Session 17: Whispers in the Worm Den Arc 2

Beneath the sunless veil of the Nocturna's Underdark, laid a mangled forest of forsaken buildings, hollow remnants of hopes and dreams long built and abandoned. As the party ventured in, this urban mockery slowly formed a masse of endless tunnels. To state that they would likely never find the exit again would be an almost certainty, if, were it not for their fiery guide — Variel, the red-skinned tiefling, royal assassin by trade, double agent by night and overall, a surprisingly animated and chickee character, especially considering his profession. He led them through winding paths until, at last, a hidden vault opened to them. They had finally reached the Worm Den, sanctuary of rebels and dreamers, and the birth place of the rebellion against the crown. There, shadows came alive, dancing, pushed away by hundreds of lights, giving form to an underground fortress I the shape of giant hornets’ nest, built, rebuilt and patched by the countless old buildings that had caved in and created this fantastical maze. Mutch like a proper nest, the first floor was populated by the animated busing of a crowded market, filled with soldiers in makshift leather armor and red cloaks, and civilians in old and ragged robes, potential refuges of the horrors skittering above. Most of them, though not all, seemed to be Tieflings in nature.

Awaiting them was Naithis, enigmatic and silent, standing amidst the flickering torchlight. But it was not he who drew their focus. Three figures stepped from the crowd: Thandor, the inventor, grime-smeared and wild-eyed, with soot-scorched goggles atop tangled gray curls; Zorish, the bent and bitter aasimar priest, cloaked in doctrine and disdain; and towering over them all, the war-scarred chieftain Krexis Rakaham — his crimson skin lashed by time, one eye veiled by an eyepatch, his bandaged arm tucked close like a relic of past sins.

Krexis invited them in, opening a path through the market and into the higher levels. Suspended bridges and pulley elevators led to old buildings, some angled and others completely upside down, but all repurposed to house every possible need, a mess of a place, but a marvel of creativity and perseverance. They reached an oval office, guarded by two cloaked brutes and heavy metal doors. Once inside, the rebel leader eyed the heroes with a gaze that saw deeper than flesh. With but a glance, he knew them for who they truly were…what… they truly were. In the safety of his chambers, he posed a grave question: "Did Cazimir send you?"

The heroes shared their tale, that of blackstone village, the nightmares that plagued them, their suspicions of Cazimir, another victim of the influence of an enigmatic demon, in control of four female vassals that brought doom with them. Krexis’s face grew darker than the cavern walls. He confessed suspicion long festering: that of a demon, long feeding of the fears of the kingdom and plunging its citizens into madness, that of the Raven King, ruler of this diseased dominion, who suspiciously lead not an inquisitor on this crisis, but merely ignored it, and that of the madness that gripped only those of Duskmire, the rebels’ stronghold — not the golden towers of Dawnmire. Could poison course through the king’s “gifts”? Was this ailment a weapon? Was he in leagues with this demon?

He spoke then of a lost salvation — a black stone vessel, crafted by Thandor and shaped like a barbed arrow, capable of piercing the veil between worlds by plummeting through a mountain waterfall into the gardens above. A path to the surface, now lost. Only Thandor might know where it sleeps.

Krexis’s informant, who once whispered truths, had perished in the flames of Dusk Haven Orphanage, taking secrets with him to the grave.

And so the pact was struck: infiltrate the royal palace and uncover the truth of the Raven King and his demonic ties — in return, Krexis would restore their path to the surface. But the mission required patience. In the quiet days that followed, the Worm Den offered smaller threads of fate to tug.