The Curse of the Crimson Throne


“Quickly, you fools!”

The cultists scrambled about, preparing for the oncoming attack; the magical alarms had faded, but the fear of assault had not. The necromancer stood on the catwalk above the frothing vats of decay, watching the deathpriests below summoning undead minions and mentally preparing the unholy prayers needed for the defense.

Several thoughts ran through his head at once: what had they lost so far, having intruders discover the secret lair? The time, the resources, the manpower needed to secure their traitorous plans—all gone in a matter of moments. However, what could he gain? If he stopped the assault right here and now, how he could wave his victory in front of the priests as a sign of competence, of sheer skill. He would be promoted for sure, maybe even sent away from this clustered city and its petulant crowds. They would never understand what his cadre was doing, what great experiments lurked beneath their streets. How little they had come after a revolution took this city. No, Korvosa was doomed to wither away in its own ignorance, and the necromancer Rolth would profit from its demise.

He quickly grunted in frustration. No! Not now! He still had this trouble to deal with. Grandeur can come later. Following the priests’ example, he also began preparing his arcane tools, instinctively stroking the glass rod hidden in a side pocket.

Rolth didn’t have long before the wide doors in front of him slammed open. Their first assault was quite unexpected—their image. “YOU! It’s you fools again!” he screeched, recognizing the wild-eyed gnome and the lanky boy standing at the entrance. They were accompanied by two others, no doubt replacements for the meddlers before them. Almost immediately, one of the newcomers cast a spell—the entire room was bathed in holy energy, consecrating the very ground these dealers in death stood on. As he stood there in shock, one of the deathpriests below finished the incantions to a spell. Even before Rolth could identify it, impenetrable darkness engulfed his vision. His ears were filled with the sounds of combat as the realization of the situation hit him.

“You FOOL!” he exclaimed as he began dispelling the darkness spell one of his rotting allies had cast. The darkness was gone as quickly as it had appeared; the scene in front of him was chaotic, as both sides had been flailing about, trying to attack the other. Rolth watched as a metallic glint shot through the air, cleanly cleaving through one of the plague doctors’ skulls, the glint materializing into an axe embedded into the vat to his right. What he didn’t notice, however, was the growing storm cloud collecting itself behind him.

The necromancer felt his body tense up and electricity arced over his body. Whipping about and seeing the fully-formed air elemental behind him, he tried to make a break for it—his position on the high ground would not do him any good against the outsider. The creature was ready for his retreat, however, a solid lightning bolt shot out at Rolth’s feet, causing him to fall on his face. Cursing his luck, he began to stand up, but before he could think of an appropriate attack, the elemental barreled into his chest, sending him over the railing and into the very full vat below.

This was not going to plan.

His mouth full of the disgusting liquid, his limbs still tense from the electrical shock, he managed to reach above for the lip of the vat and pull himself up. Drawing his last reserves of strength, he leaned over the lip and let himself fall to the ground below, sputtering as the impact knocked the air and chemicals from his lungs. Coming to his senses and standing up, he saw that his allies had at least held the foes at bay, although the undead numbers were thinning. Damn this holy energy! Damn that cleric!

“You like lightning, do you!?” he screamed as he pulled that glass rod out of his pocket. The fact it had not shattered from the blows was a miracle. Rubbing fine fur over the trinket, he finished speaking the final syllables of the spell and a lightning bolt, much larger than the one he contended with earlier, shot into the crowd, aimed directly at the elf in the back. His aim was true, and the magic blasted through the foes before him. The mountain cat at the front of the group, no doubt a trained pet of theirs, let loose a painful “MREOW” before it slumped to the ground. Unfortunately, none of its allies were taken out of the fight. He motioned to the priests to his left, and they began to take up a defensive stance, their attempts foiled however, as magical grease (damn caster!) made one fight to maintain his combat stance and the other tugged at his scythe, the blade firmly lodged in same vat Rolth had fallen into. The elemental flitted around, raising the ire of the necromancer.

He had just enough time to slip his hands into pouches on his belt when a new figure charged through the shadows. A grizzled dwarf—also a long time foe, but where had he come from?—charged past his allies, unsheathing a large axe as he ran toward Rolth. The attacks came quick, with ruthless precision. He was sure he could get off one last attack and then make his escape; twin gouts of flame shot out of his hands into the dwarf as the gnome snuck around to his side.

Rolth knew he was well and truly cornered when his final ally fell. He would not be victorious this day, but there was always another opportunity, provided he could get away. He focused on casting his final spell, dimension door, which would magically transport him away from this hole in the ground, when the axe buried itself in his chest. And continued hacking as he fell to the floor, life draining out of him. And again.

And again.
And again.

A link to Mungo’s inspiring song “The End of Rolth”

(So yeah, I did this right after the session when I should be sleeping for work the next day and I know I left out a lot of details but I think I got the gist of it. Just imagine Mungo booming “TA REN TA RA” every eighteen seconds and I think it’s accurate.)


A Clash of Wizards

Having magically opened the doors and surveyed the scene, Synthrish, blessed of Neythas the lord of magic, recognized a folly in the pride of necromancers: even Urgathoa himself must use Neythas as a way point to the arcane. Thinking quickly, she prayed a prayer to bar the practitioners of the magic of undeath from accessing their powers, and Neythas answered by consecrating the area with an impenetrable holy prohibition.

Knowing that a scalpel used with finesse is always more useful than a hammer, Synthrish sent Schrtztztz to occupy their most powerful enemy, the wizard Rolth. Synthrish and Rolth both sent their meat-shields to bash it out, but the true struggle would be between the arcane powers on either side. With a keen sense of spatial layout and positioning tactics, Synthrish realized Rolth’s first mistake, trying to place himself away from harm in a commanders position above the battle… precariously positioned above a vat of filth and disease. With more sense of tactics than most seasoned warriors, Schrtztztz quickly knocked Rolth to his knees, and while trying to regain footing on the catwalk, bull rushed him over the side into the bubbling vat of disease, taking him out of the battle and allowing Synthrish to take control of the battleground.

While Synthrish was occupied with the Rolth, her party, and his lackys had made a mess of the scene, stumbling over each others spells, and finding themselves in positions of tactical weakness, with plague doctors and zombies surrounding them. But having a stronger hold on the crass-arts (martial skill), her allies were finding themselves set up to be victorious.

Rolth had managed to extract himself from the vat of filth and regain his footing, but his rage had redoubled at the wizard who had denied him access to his necromantic spells and caused him so much trouble! Seeing that the scene was devolving around him, and his meat-shields falling by the score, he released a blast of lightning that would have felled 6 normal men. But found that only the cat they’d brought along had been critically wounded.

With the battle coming to a near end, Synthrish cast a spell to coat the ground her enemies stood upon unstable to them, and brought a priest low with her efforts, and bought the fighters tyme to fall upon Rolth in close quarters.

For all of his smarts, Rolth’s best plan was to try to duke it out in close quarters losing a gout of flame and singeing the dwarf’s beard, while Rullik buried his ax into Rolth’s chest.

With recognition to Neythas for his part in winning this battle, Synthrish prayed for the wounded to be healed, and the animal companion was raised.

Going through Rolth’s possessions, Synthrish found a Headband of Vast Intelligence, a potent item which any wizard would be envious of, and took it for herself along with his spellbook to be studied at a later date. The looting which took place was hurried, and everything was placed into Synthrish’s extradimentional pack to be dealt with at a less pressing moment.

The doors leading from this place mainly led to storage closets, but one led to a macabre surgeon’s operating room, the doctor being an Nosferatu. Synthrish knew of these ancient creatures, with their vast lifespan’s and power, and began negotiating for the release of his patient, the young verisian man the party had been sent out to find. After haggling him down to the price of 1,000 gold and a Urgent of Timelessness, the nosferatu began to leave, but with one last caveat into the deal, that he could make use of her assistance in a matter of his choosing at a tyme of his choosing. Knowing that parley with a nosferatu could be useful, she accepted. Her sailor, himself a Verisian and able to read, deciphered the instructions on the table to release the patient.

And she set off again to discover the personalities involved deeper in the plot, Schrtztztz and her companions in toe.

nillic nillic

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