Death Becomes Her - Sorrel Cassandra Darkfire 19/7

Cry, Trojans, cry! practise your eyes with tears!
Troy must not be, nor goodly Ilion stand;
Our firebrand brother, Paris, burns us all.
Cry, Trojans, cry! a Helen Tracy and a woe:
Cry, cry! Troy burns, or else let Helen Tracy go.

Cassandra, Troilus and Cressida


“Where do you think you’re going? I have a job for you?” the green slaad Antoine held out his arm, bringing the party to a standstill. They were on the verge of freedom, the door from the slaad lair within sight. This aberration’s magic was powerful, and its mind was sharp. It could summon a small army of ravenous creatures born of chaos who implanted their seed in humanoids to grow senseless warriors of mindless destruction.

“Dude,” Sorrel said wearily. “We are in the middle of doing something so stupid, so chaotic, so pointless and utterly doomed to failure, mayhem and destruction that it’s almost a religious experience. I swear, I would do almost anything to stop doing this and do whatever you asked – it is that insane. It is so insane, what are you going to do? Stop us?”

The slaad looked deep into her eyes and saw the truth there – this woman was indeed engaged in an act of reckless and chaotic stupidity. It drew itself up and saluted.

“For actions this futile, I have the highest respect,” it plucked a trumpet from the formless void of Limbo that swirled around it. “I salute your mission. Go with my blessing.”

The trumpet sounded like the first mote of confusion, the purest voice of anarchy and pandemonium. The Lord of Misrule knew disarray incarnate and played Turmoil and Commotion as the party launched themselves into the void.

Sorrel felt the party gather around Tracy.

Tracy.

A name so powerful two societies created it – one, the Gauls, derived it from the name Draccio. Daccio so terrifyingly close to Dracul, the Impaler. The other, from the Emerald Isle, taken from their word "treasach" meaning "war-like" or "fighter".

She remembered the first time she laid eyes on Tracy who was, after all, a Death Slaad. There were two ways of birthing a Death Slaad - evil rituals that imbued grey slaads with negative energy, making them virtually immortal monsters bent on murder. Or a gray slaad devouring the corpse of a death slaad.

Death Slaads take sadistic pleasure in bringing harm to others. They propagate their race by dragooning mobs of red and blue slaadi and invading other planes. Humanoids who survive their attacks become incubators for new slaadi, either by hosting their eggs or being infected by a disease called chaos phage. Tracy had insisted they were a changed slaad, that they were no longer interested in the ways of the slaad.

And what had changed this venal killer?

A hat.

An unusual hat, admittedly – an eye taken from a powerful modron from the plane of Mechanus and resting on the Death Slaad’s head, held in place by a chain, which Tracy could remove with ease - but a hat nonetheless.

It’s like a pit fiend showing up in the Dawnlands looking for a job as a baker because they’ve got a nice new pair of shoes and don’t want to help bring about the downfall of all that’s good.

Sorrel tried to remember why she’d taken this job. Probably the note.





It seemed a chance to save someone, to rebuild, to help heal.

Limbo, the plane of chaos, did have a certain charm she had to admit. Landing on a vast copper disc that turned out to be a coin they discovered they could manifest almost anything – from moving through thought to simply disappearing by an effort of will.

If it wasn’t for the slaad Sorrel could find some fun here.

Toothy, Dwirhian and Glint – her old comrades – were a comforting presence and there was a newcomer, the [Description Forbidden] [Redacted] who’s curious [For Specific Eyes Only] was quite remarkable.

Negotiating the Slaad fortress – technically a rock but what do you call a rock tunnelled out by belligerent batrachians who see violence as a means of self-expression? – was relatively straightforward.

They’d made it to Tracy without combat which was a relief. As the wise old warrior Jebeel Sloom had told her, fight a slaad and lose, the story's over. Fight a slaad and win - there's a thousand more standing in line just to prove they're tougher.

They’d hidden between the photons of existence, passing the teppanyaki stall, the bouncing room of fighting slaad and managing to befuddle the green slaad mages Rhyme and Antoine by dint of Toothy’s intriguing wardrobe.

Finally, they found Tracy’s door. For a second she thought – we’ve made it without bloodshed. This could be a victory gained through cunning and wit. Glint’s respectful ways were winning through. Wisdom triumphing over blades and… disintegration…

Then Tracy opened the door.

Seven feet tall, maybe 300 pounds of muscle with a mouth boiling fangs Tracy was a powerful Death Slaad mage looking to come to Dawnlands because they found themselves a little out of sorts in Limbo.

“I feel a little diminished of late, I honestly don’t feel in tune with this place enough to simply open a path for myself to leave. And all the other slaadi seem keen for me to remain here. I am technically the most powerful here so they don’t want me to go, and every time I’ve tried to leave they’ve said no. I rent them all asunder with my claws, but then it seemed only fair to follow their rules if I want them to follow mine.”

“I think it’s wonderful when a person sees a better way of living their life,” Glint chimed in. “I can make you invisible so you can pass the other slaadi without being seen and nobody will tell you not to leave.”

“You seem pretty chill,” Toothy added. (Chill? Chill? Every nerve in Sorrel’s brain screamed – THIS IS A DEATH SLAAD. NOT A FUCKING KITTEN.) “We have laws but a lot of people break them a lot of the time.”

Tracy considered this. “Are those people reprimanded by some relevant authority?”

“Most of the time,” Toothy nodded.

“They seem like they could use someone to help them,” Glint suggested.

Right of course, Sorrel’s soul sighed. We’d like a Death Slaad to join our law enforcement community and allow it to have the power of life and death over us…

“It’s also a bit of a mess,” Dwirhian chimed in. “It was quite badly attacked recently, and stuff was destroyed…”

“So you have a lot of dead people then?” Tracy’s eyes gleamed in a way Sorrel found unsettling.

“We have… an amount…” Dwirhian shrugged.

“It sounds like there are many opportunities for gainful employment for me,” said Tracy.

It sounds like there are many opportunities for us to punch ourselves repeatedly in the face as well, Sorrel didn’t say.

Over in the corner [Redacted] had noticed [Object Identity Removed] and was [Unnecessary Information] with [Removed for Security Reasons] necrotic energy [Edited]. Sorrel was relieved Tracy hadn’t noticed.

Glint’s telepathic bond allowed Sorrel to express her reservations.

“This is going to go amazingly badly wrong. I suggest we flee. Flee, you hear me, flee. Death will rain down on all of us. The city will fall. I mean, hi, I'm a death slaad. Oh yes? Why do they call you a death slaad? As opposed to a cuddly nice slaad. A Death Slaad. Death is literally in its name.”

The party disagreed.

Never split the party.

Sorrel fell in as they made their way through the rock, stepped past Antoine and wound up back on the giant copper coin.

Teleportation magic flickered her through the familiar nauseous disapparation and reassembly.

Jenna met them and looked extremely alarmed.

No shit, Sorrel thought.

“Is this… a Death Slaad…?” Jenna stammered.

“It’s okay, it’s okay!” Dwirhian sounded reassuring. “We think it’s okay! Probably!”

There was a long pause.

“Uuuuuh Tracy. …” Jenna said finally. “Welcome.”

Sorrel rested her cheek against the cool of the stone wall.

Even when she won it felt like she lost.