A Miracle in Dunedrift
The party returned from the Hallowed Falls carrying twenty-four cures for the Rot.
Dunedrift had transformed overnight.
The war camp had nearly doubled in size. Soldiers sharpened weapons, ran drills, repaired armor, and assembled barricades throughout the city in preparation for Asherdalon’s return.
Behzad’s miracle had not merely emptied the plague hospital.
It had restored Dunedrift’s ability to defend itself.
The party continued toward the hospital and found the building completely empty. Every patient had awakened that morning cured of the Rot and returned to their homes, families, and duties.
Corvus Cleaver was still gathering his supplies.
In one hundred and twenty years as a Raven Knight, he had never witnessed anything like it.
The party did not tell him about J_On, the Three Rings, or Behzad’s miracle.
Cleaver apologized for having sent them across the desert to obtain medicine they no longer needed. The journey would not be wasted, however. The Rot remained common among the isolated communities served by the Raven Knights, and twenty-four cures could save a great many lives.
He offered to reimburse them.
The potions themselves were worth 2,500 GP. Cleaver added another 1,500 GP for their time and labor, bringing the total payment to an even four thousand gold-one thousand for each member of the party.
Behzad hesitated.
He did not feel right profiting from his own miracle.
The others reminded him that they were nearly destitute, had surrendered valuable time to obtain the medicine, and had genuinely completed the work Cleaver requested. They agreed to accept the payment, but not to make a habit of turning divine intervention into a business.
Cleaver waved a hand.
A portal opened beneath the chest. Several green hands reached from a hidden demiplane, seized the medicine, and dragged it away into the Raven Knights’ distribution network.
Cleaver left one cure behind for Fable to study.
Then he turned to Nys.
Wyvern Castle
Cleaver asked whether Nys had formally connected herself to the Raven Knights’ network.
The order operated across many cities and distant communities. Its members used the network to exchange information, medicines, supplies, and warnings while independently hunting the undead.
Nys said she had never heard of it.
Cleaver suggested that she travel to Wyvern Castle and formally join their ranks. As a champion of the Raven Queen, she would be welcomed and, frankly, needed.
Nys asked where the castle was.
Cleaver opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He struggled against some invisible restriction before finally managing to say that the castle was somewhere near Bradford.
Its location was protected by powerful wards so that a Raven Knight could not be tortured into revealing it. That was normal.
What was not normal was the ward preventing him from discussing the castle with another member of the faithful.
Cleaver looked at Nys.
Nys looked back.
Neither understood why the magic did not recognize her.
Cleaver wished the party well and told Nys that he hoped she would find her way to Wyvern Castle. He would be glad to see her again.
Then he packed the remainder of his equipment and departed for the next town suffering beneath an undead menace.
The dead were not going to hunt themselves.
The Town Square
Now carrying more money than they had ever possessed, the party decided to purchase much-needed supplies.
They entered Dunedrift’s central square for the first time and finally understood the city’s economic relationship with the Charmed Cove.
The buildings were large and constructed from sandstone and brick. Stained-glass domes reflected the desert sunlight across expensive boutiques and specialty shops. Smaller tents and market stalls selling discounted equipment crowded the spaces between them.
At the center stood the town hall, crowned by a tall clocktower whose brass bell rang every hour. Nearby, residents gathered around a small fountain to collect fresh, cold water.
Dunedrift was not merely an isolated desert settlement.
It was effectively a suburb of the Charmed Cove.
Behzad decided that his torn purple cloak had suffered enough.
He entered Devilish Silk.
Devilish Silk
The shop occupied a large white-marble building lined with columns. A hooked fiend’s tail curled around the signpost outside.
Ballgowns, tailcoats, and cloaks of protection danced upon enchanted armor stands within two enormous bay windows.
Inside, matching outfits waltzed together throughout the store. Less expensive clothing rested neatly upon warm oak tables while enchanted shears flew through the air, cutting self-unrolling fabric. A sewing machine stitched the pieces together without assistance before the completed garments flapped onto nearby displays.
A fashionable elderly Tiefling stood behind a curved oak counter more closely resembling a bar.
He regarded Behzad through rose-tinted glasses.
Behzad showed him the damaged cloak and requested a price for repairing it.
The Tiefling complimented his timeless sense of style, but recommended replacement rather than repair. Devilish Silk used a proprietary blend of phase-spider silk and unique infernal enchantments. Their garments were resistant to tearing, capable of mending themselves, waterproof, and enchanted to retain their color after weeks on the road.
The waterproofing, he assured Behzad, was particularly useful should an adventurer’s hands become wet before shaking hands with his adoring public.
An enchanted ledger flew to the counter while a quill recorded Behzad’s order.
Purple fabric.
Gold trim.
Three golden rings embroidered across the back.
Enchantments of disguise and billowing.
The merchant asked why Behzad required an article of disguise.
Was it intended for debauchery?
Behzad explained that he had recently been appointed Lord of Wolford.
The Tiefling brightened.
“Ah! Behzad Altassi! Such a shame about the misprint. It happens to all of us Beastfolk.”
He had heard of Behzad and promised to rush the order for such an important customer.
Then he asked whether Behzad needed an outfit for the Gala.
Behzad had no idea what Gala he meant.
“Why, yes. Of course.”
An enchanted measuring tape immediately began circling Behzad’s body.
The merchant recommended an Alpine tailcoat with gold trim, a matching vest, and a Three-Ring tie bar that could double as a spellcasting focus.
That way, Behzad could get his magic past Gala security.
The merchant finally introduced himself as Clark Gellentara, owner of Devilish Silk-the premier fashion house of the Charmed Cove.
This location was merely the outlet store. Behzad would need to visit the flagship before the Gala if he wanted suitable accessories.
Clark’s wife designed the clothing.
Clark worked in “marketing.”
He offered Behzad a celebrity discount if the new Lord of Wolford wore his Devilish Silk original to the Gala and made sure the Dissonant Whispers knew who had dressed him.
Behzad accepted.
Clark asked whether Behzad would care to sit at his table. The Emperor always sat with him, after all. Clark had made the Emperor’s clothing since he was merely the Duke of Rosenhall.
Surely Behzad knew him.
“Of course.”
Clark was delighted that two members of the Lords’ Alliance would be wearing his work at the largest social event of the year.
He approached a large scrying orb and began speaking Infernal into it. Behzad heard something about having the pit fiends in the factory rush the order.
A ring of fire erupted inside the store.
Behzad’s completed garments arrived seconds later.
After his VIP and advertising discounts, Behzad paid 850 GP for his Gala clothing and new Cloak of Disguise.
He told Clark that he looked forward to dining with him and the Emperor.
Cast-Away Armor
Behzad returned to the square and found Nys and Fable shopping beneath a tent operated by Zan, a Clanless Dwarf dealing in secondhand weapons and armor.
Nys purchased studded leather.
Fable traded away her Dazzling Battleaxe for a suit of cast-away full plate.
Zan warned her that he had forgotten the magical phrase that caused the armor to remove itself.
He could only hope she never accidentally said it during a battle.
When the others saw Behzad’s new clothing, the entire party returned to Devilish Silk.
Fable had been wearing clothing borrowed from Vulmer since the beginning of their journey. It hung from her body nearly two sizes too large.
For 250 GP, Clark offered to make her something of her own without enchanting it “up the wazoo.”
Clark asked Behzad whether he intended to bring his entire entourage to the Gala.
Behzad answered without hesitation.
“Why, of course.”
Apparently the entire Court of Wolford would now require seats.
Garrus
Clark offered to dress Nys as well.
She politely refused.
Her mother was a seamstress in the Charmed Cove and would be extremely displeased if Nys allowed someone else to make her Gala clothing.
After some conversation, Clark realized he knew her mother. She had interned beneath him before opening her own store.
He complimented Nys’s sense of style.
“Marvelous. Of course, she learned it from me.”
Clark then asked whether either Nys or Fable happened to be single.
He had a grandson who had been unable to find a date for years, and Clark refused to endure the embarrassment of having him appear alone at the Gala again.
Both women declined.
Clark sighed.
He would have to hire another escort. At this point, he was fairly certain his grandson was gay… not that there was anything wrong with that-but the optics would be terrible.
His grandson’s name was Garrus.
Clark began reconsidering his seating chart. With Behzad’s entire entourage attending, he might need to move the Countess of Aria.
But who wanted to sit beside a Wood Elf anyway?
They would get leaves all over the food.
Fern coughed from the back of the store.
He stood barefoot in dirty rags, his hair wild and unkempt.
Clark informed him that the homeless shelter was across the street and to the left.
Fern bounced his pouch of 1,000 GP tauntingly in one hand and walked out.
Clark laughed beside Behzad.
“Only a thousand gold? He couldn’t afford to shop here!”
Behzad laughed with him.
Fable tightened her fist.
She paid for her new clothing, and the party left before she punched the owner of the Charmed Cove’s most important fashion house.
Clark called after them that having the entire Court of Wolford wearing Devilish Silk would do wonders for his brand.
Ledger Day
Outside, Nys finally explained the Gala.
It was held annually on Ledger Day, the day between the end of spring and the beginning of summer. It represented the end of the growing season, the beginning of the harvest, and the start of the year’s busiest economic period.
The Gala was the Charmed Cove’s great social event.
The Emperor attended, as did Duke Nightfeather, who was rarely present in his own hometown. The most influential nobles in the Empire and abroad gathered at Chateau Nightfeather, the Duke’s mansion and vineyard.
The event would occur in eight days.
Behzad had eight days to obtain tickets for the entire party he had just promised to bring.
Fable suggested that saving Dunedrift from the Rot, the Necropolis, and Asherdalon might earn them invitations.
The Rosenhall Royal Post Office
Before leaving the city, Behzad and Nys needed to send letters.
They entered the Rosenhall Royal Post Office, operated by a Gold Dragonborn named Werther.
Behzad wrote to Titus in Wolford and asked how the city was progressing in his absence.
Nys wrote to her mother and placed her order for the Gala.
Werther offered three delivery options.
Normal Postage: One copper. The letter would travel by ordinary medieval mail and arrive within two to eight months.
Express Postage: Delivery by carrier pigeon within two days.
Super Express: Instant delivery through the Speedy Courier spell for seventeen gold.
The Royal Post subsidized Super Express despite the fourth-level spell ordinarily consuming twenty-five gold in material components.
Nobody ever purchased it.
Behzad and Nys each placed seventeen gold upon the counter.
Werther stared at them.
He raised his wand.
An Air Elemental erupted inside the post office. The two letters were pulled into its swirling body, spun around in a tiny tornado, and vanished with it into the atmosphere.
Werther thanked them for their business and offered everyone one of his homemade butterscotch candies.
One of his originals.
Their shopping complete, they reunited with Fern and departed for the Necropolis.
Necropolis
The Necropolis stood within a large cathedral on the outskirts of Dunedrift.
Shards of stained glass covered the marble steps beneath a shattered window. The bodies of town guards lay scattered around a bone-dry fountain depicting an armored bishop smiting a host of skeletons.
A plaque beneath the fountain read:
HERE LAYS SAINT VAN BONES
SAVIOR OF DUNEDRIFT
The ground had been scorched by guards attempting to burn the escaping undead before the Rot could spread.
Rubble from Asherdalon’s attack remained suspended in midair around the cathedral. Ancient wards had apparently prevented the tomb itself from being destroyed.
The party entered.
A loud, high-pitched, extraordinarily irritating voice announced their arrival.
If they wished to confront the dastardly villain VINCENT VAN BONES, they would first have to survive his trials and tribulations.
The voice was coming from behind a curtain twenty feet away.
Fable picked up a rock and threw it.
The curtain collapsed.
Vincent Van Bones sat upon a throne roughly thirty feet beyond it.
“PAY NO ATTENTION TO THE LICH BEHIND THE CURTAIN! YOU MUST FOLLOW THE RULES!”
Fable suggested that they simply rush him.
Behzad reminded everyone that Vincent Van Bones was a saint. They would respect his challenges.
Fern considered what had happened the last time he struck a divine figure in Behzad’s presence.
He was not making that mistake again.
The Test of Strength
The party climbed into the cathedral’s upper seating area.
Vincent announced the first of his masterful challenges:
The Test of Strength.
Six of the dead guards rose as zombies.
The party destroyed them almost immediately.
Vincent protested.
“YOU’RE BREAKING THE RULES!”
Multi-attacking was not allowed.
They were supposed to let the zombies hit them first.
Behzad agreed that they should follow the rules.
He allowed the next zombie to attack him before putting it down.
Vincent had not expected anyone to survive six ordinary zombies. Frazzled, he scrambled to announce the next challenge.
“You must now face the…the Test of Agility! Yes!”
The test required everyone to jump from the upper balcony to the cathedral floor thirty feet below.
They did.
Behzad landed directly upon his face.
The Hand of Aptitude
The party recovered and began walking toward Vincent.
“NO! NO, WAIT! THERE’S ONE MORE TEST! THE…”
Vincent frantically searched the room.
His gaze fell upon a large stone sculpture of a hand.
“THE HAND OF APTITUDE! YES! THE FINAL TEST, OF COURSE!”
The statue did nothing.
Vincent told them to climb into its palm and prove themselves stronger than his magic.
Fable asked why he had not spent his two-thousand-year afterlife planning a better dungeon.
Vincent assured her that his genius would soon unfold before them.
Behzad jumped onto the statue and struck its palm with his maul.
The Maul of Warning spoke.
“Something bad is going to happen today.”
Vincent animated the hand.
Its enormous fingers closed around Behzad, crushing him and beginning to suffocate him. Nys cut Behzad free before the statue could finish the job.
She pointed her weapon toward Vincent.
She would send him to the Raven Queen.
Vincent tilted his skull.
“Who’s that? The Empress of Rosenhall?”
The party stared at him.
The Raven Queen was the god of death.
“NUH-UH! THAT’S NERULL!”
Vincent explained that Nerull had refused to reap him when he died. He had awakened as a skeleton, condemned to the same putrid state for eternity.
That was why he had become evil.
The party attempted to explain that Nerull was no longer the god of death.
Vincent did not believe them.
He had not left the tomb in two thousand years.
Fable looked around at the curtains, unfinished trials, and random hand statue.
“Yeah. I can tell.”
Vincent revealed his master plan.
He would kill the adventurers, raise them as undead, and use them to spread the Rot. The disease was incurable. Its victims would rise after death, preventing Nerull from reaping them and forcing the god to acknowledge Vincent’s suffering.
Fable listened with one of the supposedly impossible cures sitting inside her backpack.
The Lich’s Most Evil Spell
Fern Fey Stepped directly toward Vincent.
“Let’s get this over with.”
He opened his Bag of Tricks and summoned a boar.
“See? I also have minions.”
The fight began.
Fable rushed Vincent and struck him with Wilting Smite and Booming Blade.
Vincent raised his hands.
“YOU FOOL! I AM AN ARCHMAGE WITH THE MOST EVIL SPELL EVER INVENTED!”
“COUNTERSPELL!”
The spell failed.
“IMPOSSIBLE!”
Fern hammered him with a Flurry of Blows. Nys drove an arrow through him with a Sneak Attack. Fable’s magic withered his bones.
Vincent was bloodied within the first round.
He responded by animating six more zombies and lashing Fable and Fern with blasts of arcane force.
Whenever one of the zombies fell, Vincent consumed its remaining life essence and restored himself.
Rather than smiting Vincent, Behzad continued playing along and expended his divine power upon the zombie minions.
Nys suddenly felt her hand fall upon the newly discovered Scabbard.
A voice spoke inside her mind.
His incompetence is an act.
Get behind cover. Now.
Nys grabbed Behzad and pulled him behind one of the cathedral’s pillars.
Vincent’s high-pitched voice disappeared.
When he spoke again, it was deep, calm, and cold.
“Now the real fight begins.”
He cast Circle of Death.
Necromantic energy tore through the cathedral.
Fable and Fern were nearly destroyed. Behzad endured part of the blast behind the pillar. Nys remained completely protected behind full cover.
Every zombie died.
Fern’s boar died.
Vincent absorbed all of them.
His broken body restored itself to full strength.
The Forbidden Tactic
The party panicked.
Fern collapsed.
Fable attempted to use Blood Rush to bring him back.
Vincent Counterspelled it.
“Thought I was weak, did you? Figured you wouldn’t bait it with the cantrip first?”
Fable insisted that he was weak.
He was not even a real lich.
Nys continued firing arrows.
Behzad cast Aid, increasing Fable and Fern’s vitality and pulling Fern back to consciousness with five hit points.
Vincent looked at Fable’s plate armor.
“You have underestimated me. Why would I waste my time beating on you knowing I will miss-”
He looked down at Fern.
“-when I can use the most evil strategy on the planet?”
Vincent raised one skeletal foot.
“THE FORBIDDEN TACTIC OF HITTING SOMEONE WHEN THEY’RE DOWN!”
He kicked Fern.
Fern fell unconscious again.
Vincent struck him a second time.
Two failures.
Vincent moved to deliver the final blow.
Fable threw herself between them.
She seized Vincent, dragged him away from Fern, and did not stop until the skeleton was nearly sixty feet across the cathedral.
Fern made his final death saving throw.
He failed.
Fern died.
Vincent Van Bones’s First Kill
Vincent’s high-pitched voice returned immediately.
“YOU FOOLS! TREMBLE BEFORE ME AS I HAVE KILLED MY FIRS-”
His voice dropped again.
“I mean…I have felled another adventurer.”
Fern’s body began to move.
He rose as a zombie under Vincent’s control.
Behzad could not allow Fern to attack the party.
He cast Command.
“Grovel.”
Fern’s corpse dropped to the cathedral floor.
Vincent turned his attention toward the badly wounded Behzad.
“I bet you didn’t know Arcane Blast was ranged, did you?”
He fired across the room.
Fable still had him locked inside her grapple.
Every blast missed.
Nys drew a flaming arrow and fired it directly through Vincent’s rib cage.
Fable tore his skull from his spine.
She crushed it between her hands.
“WAIT, NO-”
Vincent Van Bones fell silent.
Fable searched the remains of the dreaded archmage and claimed his promised VERY RARE LOOT.
A Hat of Wizardry.
I Warned You
Vincent was destroyed.
Fern was still undead.
Behzad used his final Divine Smite to put down the animated body of the friend he had only recently reconciled with.
The Maul of Warning shouted:
“I WARNED YOU!”
Fable lifted Fern’s body and carried him from the cathedral.
As she walked, she muttered the same words again and again.
Vincent had been too weak.
He had been too weak to be a real lich.
He had been too weak to kill Fern.
She carried Fern past the dry fountain, the dead guards, and the monument honoring Saint Van Bones, Savior of Dunedrift.
Father
Fern blinked.
Vincent was gone.
The cathedral was gone.
He stood upon a dark beach in the Shadowfell.
A cloaked figure waited with her back toward him. Two ravens pecked at the sand beside her.
“It’s been an eternity.”
The figure turned.
Her face was alabaster, featureless, and almost mask-like.
She looked at Fern.
“So you find yourself back here…”
The Raven Queen paused.
“Father.”