| 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.