2022-10-13 Through The Fire And Flames - Wik

"Lucky, darling, is that you I see?" Cornelius means Kundar, and Kundar means another trip through Portal Plaza. A few adventurers have gathered there already as I slip through the crowds towards them. "And Miss Orianna, of course." I turn to the red-headed stranger next to them, inclining my head in greeting. "And Silvia, Amble, was it? Pleased to make your acquaintance. Did you all receive a missive from our dear Cornelius?" They nod in turn.

"Why of course you did, Lucky. Brave adventurers, you must be at the top of the list." The tabaxi smiles. A memory of the last time we had seen each other, perhaps? Ylana, you do know how to leave a mark.

"Ylana, did you bring that staff that you received last time?" Orianna seems nervous as she asks.

I point to a bundle of fabric at my waist, tied to the scabbard that holds my rapier. "Yes, of course darling. I didn't think it would be good to wave it about, given we are going to see what those followers of Tiamat have been up to, but it might be helpful. Who knows, maybe I will find someone to help make it more... interesting."

•••

The Temple of Bahamut is... quiet. Very quiet, for the center of the Bahamut faith in all of Kundar. The few priests that remain shuffle in and out through the temple doors, helping the few pilgrims and tourists with minor spells.

Cornelius is nowhere to be found, unlike before when he greeted us warmly in the temple atrium. Lucky and Orianna wander off to find him, while I busy myself looking over the few others that wander around the temple. A few acolytes and clerics disappear into side doors, only to re-emerge later with rolls of parchment or healing materials.

Lucky and Orianna return. Cornelius is apparently communing with the High Prelate, Loran. I wonder if I could slip away, listen in... My ruminating is cut short by the opening of a door, and the arrival of two richly dressed figures.

Cornelius I recognize immediately, and judging by the extra degree of formality in the robes of the figure next to him, I can assume that is the High Prelate. Cornelius bows, and the High Prelate walks off to the back of the temple.

Cornelius stands proud before us, though the perfect square of his shoulders betrays the effort that he puts in to maintaining his facade. "Ah, friends. Welcome."

•••

"Silvia, what would you say to a little... trouble?"

"If I say yes, then I didn't, and we never had this conversation."

"I don't even know who you are."

Amble, Silvia and I step outside, finding a shadowed alcove in which to cast some magic. The gnome lays a hand on each of us, and in an instant, we are invisible.

Lucky opens the door to the temple on his way to the high streets, and we sneak in through the opening. Cornelius walks around the temple atrium, never once breaking his facade. He heals the few sick that come in, tending to their wounds, and never once faltering. But even the strongest need respite, and he makes his way to a side door.

Silvia and I follow quietly, and we reach the door just behind another acolyte. She is good, too good, and I misjudge when she will stick her hand out to steady the door. With a low thump my shoulder collides with it, but with a quick pivot through the small remaining gap, we're through into the inner temple.

The corridors are narrow here, but Silvia and I are able to maneuver our way around the few clerics and acolytes we pass, making our way deeper into the temple. Cornelius had only passed through here moments ago, and it doesn't take us long to find him, sat at his desk, his head in his hands as his eyes pour over the many papers on before him. He's a portrait of a man broken, and it is clear that he is struggling to even keep pressing forward.

Now, I just need to get him out of there... As though she could hear my thoughts, a vial of ink appears in an arc before colliding with the wall across from Cornelius' study. His head perks up with a jolt, and he raises up with his palms on his desk to try and get a closer look. "What was that? Who's there?" He stands up, pushing his chair back as he rounds his desk to peer into the hallway. With a scowl, he sees the mess of ink on the floor and walks off, looking for the source of this distraction.

I take my chance, stepping into his office and behind his desk to rifle through his papers. There are some symbols, yes, but nothing tying him to the Temple of Tiamat or this Desathrax. Nothing so devastating as the vision that Orianna had just weeks before. Just... dossiers. Many for clerics of Bahamut. Some for... celestial warlocks. Divine soul sorcerers. Paladins. Name after name, crossed out. As the stack of papers grows, the stroke of ink to scratch off their name gets... ragged, and tense.

Another shattering of glass in the hallway tells me that my time is running short. I take a step back and take a look at the desk. There are four drawers, two on each side. I take a glance back to the hall, but the steady thump of Cornelius's feet on the floor tells me I only have time to check one.

•••

"You.. you have to stop them. They cannot, they cannot get the Heart of Fire. Please. Please. I beg you."

The silver dragonborn, deep gouges cutting across his chest and faces, struggles for breath. Each gasp brings with it a pink froth in the corners of his mouth that spits and heaves along with his chest. The blood pouring from his wounds onto the cold ground mixes with the slowly congealing life of his fellow priests, but as the moments pass, the potion that Orianna pours down his throat works its magic, and his wounds begin to close.

"What is it? What is the Heart of Fire?" she asks.

"It.. it is dragon's fire. When the city was attacked by the Gith, we captured it. We merged it with our Queen's power to create a- a weapon. It was our Queen's will to make this."

Cornelius hired us to find where the priests of the Temple of Tiamat had been going in the night. He wanted us to find out where they were going, and why, and to come back to him.

We found where they went. They're here, their bodies lining the corridor in this temple beneath the city, hidden in an alleyway. They're here, their bodies torn apart as their life force paints the walls, each splash a testament to the violence of their deaths.

And... for what?

These aren't like the bodies stolen into the caves below Kundar. Those, at least, were taken by individual undead. There was a chance to fight them off, to fight back, to survive.

These aren't like the bodies at the peak of Grougaloragran's mountain, either. Those poor souls were answering a call when they met their end, as fraudulent as those calls were. An adventurer is fraught - they may have met their end any number of other ways.

But these...

There's no fighting against the tide, there's no pushing back the moon, and there's no, no luck in being a thief with a city against you. This is senseless: violence for its own sake. These poor souls stood no chance.

The silver dragonborn's eyes close, and his head falls back. His chest rises and falls, slowly, and we make our way further into the temple.

•••

The heat is stifling as we come into the main body of the temple. Each breath of the thick, smoky air brings forth choking coughs as we make our way deeper into the temple. The bodies are fewer in number, here; the corridor that we passed through earlier must have been their last stand.

The others rush ahead as I peer into the side rooms. In one, a statue of Tiamat. In another, a small chapel: benches fill the space before a low altar.

When I finally catch up, it's too late.

The warlock hovers above a pool of magma, its arm outstretched towards a towering, fiery crystal. The light of the Heart of Fire flickers and starts, not from the fire that was trapped within it, but from its dying gasps as its essence is sucked out towards the geode that the warlock holds.

I pull out my crossbow, thinking I can loose a bolt or two before this evil work is complete.

But the fire dies, and with its dying breath, the warlock holds the geode high above its head, and tears it in two. Fire; black, deathly fire pours out of it and into the warlock, consuming it and the five disciples that kneel ready at its feet. They are submerged and engulfed in it, and then they are not.

The warlock hovers proud, its undead jaw unhinging in a maniacal laughter. A wreath of black flame rests upon its shoulders; a wicked crown of black sits atop its head; fitting, for a Herald.

The disciples stand proud, their loyalty rewarded in death with black, smouldering splint; sharp, fiery helms; and long, wicked swords.

The warlock points at us, as we stand at the edge of the precipice.

The undead soldiers begin to run.

•••

The fight is slow, and bloody, and brutal.

The undead soldiers are awful, and they march forward unheeded by neither blades nor blessing.

The warlock is devastating, calling forth clouds of insects and rays of black flame.

We can't win.

If it were not clear by our progress, it would be clear from Silvia's orders.

We can barely stand our ground.

So we run.

We run. The maniacal laughter follows us as our feet carry us as far as possible.

•••

Silvia lays into Orianna for her behaviour. Something about her being stupid and not treating her own life with respect. I don't listen to much of it. Lucky comforts her afterwards, and I think to say something, but I just rub my thumb along the multi coloured stitching of the robe I snatched from one of the bodies.

I stuff the robe into my bag, and follow the others as they ready to return to Daring Heights.