mighty warrior Queen. I endured much during my long captivity, and it has left deep scars and weighty regrets. But perhaps my enforced martyrdom was all part of Iomedae’s grand design. Had I remained free, I might not have lived long enough to witness this moment. To these old and tired eyes you are a sunrise after a long night, and I am renewed by the sight of you.
Crusaders, look at what you have accomplished! The Sword of Valor flies defiant and proud over a liberated Drezen. Baphomet has been driven from Golarion. Xanthir Vang is dead. Minagho is dead. Jerribeth is dead. The turncoat and coward Staunton Vhane has paid for his treachery. Soon Aponovicus will join him. And Areelu Vorlesh, the great betrayer of humanity, has locked herself in the tower of Threshold, afraid to take to the field.
I look at the great host before me, and let me tell you what I see. I see the enduring strength of Iomeade’s armor, and the ever sharpened edge of her blade. I see heroes who understand the simple truth at the heart of Iomeade’s teaching, even if they owe allegiance to other gods. In the face of injustice, be the first into battle and the last to leave. This teaching comes at a cost, but we gladly pay it. We have lost friends, homes, family, but our suffering only hardens our resistance. We fight, because we understand the value and fragility of what remains. We fight because we honor the past that shaped us and will not abandon the future yet to be.
Should we be forced to die, we will die as we lived – with pride, as crusaders. It has been a long road we have walked these hundred years and more. But there is no more road before us. Only destination. Only destiny.
The day ahead will be difficult, but please know, no matter how arduous the struggle, no matter how far the dawn, no matter how much blood flows from my wounds, I shall stand with you. We fight for our loved ones, for our friends, for the right to live and die free. We shall do everything we possibly can, and after that, we shall find a way to do more. And if the hour should come when our arms can no longer raise our swords we will make of our bodies a shield to cover those who still have the strength to fight. And together, we will win!
May Iomedae and all the goodly gods strengthen and preserve we who fight against the malignant chaos of the Abyss.
Go forward in light to combat the darkness.”
PC speeches
Irabeth held up her hand for silence, and the soldiers quieted, ready to hear the words of their commander, last of the crusaders touched by the power of the Wardstones. While the Silver Scale had become living myths, their heroism was the heroism of stories, of great works and towering feats performed elsewhere, in the realm of gods and monsters. But Irabeth had stayed with the people of Drezen. Walked among them. Lived alongside them. Protected them from their waking nightmare. She was Iomedae’s truth made accessible and real. And because of that, the people of Drezen were prepared to fight for her, no matter the odds. Because she would be there alongside them, with her inexhaustible resolve - an avatar of stubborn faith refusing to die. She would not give up on them, and so they would not give up on her. Queen Galfrey was the enduring spirit of the crusades. But somewhere along the way Irabeth had become its heart. She began to speak.
“The first time I addressed a group of soldiers it was a much smaller gathering, back in Defender’s Heart, in Kenebras. Eight months and a lifetime ago. I was the ranking officer in the Eagle’s Watch by virtue of outliving my superiors, and we were buying time for a miracle. It seemed impossible, but the Crusades have taught us the impossible is merely the possible starved of blood and will. All who heard my voice were forced to fight that day, whether at Defenders Heart, on the streets, or within the Grey Garrison. Many of us died, but our blood and will birthed a miracle. Together we ensured Areelu Vorlesh could not corrupt the power of the Wardstones, our precious gift from Iomedae’s Herald. Instead, that power was transferred into new vessels prepared to carry out Iomedae’s will.
Just ten day later we had liberated this city from the forces of the Worldwound, and the Sword of Valor, Iomedae’s sacred banner, resumed its sentinel watch over Drezen. This was another impossible moment, a miracle secured with the blood and will of heroes. Some of those heroes are with us today. But it was not their might and magic that made them heroes. It was their resolve. Their faith. Their willingness to do what was right and pay the cost of their righteousness. Their refusal to do otherwise. And there is no power in the Abyss that can stand against that.
I have witnessed other miracles. The Fifth Crusade has known tragedy, yes, but each of those tragedies has been offset by acts of unconquerable bravery and unbreakable faith, and these are the seeds from which miracles grow.
If you do not relinquish your faith I will hold to mine, and if we stand together the darkness cannot win. That is my promise to you. There is one final miracle within us, and we will protect that seed.
Go forward in light to combat the darkness.”
A great cheer followed Irabeth’s words, an unveiling of oaths and clanging of swords on shields. But gradually the sound died down, replaced by a great thundering off in the distance. While the skies above Drezen were clear, a great black cloud filled the horizon. It was the sight and sound of tens of thousands of demons churning the earth and sky beneath them in a mad rush for Drezen. The sound of an ending. But there is time still for final words, to armor the soul with meaning.
Galfrey gazed upon the mass of soldiers arrayed before her. Paladins, clerics, warriors of every faith, drawn north to try and do right by themselves and their gods. The last surviving remnants of the crusades, of the dream that mortal resolve could triumph against immortal sin. Time and again, for over a century, Galfrey had looked upon gatherings like this, and spoke the words that would inspire brave men and women to die for a dream, for a story she told. This would be the final time she has to spin faith into truth, and carry the bloody weight of that transformation. The people assembled here would be the last to die with her words ringing in their ears. The last souls on her conscience. Her war was ending.
It was an oddly liberating feeling. For the first time in one hundred and twenty years she did not need to worry about the future. For the first time in over a century she did not have to think about the impact her actions today would have on tomorrow. Here, at the end, she felt free. Maybe for the first time. Galfrey stepped forward, and her step felt just a little lighter. She took a deep breath, blinked back tears, and took in the scene before her. It was tense, and fragile, and hopeful, and scared, and real. It was beautiful. Perhaps the last beautiful thing she would ever see with mortal eyes. She began to speak, honestly and from her heart. Anything less would be an insult to the heroes gathered here.
“We are all going to die. That is the bitter truth of morality. But it is also a secret blessing – the source of its power. Mortal minds cannot comprehend the infinite. We are made to fade away, but the brief spark of our lives is the fuel that drives all of creation. And it is in these moments, when we stare into the face of that truth that we discover the secret meaning of love, beauty, and joy. It is not the thing in itself that has value, but its ability to stand, for a brief moment, in defiance of its opposite. To prove that hatred, and ugliness, and misery will always be resisted.
It is likely most of us will not live out the day – that this is the moment of our defiance. The time has come for us to offer up the beauty of our lives, the love that sustains them, the joy they create, and in that offering force the universe to recognize and honor our sacrifice, to accept it as validation of the ideals to which we have dedicated our lives. Without this sacrifice, without this gift, our words have no meaning, our values no core, our lives no weight.
We are here today to die, to return the life that was given to us. But our journey is not over. Though the facts of our bodies may reach their end, the truth of our souls will continue. Pharasma will weigh what we offer, and none of us will be found wanting. We will go on to our great reward in the life to come, and finally understand the meaning of eternity, and behold the forever mysteries that confound mortality. It will be beautiful, and it will be ours.
We come to the end of one story, and the beginning of another. For each and every one of us. But the end is not here yet. There is still work that lies ahead, and we will see it done.
I have been blessed throughout my long life. I have seen more than most mortals have seen. I have had the opportunity to stand before my god. To speak with her. I do not have to guess her will, for she has shared it with me. And she commands us to fight. And to keep fighting. For as long as we can. Until no one is left to fight and there is nothing left to fight for.
Iomedae is a just and benevolent god. She can be stern. And she can be demanding. But she is not capricious. And she is not cruel. She knows what she asks of us. She knows what it will cost. And she would not ask it of us without reason. There is a greater purpose at work here today. I do not claim to understand it. Such knowledge is beyond my mortal comprehension. But my joyful heart confirms the truth of its existence.
We are here because Iomedae calls for it. Because Sarenrae needs it. Because Torag expects it, and Shelyn desires it, and because Desna’s paths have led us here. And together we are the body and blood of our faiths. We are the sword and shield of our Gods. We are their spirit made manifest. Here and now, in this sacred space, for their sacred purpose.
Do not lose sight of that today. You are here because your god requires it, and all gods have set aside a place of honor for those who would enact their will. We commit our bodies to their cause, and our spirits to their keeping, and they will reward our sacrifice and our faith.
Fight hard while you can. Die well when you must. Sharing the gift of time with you has been the great honor and privilege of my life, and I will see you again, to thank you for that gift and to repay my debts, in this world or the next.”
Galfrey draws her sword and brandishes it above her head. The sun still shines over Drezen, and the light catches on the blade. The great masses of crusaders draw their weapons in response, and as the light reflects from blade to blade the air is filled with a mirrored radiance burning brighter than the noonday sky. Galfrey unleashes a primal scream, one final joyful noise, declaring that here and now, she is alive. Her soldiers answer, a celebratory cry of mortality that drowns out the thundering roar of Aponavicius’ approaching horde. Galfrey continues, her voice magically carrying above the wall of sound.
“Knights of the Crusade, our destiny has arrived, and we rise to meet it. Go forward in light and defy the darkness.”
Spirits bolstered, and resolved to their fate, the warriors of Drezen made ready to join the final battle of the crusades and to die for Golarion.
| Stip |
Okay, I set up a LONG (10 fights (some with multiple phases) over two hours so round and minute buffs will expire) Battle for Drezen, that culminates with them confronting Apon in her lair. This was set up for them to lose (the real culmination of the adventure from the PC perspective was a final fight against Staunton Vhane (4th and final time he appears). Aponovicus defeats the PCs, because I wanted the the final battle of the Crusade/End of the Crusades (they are destroyed) to culminate with Galfrey and Irabeth being the heroes.
I also wanted to remove the Sword of Valor from the equation, and I like this because of the symmetry with the destruction of the wardstones that begin the 5th crusades.
To do this I created a second artifact destruction condition for the sword - it needed to be coated in the blood of a twice martyred paladin and used to smite a demon lord (and I buffed Apon so she was a nascent demon lord). And with Yaniel's death she becomes that paladin and pays off the PCs paying her. this is one of my favorite cut scenes for the campaign.
Cutscene XIX: Iomedae’s Sword
6 Gozran, 4724 – Drezen, The Worldwound
The battle for Drezen was over. Aponavicius had defeated an exhausted Silver Scale, the last defenders were overwhelmed, and the demon hordes were endless. Ulkreths tore down the remaining curtain walls of the keep as Aponavicius approached the ruins of the gatehouse, ready to claim the Sword of Valor, her prize – the final remnant of the might of the crusades.
She approached the Sword, idly dispatching the few remaining defenders. But as she crested the final pile of rubble, she stopped. At the other end of the debris-filled courtyard Yaniel waited for her, holding Iomedae’s banner in one hand, her sword in the other. Flanking her on either side were Galfrey and Irabeth. Three generations of Mendevian paladins, offering the Crusade’s final refusal. A long moment passed, as Deskari’s warlord stared down Iomedae’s champions, who would not blink. In the end Galfrey ignited her blade and broke the silence.
“This is my keep, demon. Built by my people, its stones mortared into place by their blood, its ground sanctified by my God. It is in their name that I claim this land. You and your kind are not welcome here. Leave, or I will destroy you.”
Aponavicius laughed, almost affectionately. “For over a hundred years you brief, insignificant mortals have been a source of unending delight. How I will miss you, your delicious optimism, your bottomless hope – my favorite playthings.”
Irabeth took a step forward. Her sword flared to life, wreathed in holy fire. “My Queen has given you an order,” declared Irabeth. This is your final warning, wormspawn.”
Aponavicius turned her gaze to Yaniel. “And you, paladin? Your decades of torture at Minagho’s hands were nothing compared to what I have in mind. If you run now, I may lose interest.” She gestured one of her arms at Irabeth and another at Galfrey. “While my attention is otherwise occupied.”
A smile, and the divine light enveloping her blade, was Yaniel’s answer. The paladins did not move, did not back down. Aponavicius, no longer amused, hissed and charged. The paladins rose to meet her. There was a whirlwind of clashing blades, but for all their power and skill they could not defeat Deskari’s champion. Lightning fast, two of Aponavicius’ swords pierced Irabeth’s side and chest, and another two gutted Galfrey. With otherworldly strength, Aponavicius lifted the two paladins overhead, impaled upon her blades, and hurled them each fifteen feet in opposite directions. They crashed to the ground, bleeding, broken, unmoving. Only Yaniel remained, blade in one hand, Sword of Valor in the other, eyes fixed on Aponavicius.
“Such a pity, little paladin – to return from the dead only to live long enough to see the final defeat of your pathetic crusade.”
Yaniel’s reply was bright and firm. “The arc of justice is long, and it is mysterious, but it is absolute, demon. A day will come when you answer for your crimes against creation, and my soul will be at Iomedae’s side to bear witness. This is not the end.”
“But for you, wretched mortal, I’m afraid it is.” Aponavicius lunged at the paladin, and while Yaniel fought with the courage that made her a legend, in the end she was overwhelmed. Profane blades slashed her throat, and the demon’s tail lifted her into the sky, hurling her away. She crashed into the ground, collapsing next to Galfrey, the great spear that held the Sword of Valor cracking in two from the impact. And Yaniel breathed her last as her blood coated the banner that she refused to yield, even in death.
Aponavicius slithers towards the banner, eager to claim her prize, when a voice calls out behind her. “We are not finished, demon.”
Aponavicius turns, as Irabeth painfully lifts herself onto one knee, her hand pressed against her grievous wounds. She uses the last of her healing magic, enough to grant her the strength to rise. She squares her shoulders, hefts her shield, and rests her blade above it, a one woman shield wall.
Aponavicius laughs. “How delightful. It seems you do not know when to die. Perhaps I will keep you alive for when Staunton Vhane is returned. A gift for my pet.”
Irabeth does not rise to the taunt. “I am Iomedae’s shield, and I will not yield to you.”
Aponavicius glides towards Irabeth, her fanged mouth curling into a malicious smile. Irabeth continues:
“I am Iomedae’s shield, and I will deny you”.
Aponavicius snarls, and once again stabs at Irabeth with all six blades. And while Irabeth blocks what she can, Aponavicius pierces her flesh over and over. Irabeth stumbles back, and falls. Aponavicius watches, bemused, as Irabeth picks herself up one last time, bleeding out but refusing to give in.
“You cannot win, little paladin, and I will bleed you until you understand.”
Irabeth smiles patiently through bloody teeth, her dying voice steady despite the pain. “But the role of a paladin is not to win. It is to resist, to endure, to be the light that holds the darkness at bay until the morning comes. I am Iomedae’s shield, and I wait for the dawn.
Aponavicius roars, and hammers at Irabeth’s shield, blow after blow, sundering it to bits.
“Pretty words, but your shield is shattered.” She gestures around her, at the hordes of demons swarming over Drezen and the final cries of its defenders. “Your cause lies in ruin. Your people are mine to torment. Your world is mine to despoil. And where, brave paladin, is your god now?’
“I am Iomedae’s shield, and here I stand.”
Irabeth is defenseless, lacking the strength to lift her sword, but refuses to turn away. Aponavicius raises all six weapons “Not for long,” she hisses.
“Not for long”, Irabeth agrees, “but long enough.”
Aponavicius brings her weapons down for the killing blow but stops inches from cleaving through the paladin. She looks at Irabeth, curiously, and then her eyes bulge wide as the splintered shaft of the Sword of Valor punches through her chest. Aponavicius drops her weapons and grasps the spear that pierced her heart as Galfrey rises behind her.
“I am the tip of Iomedae’s sword, and I will carve the fangs out of the Abyss!” As a sacred light travels up the length of the spear Galfrey gives an anguished cry for her fallen people, and smites Aponovicus with the Sword of Valor.
Aponavicius screams in pain and shock as the light glows brighter and brighter, enveloping the banner. The stitches tear apart as a golden brilliance floods out of the Sword of Valor. The banner disintegrates, as the power it contains burns the demonic armies rampaging through Drezen, melting them as they flee, unable to teleport away. There are eleven pulses of divine light, extending further and further until Drezen is purged, and then silence as the light fades.
Galfrey falls to her knees, spent, and expends her last healing to stabilize Irabeth and herself. The two of them stare at the bloody shaft that once held the Sword of Valor, and at the glowing purple knife lying amidst the ashes and ruin of the Crusade. Magnetically, they find their gaze pulled southwest, towards Threshold, and the heart of the Worldwound. The once clear skies above Drezen begin to rain fire and acid, a foul wind howls through the rubble of the city, and off in the distance, the chasmic ruins of the Rasping Rifts continue their consumption of Golarion.
| Stip |
These scenes take place the night after the Battle of Drezen. I wanted to give each cluster of PCs the chance to interact with the high level NPC they have the most involved relationship. Two talk to Nocticula, two Iomedae, and one Vorlesh
Cutscene XX: Midnight Conversations
6 Gozran, 4724 – Drezen, The Worldwound
Wick and Zograthy feel an electric current in the air. The hair on your arms stands up, your heart beats faster, your mouth goes dry. The shadows in the room lengthen as the light dims, before you are plunged into a momentary darkness. The light returns, and standing casually in the doorway of Zograthy’s room, is Nocticula. She looks at you, and slowly smiles. “Good evening gentlemen. Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
PCs respond
“I’ve always wanted to visit Drezen. So much turns on the fate of this flyspeck village in the middle of nowhere. I can’t say I like what you’ve done with the place.” She wanders over to a tapestry, studying its artistry with a critical eye, though her assessment is unreadable.
“I am here to check up on my investment. Certain outcomes in this conflict are more favorable to me than others, and I’d like to ensure they come to pass.”
“Zograthy, you have done well, but you are still holding onto Desna. You have always been stricken with a wanderlust and Desna is a goddess of journeys.” She approaches you and runs a perfectly manicured finger down your cheek. You shiver as she purrs into your ear. “But I can offer you a sublime destination.” She turns towards Wick. “And Wick, Optimus Prime, my unlikely champion. You are a man of singular talents. Mortal winner of the Battlebliss. The man who broke into the Ineluctable Prison and walked out having stolen Baphomet’s prize from under his nose. I don’t know that I’ve seen an act that brazen since, well, since Baphomet stole the prison out from under Asmodeus in the first place. Zograthy is a creature of passion but you, Wick, are a creature of will. Your ratfolk friend knew what he had to do, but when the time came, he dithered. He allowed others to dictate his actions. Not you. You had the courage to act. You knew what you wanted, and you took it, regardless of the cost. I admire that, and would extend my patronage to you, should you so desire it.”
PCs respond
“I wonder if you fully understand the nature of Vorlesh’s relationship to Deskari. If you truly understand her. Tell me, what you do you really know of Vorlesh, and her motives.”
PCs respond
“I suspect she hasn’t served Deskari for some time. She still performs her obeisances, and that is enough to assuage Desakri’s suspicions. She has played the part of dutiful servant, sharing the lesser versions of her accomplishments with his minions, making herself seem indispensable as she flattered their overinflated egos with the illusion of power. Table scraps presented as princely gifts.
In his arrogance Deskari has never seen her for the threat to his rule she truly is. The Worldwound is not folding Golarion into the Rasping Rifts. Not any longer. Thanks to the power she drew from Iomedae through her Herald Vorlesh is building a new Abyssal realm, born of the fusion of the Rasping Rifts and this corner of the prime. You have felt it, have you not. The pull towards Threshold – towards the heart of this new realm.
Vorlesh alters the plane, while Pharasma burns with impotent rage. Vorlesh has learned to harness the quintessence of a dying soul, captured in its moment of transition to serve her own designs. It is what powered her ritual – the death and transformation of the energy of 100,000 souls. On a smaller scale, she has captured it in the soul lead that fuels her other marvels. I will fully admit it. I am impressed. This is theft on a cosmic scale that only I had previously managed in the creation of my Midnight Islands.
Soon Deskari will realize that Vorlesh serves no master but her own ambition. Her will shall be tested against hiswhen that time comes. I do think she has the power to master him – especially aided by the true power of the crystals she has unlocked only for herself. She has kept all this carefully hidden. But it is difficult to keep secrets from me.
Vorlesh schemes like no other.” Nocticula smiles. “Save, perhaps, me. As soon as you established yourself as a piece on her board she used you to her ends. Thanks to your actions, Baphomet is out of the game – at least long enough for her to ensure her own elevation. Look at what just played out here in Drezen. Either Aponavicius claims the Sword of Valor, ensuring it cannot be used to weaken the Worldwound, or you defeat her, depriving Deskari of one of his most powerful weapons. Either way she wins, and thanks to your paladins, she has won twice over. And now, in your search for this Suture, she will pit you against Anemora, the Broodlord, and the Storm King. Should you succeed, when Vorlesh finally moves against him, Deskari will be alone.
Since your elevation, you have been her pawns – a weapon aimed straight at the heart of her enemies, its trajectory calculated to achieve her ends. And so I offer you something to consider. What do you know? Why do you know it? Who wants you to know it? And why?
Let me leave you with a gift of knowledge. The Suture was once a derakni, the first demon through the unstable gate that would mature into the Worldwound. The energy that powered its opening is trapped within him, twisting his form, forcing him to live every moment in agonizing torture. He is immortal, and cannot be killed as long as his body imprisons this piece of the Worldwound’s essence. And as long as he lives, the Worldwound cannot be closed.
The Suture is immortal, but he can be killed. It will require two things of you. The wards that protect the heart of the Worldwound must be overcome, and the Suture must be stabbed in the heart by the nahyndrian dagger Vorlesh used to spill the blood of her allies and create the Worldwound. The same dagger used by the Storm King to destroy the Wardstone at Kenebras. The dagger that is now in your possession.
I wish you luck and will follow your careers with great interest.” As Nocticula speaks, the light in the chamber dims, the shadows lengthen, until there is darkness. “Tell that rat to stay out of my vault if he knows what is good for him.” And then the light returns, and Nocticula is gone.
***
Rischa, Arueshalae, and Kiryn wander the halls of Citadel Drezen. While the site of Arueshalae’s visitation by Desna has retained its sacred echo, the restored temple of Iomeade was savaged by the demons rampaging through the citadel. The three of you spend some time restoring it as best you can. You find the work comforting, a reminder that even though you move on a grand stage, and that the steps you take reverberate throughout the planes, the planes are but an endless chain of smaller spaces, where quiet actions can still make a difference. You have removed the bodies, both the demons that profaned the temple and the defenders who gave their lives resisting them. The pews are restored to their orderly formation, the few intact tapestries rehung.
The altar was knocked aside, and a longsword thrust through a copy of the Acts of Iomeade, pinning it to the altar. The strength it took to drive the sword into the stone is difficult to imagine. Rischa goes to pull it out. As she wraps her hand around the hilt the blade begins to glow. Kiryn and Arueshalae feel the ghost of a breeze blow through the temple, like a quiet exhalation of breath. But Rischa can sense the direct presence of her God. Iomedae begins to speak, her voice clear in Rischa’s head, an audible whisper on the wind to Kiryn and Arueshale.
“You have done well, Rischa, and the courage of your friends runs deep and true. Hold to these companions. Trust in their judgement. More than one path leads to righteousness, and others may see a way forward even when you cannot.
The road before you is dark and overrun with terrors. You will bleed, and bleed again, before it is over. You have suffered much, and much suffering remains. Tell me, my true champions, what is the state of your heart and hope.”
PCs respond
“I too knew doubt and terror when I walked the world as a mortal. The Acts of Iomedae were canonized as miracles after the fact. At the time, they were desperate last stands and long shot chances. What saw me through them was not the certainty of my triumph. It was a stubborn refusal to lose, or a desire to take as many of the bastards with me as I could. You have it in you to succeed, my champions, as long as you never back down. Know that you need not see the path in front of you to keep walking it. Place one foot in front of the other, and never stop, and I promise you will arrive.
Kiryn, Arueshalae, Desna will not intervene. She waged war against the Abyss once, eons ago, and almost succeeded in uniting them in opposition against her. The memory of demon lords is long. She will not make that mistake again. But know she is proud of what you have accomplished in her name.
Rischa, one last great choice lies before you. You will know it when the time comes. And when it does, I bid you to follow your mortal heart, and not try to guess the will of your God. Trust Kiryn’s instincts. Desna know how to chart a path through the impossible and emerge on the other side.
I offer you all one final blessing. Go forward in light and combat the darkness.
With that the whispers fade, and the air in the chamber settles. Iomedae has withdrawn her presence. But a portion of the resolve that birthed a God remains within you. Rischa falls to her knees, overcome, not just by the visitation, but by the crushing, overpowering sadness and frustration that cannot hide from a herald, even deep within the secret heart of her Goddess.
***
Queso closes his eyes, frustrated by his body’s desire for rest even as he recognizes the need. There is much to do, always too much to do, and not enough time in which to do it. If only he could access a timeless demiplane of his own, he could make things right. But time evidently belongs to the gods. Their secret weapon. Their ultimate advantage. And so, he would rest for precisely one hour, wake, and then do what he could with the time he has left, knowing it would not be enough. Never enough.
Queso cannot mark the precise point at which he transitions into a dream, but he finds himself back in the halls of Areelu Vorlesh. Her dining room in Undarin. The last time he saw her mother, before Vorlesh stole her soul. But the table is larger, stretching off beyond his sight, every seat occupied by the ratfolk of Chitterhome. The people he could not save in the time that he had. His mother, father, sister. Rosita, his unrequired love. Santiago, his rival. His friends. Even his brother Justino, killed by demons before Queso even set out for Kenabres to close the Worldwound. They stare at him, eyes full of accusation and recrimination. Queso opens his mouth, wanting to apologize, wanting to explain himself, but most of all just desperate to talk to them, to explain himself. To say he was sorry. But every face lacks a mouth to speak and ears to hear. There is only the voiceless condemnation of their gaze.
“I just want you to know I did not invite them here. This is your dream. I am simply a visitor.” Sitting at the head of the table is Areelu Vorlesh, a goblet of wine in her hand, her gaze intent on Queso. Calculating. Weighing. Judging.
Queso responds
“If I can offer some advice, you torture yourself needlessly. These lives were not your responsibility. There is nothing you could have done to save them. They are a distraction. Their insignificance would have held you back. So I removed them for you. And you are welcome, for that. But only you can let them go. So, tell me, Queso Blanco, what will you do?”
Queso responds
“There is great potential within you. I have told you that before, back in the Yearning House in Alushinyrra. Do you recall what else I said to you that day?”
Queso responds
“There are some who bask in their own perceived cleverness by imagining that power comes from staying five moves ahead of your opponent. But dominance, true dominance, comes from playing an altogether different game, by subsuming theirs within your own.
You cannot win, because you do not know what game we are really playing. You have been scurrying after me since Kenabres, a snarling, spitting rat in a maze of my design. But that ignorance is not your fault. You are young, and new to a great power you did not earn. Everything you have achieved thus far comes from the gift a Goddess, offered so that you might serve someone else’s end. You have yet to learn that true power cannot be given. It is born of sacrifice and suffering. It is not gifted. It is forged in fire and blood, and until you have paid the price you cannot understand its value.
I see something of myself in you, Queso, and so I, more than anyone, understand your potential. Reach it and change worlds. Hold back and become a footnote in a story no one will ever read.
Tell me, you knew the right thing to do when you faced the corrupted Herald in Baphomet’s prison. You knew what the moment required. But you would not take that step. You would not do what was necessary? Why?
You are impossibly brilliant. So am I, even more so. But what separates us is will. I would not have hesitated. I have never hesitated. The path I walk may not always be direct, but it is always purposeful, each foot planted precisely where I intend.
Queso, I have let you chase after me because it serves my own designs, but you cannot stop me. I would have ended the game long ago if there was even the slightest risk that you could. It is time to abandon the fiction that things could be otherwise. I believe you are smart enough to see that, to set aside the ego that prevents you from embracing that truth and accept the opportunity I am offering you. Join me. I will have need of champions in the days to come, and you need a guide to help you unlock your true greatness.
Look at all I have accomplished in a hundred years, with the plundered resources of a great nation. Imagine what we could achieve working together, with endless time, the wealth of an entire planet and the secret knowledge of all the planes opened before us.
Queso responds
“You can serve me, Queso, or die in the service of a castrated Goddess. When the time comes, I trust you will make the right decision. Do not disappoint me.”
And with those words, Vorlesh disappears from your mind. You stare at her empty seat, afraid to turn your head, as you absorb the deafening silence of Chitterhome’s gaze.
| Stip |
Okay, heading into our final two sessions, I rewrote a lot of the descriptive text around Threshold. A few major changes:
1. Threshold is guarded by Pyrallisia and Terendelev, which should make for an epic opening battle.
2. As I have Vorlesh betraying Deskari, and most of the campaign has been spent with Vorlesh gradually manipulating things so that the PCs are gradually taking out Deskari's principle allies, most of Threshold is empty of all save Vorlesh's inner circle - things she can control or had a hand in creating (like Pyralisia and Terendelev in this story).
3. I basically combined Threshold's interior into three sections, as a room by room dungeon crawl is underwhelming at this point:
- the Tower proper, which is about 400 feet high and which Vorlesh has turned into a magical amplifier to expand the Worldwound
- the actual heart of the Worldwound
- the 'roots of the worldwound, where they will confront vorlesh.
4. I added a significant RP section of sorts that I will tie into closing the Worldwound - as they pass through the portal to the 'roots' section the Worldwound will try to corrupt them, pushing their alignments towards evil and making it harder for them to close it. Each PC (plus irabeth and arueshalae) will end up either reliving a moment from their past or projected out into the future (which they will experience as present) where if they open themselves up to the WW's power they can achieve some great desire. They think this is real (as the dangerously malleable nature of time has been a campaign theme) though they will have sense motive checks to see if something is wrong. At the end they will have to make a will save, heavily modified by whether or not they made the RP choice to open themselves up to the WW (unknowingly). Hopefully it goes well. Text is below
5. We are leading off with a ritual they undertake (carried out by former PCs from earlier campaigns) that will link their minds and mythic powers. I need this for the ending, but will allow them to share mythic power with each other as a result (a 1-1 exchange on their initiative, and 2-1 if not).
| Stip |
Cutscene XX: The Heart of the Worldwound
10 Gozran, 4724 - Vigil, Lastwall
In some ways, the setting is anticlimactic. You are in a small unassuming chapel of Iomedae, deep within the fortress of Vigil, away from the destruction caused by your battle with the Storm King. Galfrey and Anevia have gathered to witness this moment, as has the Watcher-Lord Ulthon IIII, ruler of Lastwall and leader of the Shining Crusade. Each of you stand inside carefully prepared ritual circles while braziers burn sacred incense secured from Prolera, Iomedae’s layer of Heaven. Waxberry offers a long prayer to the Inheritor, and then the ceremony begins. Ren Kinney, Dr. Arcadius, Odayama, and Christian Heavenly begin to chant four separate invocations, and as they do you feel the river of power within you rise.
But for the first time since your mythic ascension you can also sense the flow within your companions, as if you are each a tributary fed from some larger source. You feel your power stretch out towards your companions, seeking to merge, and as the rivers get closer your own senses begin to dim, your perception of reality narrowing, before being replaced by something simultaneously more intimate and expansive. Your sense of the chapel grows wider, as if seeing it from multiple eyes. One heartbeat becomes six, your blood flowing through veins that are not your own. You have brief flashes of memory you do not recognize yet somehow experienced. Nothing you can fully process, yet it is as if you have lived six lives in the span of one.
You feel whispered thoughts, emotions rather than words - the existential truth of your companions souls, visible to you for the first time. You marvel at Queso’s confidence, and draw strength from Irabeth’s boundless resolve. There is a thrilling recklessness emanating from Zograthy, tinged with a darkness that feels at odds with the righteousness pouring from Rischa. You almost gag at Wick’s suffocating guilt, before you are swept along the moonlit paths navigated by Kiryn, possibilities that could lead you anywhere.
The strands of the rivers flow closer and closer together, and just as they make contact an image of a vast golden wall on an empty featureless plain fills your vision. And then, suddenly, the ritual ends, and you are back in the chapel. Once again yourself, and only yourself - yet you have an increased awareness of your companions, and feel a collective connection to each of your individual manifestations of Iomedae’s power.
***
10 Gozran, 4724 - Threshold Exterior, The Worldwound
You stand on a cliff face overlooking a canyon a mile wide and a thousand feet deep, like the hand of an angry god reached down and scooped out the Sarkorian plateau, pouring their malice into the hole. An analogy not all that dissimilar from the truth.
The canyon walls are pockmarked with countless caves, most of which vomit out a steady stream of unholy lava, the heat turning the violent rain into a heavy, sickly mist. The sensation of evil in the air is so thick you can feel it on your skin, like a wet, abrasive slime, and for a moment you wonder if you will ever be clean again.
The sky is a violent infection unleashing the toxic fury of the abyss, rents in the atmosphere disgorging lightning, hail, acid, and thunder. Though it was the morning when you left Lastwall, it is night in the Worldwound, and what illumination the sky provides comes from stars that are not your own.
The canyon bowl writhes and seethes, a sea of vermin constantly consuming each other, though their numbers replenish as fast as they are destroyed, emerging through glowing gates somewhere below the roiling surface.
And there, off in the distance, at the center of the canyon, you see it - the tower of Threshold, like a spike stabbed into the heart of Golarion, or a claw rising from a grave. It reaches two hundred feet into the sky and seems to be eighty feet wide, made of a dark stone. Three of Threshold’s four outlying spires still arch up into the sky above the lake of vermin, but the fourth lies partially crumbled into ruins. The central spire of the tower rises up twice as high as its companions.
Everywhere the air has a shimmery haze, like the world around you is almost, but not quite solid. There is a deep thrumming screech, almost like the sound you imagine obsidian mountains would make if they were scraped together.
Your eyes shift into the spectrums of magic. Exploding from Threshold, you see hundreds, perhaps thousands, of massive strands of magical energy made of the nauseating iridescent colors of the abyss - purple, orange, yellow, green, shot through with darkness.
You see them stretch off into the Worldwound, like parasitic tentacles intent on enveloping Golarion - though whether they are sucking its vitality out, pumping corruption in, or both, is hard to say. You can see the abyssal tentacles have latched onto the network of magical ley lines that criss-cross the planet. Every few seconds you can swear you see new strands emerge from Threshold, and the velocity of their manifestation increases before your eyes
Circling the tower are four flying shapes – from this distance they look like birds, but that’s probably not what they are.
***
A massive gout of vermin erupts from the lake of corruption, and a wedge shaped cloud of insects veers into the sky. As the vermin fall away in crackling, popping sheets, twin intertwining ribbons of fire and ice diverge in opposite directions, the last of the vermin sloughing off their twisting forms, the charred and frozen bodies raining into the endless pool below.
One blur resolves into a gargantuan bird of living flame, and you would swear you are looking at a phoenix if not for its vulture-like aspect. Its flames are tinged with purple, burning with an unnatural, unholy heat. It releases a sharp piercing cry, half triumph, half pain, and within it you can feel an undying rage and sense of half remembered violation – unable to fully articulate itself and equally unable to let go. And you know that this is Pyralisia, once a noble phoenix and a powerful ally of the First Crusade – drawn north from the deserts of Osirian to oppose the forces of the Abyss. She was lost at the dawn of the Second Crusade, holding off the forces of Deskari long enough for the Herald of Iomedae to fully invest the wardstones. Her rebirth was corrupted by a combination of the abyssal energies of the Worldwound and some design of Vorlesh, and Pyralisia became the Rain of Embers – for many years a scourge of crusaders who journeyed too deeply into the Worldwound, though not seen at all during the Fifth Crusade.
For all the dire tragedy of Pyralisia, your heart truly breaks when you gaze upon her companion. Almost nine months ago, when the earth cracked open during the Storm King’s assault on Kenebras, it was the last act of a dying dragon that saved your life. You were no one important. No songs chronicled your deeds. No prophecy promised your name. You had not stared down demon lords, spoken to Gods, or performed feats that could rightfully be called miracles. You were just a small handful of lives to save, one final act of decency and hope in defiance of the world’s constant assertion of darkness and evil.
Almost nothing of that Terendelev remains. The dragon’s elegant silver frame is gone, reduced to a skeleton bathed in sickly green light. As she turns her head towards you there is no trace of nobility and compassion in her gaze – just a baleful stare to match a rictus snarl. Your eyes are drawn to the space in her neck where the Storm King decapitated the great dragon – the ghostly outline of a vertebrae marking the site of Khorramzadeh’s triumph.
The phoenix can sense the wardstone energy, and screeches in outrage. “I can feel those cursed stones within you. I gave my life bringing them into being, only to be forgotten by the mortals and forsaken by the gods. Every day since my sacrifice has been constant agony. Finally, after a century of torment. I shall revisit my pain upon its source!”
And then Terendelev speaks, the clarion timbre of her voice replaced by a cold, rumbling scrape. “Ahhh, my namesakes have come. I suppose the adoption of my former self as your standard is a tribute of sorts. But that form was weak and afraid. Now there is no pain. Now there is no fear. There is only hunger, and power. Lady Vorlesh prophesied you would come. She has prepared me for your arrival, and my might will grow when I feast upon your souls. My legend will strike terror in the hearts of mortals. There is a place of privilege for me in the world she is creating, where none will have the audacity to stand before me.
Welcome, Silver Scale, to Threshold. Welcome to your end.”
***
10 Gozran, 4724 - Threshold Interior, The Worldwound
You gaze down upon the interior of the tower of Threshold as you float at the top of a central shaft stretching four hundred feet down. All along the walls, at regular intervals, are arcane portals, one hundred in total. They cluster in blocks of five, with a new bank appearing in staggered intervals along the opposite wall. The ceiling holds a circular portal, and a portal of similar size lies directly below it, hundreds of feet down, nestled between the interior chambers at the tower’s apparent base.
The tower is filled to bursting with swarms of flying vermin, so thick they partially obscure your vision. Adorning the walls of Threshold are complex arcane symbols the likes of which you have never seen before, bathing the tower interior in a dim, eerie, strobing light. They crackle with energy, and purple, orange, yellow, and green bolts of eldritch power zip haphazardly from symbol to symbol. They incinerate the insects in their path, but there is an infinite supply eager to take their place.
Your magical sight reveals the abyssal aspected threads of magical energy emerging through the portal below, drawing strength from the symbols throughout the tower, weaving themselves into massive strands before passing through its ceiling and out into the ever expanding lands of the Worldwound. Threshold has been transformed into some kind of amplifier.
As you get your bearings, your vision blurs. But no, you realize. Your vision is fine. It is reality that wavers around you, as it struggles to make sense of two separate spaces collocated at the same moment and place in time. You are in Golarion. You are in the Rasping Rifts. You are someplace else. Someplace new.
You have journeyed in abyssal spaces, and stood before demon lords, but there is a concentrated evilness to this place, an edge to the chaos that bleeds over into insanity, as if everything noxious and unholy about the abyss is condensed down and forced out through a tiny aperture that focuses and distills its essence. It is all you can do to resist. But the sounds are the worst part. It takes a moment to hear it through the maddening chorus of billions of insects. It is the same tectonic screeching you heard outside, but amplified and focused. It is the sound of a planet screaming in pain, crying out for help. The tolling siren song of the apocalypse. The sound of the end of the world.
***
The gargantuan creature that emerges from the portal below you is the stuff of nightmares. It appears to be a large hybrid of a scorpion and crab, a eurypterid, Queso notes with pedantic satisfaction, though vastly larger than the normal versions of its species. There is a humanoid face embedded in its chest, bloody red and screaming with a terrifying rage. It clacks its claws and spits, releasing a stream of foul high pressurized water that cracks the stone walls of Threshold. A noxious poison drips from its stinger. It roars, and places itself between you and the portal.
But this creature is less terrifying than the enormous four legged insectoid monster that emerges from the portal behind him. It almost resembles a massive derakni, larger than an elephant except its wings seem to be made of thousands of flying insects. The arms emerging from its humanoid torso grip a massive scythe. It is a shape that has haunted the dreams of northern Golarian for more than a century. The Lord of the Locust Host, the Usher of the Apocalypse. Deskari.
But then the reality around the demon lord wavers, and he seems to collapse in on himself before growing back to his full size. In the blink of an eye his form expands and contracts a dozen times, before settling into a smaller form the size of a balor.
Galfrey warned you might encounter such a creature. When beings of extraordinary power manifest in a plane that is not their own, they can leave behind echoes of their essence, small reflections of their larger self. Two hundred years ago, an avatar of the god Aroden confronted Deskari in the lands of Sarkoris. Aroden defeated him, and banished the demon lord back to the Rasping Rifts. But the boundaries between the prime and Deskari’s realm are thin here, and Deskari’s echo remained. Aroden imprisoned it, deep within the Lake of Mists and Veils, where the church of Aroden and then Iomedae kept a careful vigil, ensuring its captivity. When Vorlesh fully opened the Worldwound, the surge of abyssal power must have been enough to destroy the integrity of Aroden’s seal. The Echo of Deskari clacks its mandibles in a gesture that manages to convey both smugness and rage, despite its inhuman aspect.
“Ahhh, at last. The servants of Aroden’s inheritor. I awoke to find that upstart God is no more, done in by his own self-righteousness and hubris. And now, with your death, Aroden’s failure is utterly complete, and vengeance will be mine. This planet will fall to me. Humanity will be mine to do with as I see fit. And I see fit to do unspeakable things. Use these final moments to contemplate the totality of your failure and despair, you jumped up mortal gnats. I am the mind, body, and voice of the swarm. I am perfection. And I will feast upon the carrion of your body, and bathe in the wreckage of your soul.”
***
11 Gozran, 4724 – The Heart of the Worldwound
At long last, you stand before the abyssal nightmare devouring Golarion. The end of all roads. The heart of the Worldwound. It is nestled eighty feet below you, a swirling vortex of abyssal maggots, crackling with energy in all the iridescent, revolting colors of the Abyss. And deep in this sucking, gurgling whirlpool shimmers a nauseating, pulsating orange light. You can sense its malevolence from here, and something that feels almost like sentience.
The room is filled with the constant roiling sound of thunder, thanks to the putrescent pool of billions of wriggling white grubs. The cries of Golarion are louder here, a siren screaming in your head, in vain protest of its intimate violation, powerless to do anything but witness the inevitability of its death. The air has a thickness to it, almost like you are moving through invisible webs.
Despite gravity appearing to function normally, maggots flow out of the pool and rain upon the ceiling above, where they either splatter or are immediately set upon by prior survivors. The walls of this immense chamber are made of pulsing, decayed flesh, from which spurs and fragments of worked stone protrude like jagged bones.
Masses of vermin crawl along every surface, feeding on the bleeding walls, the cancerous flesh scabbing over as quickly as it is devoured. The vermin shift in color and shape to form sinister runes and odious prayers out of their swarming bodies. It feels like Deskari’s answer to the stained glass windows of Iomeade’s cathedral. The swarms on the wall to the west glow with a nauseating orange light, forming two huge runes that vaguely resemble an insectile face. Underneath the insects, seemingly carved into the flesh of this chamber, are lurid frescoes of vermin devouring the world. The image of a towering demonic insect wielding a massive scythe made of bone looms within each one. Other carvings feature representations of chasms, rifts, and trenches, each depicted with incredible realism.
Arueshalae swallows, and speaks. The disgust in her voice is tinged with wonder and awe. “There it is - the heart of the Worldwound, the source of the evil that has been poisoning Golarion these last hundred years. If it hadn't opened, I would not have been here, would not have found Desna, would not have met you.” Irabeth places a hand on Arueshalae’s shoulder. “Iomedae preserve we mortals who stand in the way of chaos. This has been the wellspring of our collective nightmares for a century. It is time for us to wake up.”
***
11 Gozran, 4724 – The Soul of the Worldwound
There is a sensation that can only be described as time fracturing and reassembling. You experienced something similar once before, during the moment of your ascension, when you witnessed the wardstone’s past and visions of possible futures. The sensation lasts but a moment, and then you are back in your present.
Wick
You kneel before Nocticula in the Vault of Graves. She clicks her heels absentmindedly against the polished marble of her throne as she considers your request. As always, her smell is intoxicating. She has granted you a formal audience, a rare privilege. Your true heart’s desire has brought you here. For all your incredible achievements, your work remains incomplete, and this may be your one chance to set things right. To balance the scales by fulfilling your promise to the person who matters most. To silence part of your endless guilt. Phineas’s soul has been frozen out of the Boneyard, trapped in limbo, unable to find peace. Nocticula waits patiently as you gather your thoughts before she speaks, her voice a purring, illicit invitation.
“Well Wick. You asked for an audience, and now you have it. What do you ask of the Lady in Shadows?”
(Wick speaks)
“I already have granted you one boon, my champion. I’m afraid I never offer something for nothing, even for someone who has performed remarkably well in my service.” She pauses, considering, and leans forward, tenting her fingers and giving you a wicked smile. “Yes, I think I might find it useful if someone with your talents were to owe me a debt.” She leans back into her throne. “So I agree. I will intercede with Pharasma, and facilitate the release of your brother’s soul. For too long Phineas has been denied his rest and reward. Why Pharasma has seen fit to withhold it from him, I cannot say. After all, you got the job done, even if she disapproves of how you did it. But I can help. In exchange for a favor named later. Nothing a man of your talents can’t handle.”
What do you say, Bastion Wick. Hero of the Prime. Do we have a deal?”
***
Queso
You are in a richly appointed lab, built to your specifications, a gift from a grateful world after you did what you said you would do, and closed the Worldwound. But your victory remains bitter for its incompleteness. You stopped Vorlesh, but you were not able to restore the soul of your mother. Your sister. The people of Chitterhome. At least not yet. And you won’t lose to that witch, who taunted you with her dying breath.
Fresh from your victory in the Worldwound, the Silver Scale set out to make sure no demon lord would threaten Golarion again. Deskari lives, true, but the Rasping Rifts are sealed off. He is no longer a direct threat. And Baphomet was so vulnerable. The Ivory Labyrinth still reeled from his resurrection. You had ten months to prepare before his plane recovered. You used nine months and seventeen days to get ready. And with time finally on your side, the Silver Scale took their vengeance, and belatedly fulfilled a different promise.
So great is your arcane power that even the legendary Runelords fear to ignore your summons. And so Alderpash is here. Ready to assist you.
“Very well, Queso. I will share what I retain of the magic and knowledge of Thassilon, for one project, and one project only. Then my debt to you is paid. What secret do you desire to unlock? What do you wish to accomplish with my aid?”
(Queso speaks)
“This is something I believe we can accomplish. It will be difficult. And there are elements of my methods you may not enjoy. But Vorlesh was right about one thing. Power, true power, requires sacrifice. Shall we begin?” Alderpash offers you a dusty, cracked smile and awaits your answer.
***
Rischa
You stand on the rune covered circular stone slab, floating above the lake of tar in a chamber with no doors. The Herald of the Ivory Labyrinth, once the Hand of the Inheritor, is unconscious at your feet. The Silver Scale is arrayed in a loose circle around the Herald – battle weary and grievously wounded, but alive and once again triumphant. You hold the Herald’s heart in one hand, and can feel the atonement spell, a spark of Iomedae’s divine forgiveness, eager for release. The time has come to redeem the Herald, to restore the soul of your ancestor, and fulfill the wishes of your God. You know, as no one else can, the endless guilt she feels at having been responsible for the loss and corruption of two Heralds. The loss of Arazni as a mortal nearly broke Iomedae. You don’t know how she will endure this. You feel an overpowering urge to protect her.
You smile to yourself, in satisfaction. Serving as Herald was not an honor you sought out. It wasn’t even one you wanted. Your dreams were more modest. To delve into the history of your people. To find the lost sky citadel of Jormurdun. To live a life that honors Iomedae. But to act as her chosen agent. To fulfill that role as a mortal. It’s all too much, and you are ready to set that burden aside. But first you must complete this one task.
You look around at your companions, grateful that you found such mighty allies, united in service of a great cause, worthy vessels of Iomedae’s gift. But as your eyes land on Wick you can sense something is wrong. The subtlest of nervous twitches. A stance trying just a little too hard to be nonchalant. By the time Wick brings his dagger down you are already in motion. But you know you will not reach him in time. The Herald will die, unredeemed, the Abyss will claim his soul for an eternity of torture, and Iomedae’s divine heart will break.
You can sense within you a yet untapped wellspring of power. The true power of a herald. It will give you the speed you need to intercept the blade. To stop Wick. To save the Herald. To fulfill the wishes of your god. Do you reach for it?
(Rischa decides)
***
Kiryn
Areelu Vorlesh is dead, and it was Radiance that struck the final blow, wielded by your hand. And the ritual to close the Worldwound is working! An impossible journey has almost come to an end. While much of your focus is on sustaining the ritual, granting Queso and Zograthy access to your power, the part of your mind that remains in your control races, overwhelmed by this moment. It was less than twenty years ago you were bound to an altar, Minahgo about to sacrifice you to the Azverindus Rites, when Desna intervened, marking you with her symbol. Did she select you for some greater purpose? You may never know.
Perhaps it was never about you. Maybe this was always about Arueshalae, who saved you. If not for her actions in that moment you would be dead. And without your faith in her, would she have held to her newly awakened core? Or would she have thrown it all away? Crazy, that the fate of the world could swing on one moment like this. One test of character. One act of will. In either case, your heart swells with love and gratitude for the most unlikely of friends, this singular gift.
The part of your mind that is not bound to the ritual seeks Arueshalae out, to invite her into this moment. She can sense your thoughts, and you hers. And as you do your heart seizes for a beat. Arueshale’s face is twisted in pain, as she struggles to resist the overwhelming corruption pouring through the gateway. She has only been redeemed for a few months, and the Worldwound is awakening millennia of demonic instincts. She is losing her battle. It is as Galfrey feared. The pull of the Worldwound was just too strong. And should Arueshale turn, the Silver Scale will not even notice until it is too late, defenseless, absorbed by the ritual.
Arueshalae looks at you, and she is too lost in her struggle to speak. But you can see the despair in her eyes, the horror of having come so far, only to fail. And you hear her thoughts screaming in your head. “Sister…help me!”
You fear for Arueshalae, but your heart remains pure, and strong, your faith in Desna hardened into a spiritual shield, the first paladin of the Goddess of Dreams. And you are intimately bound to Arueshalae through her gift. You can reach out to her, share your faith, and help her through this final test. You just need to open yourself up a little wider.
(Kiryn decides)
***
Zograthy
The persona of the Amazing Zograthy was born a grift – a pathway to survival in a harsh world, to will a certain level of notoriety and security into existence. But finally, by the end of his life, Alayne Zeodorus was worthy of the name. He had closed the Worldwound. He had defeated the forces of the Abyss. He had not only discovered his ancestral legacy, but proved himself more than worthy of it.
As he lay on his deathbed, satisfied he had made good in the end, he remained haunted by the sixty six years that now seemed wasted. He found his purpose, but he was out of time. His mind was clear, and his soul felt young, but his body had just given out, overwhelmed by the effort it took to seal the wound.. It was not right. Not fair. And he was afraid.
His last visitors had left for the day. He was alone, in the dark. And he could feel his life fading. He knew, instinctively, that when he closed his eyes they would not open again. And then he sensed someone standing over him, in the dark. He recognized her smell. How could anyone ever forget it? He could sense her calculating, wicked smile. Mocking, yes, but just playful enough to let Zograthy in on the joke.
“My magic man, with the magic hands. I dare say I may end up missing you. How do you feel, here at the end?”
(Zograthy responds)
“You know enough of the cosmology of the planes to know what happens next. Desna will try to claim your soul. I may try to stop her. I am sure I can make better use of it than she can. I might even let you keep your memories. The Amazing Zograthy is too singular to be reborn as just another Azata. You do not deserve to disappear. Far better to remain at my side.”
Nocticula sighs, theatrically. “I fear I’ve spent too much time in the company of Iomedae’s champions. I can’t believe I am saying this, and I will deny it if repeated, but you’ve earned more time. And unlike Iomedae, I am willing to bend the rules to grant it to you. If you wish, I can restore your youth, and give you the time you desire. I won’t even bind you to me. You have done enough for that consideration. I daresay those magic hands will find their way back to me of their own volition. What do you say, Zograthy?”
***
Arueshalae
The Worldwound was closed. The nightmare was over. And Arueshalae played her part – when the nalfeshnee demons, guardians of the Abyss, emerged from the Wound she held them off long enough for the Silver Scale to complete their ritual. And for the first time since her transformation, she felt what could only be described as satisfaction. But she was not complete. Not yet. She could dream of others, relive the lives she destroyed as a succubus. But she could not dream for herself.
That night, when she closed her eyes, she received a visitor. She recognized him instantly. It was the Desnan she killed all those years ago out in the Worldwound. The one whose dreams she invaded. The one who started her down the path that led her here. Arueshalae could not make eye contact. She took everything from this man. Owed him everything. What was there to say? How could she make amends?
Sensing her thoughts, the Desnan smiled. “Hello Arueshalae. We meet again, under very different circumstances. You have done well. This is not a path I would have foreseen for you in those moments after you revealed yourself to me. I am proud of you.”
Arueshalae’s heart seized in her chest. She felt the return of that old nausea. Her eyes began to well with tears. She tried to speak but before she could make a sound the Desnan held up his hand.
“There is nothing to say. Look at what you have accomplished. The lives you have saved. You have balanced your scales. Forgive yourself, Arueshalae. It is time to dream.”
And Arueshalae wanted that, so badly it hurt. But she recalled her conversation with Yaniel the night before the final battle of Drezen. And she told the Desnan:
“Forgiveness is not something I can give myself. Nor can you forgive me for the harm I inflicted on others. The scales can never be balanced. No good I will do can ever replace the evil I have done, or the lives I have destroyed. Those consequences will linger, a permanent stain upon everything they touched. That is how it must be. Such is the enduring legacy of sin.
But this has never been about the past. It is over, and I cannot change that. All I can do is begin each day, grateful for the chance to do good, to bring some light into darkened spaces, and help a lost soul find their path. I can strive to be better. I can make the most of my opportunity. I can make sure I never take the horizon for granted.
Perhaps in time, Desna will forgive me. Her grace is a gift I hope to one day receive. But it is not my place to absolve myself of the sins I inflicted on others. No – that guilt made me what I am. It set me on my path. It is mine, and I will keep it. I carry it as a reminder of who I was, and as a challenge to remain who I am.”
***
Irabeth
Irabeth and Anevia lay in bed together. Anevia’s head rested on Irabeth’s chest, her arms wrapped around her in a tight embrace. They were at peace. For the first time in a very long time. Irabeth smiled,
contentedly.
“I don’t ever want to leave this bed, Neve”
“Me neither, Beth. But the bread won’t bake itself.”
“No, it won’t, but how hungry are you, really?”
Anevia thought, for a moment. “Not hungry enough to get up.”
Irabeth smiled. “Me neither.”
They lay there, quietly, together. Thinking mostly of nothing, enjoying the languid silence. But Irabeth’s mind eventually wandered. She pondered the cosmic immensity of the two of them finding each other, falling in love, and surviving what they’ve survived. It was just a lazy morning in bed. But it felt improbable. Impossible. That such a simple thing should exist was a miracle in itself.
Eventually Anevia propped herself up and gave Irabeth a kiss. Gentle at first, but when Irabeth responded it became more passionate, more urgent. And then the knock on the door.
“Commander Irabeth, are you there?”
Anevia growled in frustration. “What? No she isn’t. Go away. She is busy. F@+* off!”
The messenger responded. “I am sorry. I have a summons from Queen Galfray. Commander Irabeth is needed immediately. It is urgent.”
Anevia slammed her head into the pillow and screamed in frustration. She raised her head after a moment, and tears rimmed her eyes.
“It’s never going to stop ‘Beth, is it? Someone is always going to need you. But I need you too. Here. Now. I have been so patient. You have done enough. We have done enough. Let someone else take responsibility for once. For me. Please.”
Irabeth took Anevia’s head in her hands and looked her in the eyes. She gently kissed away her tears. “Neve. I am so sorry. I want to stay here. More than anything in the world. But this is not about what I want. It is about who I am.” And Irabeth gently set Anevia aside, and reached for her sword.
***
11 Gozran, 4724 – The Roots of the Worldwound
You are in an immense chamber, its domed ceiling rising to a height of nearly two hundred feet. Ley lines flow up from the ground and into the Worldwound, like the demonic roots of a great abyssal tree. In fact, along the walls they seem to manifest as actual roots, infested by the vermin filling the space. You swear you can sense the chamber growing larger before your eyes, stretching and cracking as it absorbs more and more power.
Above you the Worldwound churns in a miasmic counter clockwise rotation, feasting upon the energy flowing through the roots into the fell gate, and outwards to infect Golarion. Floating in the ceiling below the portal is a fifteen foot wide cage made of sinew and bone. A six armed inevitable lies dead within.
There are four portals embedded in the walls, one at each cardinal point of the octagonal space. There are no furnishings of any kind, but every square inch of the chamber is covered in glyphs you have never seen. They radiate neither divine nor arcane magic, but something new. Something ontological. Queso and Zograthy recognize it as a new type of magic drawing upon quintessence – magic grounded in the soul of a plane.
You are not alone in the chamber. Arranged in a half circle radiating out along the western wall, are beings both horrifying and familiar.
There is a gigantic devastator, similar to the ones that assaulted Drezen, but larger, and covered in glyphs of warding and protection. There is a large purple golem, humanoid in shape but featureless, fused together from shards of nahyndrian crystals.
There is a towering humanoid creature with cracked metallic skin, glowing purple eyes, and three sets of frayed wings. It appears to have once been a solar, the mightiest of all angels. There is a gaping, festering, smoking hole in its chest, and the pulsing purple light emerging from within it hurts to gaze upon. The solar appears to have been put through the same ritual that corrupted the Hand of the Inheritor, and you wonder if what happened to the solar was a trial run for him.
You are startled to see a night black giant whose arms end in massive blades. You have fought nightwalkers before, when you destroyed the Father of Worms, but this one appears to have been born of the soul of the Storm King.
And behind them, standing at ease, is the architect of the Worldwound, the betrayer of humanity - Areelu Vorlesh. You have encountered her multiple times before – but this time her power is fully unveiled, and you can immediately tell that the stories are true. This the most powerful spellcaster in the history of Golarion, rivaled only by the legends of a mortal Aroden, a man who willed himself into Godhood. As the leylines of the chamber feed the Worldwound, you can sense that part of that energy is channeling itself into Vorlesh as well, and you recognize she is well on her way to becoming a full fledged demon lord, the transference of power subtle enough to avoid arousing suspicion, until she has accumulated enough to challenge Deskari for complete control over Golarion and the Rasping Rifts.
She looks at you, and the certainty in her smile could transform the planes.
| treblignotrub |
Happy to see you post again. I have been inconsistent in updating my thread. I was getting interested to see how your game was playing out. I am currently on a do nothing vacation. It will consist of sitting by a pool, drinking a beer and rereading everything for the Midnight Isle. This will include this thread. I raise a can to your narrative…
| Jayman91 |
These posts have honestly been a god send. They've helped me flesh out my own scenes and really bring the worldwound to life for my players. My group is currently in the Ineluctable Prison and i just had a scene for them of Baphomet taking over and converting Sosiel and Aron against their will. Pretty gruesome but I did it in a way that Aron was a traitor and had still been feeding information to the cultists for Shadowblood which is where the ambush happened in Raliscard for me. As wild as the mythic rules has been, I think the RP oppurtunities this AP has presented especially to my first time players in any TTRPG has been awesome.
| Stip |
final session of my campaign today. ill post the final scenes in a few days and see if i can clean it up. its been an amazing time. if you figure out how to navigate the mythic rules this is a great campaign - truly operatic and apocalyptic in scope. ill start a lessons learned thread as well
jayman - you should post what you came up with!
| Stip |
Ohh, I was further behind than I thought. This first bit is the dialogue the PCs had with Vorlesh prior to the final encounter
Cutscene XXI: An Altogether Different Game
9 Gozran, 4724 – The Roots of the Worldwound
You have encountered Vorlesh several times and have always been struck by the endless depths of her self-possession. She moves through the world like no one you have ever seen. Not like she expects it to bow to her whims, but instead like someone who has arranged things so that no outcome other than her desire is possible. The one exception was your first encounter, in the Gray Garrison, when the Wardstone’s energy repelled her arcane might. Your journey has given you ever greater mastery and control over that power, but if Vorlesh is intimated it does not show. She offers you a welcoming smile. It almost appears affectionate, but that’s not it, exactly. More like satisfaction born of possession.
“And here is the mighty Silver Scale. Right on time. You did not disappoint. Congratulations on playing your part beautifully. But here is where it ends. It is time to abandon the fiction that you can stop me. That you can undo my masterwork. That you would have made it through the doors of Threshold if there was the slightest chance otherwise.
The Herald gave you power but let us be absolutely clear. You are my creation. I forged you in the crucible of my will, my most elegant instruments. Since that moment you have been a servant of my design, systematically eliminating my rivals. Baphomet has been removed from my great game, and he blames Deskari. His need for vengeance will make him a powerful ally when I move to claim this plane as my own. Deskari’s entire high command, destroyed, so that when I strike, he will be alone. All this time your actions have diverted his eye away from me, his loyal servant. Even now he does not question why I remain locked away at the heart of the Worldwound. It is, after all, a necessary protection from the mighty Silver Scale. And his Echo, his eyes and ears and voice, lay dead at your feet. Even now he fantasizes about how he will take his revenge on you, and by the time he realizes what I have done it will be far too late. I will have eclipsed him with my power and stripped him of his own.
You even managed to feed my designs. The only reason Iomedae held onto the Herald as long as she did was her faith that you might free him. Over a month I spent feeding on her. I already possessed the power to make the Worldwound a new plane without your help, but with your aid, an extended transformation collapsed into a singular moment.
Ten days is the timeline you were given, I believe. Ten days before it was too late to stop me. Just enough time to prepare for Aponavicius. Just enough time to ensure you were rested and ready for the Broodlord, Anemora, and the Storm King. And then the discovery that Bothan has been my creature all along. Who knows how much time you have now? And so the grand rush to Threshold, and the breathless sprint through it. Just to find yourself before me. Weakened. Unprepared. Already defeated.”
She looks at Queso. “I have tried to share a piece of wisdom with you Queso, twice before. I think perhaps now you are finally ready to listen. Those who call themselves wise and clever believe that power comes from staying several moves ahead of your opponent. But those who think so are too blinded by their own smug self-satisfaction to see the flaw in that reasoning. There is always someone who might be cleverer, wiser, more far sighted than you.
The key to never losing is to make sure your board and pieces belong to an altogether different game, a game no one else realizes they are even playing. My work was irreversible from the beginning, thanks to the power I pulled from Iomedae. There is no timeline. No doomsday clock. The world ended five days ago, on the 4th of Gozran. My new plane emerges from its chrysalis, with me as its Lord and Master. And there is nothing left for you to do but watch it unfold its wings.
Let it not be said that I am without mercy or gratitude. I will need servants, and you have proven deliciously resourceful. I will allow you to serve me and take your revenge against Deskari. Or I will offer you a quick and painless death. You have earned that choice. Resist me and you may die.” Vorlesh glances at the Nightwalker that was once the Storm King. “Or you may live,” and she nods at the fallen Solar, “but either way you will belong to me - mind, body, and soul. You must choose and choose now. I am a patient woman, but I cannot abide indecision or distraction.
Vorlesh smiles and looks at you expectantly.
(Vorlesh activates her aura)
Fail: You can sense the river of mythic power within you rising, but then, suddenly, it dissipates. Present, but no longer angry. Vorlesh’s offer is tempting. She has done violent and terrible things, but she has never been cruel for its own sake, only when necessary, and in service of specific ends. A master craftsman with exacting standards. A painter whose canvas is the world. She is a far cry from the ravenous and demonic Deskari. Vorlesh is beautiful, intelligent, urbane. And your imagination marvels at all you could accomplish under her tutelage. It is clear to you now that Vorlesh cannot be stopped. What is to be gained from fighting? So much easier to just surrender, as Staunton Vhane once did. In time, you know, you will make your peace with it.
Save: You can feel Vorlesh’s will burrowing its way into your mind. Seductive, rational. Whereas Nocticula made you feel like your purpose in life was solely to please her, Vorlesh works differently, offering you a vision of a future that cannot be any way other than what she envisions. It is so tempting to surrender to it. But the mythic energy within you roars to life, a raging torrent that swallows Vorlesh’s suggestion, and your mind is once again your own.
(Silver Scale speaks)
Vorlesh laughs, and there is mirth, but it is dismissive and condescending. “I suppose I am not surprised. That’s Iomedae’s influence. But what exactly are you going to do? None of you have the power to stop me. Nor the will.
Rischa, or should I call you Herald?” She eyes her up and down, taking her measure. “No, I shouldn’t. You are a soft imitation, and while the Herald was my enemy, he was a mighty foe, and I had respect for his power, and his conviction. His courage even, to challenge the laws of time. Not something I would have expected from a member of Iomedae’s court. But he was willing to do great and terrible things and accept responsibility for his actions. You are a sad pretender to his title. How far Iomedae has fallen, to have to rely on one such as you to be her hand and voice. Let me take pity on you. I shall give you the gift of an ending. You will never have to close your eyes and drift off to sleep wrapped in a blanket of Iomedae’s sure and certain awareness of your failures, soothed by the screams of her true Herald, tortured by the weight of your inadequacies.
Zograthy, your advanced age did not bring with it wisdom, or even experience of any consequence. You were profligate with your time, and you stand before me a weak and brittle shell. A lifetime spent hiding a hollow core. You were too long in the fire, without enough time to temper and cool. And here where you finally need strength and solidity, you will shatter like glass against the anvil of my power.
And of course there is your young mirror, Queso. A man of singular ambition, whose desperation for notice and approval undermines his will at every turn.” She addresses Queso directly. “You have some potential for greatness, but you are unwilling to take responsibility when it matters. Unwilling to pay the cost. You were tested in the Ivory Labyrinth. You knew what needed to be done. And what did you do? You put it to a vote. You don’t want to do what is necessary. You want to feel superior to beings weaker than you. You want their adulation and praise. And that does not make you great, Queso. It makes you a child. No wonder you quest for your mother. But her soul is gone. Fuel for my ascension. You look surprised, Queso. Why would I have kept it? The world is not a story, and it does not rearrange itself to provide you with a happy ending.
You are all children, in your way. Kiryn, you, more than any, have refused to grow up. You are still the little girl, chained to Minagho’s table, trying to dream the world as it is into non-existence. But you have failed, because the building blocks of creation are not found in fantasy. They are found in blood, and suffering. You are a mighty warrior, but you will never have the direction or purpose to do anything with it. Instead, you will go skipping down moonlit paths, flittering to whatever shiny thing suits your fancy. But you know, in your heart, that you left the path long ago. You are lost and alone, in a deep dark wood. There is no moon to guide you home, and the wolves close in.
Wick, you are the one member of the Silver Scale who possessed the fortitude and will to do what is necessary. And I could have respected that, except you have completely broken under the strain, devolving back into the little boy reaching for his brother’s hand. That his soul remains bound to you speaks of your selfishness, and need. Unwilling to let him go. Unable to impress upon him that you do not need him anymore. Denying him his reward.
And Arueshalae, I have not forgotten you. I am glad you were able to make your way out of the dungeons beneath Drezen. You are so much more interesting now. And when all this is over, I will cut you open so I can understand whatever happened to you. Vivisection is not pleasant for immortal beings, but it is no more than you deserve. In your selfish heart you would horde your gift of redemption. I will master it, perfect it, and share it with the world.”
Finally, Vorlesh turns to Iomedae’s paladin. “Irabeth, we finally meet. You are not weak, nor can I call you selfish. You have earned a modicum of my respect for standing your ground in the face of Aponavicius’ triumph. And so I am doing you a favor, ending your journey before you could turn into a sad husk of a once formidable woman, like that empty shell of a Queen you idolize so much. Like Galfrey, you have wasted your life. You turned away from happiness time and time again, away from the love that was before you. And for what? All you accomplished in the end was ascetic denial, in the name of a lost cause that gave you an excuse not to feel. She cared so much for you, and held onto the secret wish that you would someday lay all this aside so you could just be here with her. It would always have been fleeting. But it could have been beautiful. And you drenched it in blood.
Yes, blood and futility. The ultimate legacy of the vaunted Silver Scale.
You have made your choice. And now I will teach you that actions have consequences.”
Vorlesh retreats into her mind, and begins casting a spell, with a speed you are stunned to discover matches your own. Her minions move into defensive positions around her, prepared to die to defend their mistress, their creator, their Lord. The time has come to face Areelu Vorlesh, here at the seat of her power. You try to take a deep, steadying breath, but the air is foul and evil. You see black spots behind your eyes, as the thrumming, maddening pressure of the Abyss seeps into your soul just as it transforms the world around you.
There is no breath to be had here. No respite. But if you do not succeed, none will be found anywhere. The world is at stake, balanced between the most powerful mind in Golarion’s history, and seven souls brought together through the last act of a dying dragon.
But you are more than that. You destroyed the wardstones and thwarted Vorlesh once before. You reclaimed the Sword of Valor, and restored the honor, glory, and hope of the Crusade. You mastered the Midnight Isles and made yourself a legend in the Abyss. You chased Baphomet from Golarion and showed him that not even his deepest, darkest prison is safe from your wrath. You have destroyed Deskari’s generals, one by one, until only Vorlesh remains. You are Iomedae’s Champions. You are the Silver Scale. There is work before you. And here, at the end, you will see it done.
| Stip |
Okay, so I had built in a Nocticula intervention either during the Vorlesh fight or the Deskari fight at the end. The players needed it during Vorlesh. For context, one of my players had a hand posesssed by the spirit of his brother (backstory and feats). In the midnight isles I had nocticula gift this player a dagger that she claimed was once held by a powerful cleric of pharasma (his god). Instead it held a portion of her power, and when powerful near demon lords were killed by this player it created new midnight isles. SHe was hoping to ultimatley have them use it on Deskari or Baphomet. But instead it summons her here.
***
And just like that, it’s over. Vorlesh eyes her handiwork, almost disappointed. “Such an expected waste” she murmurs to herself. And then she returns to one of the chamber walls and adds several more glyphs. The roots of the chamber begin to glow from the inside, channeling ever greater amounts of power into the Worldwound. Vorlesh finishes her work and looks up at the portal. And then she adds a final glyph. Every arcane sigil flares to renewed life. She smiles in satisfaction as energy begins to not only flow up from the Abyss into Golarion, but back into the chamber. A reciprocating loop of infinite power. The generative heart of a new plane. Vorlesh shudders in pleasure, and begins to concentrate, focusing on opening herself up to this new power. Slowly. Carefully. So as not to reveal what exactly is happening here until it is too late for Deskari to stop it.
Wick lies in a shattered heap upon the ground, his blood slowly pooling around him, the vermin descending to feed. And then his left-hand twitches. The one possessed by the soul of his brother Phineas. First one finger, then a second. And then they start to move, dragging their hand towards Gravewarden, which lay two feet away on the stone floor. Curiously, the insects swarming throughout the chamber are giving it a wide berth, and the bugs that had been crawling over the hand fly away as it approaches the dagger.
The hand slowly, carefully, patiently wraps itself around Gravewarden. It angles itself in an odd way, almost like it is listening to something. Or someone. There is a curious pause, as if the hand is lost in contemplation. The grip changes, as if a choice had been made. And then Wick’s left hand raises the dagger off the ground, turns it, and rams it into the stone floor.
There is no force behind the blow, but the blade shatters. The room is plunged into darkness. A fell wind blows through the chamber, and there is a sound like tens of thousands of bats devouring an endless feast. And then the noise stops, the eerie light returns, and standing above Wick, crossbow aimed at Vorlesh, is Nocticula.
“This is my knowledge you play with, Vorlesh. And I have come to reclaim it.” Quick as lightning, Vorlesh begins casting a spell, a look of genuine shock on her face. But Nocticula is faster. She snaps her fingers, and time stops.
She looks around the chamber, at the bodies of the Silver Scale, and clucks her tongue, dismissively. She sighs. “What a mess.” And then she closes her eyes and concentrates. Ethereal tendrils of purple mist flow from Nocticula into each member of the Silver Scale, kindling the mythic energy within them. And with a gasp, you open your eyes
“I have gambled quite a bit on you, and I don’t like to lose. Now get up”
| Stip |
This scene is the closing of the Worldwound - if you've been following along I have some plot/lore changes. The Lexicon was actually written by and planted by Vorlesh as a failsafe. If the PCs get this far and close the WW part of her soul is hidden in the WW. She will take over the ritual and use the players connection to Iomedae to accelerate her takeover of the new/combined Golarian/Rasping Rifts plane and become a demon lord in full - so the plane ressurects her. But there was a ritual PC allies added to the lexicon that enabled them to combine their power - the intention was to have enough strength to close the WW. Instead, they had to make a combined (including Irabeth but not Arueshalae as her mythic power came from Desna) DC 250 will save - this enabled them to temporarily take control of Vorlesh's plane and use its power to summon Iomedae, who closes the WW and heals Golarion.
Cutscene XXII: Here at the End of the World
9 Gozran, 4724, The Roots of the Worldwound
The last ward has fallen and the beating heart of the Worldwound lies open before you, here at the end of the world. Reality convulses as the Abyss devours a screaming Golarion. The inflamed shrieking and punishing corruption tear at your soul, pounding you into submission, driving you mad. Yet you resist and begin the final incantation to permanently seal the rift.
As the ritual progresses, your minds slowly dissolve into one collective consciousness as the Wardstone energy you have carried within you since Kenebras rises to the surface one last time. Behind your sight it manifests once again as a mighty eldritch river of unnamed and unknowable colors fused into a golden light, its source emerging from the space beneath reality.
More and more energy courses into you, vessels shaped for this moment. Golden streams of power become concentrated strands you weave around the edges of the Worldwound, stitching it shut. You sense the energy is eager to fulfill its purpose, and it takes all your focus to ensure a measured and controlled release, to avoid being consumed by the river’s rising tide.
An unknown amount of time passes, your focus divided between completing the invocation and resisting the suffocating pressure of the abyssal gateway. But there is a creeping, parasitic change, so subtle you fail to notice until it is far too late. With a sickening pull, a malevolent presence reaches within you and wrests control of the Wardstone’s energy, corrupting the flow of the river, feeding upon its power.
The Worldwound devours your strength for its own dire purpose. Horrified, you try to sever the connection, but you are too deep into the throes of Vorlesh’s ritual. The Wardstone’s energy is ripped from you, pouring into the abyssal gateway. The planar boundary melts away as the Wound doubles in size, again, and again, and again, and again.
Waves of iridescent energy flow from the Worldwound into Vorlesh, restoring her body. The demon lord opens her eyes, and as she smiles your mind is overwhelmed by images of your worst fears, and a paralyzing guilt over having come so far only to fail. You can hear Deskari’s outraged scream as he awakens to the depths of her betrayal, and you begin to despair.
Desperate to flee, your mind dives into the river, and is pulled towards its source. You emerge upon an empty plain under a blank sky, the sole feature a vast golden wall encompassing an endless horizon – and you see your power emerge through a tiny puncture in the barrier.
As you struggle to comprehend its immensity, you gaze upon countless millions of nearly invisible streams of power flowing through microscopic gaps in the wall, an intricate web of energy pouring through the golden barrier to traverse the planes.
You are not strong enough to seal the Worldwound, but you can play a different game. If you cannot close one door, perhaps you can open another.
With a final, wrenching effort you release all the energy remaining within you and for a single moment seize control of the river and hurl it towards the barrier. It strikes with the crushing force of a tidal wave, your power enhanced beyond all possible measure as your connection to the Worldwound draws upon the infinite energy of the Abyss itself, given shape and focus by your will. And as spidery cracks spread across the barrier’s golden surface, a blinding light rises from the other side.
There is a colossal explosion, deafening beyond sound, as you shatter the barrier, and summon Iomedae in the fullness of her power to the prime material plane. Her divine blood a cleansing fire pouring directly into the heart of the Worldwound, the wrath of the righteous giving answer to centuries of justice denied.
A globe of light encircles you, preventing your obliteration as you stand exposed before the impossible might of the God you called to Golarion. You sense Iomedae grasp hold of the rift and there is a soul rending scream from the other side, as the corruption is purged and the portal wrenched shut, her power cauterizing the wound, healing the frayed reality surrounding it, sealing off the Abyss.
Not since the Earthfall, over ten thousand years ago, has a God been unveiled upon Golarion. At the edge of your consciousness a familiar voice whispers, “It was enough” and fades away.
There is an indescribable surge of cosmic power, and Threshold is incinerated as an endless golden light swallows the sky across all Golarion. The chasms surrounding Threshold collapse as the lands of the Worldwound shatter, and all the demons built is cast down. Great tendrils of purifying fire flow from the heavens and scour the ruined face of old Sarkoris, following its corrupted ley lines, closing every rift, as the Abyss is driven back, the passages shut forever.
The Worldwound grows smaller and smaller until nothing is left but its beating heart. There is a great compression, and you are sucked through the dying gate, seconds before it implodes. Connection broken, the golden light vanishes, and a soft, quiet stillness blankets the empty space where the tower of Threshold once stood.
| Stip |
The final battle is the PCs fighting Deskari (who was killed by Iomeade's intervention and resurrected by the Rasping Rifts, and therefore vulnerable. Halfway through Baphomet shows up to take his revenge on the PCs and Desarki. Deskari locks the plane down so no one can escape. I had the PCs no longer mythic (but healed up and mythic power restored) - Iomedae severed their connection so they would not burn up during her manfiestation. As a fight mechanic they lost one mythic power a round, giving this a clock. There are two endings - one if they hadn't killed the demons yet (Desna intervenes) and another if they did (closing out a PC storyline)
Cutscene XXIII: The Wrath of the Righteous
9 Gozran, 4724 – The Rasping Rifts, The Abyss.
You find yourself in a blasted abyssal landscape, on a large rocky outcropping. You are in the middle of a deep, dark chasm, the walls pockmarked with caves, their surface coated in a cold wet substance that almost looks like velvet, but you recognize as molted husks and particulate bug feces. The walls seem to move of their own accord.
The distant sky is dark and full of angry storm clouds, and a cold, blasted wind howls through the canyon. A sticky, noxious rain pours from the sky, and everywhere the air is thick with vermin, in numbers so vast they must be infinite. It looks like the landscape surrounding Threshold, stretching out into forever. You are in the Rasping Rifts, the realm of the demon lord Deskari. The ground around you trembles and shudders, and a great flash of lightning fills the sky, momentarily blinding you, before everything stabilizes. It was as if the realm itself was having a seizure.
You feel your gaze drawn to the northwest and feel a great malevolence barreling towards you. And then a massive swarm, the largest you have ever seen, fills the sky, accelerating in your direction. The vermin scream in outrage in an insectile language you cannot understand. But the message is clear. Deskari is coming, and he will have his revenge.
You reach for your weapons and notice your companions for the first time. You are all present, and illuminated from within by an inner golden light, almost painfully bright. It is just like those first moments after your mythic ascension in Kenebras, your body overcharged with Iomedae’s essence.
But something is different. As you reach within yourself to draw upon your power, the river does not rise to your call. You are cut off. And you realize that to keep you alive during her manifestation, Iomedae had to sever the connection between you, to prevent you from burning out. While you are practically incandescent with power, even now you can sense it rapidly fading. Within minutes it will be gone.
Rischa reaches out to Iomedae, and practically sobs in relief when she can still sense her connection. She remains her Herald. But the bond is faint and distant. Iomedae was gravely wounded by her manifestation, and who knows when she will recover?
There is no time to figure out what it all means. Deskari will be here any moment. You realize you will never be this powerful again. And Deskari is vulnerable. Justice is within your grasp. But the Worldwound is closed. He can never directly threaten Golarion again. And the Abyss is infinite, and evil eternal. Should Deskari fall, something else will fill his void.
What do you do?
The cloud envelops you, and standing before you, surrounded by four apocalypse locusts, is the real Deskari, a half man half insect larger than the greatest mastodon. Its wings are swarms of biting flies, and its inhuman eyes glitter with cruel intelligence. It wields the gigantic scythe Riftcarver, a weapon capable of carving gashes into the very fabric of the planes
“Mortal gnats come to snap their jaws at the Lord of Locusts. Your goddess has no power here. Riftcarver will forge new pathways to your world, and she will not be able to pull the same trick twice. This is a minor setback, measured against infinite time. But I will enjoy my vengeance. My swarms will eat you from the inside. Your husks will adorn my carapace. I will defile your body, defame your memory, and devour your souls.
***
There is a low, rumbling sound, getting louder and louder. It almost sounds like a stampede. The air vibrates with a dark, familiar signature, one you recognize just as a gate opens behind Deskari, and Baphomet roars.
BETRAYERS ALL. I WILL HAVE MY REVENGE AGAINST ALL WHO HAVE WRONGED ME. I WILL CLAIM YOUR REALM AS MY OWN, AND WIPE YOUR MEMORY FROM EXISTENCE, DESARKI. AND THEN I SHALL TURN MY ENDLESS WRATH TOWARDS GOLARIAN AND ITS SORRY CHAMPIONS. YOU SHALL NOT ESCAPE ME AGAIN!
As Baphomet charges out of the planer gate, he is followed by an honor guard of Ivory Minotaurs, and a very familiar, very chastened lich.
***
(Deskari still alive)
Arueshalae stands and faces the carnage before her. The bloodlust. The madness. The endless cycle she has tried so desperately to leave behind. She screams, as her eyes roll into the back of her head and are replaced by infinite pools of stars. She thrusts her hands forward and releases a torrent of butterflies that envelop the Silver Scale, cocooning them within a silken thread that channels life back into their bodies. The threads melt away, and the Silver Scale rises, encased in armor of swarming butterflies. The surrounding vermin attack, but every butterfly that falls is replaced from the seemingly endless supply pouring from Arueshalae. She speaks, and while it sounds like her, there is a different voice beneath it. One impossibly ancient and incomprehensibly vast, as dark and rich as pure moonlight.
“Eons Ago, I Promised Not To Return To The Abyss. And In The Interest of Preserving What Remains Of Our Fragile Peace, I Will Not Break That Vow. But You Will Not Claim My Servants. Nor Iomedae’s Vessels. You Are Welcome to Stew In Your Impotence, Warmed By The Knowledge That You Were Bested By Our Mortals. But These Heroes Do Not Belong To You, And I Will Guide Them Home.”
There is a flash, like ethereal heat lighting on a warm summer night. And you find yourself in a ruined market square. A great gash runs through it, cleaving through the stone and revealing the shadowed mysteries of the caverns hidden below. The air is silent and still as the sun shines down on an empty Clydewell Plaza, in the heart of Kenabres. And you are home.
***
(Deskari defeated)
You summon your magic to open a planer pathway home. A gateway opens, and you step through, only to find yourself back in the Rasping Rifts. Deskari’s realm is not done with you yet. You try again, and still find your pathway loops back to where you began. You see the Rasping Rifts infinite chasms collapsing around you as new ones arise from the abyssal depths.
This layer of the Abyss convulses as new demonic powers assert their will, warring with each other for control even as the realm unravels, exposing the primordial chaos at its core. You set your will against this insanity, but you are severed from Iomedae’s well, your power drained. As Zograthy reaches more deeply into himself, searching for any untapped reservoir of energy, he feels a presence reaching out. A lingering warmth, distantly familiar. Zograthy grasps ahold of it, and the Staff of the Riftwardens begins to glow brighter and brighter. Power floods into Zograthy, and as the staff explodes Zograthy wraps his will around this portion of the Rasping Rifts – boring a hole between the planes and carrying the Silver Scale through. As the power fades, Zograthy is enveloped by sensations of pride and love that dissipate into the space between the planes.
There is a flash, like ethereal heat lighting on a warm summer night. And then you find yourself in a ruined market square. A great gash runs through it, cleaving through the stone and revealing the black secrets of the caverns hidden below. The air is silent and still as the sun shines down on Clydewell Plaza in Kenabres. And you have found your way home.
| Stip |
And here is the campaign epilogue - wrapping up the geopolitics of Golarian post Worldwound and Iomedae's intervention, Nocticula, Irabeth, Galfrey, Arueshalae, and player stories.
Epilogue: Iomedae’s Answer
4724 and beyond – Golarion
The Worldwound is gone. When all hope was lost, the Silver Scale accomplished the impossible. seizing control over Vorlesh’s plane and using its power to summon a God. Iomedae’s intervention purged the planet’s abyssal infection, destroyed the gateway, and strengthened the fabric of reality between northern Golarion and the Abyss. A dimensional lock the size of a nation now blankets the lands of old Sarkoris – laid down by the hand of a god. Pure rain pours down from the sky, filling the dry Ahari riverbed and cleansing the Sarkora. On the 9th of Gozran, 4724, a healthy untainted child was born in the caves overlooking Drezen, while a clean sun shone over the lands that once held the Worldwound. And that evening, for the first time in over a century, the light illuminating the night sky belonged to familiar stars.
9 Gozran, 4724 became known as Iomedae’s Answer. By Queso’s estimate, Iomedae’s manifestation channeled a force at least ten thousand times greater than that unleashed by the Sword of Valor, but at great cost to herself. It took more than a year for her to recover, her faithful denied access to her magic while she healed. Iomedae managed to confine the destructive force of her presence to the lands of the Worldwound. The resulting release of energy flattened what was left of the ruined cities of Sarkoris and collapsed the massive system of chasms and canyons that defined the landscape. The geography of the former Worldwound was now virtually unrecognizable.
The impact on Iomedae’s faith was seismic. All of Golarion witnessed her manifestation, and there was an incredible surge in her worship, not only in the areas where her faith was strong, but also in places where it had not yet put down roots. A great evangelical movement grew within the church, led by Waxberry, the highest-ranking cleric of Iomedae associated with the chain of miraculous events leading to Iomedae’s summoning. And with the Crusade against the Worldwound at an end, the resurgent church of Iomedae turned its attention to the diabolists of Cheliax, preparing for a new struggle against the most powerful nation on Avistan.
Rischa knew that Iomedae’s feelings about the intervention were more complex. Despite her own interference in the events surrounding the closure of the Worldwound, Iomedae did not technically violate the cosmic prohibition against direct manifestations. She was called to Golarion by the Silver Scale, rather than choosing to intervene herself. But it was a near thing, and Iomedae was never comfortable with loopholes, even ones she set out to exploit. And she would never stop grieving the loss of the Herald, who sacrificed himself in her name, forever. But her home world was saved. Aroden’s home world was saved. An important part of his legacy was now complete, and with it, her debt to his memory finally paid. The two demon lords that had fallen in the war to close the Worldwound gave her confidence that no external power would interfere with Golarion for a long time. Its future belonged to its people, to craft as they saw fit.
The old north was no more. The lands of Sarkoris were utterly destroyed, and the major cities of Mendev, Ustalav, and Numeria had been razed, the nations irrevocably shattered. Something new would rise in their place.
Galfrey summoned the Silver Scale and surviving leadership of the crusades a few days after the closing of the Worldwound. Her face was its usual mask of comforting stoicism, and her voice inspirational as always, but you now easily recognize the weight carried in her eyes.
“My friends, we have achieved our impossible victory, though we paid a terrible price. The nation of Mendev is gone. I was her last Queen. And though I will always mourn the lives we lost, we managed to save the greater part of its people.
History tells us that nations are part of a cycle of life, death and rebirth, no less than mortal souls. Mendev played the part the Gods required of it, and now its role has ended. A bright future lay ahead for the region, and the people who would call it home. A new nation must be forged, not only in Mendev, but in the lands of Sarkoris. There is a chance to build better institutions, create better laws, to live as Iomedae would want us to live, in the lands she sanctified with her presence.”
Irabeth drew her sword, drove it point first into the stone, and kneeled before Galfrey. “My Queen, let me pledge my sword and service to you as you build this new nation. It would be my honor to be a part of this sacred work.”
Anevia sighed, disappointed but in no way surprised. As long as you had known her, Anevia had talked of settling down with Irabeth if the crusades ever reached an end – to live a small, quiet, private life with the woman she loved. A selfish gesture, she knew. She wanted Irabeth for herself, and while she loved Anevia deeply, Irabeth was the sort of person who would always belong to the world.
Galfrey shook her head no, a solemn smile on her face. “Irabeth Tirabade, paladin of Iomedae, hero of the Fifth Crusade, and Godcaller in deed. Any ruler would be honored to have you in their service, but I do not accept your pledge. I cannot.”
Irabeth raised her head to voice an objection, but Galfrey held up a hand, commanding silence. Irabeth held her tongue and Galfrey gestured for her to rise. She did, and Galfrey continued.
“Since 4601 I have led Mendev, and these Crusades. Over one hundred and twenty years. Through the destruction of Sarkoris and the absorption of its survivors, through the death of Aroden and the creation of the Wardstones, through stalemated Crusades, ineffectual Crusades, toxic Crusades, and finally, finally, a successful one. I was sixteen when the crown was placed upon my head. Nineteen when the Worldwound opened. I have buried hundreds of friends and sent tens of thousands to their deaths. All I have ever known is battle, but my war is finally over. New leadership will be needed to shape a path forward for the North. Someone who not only knows the value of peace but feels it in their heart.”
And then Galfrey knelt before Irabeth. “Irabeth Tirabade. A new nation will rise from the ashes of the old. And in my final act as the Queen of Mendev, witnessed by the members of the Silver Scale, I hereby dissolve the nation of Mendev and cede its lands, its people, and its future to you, Queen Irabeth.”
Silence filled the room, stunning the witnesses, broken by Anenvia’s resigned ‘Gods damn it.” Irabeth searched the assembled faces, not sure how to respond.
(PCs reactions)
Irabeth absorbed their council, and then she and Anevia shared a long silent look, and a deep and complex conversation without words. Eventually Anevia smiled and said “Oh just accept it, ‘Beth. Otherwise, I’ll spend our retirement complaining about how you would have done a better job than Galfrey’s second choice.”
Irabeth smiled and turned her attention back to Galfrey. Irabeth always sounded calm and reassuring. But this time, when she spoke, she allowed subtle notes of command to enter. The voice of a queen.
“Galfrey, you held the nation of Mendev, and the Crusades, together for over a century. It is easy to rule in times of victory and triumph, or over peace and prosperity. But you held firm and steady as the world collapsed around you. And never once did you fail to give voice to an impossible dream. We believed for as long as we had to because we never stopped believing in you. No empire bears your name, but Golarion has a future, and it owes that future to you. And if the time has come for someone else to carry your burdens, I would be honored to lift the weight from your shoulders.
Galfrey, lay down your sword. You have earned your rest. And I, Irabeth Tirabade of Mendev and Iomedae, swear on the blade of the Inheritor to accept the obligation and privilege of rulership, and shall strive to lead with justice, wisdom, vigilance, and mercy.”
And on that day the nation of Valor’s Reach was born and took as its crest the Sword of Valor mounted on a splintered spear. Irabeth turned to the gathered assembly. “I will need advisors to help me create and rule this new nation, and I can think of none better than the people before me.” Anevia and Horgus pledged their loyalty and would serve Irabeth with distinction for the rest of their days. The Silver Scale’s power was essential during the nation's fledgling beginning. Its cities were in ruins, its people scattered, its army destroyed, its patron deity diminished. But there was help. Andoran, Absalom, Lastwall, Verdant, and Ravounel immediately recognized the new nation, which claimed the lands of Mendev and much of old Sarkoris - the territories known as the Stonewilds, Wounded Lands, and Riftshadow during the Worldwound’s ascendency.
Valor’s Reach was further aided by the collapse of Numeria and Ustalav, as the more expansionist and imperial powers fought over their ruins, while the Hold of Belkzen and the Mammoth Lords contested the Sarkorian Steppe and Frostmire, the remaining unclaimed pieces of Sarkoris. Verdant kept Brevoy in check. And by the time these nations were ready to turn their attention to the lands claimed by Valor’s Reach, the nation was stable, and could call upon its powerful protectors, including a resurrected ancient silver dragon.
From its capital at Drezen, Valor’s Reach became a beacon of justice, equality, and acceptance. All peoples and races were welcome, as long as they were willing to follow its laws and respect the right of their fellow citizens to live in peace alongside them. The population was bolstered by a great migration of families whose children were born during the Worldwound expansion and changed by its abyssal energies. These mongrels settled in the new nation, and while Chief Sul originally requested an isolated stretch of land for these families to inhabit, Irabeth refused. Instead, she named Sul to her cabinet and welcomed these immigrants as full members of the nation, free to live anywhere.
Valor’s Reach rapidly transformed itself into the economic powerhouse of northern Avistan, in no small part thanks to the incredible resource management of its finance minister, Horgus Gwerm, one of the heroes of the final battle of Drezen. Tens of thousands of refugees huddled in the caves above the city. Far more than there were supplies to support. There was enough food to last one day, but thanks to Horgus’s mastery of logistics and distribution, the supplies stretched for eight days, until relief arrived. And no one starved, thanks to what became known as the miracle of Horgus Gwerm. The new holiday of Gwermtide was declared – celebrated every year by a great feast at which everyone graciously listens to friends and family tell them how they could better manage their affairs.
***
Not long after the closing of the Worldwound an invitation arrived for the Silver Scale, requesting a discrete visitation at the Vault of Graves. The time had come to discharge their debt to Nocticula. The Silver Scale returned to Alushinyrra, and this time the unquiet spirits surrounding the Vault did not contest their entrance. Nocticula greeted them in her library, eager to hear the story of the closing of the Worldwound from the mouths of the Silver Scale. If you didn’t know better, you would swear she looked almost relieved.
“There was always another way forward with Vorlesh. Another angle, another plan, and the will to carry it out, whatever it takes. But I do believe she is dead, her quintessence given over to the Abyss. I had a great admiration for her ambition. Truthfully, I saw much of my old self in her. But her success would have compromised my own plans. And with her death, I release you from any further obligations to me.” She looks at Wick and smiles. “Though I am sure I will see some of you again, when the time is right. Zograthy, work has been piling up and I just don't have time for a relationship right now. It’s been fun, but I am severing our bond.” Nocticula pauses, thoughtfully. “Though perhaps that part can wait until morning…”.
Shortly after the Silver Scale’s departure, Nocticula retreated into her palace, and was silent for a year. No one knows exactly how she did it. Perhaps it was what she learned from Arueshalae. Perhaps it was her time bonded with Zograthy, a man himself tied to Iomedae. Maybe it was her own singular power and will, and her mastery of demonic quintessence. But Nocticula re-emerged as both a risen demon and full-fledged divinity - patron Goddess of artists, midnight, and exiles. The Gods of the Crusades, recognizing a debt, were quick to formally, if somewhat reluctantly, welcome her into the pantheon, and the dark cosmopolitan spirit of Alushinyrra spread across the Midnight Isles.
The closing of the Worldwound disrupted the pantheon in other ways. Iomedae’s intervention drew the ire of her fellow Gods - both for the surge in Iomedae’s faith and the increasingly strident nature of their own followers’ demands. But through her bond with Iomedae, Rischa knew the Gods were also relieved. Vorlesh would not only have dragged Golarion into the Abyss but would have made herself lord of a new realm comprised of both. And as its ruler she would have had control over Rovagug’s prison and the Starstone, both tools she could deploy to force her own ascension - the aspiring Goddess of ambition, strategy, and ruthlessness. The Gods did not want that – nor the planar civil war that would have erupted in the wake of her success.
***
Though no longer possessed of the wardstone’s power (a particularly sore subject for Queso, who had many plans), the Silver Scale remained a towering collection of heroes, and worked hard to help Irabeth establish her new nation. But after the first year they gradually went their separate ways, and rarely gathered together in full. Some searched for meaning, a way to process their central role in these miraculous events. Others struggled with the loss of their incredible power and the return to something approximating a normal life.
Galfrey served Irabeth faithfully and quietly for a time, until she requested a private meeting with Zograthy in her chambers. Though no longer a queen, she remained captivating, commanding, and beautiful, as well one of the mightiest warriors in all Golarion. Zograthy was more than happy to oblige her. He has a type.
“Zograthy, I have a gift for you, and a request. The gift first. Today is my birthday. I am one hundred and forty-one years old. I have been granted youth, at great expense, so that I might fulfill my life’s purpose. And I spent all but sixteen of those years in the service of Mendev, and the cause of the Crusades. For all that time I have been alive, I have never really had the chance to live.” She handed Zograthy a small, wrapped box. He took it and looked at her curiously. She gestured for him to unwrap it and continued.
“In many ways, Zograthy, your story has been the mirror of my own. You experienced much in your long life, but only found your purpose at its end.”
Within the box was a small vial. Galfrey smiled as Zograthy picked it up.
“This is a Sun Orchid elixir. Only a small number are created every year. The elixir restores the youth and vitality of those who drink it. The church of Iomedae had purchased several of these, at a staggering cost, to keep me young so that I might lead the Crusades.
But the crusades are finally over. The world no longer needs me. Irabeth is ready to lead on her own. I am ready to start over. And you have earned the right to do the same. Take this final elixir, and the opportunity it offers, with the boundless thanks of myself and the people of Golarion. It is a gift, freely given. A new life, the second chance you earned.”
(Zograthy responds)
“And now my request.” Galfrey pauses, gathering her thoughts. For a rare moment, she appears to be at a loss for words. “I am an old woman, Zograthy, and spent all those years at war. And finally, my time belongs only to me. I want to create new memories and grow old with them. I want to see some shit and make mistakes and have different regrets. I want to experience the world. And to be honest, I don’t know many people my own age. I could use a guide – someone who can keep up with me and understands everything wrong with kids today. Someone who has seen some shit, and made their mistakes, and learned how to live with their regrets.”
And Galfrey smiles in a disarmingly shy way before she adds “and I have heard a thing or two about Zograthy’s magic hands.”
(Zograthy responds)
The two of them quietly disappeared, and while Galfrey was never heard from again, there were stories of two young, dashing adventurers traveling Golarion and then the planes. Doing what good they could. Getting into what trouble they could find. Together. At least for a while. Long enough for Zograthy to teach her some of what he knows.
***
Although Iomedae’s manifestation destroyed all the demons in the Worldwound, Deskari’s minions had been rampaging throughout much of northern Avistan and spread all over the world in those final days. Kiryn and Arueshalae scoured Golarion, hunting the survivors. On rare occasions they carried out missions for Nocticula – capturing and bringing to her demons she thought might be capable of redemption. But none have yet succeeded. Arueshalae and Nocticula remain the only two in all known history.
This was the work of many years, and the two of them ranged across Golarion chasing rumors of every demon who may have once served Deskari or Baphomet. Eventually those rumors became scarce, the hunts less frequent. Until, finally, the last demon to come through the Worldwound was killed – all save one.
The next morning Arueshalae woke Kiryn, bursting with excitement, to tell her about a vision she had while she slept. It was about the two of them, having breakfast in a small cabin, alone together in some unnamed wood, the smell of fresh baked bread and the sound of birdsong filling the air. Arueshalae breathlessly shared every mundane detail of this treasured experience. Her first dream.
With her debt paid, Arueshalae and Kiryn departed from Golarion. And a new legend emerged across the planes - of two warrior women traversing moonlit paths between worlds, hunting the enemies of Desna wherever they could be found, carried to their quarry on butterfly wings.
***
Wick struggled greatly, in the aftermath of the Worldwound’s closing. He remained scarred by his betrayal of the Silver Scale and murder of the Herald of Iomedae. And there was one morning, not long after Galfrey’s abdication, where he left his medals, his equipment, his Battlebliss belt, and a note for his companions. All he carried with him was an old dagger, gifted to him by Phineas. And then he left, to travel to the secret place where he buried his brother. Searching for an ending. The one he knew he deserved.
It was a journey of many days, and Wick walked his path alone. Arueshalae found his note, and searched for him, but if Wick did not wish to be seen he could not be found. And yet one night, awaiting him in the road ahead, was a glowing wheel of fire. It cycled through strange colors, in tones and shades Wick did not recognize. He sensed it was trying to communicate, but Wick could not understand.
Intrigued, and with nothing to lose, Wick approached. The strange being waited for him, and as Wick got closer, he was able to identify the creature. It was an iophanite angel, the servitors of Iomedae. He recognized the form, as these were the angels who purified the lost temple of Iomedae Anevia discovered deep in the heart of the Worldwound. Where the Silver Scale first encountered the Herald. But this one seemed larger. Older. More powerful.
Wick stopped, overwhelmed. He began to weep. Tears of sorrow and exhaustion. All that was left within him. He cried for a long time, the angel waiting patiently, until there was nothing within Wick. He was empty, a cracked and hollow vessel. And then he heard the angel’s voice in his head.
“Greetings, Bastion Valenwick. I have come to pay my respects and offer my eternal gratitude. I am Jingh, until recently Iomedae’s court. I was cast aside by my goddess for defying her. Perhaps I underestimated her. Perhaps I just knew her mind too well.
By the time of the Herald’s capture and imprisonment, I had discerned what his future self had done. I had shared my suspicions with Iomedae, which she rejected. But I think now that she knew. Perhaps even before me. She was just prepared to sacrifice herself to spare the Herald. And when you made your choice, you robbed her of her own. As did I, when I sent the angel Malakia into the Ineluctable Prison to deliver my message to you.
It is the loss of her agency, and the resultant need to sacrifice others where, as a mortal, she would have gone in their stead, that daily tortures Iomedae. Here, finally, she could act, and we stole that from her, you and I. There is no more intimate betrayal we could have committed. And even if the Herald knew what he was doing when he violated the laws of time, our actions still condemned the soul of my ancient friend to an eternity of suffering.
You and I will have to live with the consequences of our actions, for the rest of our lives. And Iomedae is not Sarenrae. I do not think she will find it in her heart to forgive us. Not with the sure and certain knowledge of the Herald’s forever torment.
You have paid a terrible price for your bravery, Wick. As have I. Iomedae has removed me from her court, a position I have held for eons, long before her ascension. Since the earliest moments of this iteration of reality, I have advised the rulers of Heaven, but no more. And yet, I pay this price willingly and would gladly do so again.
Iomedae is powerful. And she is just. But somehow, despite her cosmic awareness, she has retained her mortal mind. And with it her empathy and her conscience. And this, more than anything, is what makes her great. What makes her unique among the gods. This is why she is the true inheritor of Aroden. The universe needs Iomedae. And thanks to your courage, and your sacrifice - thanks to you, Bastion Wick - it has her. And though Iomedae may never forgive you, I hope that someday you can forgive yourself.”
And then the angel disappeared, and Wick was alone. And he did not weep, for he was too empty for tears. But some of his cracks felt smaller and perhaps, in time, something might come to fill the empty space they contained. Wick turned, and began the long, lonely walk back to Drezen.
Wick served Irabeth faithfully from that point forward, but while his spirit slowly recovered, he remained bound by a promise he had yet to keep, made to the person who mattered most. His brother’s soul was imprisoned beyond the reach of Pharasma, leverage to ensure loyal service to a God that was not his own. But Wick was resourceful, and when he set his mind to something no barrier could keep him from his desire. And so, when the time came for the MMCDXXXVIII Battlebliss tournament, Optimus Prime and his tag team partner, The Bookeyman, returned to the Midnight Isles to defend his title and try to win a new prize from the now divine Nocticula.
***
Rischa wanted to be a part of building Irabeth’s new nation and explore the now accessible ruins of Jormurdun. But Iomedae needed her elsewhere, and Rischa was eager to obey. She had failed to carry out the will of her patron deity. On her watch The Hand of the Inheritor’s soul was lost to the Abyss. And though Iomedae forgave her, Rischa would carry that guilt throughout her centuries of service as Herald, a pain perhaps only Iomedae herself could understand. There are some things the soul can never set aside, only endure.
***
Queso stayed with Irabeth the longest. He had no home to return to and decided to serve as her arcane advisor and champion, dealing with the threats no one else could manage. He found satisfaction in the work, and in building a community within Valor’s Reach other ratfolk could call home. But he brooded over the death of his family and the ratfolk of Chitterhome – deaths he should have been able to prevent, if only he had found the power to oppose Vorlesh before it was too late. Power he had since lost calling Iomedae to Golarion.
And so Queso spent almost every free moment in research, unlocking the secrets of the Orb of the Alghollthu, exploring the edges of the time magic he now knew existed. The magic was forbidden, of course, but he was certain he could find a way to use it responsibly and safely. Just to stop Vorlesh sooner and bring his family back. If that witch was smart enough to create a planar conjunction surely he could manage this. All he needed was time…
***
It was on the two-year anniversary of the closing of the Worldwound that the Silver Scale gathered in its entirety for the final time. Horgus Gwerm had commissioned a monument to be erected on the former site of the tower of Threshold – at what had been the heart of the Worldwound. There was tremendous debate about the nature of the monument. Horgus wanted to honor Irabeth and the Silver Scale – the mythic saviors of Golarion. Irabeth wanted it dedicated to Galfrey and the rank-and-file soldiers of the crusades.
Kiryn insisted that Arueshalae be represented, but Arueshalae refused. “Mortals still need to fear my kind. As long as there is sin, demons will be born of it, and they will exploit my story. I will not be the cause of lapsed vigilance that leads good people into ruin. My experience is singular and should not be immortalized. Let me be a dream, not a promise.”
In the end there was a design everyone agreed on. All the nations of Avistan contributed to the cost of its construction, and the church of Shelyn gifted their finest craftsmen to make the vision reality. The monument, based on the design of the wardstones, stood one hundred and two feet high, a foot for each year of the Crusades, made of ancient Sarkorian stone plated in adamantine and coated with a silver-mithril alloy, infused with protective magics to ensure it would endure forever.
Wrapped around its base was the silver dragon Terendelev, crafted in such exquisite detail it seemed like she could burst into flight at any moment. The render was her perfect likeness, save for the absence of five silver scales.
Carved into the center of the obelisk was Queen Irabeth Tirabade, standing at watchful attention, serene and certain. The Sword of Valor was mounted behind her, rippling in the wind. On her left was Rischa, Valor’s Wrath in one hand, symbol of Iomedae in the other, and while Irabeth’s eyes were calm and focused, Rischa’s burned with a righteous anger, daring her enemies to approach. The Herald’s armor refracted the sunlight that shone upon it into all the prismatic colors of the rainbow. Next to Rischa was Zograthy, a wry, worldly smile on his wizened features. He held the staff of the Riftwardens above his head, in the midst of a casting, a dimensional gate opening behind him.
To Irabeth’s right was Kiryn, Radiance flaring to life in one hand, shield punching out in the other. She stood above the prone body of a glabrezu. Wick emerged from the shadows behind her, a dagger in each hand, his carving blending into the larger sculpture so that he was almost invisible unless you knew where to look. To the right of Kiryn Queso began a transformation, rendered in such a way that any final form seemed possible.
The monument was illuminated from within by a golden light, so that it would always be seen, no matter how deep the surrounding darkness. The ground was hallowed, and all who stood upon it felt a sense of security and walked away with a renewed sense of purpose. No guard was set. The crusades had ended, and though these lands were claimed by Valor’s Reach, this space was for all peoples, a place the world could come and pay a debt of remembrance universally owed.
There was an inscription along the base of the obelisk. It read:
The Crusade Against the Worldwound: 4622 - 4724
This monument is dedicated to Queen Galfrey, the nation of Mendev, and all who shielded Golarion from the Abyss. They stood together and barred the way.
Framing the inscription, written in every language ever spoken by a crusader, was its battle cry – ‘Go forward in light to combat the darkness.’
And rising above them all, his wings enfolding the Silver Scale and sheltering all of Golarion within the safety of their embrace, was the golden form of the Hand of the Inheritor, Herald of Iomedae. His sacrifice unnamed, his deed unspoken, but never forgotten.
| Stip |
And finally, I had written an alternate epilogue. If the PCS had SAVED the Hearald Iomedae would have died during her manifestation. This epilogue deals with the aftermath - only including material that is different from the above
Alternate Epilogue: The Last Act of Iomedae
4724 and beyond – Golarion
9 Gozran, 4724 was forever known as Iomedae’s Sacrifice, or The Last Act of Iomedae. Her intervention closed the Worldwound, and saved Golarion. It strengthened the fabric of reality between northern Golarion and the Abyss, and a dimensional lock the size of a nation now blankets the lands of old Sarkoris – laid down by the hand of a god. She had channeled a destructive force at least ten thousand times greater than that unleashed by the Sword of Valor. Iomedae contained the devastation to the lands of the Worldwound. The resulting release of energy flattened what was left of the ruined cities of Sarkoris, and the collapse of the massive system of chasms and canyons that had come to define the landscape meant the geography of the former Worldwound was now almost unrecognizable. But all this came at the cost of her life, the manifestation sundering her divine essence. The second God to fall in just over a century, bookending the history of the Worldwound.
The death of a god always comes with profound consequences. All Iomedae’s clerics, paladins, and inquisitors found their prayers unanswered, their divine power gone. The faithful waited for her return, to recover from her intervention, but their loyalty was rewarded with empty silence. And when it was clear she was gone, the churches of Torag, Sarenrae, and Abadar absorbed most of Iomedae’s followers. Arueshalae, who understood the nature of the deep and abiding hole left when the core of your identity is stripped away, spent many long hours helping Waxberry process her grief. The halfling eventually claimed Desna as her own – a God for lost souls and new beginnings.
It was agreed that the Silver Scale would keep their role in Iomedae’s death quiet. It was known that they stopped Areelu Vorlesh’s planer conjunction, but the official story was that Iomedae chose to intervene to close the Worldwound – that she willingly sacrificed herself to save her former home. It was a fitting end to her story and brought closure to Aroden’s as well. And it was not far from the truth. Rischa could sense Iomedae in those final moments, and while the Goddess was not seeking death, there was an eagerness within her. She could have resisted the summons or manifested an avatar but embraced the opportunity to act with her whole being, knowing the cost. This was her choice, her last choice, the last act of Iomedae.
Iomedae’s fall emboldened the nation of Cheliax, which began to swallow its now weakened neighbors, beginning with Andoran. Without her divine patronage, the nation of Lastwall began a slow disintegration, and there were rumors that the Whispering Tyrant stirred, now that the forces of his ancient enemy no longer watched for his return…
***
Queso Blanco stayed with Irabeth and had no plans to leave. He had no home to return to, and decided to serve, along with Aravashinal, as her arcane advisor and champion, dealing with the threats no one else could manage. He found satisfaction in the work, and in building a community within Valor’s Reach other ratfolk could call home. But he brooded over the death of his family and the ratfolk of Chitterhome. Even the death of Iomedae – deaths he should have been able to prevent, if only he had found the power to oppose Vorlesh before it was too late.
And so Queso spent almost every free moment in research, assisted by
Aravashinal, unlocking the secrets of the Orb of the Alghollthu, exploring the time magic he now knew existed. The magic was forbidden, but he was certain he could find a way to use it responsibly and safely. Just to stop Vorlesh and bring his family back and restore Iomedae to her rightful place in the pantheon. If that witch was smart enough to create a planar conjunction surely he could manage this. All he needed was time…
Rischa struggled. Like Irabeth she tried to throw herself into the work of building a new nation, and quickly became one of her chief advisors. Even with her diminished power she was a formidable threat and keen judge of people’s motives. And like Irabeth, she refused to abandon her faith, even though she knew that Iomedae would not return. What Iomedae stood for had to endure, and both she and Irabeth felt a need to honor the memory of their fallen God, even if that God could no longer reward them for their service.
It doubled as a form of penance, for Rischa. She was a faithful herald, during her brief tenure, and honored the wishes of Iomedae, despite the terrible cost of her loyalty. In the end Jingh and Alderpash were right. There are laws that not even the Gods can break, and actions have consequences.
The Hand of the Inheritor was saved, and his soul restored, but it was lost and broken. His intervention triggered a chain of events that resulted in the salvation of Iomedae’s mortal home, but in the end, it was she, not he, that paid the ultimate price. This was not a burden he could bear, and he threw himself into the wars with Cheliax – looking to blunt their rising influence. Looking for a way to serve. Looking for an ending.
Despite the success of Valor’s Reach, Golarion suffered without Iomedae. Cheliax’s dark star had ascended, the Whispering Tyrant stirred, and everywhere the church of Iomedae had taken a stand against the evils of the world those evils were resurgent. The arc of the universe had swung away from justice, as Iomedae no longer reigned in heaven.
***
On 9 Gozran, 4727, exactly three years after the sacrifice of Iomedae, a small, unassuming ship pulled into a large white harbor. Its three passengers disembarked, without fanfare, and made their way through the city’s winding streets. A cool sea breeze wafted through the air, and a clear sun warmed the white buildings. The scenery was beautiful, but their mood was quiet and melancholy. Anevia and Irabeth held each other’s hands, refusing to let go.
They walked until they reached their destination. They stood there a long time, unwilling to take the next step. Unwilling to say goodbye. Eventually Rischa said, in a soft, sympathetic voice. “It’s time.”
Anevia let go of Irabeth’s hand and embraced Rischa. “Thank you for not abandoning a crippled woman in the caverns below Kenabres,” Anevia said, smiling, tears welling in her eyes.
Rischa returned her smile, and embrace, with tears of her own. “Thank you for finding the Herald’s temple. And everything else. It has been a journey. Not the one I thought I would have, but I am grateful for it all the same.”
“Anytime.” But Anevia’s voice cracked with her last words for Rischa. “Please take care of Irabeth for me, Keep her out of trouble. As best you can. Promise me.”
“I will” Rischa replied. “Always.” And with that, Rischa ended the embrace and started making her way up the hill towards her destination. She stopped after a short distance, waiting for Irabeth but wanting to give her privacy for her goodbye.
Irabeth took Anevia’s hands in hers, and the two stared at each other for a long time, absorbing each other’s look, feel, smell. Committing every detail to memory. Silently reliving treasured moments from their shared life. Tears ran down Anevia’s face, and neither could find the strength to speak. Eventually Irabeth broke the silence.
“Nevee, I will stay if you ask me to.”
“I know you would. I don’t even think you would resent me for it. And I want that, more than anything in the world. But I would spend the rest of my life hating myself if you stayed, knowing that you stayed for me.”
“Anevia, I…”
“This is who you are, ‘Beth, and I would never change that. There is a need, and you will meet it, even though you know it will break your heart. It’s why I love you. You are the person I wish I could be. The best parts of myself given life outside my body. The missing pieces of my soul. I cannot cage that. I know my time with you has always been borrowed. And this is where I have to give it back.”
“I love you more than anything, Anevia, and I will return to you.”
“You can’t, no matter how desperately we both want that. One way or another, with these next steps you are lost to me. But please come back to all of us.”
There was one last passionate kiss, a long embrace, a final look, and then Irabeth turned and joined Rischa, leaving Anevia behind. As they continued up the hill Anevia called out one last time “Rischa – don’t forget your promise.”
Irabeth did not turn around. She couldn’t. If she saw Anevia again she knew she would not go on. She froze at the sound of her voice, silent tears streaming down her face. It was, Rischa realized, the only time she had ever seen Irabeth cry. After everything she had been through, everything she had suffered and survived and lost, this was where Irabeth finally broke.
Rischa reached out for her hand and squeezed it. Irabeth shuddered, and offered her a sad, grateful smile. And then, hand in hand, Rischa Cadesh and Irabeth Tirabade made their way up the great white steps, over Iomedae’s causeway, and into the ending of one story, and the beginning of another.
The gods embody our unmet need and unfulfilled desire. And Golarion still cries out for justice. Anevia watches as the doors of the Starstone Cathedral swing open for Rischa and Irabeth. And as the doors close and they disappear from her sight, Anevia could swear she sees a soft golden light rise within them.
One more time.