Tag: Hex Page 4 of 7

The characters in this session were:

• Alabastor Quan, a gnome rogue-turned-warlock and failed circus ringmaster; wielder of a cursed dagger and member of the Ravenswing Thieves’ Guild.
• Armand Percival Reginald Francois Eustace de la Marche III, a suspiciously pale, apparently human noble and sorcerer, and certainly not a ghoul (how dare such a thing be suggested).
• Caulis, a homunculus warlock liberated from its master; has made a pact with certain Faerie Powers.
• Comet the Unlucky, waspkin ranger, a dreamer and an idealist, longing for the restoration of the Elder Trees and the liberation of his people. Loathes the Harvester’s Guild, parasites and destroyers.
• Garvin Otherwise, a human rogue and burglar of the Ravenswing Thieves’ Guild, with a very, very peculiar past and a zoog pet, Lenore.
• Miri, trollblood wizard, plucked from Mount Shudder and raised amongst Hex’s arcane elites. A recent graduate of Fiend’s College.
• An ancient and enigmatic Lengian cleric of the Mother of Spiders, name unknown. She wears bulky ecclesiastical garments covering an uncertain number of limbs and goes by “Sister.”

XP Awarded: 1200 XP

The party was reeling in the wake of a sinister discovery: someone had been deliberately tormenting Genial Jack, apparently in an effort to produce tidal waves to weaken Hex, and this same individual or individuals might be the ones behind the Harrowgast that had plunged Hex into an endless winter with the aid of the trollblood clans to the north. A secret order of Lengian assassins had been their catspaw this time – but who was the mysterious “S” who, twice now, had been implicated behind the two otherwise disconnected schemes? Was it some traitor to the city within Hex – or one of its many foreign rivals?

After conferring with the High Navigators of Jackburg, the party decided that the Hexad Council – the executive government of Hex, elected by its magical citizenry to the highest offices of the land – must be alerted of this mysterious and sinister threat. Still, there were some misgivings concerning individual council members.

“Silas Thamiel was aggressive when it came to Troll Country,” Alabastor pointed out. The group was on their way back to Hex, in a small ferry conveying travelers between Jackburg and the City of Secrets. Waves lapped at the side of the boat as the group drank hot tea and rum in a quiet corner.

“And Arabella Sickle wasn’t exactly our biggest fan,” Garvin agreed. “I wonder… her last name is ‘S’.”

“Not exactly hard proof,” Miri pointed out.

“We should be cautious,” Sister said. “Tell them what they need to know.”

“Do they know about Melchior and the Organon?” Comet asked, good-naturedly.

“They’ve definitely don’t, and we’d like to keep it that way,” Armand insisted, with faint irritation. “So keep quiet about anything pertaining to the Books, to the Hive of the Thirteenth Queen, anything of that nature.”

Caulis studied its newly acquired shrunken head, stolen from the Cuttlethieves. “I have an idea,” it said. “This head… the head of Granny Midnight. It can be used to listen in on people. You whisper their name into her ear and she speaks with their voice. After we meet with the Council, we could, you know. Whisper one of their names in her ear. Listen in on what they talk about.”

There was some discussion about the safety of this plan, but the group resolved to follow through with it after their meeting with the Council, with High Navigator Quell accompanying them. Getting off the ferry at the foggy district of Caulchurch, they took Tonsil Boulevard up to Enigma Heap and made their way through the looming structures of the Old City to the Hall of the Hexad Council.

They announced themselves at the gates of the Council to the gigantic golems that stood guard, insisting that their business was both pressing and secret. After a bit of persuasion – assisted by Alabastor’s silver tongue – the guards relented, and the group entered the Hexad Council chamber, interrupting what seemed an intense argument over repairs to the docklands following the small tidal waves caused by Genial Jack’s nightmares.

“Pardon the interruption,” Alabastor said. “But we have important news.”

Quickly, Parthenia Quell and the party-members quickly summarized recent events for the Council.

Silas Thamiel – stern, scarred, and authoritative – looked down at the party with concern.

“If a conspiracy is afoot, it may well be that some foreign power is behind it. Hex has many enemies. It may be wise to dispatch the Warders to begin seeking them out. Perhaps a Committee for Hexian Security should be formed, to defend us against these insidious forces.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the Council. Garvin, ever observant, noted that Silas looked unusually haggard, dark circles under his eyes, which twitched occasionally as from lack of sleep or some other vexation.

Next to speak was Arabella Sickle, whose normally haughty posture was tempered by what seemed grudging respect.

“I must admit to having my doubts as to your capabilities. But it seems as if disaster has been neatly averted, with the blessing of the Navigators. This Council’s trust in you was not misplaced. I am disturbed, however, by your description of this Lengian, a worshipper of Icelus. Hex values freedom of belief, but the powers of this order openly violate another freedom – freedom from psychic violation. The mind is sacrosanct.”

She looked to Sister.

“You are a Lengian priestess, and a loyal citizen of Hex. To be blunt, I trust your loyalty more than that of the Matriarchs of Cobweb Cliffs. Were we to appoint an external Inquisitor from the Warders or another church, the Lengians would never accept them. But if we were to appoint you an Inquisitor, charged with rooting out heretics worshipping this Icelus, how would the Lengians react?”

Sister looked deeply uncomfortable, but considered the proposition. “It would be… a delicate process. The Matriarchs would not be pleased, but…  I might be able to convince them of the necessity of action. The Order of Icelus are deeply heretical. Still… to become ‘Inquisitor’ does not precisely sit right with me…”

Arabella smirked. “Then I am afraid we will have to instruct the Warders to take action, possibly even establish a more permanent presence in Cobweb Cliffs. I fear difficult times ahead for your people…”

Sister bristled, conferring briefly with her companions

“Very well. I’ll be your Inquisitor, but I will require autonomy and trust. I will report to the Council, but I am not your minion. I will seek out these cultists of Icelus, but I will do it my own way, and using my own methods.”

The Infernal Archbishop smiled. “Very good. I hereby move to grant the Lengian known as ‘Sister’ the position of the Hexad Council’s Inquisitor. All in favour?”

A vote proceeded, with Silas, Valentina, and Barnabas voting in favour, and Iris and a half-slumbering Angus abstaining. The motion carried; Sister was elevated to the rank of Inquisitor. With swift magic, a suitable symbol of office in the form of a gilded six-sided web was conjured, to be worn about the neck.

Iris – currently violet-haired – adjusted her spectacles thoughtfully. She seemed anxious.

“I agree with my colleagues that these reports are disturbing, and I share their concern for the city’s well-being. However, I am concerned that if we involve the Warders directly in further investigations, the conspirators may be alerted and slip free before we can find them. I suggest we consult with the Institute of Omens, and the Soothsayers of Saint Monstrum’s Cathedral. They may be able to use divination to produce some clue as to the identity of the conspirators. In the meantime, I suggest we entrust the Variegated Company with further inquiries, and grant them acting Special Investigator status, reporting strictly to this Council.”

The Company conferred amongst themselves, and presently agreed to this larger task as well.

Barnabas – plump, intelligent, appraising – fidgeted in his seat.

“Who stands the most to gain from this sort of destructive activity?” he asked. “The trollbloods I can understand… you can’t expect such primitives to comprehend the finer points of geopolitics.”

Here, a newly-educated Alabastor winced, while Miri gritted her teeth.

“Ah, present company excepted,” Baranabas said hurriedly, with a glance at the seething trollblood wizard. “But whoever is behind this is more than some savage with a grudge. What do you think the conspirators are trying to accomplish?”

“I have no specific reason to suspect their involvement,” Garvin said, thinking of his sojourns to the alternate reality where vampires ruled the city. “But is it not known that the Sanguine Lords and Ladies have long coveted the knowledge of the Old City? Might this be the work of Erubescence and the Red Realm?”

Barnabas stroked his beard. “Perhaps. Certainly the subtlety of this scheme brings to mind the vampires. But they are historically no friend of the trollbloods…”

“The Night Queen has always seen Genial Jack as an equal,” Parthenia put in. “Unless her thinking has altered in some fundamental way, I cannot imagine her wishing him ill.”

“Could it be Teratopolis, out for vengeance against Hex?” Caulis put in. “We did… you know… turn them all into horrible mutants.”

Iris shook her head. “It is possible, of course, but we have been making strides with Teratopolis. Trade has increased between our realms. It feels as if we are finally putting the War of Miscreation behind us.”

“I wonder if Jack himself may be helpful,” Angus mused. “Could this assassin, or another like him, not try to target him again?”

“We are taking steps to ward Jack’s mind against intrusion,” Parthenia said. “And, using the ritual the Company provided, we can guard his dreams directly.”

“Yes, this ritual!” Valentina said, having been silent the whole meeting. “Where did you find it?”

Armand interjected, reluctant to disclose the party’s possession of the legendary Oneironomicon.

“A, ah, spell we discovered in the Old City,” he half-lied.

“I see,” the rumoured lich in the guise of a young girl said. “I would be very interested in seeing this spell, when it is convenient. But I digress – you have work to do, Special Investigators. Unless my colleagues have further questions?”

There was an exchange of looks, but the Council agreed to bring the meeting to a close. The newly empowered Company departed the Hall of the Hexad Council, making for Armand’s nearby townhouse. High Navigator Parenthenia Quell returned to Jack, shaking hands with Sister and thanking the group again before leaving.

“Well, that went differently than I thought!” Comet said, proud of his new status. “The Order better watch it!”

“Something was off in there,” Garvin put in. “That was too easy.”

The party was heading down Nightmare Alley towards Fever Lane when Garvin’s highly cultivated thieves’ senses prickled. The party was being followed by two figures, both swathed in heavy clothing

“We’re being followed,” the thief informed his companions.

“I’ll send Eleyin to take a closer look,” Caulis said, sending the psuedodragon familiar to spy on the strange pair. One was a short, fat figure, in a black frock coat with a huge slouch hat shadowing their features, the other, tall and thin, a grey gown swathing her skeletal frame. The little figure walked with a walking stick topped by a cat’s skull. The homunculus reported back what it had seen through the familiar’s eyes.

“I have an idea!” Comet said. “Down here!” He buzzed down a side-street, gesturing that the party follow. Sister, meanwhile cast Pass Without Trace, and the group concealed themselves in the shadows of doorways and behind pillars along the street’s length.

Hoarse, uncanny laughter echoed down the empty street . The thin woman in the grey dress waltzed out of the shadows, grinning with yellow teeth.

“Now where did the little dearies go?” she asked. “Did you see, Monsieur Gobble?”

Soft foot-falls slapped the pavement as a round shape in black bounced out of the darkness.

“They must be here somewhere, Madame Slake,” the second stranger said, toying with his walking stick. “Naughty little alley-rats skulking in the shadows. And what must we do with alley-rats?”

“Why, Monsieur Gobble, we catch them in a trap,” Slake declared. Her grin began to widen, and suddenly proboscii juddered from her palms like obscene knives, a pair of mosquito wings sprouting from her back. Monsieur Gobble doffed his cap, revealing a grotesque second mouth gaping at the top of his skull, an obscene tongue tasting the air, scenting for prey…

“Demons!” Armand hissed, recognizing the interplanar interlopers as they sloughed off their mortal disguises.

Before the pair could discover them, the party leapt into action. Sister uttered a prayer to the Mother of Spiders, and instantly hundreds of spiders swarmed from the darkness, spinning webs that utterly cocooned the female demon, holding her in place. Garvin, meanwhile, fired a poisoned bolt at the male demon, even while Comet emerged from the shadows with his dancing rapier beside him, Chainbreaker in hand.

Gobble chuckled and plucked the poisoned bolt from his breast, licking the head with disgusting savour. His stomach burbled and growled, and, bouncing back, his second mouth gaped wide, and a vile stream of sulphurous vomit spewed forth, along with a veritable troupe of malformed lesser demons – like a revolting magic trick, they had emerged from his gullet, a bilious gastrointestinal conjuring.

Battle was joined, vicious and swift. Spells flew, Miri firing with two wands, Caulis and Alabastor slinging blasts of puissance, the homunculus entangling the newly spawned imps with magical vines, the gnome distracting Gobble with illusions. Comet wove through the carnage, blood spattering his magical hammer, while Armand and Sister cast from the sidelines and Garvin, flitting magically to a high balcony, continued to snipe with his crossbow.

When the dust cleared the party stood victorious, spattered with the blood of the horrid imps. Gobble had exploded in a puff of eldritch flame. Miri approached Slake, still subdued, and bent over her, wand in hand; the mosquito-demon hissed and broke a limb free from Sister’s webs, stabbing the trollblood in the neck and beginning to siphon blood from her. Miri snarled and slammed the creature’s head against the ground, ripping the proboscis from her neck and snapping it in two. Slake shrieked in agony.

“Who sent you?!” Miri snarled, as Sister wove a Zone of Truth.

“Let me leave, unharmed, and I will tell you,” Slake said, eyes glowing in the darkness.

Miri looked to her companions for assent, then back at Slake. “Agreed.”

“I do not know his name,” Slake said. “But the man who conjured us was dark of hair, weathered of complexion. Human. Tattoos ran along the left side of his face.”

“Whoa,” Comet said. “Isn’t that…?”

“Silas,” Armand said, eyes narrowing.

“What did he tell you to do?” Sister asked.

“To follow you, watch you – and, if the opportunity arose, destroy you.”

“Special Investigators.” Illustration by Bronwyn McIvor.

“Well, you failed there,” Miri said. “Very well. Get out of here before I change my mind.” She got up off the creature, which rose from the dissolving webs. A pair of mosquito wings emerged from her shoulders and she flitted away into the night with a curtsey.

“Come, let’s make haste,” Armand urged.

“I want to see what Granny Midnight has to say,” Caulis agreed.

The party repaired quickly to Armand’s home a few blocks away. Caulis took the withered head of Granny Midnight from its pack and whispered “Silas Thamiel” into her shriveled ears. Immediately the severed head began to speak in Silas’ voice.

“…they can be trusted with this. They have proved themselves more than capable in the past.”

There was a gap in the conversation. Quickly, Caulis whispered “Arabella Sickle” into the head’s ears.

“…agree with Silas. As I said, I have had my doubts about them, but their loyalty to Hex seems assured.”

Another gap; they tried several names, to little avail, then switched back to Silas.

“…should coordinate with the High Navigators to ensure we have a plan if the assassins break through their mental defenses, but -” Suddenly, the head ceased speaking.

“What’s wrong with it?” Comet asked, curious.

“I’m not sure,” Caulis said. “It’s like he stopped in mid-sentence.”

They listened for a time longer, and Silas continued to “cut in and out,” speaking and then suddenly not.

“I have a suspicion,” Sister said. “Perhaps Silas… is not always Silas. Perhaps something else is occasionally taking him over!”

The characters in this session were:

• Armand Percival Reginald Francois Eustace de la Marche III, a suspiciously pale, apparently human noble and sorcerer, and certainly not a ghoul (how dare such a thing be suggested).
• Caulis, a homunculus warlock liberated from its master; has made a pact with certain Faerie Powers.
• Viridian “Grove” Greengrove, changeling druid, exile from his former druidic circle for unknown transgressions.
• An ancient and enigmatic Lengian cleric of the Mother of Spiders, name unknown. She wears bulky ecclesiastical garments covering an uncertain number of limbs and goes by “Sister.”
• Vespidae, a waspkin bard/cleric, devoted servant of the Queen in Yellow and possibly the Thirteenth Queen reborn, her daughter, or her avatar.

XP Awarded: 550 XP

Something was happening to the waspkin of Suckletown – they were going missing, acting strangely, and sometimes turning up dead having suffered from strange mutilations. The Queens of Stingsworth care nothing for those outcast waspkin of the Withered Tree. But the Thirteenth Queen had taken the broken and the lame beneath her diaphanous wings. She would not abide their mutilation…

Meanwhile, the party had returned from their sojourn in the country, and now planned their next move – the next book of magic on Master Melchior’s list. Sister, eager for adventure in speheres beyond mortal reckoning, suggested they begin researching the Book of Stars. Had anyone ever attempted a journey to the luminiferous aether?

Caulis and Armand began researching, and Caulis found references that its creator had attended some sort of failed spacecraft-launch. Further investigation led them to the Citadel of the Perpetual Storm and their acquaitance, Vanessa Greyleaf, who provided further details.

“About ten years ago, a wizard named Gideon Bottlescrew got it into his head that he could build a vessel to sail the aether between the planets,” she explained. “He claimed to have found some Librarian schematic, based his design off that. Somehow, he managed to scrape enough gold together to build the damn thing. He had to do it in secret – the Citadel never approved his research, and there are rumours he got involved in some shady business to fund it. But when launch day came, he invited half the mages in Hex out to see his marvelous invention.” She shook her head. “I was young at the time, but my mother brought me, and, well… I’ll never forget the mess. The ship had a Librarian artefact powering it. It was supposed to generate an anti-gravity effect, like the one we use to keep the Citadel flying. But… it didn’t work as planned. Maybe he miscalibrated it, maybe it was just broken, but the engine malfunctioned. Gravity went all strange. Many of us watching were levitated off the ground. His test pilots though – students, mostly – didn’t fare so well. The gravity in and around the craft was so intense, and so contradictory, the ship tore itself apart, and everyone inside it as well. Then something volatile combusted, and there was an explosion. Several onlookers died.

“Gideon was stripped of his professorship and kicked out of the Citadel. Criminal charges got laid. Most think he got off light. His tongue got cut out so he can no longer perform verbal incantations, and he was given a curse: the touch of earth pains him.”

“What happened to him?” Sister asked.

“Last I heard, he’d set up some sort of workshop in Suckletown, living out his forced retirement in the branches of the Withered Tree. They say he’s spent the last ten years trying to figure out where he went wrong.”

“Sounds promising,” Caulis said. “Worth investigating.”

The ever-adventurous Vanessa perked up. “Hey, if you manage to actually get something to work… I mean, if you actually build a craft that can travel to the outer spheres, and you happen to need a security officer…” she trailed off with a grin.

“We’ll keep you in mind,” Armand said.

Several party-members gathered – Armand, Caulis, Viridian, and Sister – and headed south. The streets were paved with broken glass and lichen, strewn with trash, half-flooded with rainwater and raw sewage. Suckletown sprawled before thm: the broken heart of Hex’s once-prosperous industrial district, decimated by economic ruin, alchemical explosion, and the decline and death of the Elder Tree whose vast shadow darkened the streets, its gnarled branches leafless now for centuries.

There was a time when the Tree and the neighbouring Alchemist’s Quarter made this one of the busiest parts of Hex, a centre of commerce and manufacturing. Now the only people were squatters, indigents, and other vagabonds: castoff waspkin from Stingsworth, stray fungoids from the Zymotic Ward, outcast trollbloods from Trollhome, and freelance criminals of every species, unworthy even of Thieves’ Marks.

The folk here eyed the party darkly from the gaps in boarded-up windows or the doorways of moss-eaten factories, or from the glimmering barrel-fires around which they gathered to eat mutant rats hunted in the Midden. Several were obvious addicts, ravaged by opium, thrum, and shadowmilk. One, however, stood out: a waspkin, clad in gleaming armour, seemingly identical to the party’s long-lost companion Vespidae, rumoured to have ascended to become the enigmatic Thirteenth Queen.

“Ah… Vespidae, is that you?” Sister asked, approaching. The waspkin eyed the Lengian indifferently.

“Your name is fitting,” the waspkin said inscrutably. “You are known to us.”

“Where have you been?” Caulis asked. “We heard rumours, but…”

“I am here to investigate a series of disappearances,” Vespidae said – if indeed it was Vespidae, for none seemed sure if this was the same waspkin, or another that merely resembled her. “What brings you to the Withered Tree?”

“We’re here looking for some crackpot scientist, Gideon Bottlescrew,” Grove chimed in.

“Our goals are not incompatible,” Vespidae asserted. “Perhaps we should cooperate. You are known allies.”

“Aww Vespidae, we missed you,” Sister said affectionately.

“Indeed. We are fond of you also.” Vespidae now led the way towards the Withered Tree, javelin in hand. The street called Badroot coiled around the Withered Tree, a street of husks both human and architectural. The emptied warehouses and eviscerated factories that lined the street were spattered with gang insignia and other graffiti, proclaiming the names of the clannish criminal factions like heraldry: the Parasites, the Dead Moles, the Whipstitchers, the Filthy Fingers, and the Graveyard Girls.

The Withered Tree itself was an etiolated god, riddled with the reddened remnants of the vampire-machines that killed it, the rust livid as blood against bark as white as  bone, turned to stone in an accelerated petrification that took hold of the ancient thing after the Harvester’s Guild finally killed it with their greed.

In addition to the dangling metal leeches that still clung to its trunk, the tree was now festooned with ramshackle additions of wood and scrap, cannibalized from the nearby slums and junkyards and refashioned into flophouses and taverns, drug-dens and brothels. Swaying rope bridges led between these additions, while tunnels dug into the depths of the tree gaped blackly like knotholes.

A pair of Graveyard Girls – an all-female gang with faces and skin painted to resemble corpses, clad in repurposed funerary finery – accosted the party at the door set amidst the roots of the tree. They twirled vicious knives.

“Oi, there’s a two-guinea toll for entrance,” one said. “Got to keep up the nieghbourhood, you know?”

“Outrageous,” Armand said, gritting his teeth. The sorcerer’s fuse seemed to have been esepcially short ever since the events at his familial home. “I’m not paying such a fee.”

“Then I’m afraid there’s going to be trouble,” one of the Girls said, knife flickering.

“Armand, don’t worry so much,” Sister said. “I’ll pay your fee.”

The Graveyard Girls placated, the party passed through the doors and into the hollowed-out cavern within the fossilized interior of the Withered Tree. Dozens of shacks and small lean-tos had been erected within, and a second level was accessible via a wooden walkway. The poor folk who made their homes in the Withered Tree were truly destitute – humans, many of them criminals to judge by their curse-brands, but also a handful of wretched dagonians, cambions, ghouls, and gnomes. A pair of crude wooden doors are set in one wall, the words “PARASITE TERRITORY” scrawled on them. A tunnel was visible near the roof, erachabkle via a series of ladders and walkways. Though most of the people were sleeping, cooking, eating, smoking, or drinking – several were also clearly in a drug-induced haze – a few also sold charms, gewgaws, or crudely distilled beverages, including some sort of fungal beer.

The party began investigating the tunnels on the lower level, eventually finding their way into a chamber filled with the corroded remnants of machinery once used to suck arcane sap from the Elder Tree fill. Scavengers had long ago stripped the machines of everything truly valuable, leaving only the corroded skeletons of the sap extractors and a scintilla of broken glass. Horribly, however, the room was not totally empty. The mangled corpse of a waspkin was caught up in some of the machinery, spattered with dried blood. Although badly bloodied, it was evident that the waspkin was wearing the yellow robes of the Thirteenth Queen.

“A missionary,” Vespidae said, inspecting the corpse. “Someone left her here as a message. We must find out who.”

“We have our own errands,” Armand pointed out.

“Vespidae’s helped us out of plenty of scraps,” Caulis interjected. “We can do both.”

Careful inspection of the room also revealed a broken-down elevator, boarded up.

“Vespidae, take this,” Sister said, handing the waspkin the Portal Chalk after carefully scrawling a portal on one wall. “Head up the shaft and draw a rectangle on the wall, then draw this sigil.” She showed the waspkin, who nodded in seeming comprehension and, casting light to illuminbate the shaft, ascended several levels, emerging in a shack that might once have been inhabited, perched in the upper boughs of the Withered Tree. The shack had long been abandoned, save by a roost of monstrous bat-like things hanging from the ceiling, sleeping. The floor was slick with their iridescent guano. Though leathery-winged and furry-bodied as normal bats, these creatures flickered in and out of reality: phasebats, inter-dimensional creatures mutated in the depths of the Old City. Vespidae carefully drew the portal, and the party followed into the room.

“Be very, very careful,” Viridian whispered. “We don’t want to wake those things up.”

Cautiously, the party made for the nearest exit… only for Armand, usually elegant in the extreme, to slip and fall into the guano with a stifled grunt. Instantly, phasebats burst from the ceiling, flocking and swirling, spitting strange substances from their quasi-real maws.

“Miscalculation.” Illustration by Caulis’ player, Bronwyn McIvor.

Speaking an invocation to the Queen in Yellow, Vespidae conjured a blast of arcane fire. Unfortunately, the guano covering the floor of the shack was highyl flammable. There was a terrible searing heat, a flash of light, and the party scrambled to safety, making for a tunnel in the wall of the shack as it burnt down around them, breaking free from the Withered Tree to plummet to the ground below. The phasebats blinked into some other dimension, fleeing the explosion.

Once safe, Sister used her powers to cast a prayer of healing, conjured spiders spinning webs to seal wounds shut.

“Well, that was close,” Viridian said, eyebrow cocked. Pressing on into the tree, they came to a hall with a tripwire strung across it, spotted by Vespidae. The waspkin inspected the trap.

“Pheromones,” she said. “It triggers a mist. An attack-chemical. There is something… strange, about it. Familiar, but wrong.”

They crept down the corridor, and entered a chamber whose walls were covered with the papery nests of waspkin, slumbering within the honeycombed cells. Vespidae sniffed tentatively.

“These aren’t drones,” she whispered. “They’re royal guards. Soldiers. Dormant now. They’ve been fed something… some kind of substance to increase their strength.”

Stealhtily, they passed into an adjacent room; here a rusted cylinder once used as a silo for sap and embedded into the Withered Tree had been converted into an alchemical laboratory. Half a dozen waspkin – all ill-fed, their eyes glazed – attended to the complex array of sputtering glassware and acrid substances being processed here. Dozens of phials were stored in crates along the walls.

“Thrum,” Sister said, eyeing the vials. “I’ve seen people using this stuff, during my work with the poor – addicts juddering in and out of reality, hopped-up and half-phased…”

“Made with phasebat glands,” Caulis remarked. “They must have some sort of operation going here.”

“But who?” Sister asked. “Not one of the Queens…”

“No, someone else,” Vespidae said. “We’re going to find out.”

Continuing their explorations, the group exited the structure and found themselves high avove the ground ona  raised platform, a rickety bridge leading to another building nestled high in the Withered Tree’s branches. Employing stealth augmented with a spell from Sister, the group entered this room.

A thin woman with close-cropped black hair and skin pale as milk sprawled on a massive, throne-like chair in the chamber within, furnished with second-hand finery and tarnished furnishings, the spoils of pawn-shops and derelict manors. Half a dozen waspkin armed with crude firearms guarded her closely, their eyes black and listless, their wings buzzing idly. She toyed with a perfume bottle; Vespidae sniffed. Pheromones – royal pheromones. Somehow this woman had made herself an alchemical queen.

Stepping from the shadows before anyone could stop her, Vespidae approached the woman.

“And who is this? How did you get in here, little one?” she asked.

“Who are you?” Vespidae retorted. “And why do you smell like a waspkin queen?” She tried to avoid inhaling, conscious that the pheromones were having an effect on her.

“The name is Hecuba, my dear,” she said. “Formerly of Master Melchior’s little school, but lately, ah, self-employed. An independent scholar, you might say.” She grinned sharkishly. “What are you doing, nosing about my operation? Who are you, anyway?”

“Vespidae,” Vespidae responded with a shrug.

“Well, no matter. Come here, Vespidae, and bow before your Queen.” Hecuba sprizted herself with alchemicla pheromones.

Vespidae stepped back, dizzy, resisting the thrall. “No. I will not be so easily controlled.”

Hecuba sighed theatrically. “Ugh. Very well then, if you’re going to make this difficult. Guards! Seize this waspkin!”

Immediately, the guards snapped to attention, and began flying towards Vespidae. Twisting, the waspkin flitted out of a nearby window, followed by the honour guard, even as the rest of the party leapt into motion. Sister cast blink to teleport next to Hecuba, dropping from the shadows like a spider on a string; with a prayer to the her goddess, the Lengian struck out with a hand, and where she touched, flesh boiled and rotted, swelling as from some horrific spider-bite. Hecuba screamed and thrashed, and the perfume-bottle went flying, rolling along the floor. Eleyin, Caulis’ psuedodragon familiar, swooped down to pluck the bottle up, while Armand, flicking his wrist contemptuously, sent a firebolt towards Hecuba, scorching the drug-dealing enchantress.

Hecuba snarled, and spat a vicious spell, striking Caulis. A hideous blight overtook the homunculus, leaving its leaves wilted and its bark rotting. Sister leapt forwards, working her magic to keep the homunculus alive. Recovering partially from the blight, Caulis hurled a spell of its own, crippling with Hecuba with a blast of faerie-force.

Grove, rushing to the window, summoned a magical web to slow down the guards outside, while Vespidae contended with them, hurling a javelin while dodging shots from their pistols, weaving a magical pattern in the air taht caused several to flee in terror. Armand cast ray of frost, freezing one of the guards as they entered and debilitating him severely.

Caulis stepped forward, and with a second agonizing blast of fey force, spattered Hecuba’s brains across the floor of the hall. Instantly, the royal guards outside shook their heads, fighting a sudden nausea and confusion. Vespidae drew close, comforting the bewildered waspkin.

“It’s alright. The pretender is dead,” she said. “Come with me. You are safe now, no longer under her control.”

“She… she was in my head,” one of the guards said. “How did she do that?”

“I think I have an idea,” Vespidae said, eyeing a curious structure off to one side, accessible via another rickety bridge. Using an iron key found on Hecuba’s corpse, they opened the door to the building.

Within was a gigantic waspkin – or, rather, what remained of a waspkin, for it appeared to be undead, flesh tattooed with necromantic sigils. The being’s body was interpenetrated with a twisted mass of mechanical devices – syringes, hydraulic pumps, and other mechanisms. These seemed to be extracting some sort of substance from the reanimated cadaver. Tubes conveyed this substance to another large machine, which looked to have once been part of the elaborate industrial harvest used to extract sap from the Elder Tree. This machine seemed to be processing the substances collected from the undead waspkin. Several phials of fluid were evident on a low table next to the machine, and more were being filled by a steady drip from the machine itself.

Now Vespidae knew where she had smelled the pheromones before. This had been her Queen once, the Queen whose death Vespidae had commemorated in a ritualistic dance of death – one that Vespidae, an intended funerary sacrifice, had inadvertantly survived, to her shame, a crime for which she had been exiled. Hecuba must have dug the Queen’s corpse from the ground, and used necromancy and alchemy to revive it.

“Destroy it,” Vespidae intoned, and Armand gladly complied, burning the body and the structure till all within blazed to the ground.

Vespidae’s task now complete, the party rested briefly in Hecuba’s former laboratory, then continued their search for Gideon Bottlescrew. It didn’t take them long to discover his workshop, perched high in the Withered Tree and reachable via a slender wooden bridge – a rickety tower made of wood and scrap metal, its chimneys spewing smoke. A large telescope also protruded from the roof.

They could hear the sound of machines whirring inside. Guarding the entrance to the workshop was a golem, fashioned entirely from trash: rusted scrap metal, rotting wood, chains, wire, and organic matter as well – reanimated bits and pieces of stray animals, integrated grotesquely into the thing’s form. It looked at the party with one eye fashioned from a cracked lens, the other stolen from a dead dog, and spoke from the beak of a bird.

Trash Golem. Illustration by Caulis’ player, Bronwyn McIvor.

“Who goes there, squawk, who goes there?” the golem demanded.

“We’re here to see Gideon Bottlescrew,” Sister said. “We have an offer for him. We want to take him to the stars.”

The bird-thing considered carefully. “Squawk, alright then, alright,” it chirped. “Go on in.” It hopped to one side, allowing the party to pass.

Within, they found a massive space full of objects swirling through the air. The bookshelves along the walls were suspended both magically and mechanically throughout the chamber, covered in complicated models, mechanical devices, and even bubbling alchemical equipment. Containers of everything from food to gunpowder hung from ropes from the ceiling. There were also several magical spheres of force containing everything from miniature explosions to gigantic fireflies. At the very top of the chamber near the ceiling was a bed, wardrobe, and similar accoutrements, suspended via chains, as well as the viewing lens of a gigantic telescope. Fireplaces were located at several points along the walls, fed by animated, flying logs of kindling, and dozens of candles were suspended in space, deftly weaving to avoid lighting anything on fire.

There were also dozens of birds in cages suspended from the ceiling. The room smells of vellum, chalk, smoke, bird shit, candlewax, and ink.

Despite the incredible density of objects, the workshop had a kind of ingenious order to it, like some massive orrery. In the middle of this madness was a man with long, silver hair growing from one half of his head. As he turned, they saw why the other is hairless – he had been horribly burned along his other half, his skin a mass of scar tissue. He was dressed in threadbare waistcoat and trousers, and was frantically scribbling on a chalkboard – one of six that rotated slowing around him. A large and beautiful cockatoo was perched on his shoulder. Some sort of mechanical device had been inserted into its head.

“Hello,” the cockatoo said. Gideon does not turn , but continued writing complex mathematical formulae on the board. “Forgive my unorthodox means of communication. The bird you see before you speaks with my voice.” The cockatoo flutters from his shoulder and alights on a nearby stack of books.

“We heard you built a spaceship,” Sister said. “But then blew it up.”

“Ah, yes…” the cockatoo said, sadly. “The accident was… extremely regrettable. The greatest setback of my life, and my deepest regret. I was too eager, too intent on proving everyone at the Citadel wrong. They all said it couldn’t be done, that travel amongst the spheres was centuries away. I am still convinced they are wrong. I have spent the last ten years perfecting my plans. I now know the source of my error – the program I fend into the aetheric engine was fundamentally flawed. And I believe I am close to remedying that mistake. Of course, my only hope now is to bequeath my notes to future generations… My dreams of travel to the stars are quite dead.”

“We’re here to revive them,” Sister said. “We need something from the Vessel, and we want to build a ship to do it.”

At last, Gideon turned, but then his eyes curiously widened. Sunlight gleamed through the windows, glinting off the Yellow Sign round Vespidae’s neck. Suddenly, Gideon turned back and, moving rapidly, levitated towards a door in one wall of the tower.

“Wait, where are you going?” Grove demanded. The cockatoo was curiously silent. The door was closing. Vespidae flitted over, keeping the door open, and the party hurried through, pursuing this eccentric man, the cockatoo now following them. They noticed the frame of the door looked old, ancient even, and crafted of iridescent metal…

They passed down a corridor that should have led outside, but instead led into a vast chamber with a glass ceiling. The walls were of ancient stone, carved with what appeared to be Librarian symbols. Many doors were arrayed around the edges of the room, interspersed with grotesque statues; each had a curious symbol over it. And through the glass of the ceiling, they looked up and saw, suspended amidst a field of black stars, a small, blue-green orb, swirling with clouds.

It took them a moment for realization to set in.

“We’re on…” Grove began.

“We’re on the moon,” Sister confirmed. “A Librarian outpost on the moon!”

Gideon, wide-eyed and frantic, backed up, but Sister was too quick. She inscribed a zone of truth, enchanting the space against falsehoods.

“What is this place?” she said. “How did you find it?”

“As you said,” Gideon replied through the cockatoo. “A Librarian outpost. An extension of the Old City, really. Time and space didn’t mean the same things to the Librarians.” He was shaking, nervous, but excited as well. “I’ve kept it secret, all these years. I discovered the portal during my expedition to retrieve the Aetheric Engine, and had it brought up here at great expense. Well.” He chuckled. “Brought down there.” He gestured to the world below.

“So… why did you bring us here?”

“To show you this,” Gideon replied, beckoning. They passed into another room, accessible through one of the doors – seemingly wrenched from its frame. The room was filled with assorted junk – technological detritus, along with the bones of some former explorer, now long dead. But on the walls were engravings, intricate, detailed.

“A schematic,” Sister said, staring up at the designs with many awed eyes.

“Yes,” Gideon said, quietly. “A schematic for a Librarian ship. One that can sail amongst the stars.”

Lunar Symbol by Matthew Murray.

The characters in this session were:

• Alabastor Quan, a gnome rogue-turned-illusionist and failed circus ringmaster; wielder of a cursed dagger and member of the Ravenswing Thieves’ Guild.
• Garvin Otherwise, a human rogue and burglar of the Ravenswing Thieves’ Guild, with a very, very peculiar past and a zoog pet, Lenore.
• Viridian “Grove” Greengrove, changeling druid, exile from his former druidic circle for unknown transgressions.
• An ancient and enigmatic Lengian cleric of the Mother of Spiders, name unknown. She wears bulky ecclesiastical garments covering an uncertain number of limbs and goes by “Sister.”
• Yam, an eccentric gnome illusionist and local graduate student at Umbral University. Yam cares little for money. Yam is curious. Yam is Yam.

XP Awarded: 700 XP

Alabastor and Garvin were at a Ravenswing safehouse in Gloomway, one of the guild’s major rookeries outside of Corvid Commons, off Eidolon Street. Accessible only through a discrete back door cloaked in illusions, the safehouse was sumptuous, if eclectic, decorated with the spoils of a thousand lucrative burglaries. They were in the trophy hall, a place where the guild’s Masters displayed the most precious objects they ever stole – fabulously rare paintings covered almost every inch of the walls, and plinths displayed everything from precious jewels to spellbooks.

Doors lead to the safehouse’s common room, the Blackmail Armoury where incriminating objects collected from the city’s elites were kept, and the Raven’s Nest, where the guild kept some of its magical thieving equipment.  On the level above this one were training halls, where new initiates skulked through mazes of shadows and halls of mirrors under the watchful eyes of guild instructors, while below was the Map Archive, containing floorplans for buildings throughout the city.

The two thieves were in the presence of Veronika Foxstalker, a young Ravenswing thief with premature white hair, as well as two Ravenswing high-ups: Janus Wren, a retired art thief, long ago convicted for her crimes by a Hexian court and sentenced to the Curse of Bad Taste, and Broodfather Valentine Dusk, one of the guild-members responsible for training thieves.

“Glad you could make it, boys,” Veronika said. “Broodfather Dusk has something of a job for you. You can consider it a test, as well. Pass it, and you’ll both be promoted from the Fledgling rank to become Talons.”

Garvin nodded. “I think we’re both eager to move up in the ranks.”

“The task will not be easy,” Valentine said. He was a ghoul, well-dressed and mischievous of expression, with large yellow eyes and glinting white fangs in a face that made them think of a wolf.  “You are welcome to employ outside assistance from trusted associates; numbers may be helpful for certain parts of the undertaking. Janus, perhaps you’ll describe what precisely has happened.”

“Sure,” Janus said. She was a pale, slight woman of middle years, human, and a living legend in the city’s underworld. “So. About ten years ago, I stole an object called the Angel’s Eye – a magical gemstone. Probably Librarian in origins, but could be from Nornhold, no one’s quite sure. If you look through it, you’re supposed to be able to perceive reality absolutely – drives most people mad that look too long. Anyway. As you know… I got caught. Not my proudest moment, but the Warders had been chasing me for years, it was practically bound to happen eventually. One slip-up and they had me. And they took the Angel’s Eye. Put it in the Museum of Magical Arts up in Fanghill.”

“The guild wants to acquire the Angel’s Eye,” Valentine said. “It may be useful in appraising certain objects in our possession. We had long been planning a heist of the Museum, but as you probably know, it’s the most heavily warded building in Hex apart from the Bird & Key City Bank. Getting in and out is nearly impossible. Unfortunately… we weren’t the only ones planning a burglary.”

“Crowsbeak idiots got wind of our plans and beat us to the punch,” Veronika said. “They broke in last night, pinched the Angel’s Eye and a bunch of other stuff. But, because they’re a bunch of bloody five-sided amateurs, they got caught. The Warders threw most of them in Golemsgate Gaol. However. There’s an added complication.”

“Of course,” Alabastor said.

“You see, the Angel’s Eye actually made of three different parts,” Janus said. “The Sclera, the Iris, and the Pupil. You fit them together and the Eye functions. On their own, they’re still valuable, but don’t have the same powers.”

“When the Crowsbeak broke in, they split the Eye up into its separate components,” Valentine said. “One of their burglars was imprisoned by the Warders – he had the Sclera. One made it back to Corvid Commons – she had the Iris. And a third, while fleeing the Warders, reputedly tried to hide in the tunnels below Fanghill. He had the Pupil. You two are tasked with recovering all three parts of the Eye.”

“There’s some potentially good news on the Warder’s front,” Veronika said. “We’ve learned that they’re supposed to be moving the Sclera back from Golemsgate to the Museum tomorrow, by carriage. It’ll be guarded… but it’ll also be an opportunity to get hold of the Sclera without breaking into either the Golem or the Museum.”

“The Crowsbeak thief who made it out has disappeared into Corvid Commons,” Janus said. “But we think we know where she’s staying – a Crowsbeak rookery beneath the Dark Drop, a shadowmilk bar on Badblood Boulevard. The Iris should still be there, but it’s probably only a matter of time before they offload it in the Midnight Market.”

“The only problem there is, things are pretty volatile with the Crowsbeak at the moment,” Valentine said. “So for this phase of the job, you’ll have to be totally unseen, or else adopt some sort of disguise. If you’re spotted breaking into a Crowsbeak rookery, it could be bad for the guild.”

“The final piece, the Pupil, is presumably still with the thief stupid enough to flee into the Old City in Fanghill,” Veronika concluded. “This might be the most dangerous part of the task. Most likely, the thief entered the tunnels through Piranha Boulevard.”

“The Guild is willing to grant a payment of three thousand guineas to each of you if you manage to retrieve the Angel’s Eye,” Valentine said. “Any associates you hire will have to be paid on your own dime. In addition, though, as Talons you’ll be given an object of your choice from the Raven’s Nest.”

The two thieves discussed strategy, and agreed to contact a few trusted associates. Armand and Yam had been useful on the Van Lurken job, and so the Ravenswing thieves headed for Armand’s townhouse in the Dreamer’s Quarter.

Admitted to Armand’s house, they made their way to the greenhouse, where the sorcerer was cultivating all manner of strange botanical experiments – many culled from samples taken during the extended party’s adventures. They found him deep in conversation with a fellow botanist, who he introduced as Viridian Greengrove, a trusted associate from years past.

A short, human-seeming man, Viridian was lean, ropy, and heavily scarified, with sharp, angular features, a crooked, once-broken nose, and vivid green eyes. Though the man was garbed in oddments of fur, leather, and feathers – resembling some wild-man from the woods – he carried himself with alien grace and dignity, and there was something unsettling about his demeanor. Though too rough-hewn to be one of the enigmatic Fair Folk, Garvin and Alabastor both recognized a changeling when they saw one: an elf child abandoned in Hex by its parents, who would have kidnapped a human child in exchange. Many parents in the city considered such an even the height of good fortune, secure in the knowledge that the child of their blood would attain the grandeur and immortality of the Fair Folk, while gifted with a replacement sure to excel in a myriad of arts.

“We came to discuss some, ah, rather delicate business,” the two thieves said, unsure of how to react to this stranger.

“You can trust Viridian,” Armand assured them. “He has no love of the law.”

“If it’s something criminal you’re planning, I am no stranger to such things,” the druid said frankly. “Indeed, I have… certain abilities which might prove quite useful.”

Elsewhere, Yam and Sister were experimenting with the Portal Chalk, and seeking ways to track down the ones who made it. With Garvin’s help, they had deduced that the magical chalk was an artefact of the Antinomian, the mad, laughing trickster deity, god of primal chaos and absurdity, whose religion was one of the few banned in Hex. Together they had made contact with one of the god’s cult’s, secret societies in Hex, using a secret note drop to communicate. Sister drafted a note about a “hypothetical” Portal Chalk puzzle, looking for ways to expand the Chalk’s use. The cult, in due time, responded: they were intrigued, and sent half of an elaborate arcane cryptogram in return. For the other half, they said, they needed an object of power: ridiculously, the undergarments of the Infernal Archbishop, Arabella Sickle. Bewildered and somewhat amused, Sister concealed the note with care. Shortly later, they were contacted by Garvin and Alabastor, informing them about the upcoming job. Yam, owing something of a debt to their companions, quickly agreed to participate. Sister took some additional convincing, but as a servant of a god of schemes and deception, she was ultimately persuaded. Planning for the heist to come began in earnest.

The party first set their eyes on the carriage – the most time sensitive of the three heists they would have to pull off. Speculating about likely routes the carriage might take, the thieves began making arrangements. First, they hired a small number of Ravenswing associates to guard a Portal entrance they scrawled in the backroom of the Cockroach Pub, a seedy drinking establishment in Goatsbridge.

Secondly, the group learned that S.A.D.I.S.M. – the Society for the Abolition of Diabolic and Infernal Servitude and Maltreatment – was planning a protest against the use of conjured labour at the Bridge of Sins. The group planned to capitalize on the distraction, using a Portal to convey the Sclera to the Cockroach Pub. Yam would help incite the protest; Alabastor would infiltrate the protest himself; Sister would serve as lookout; Garvin and Viridian would sneak into the carriage. Their plans made, the Ravenswing thieves and their companions slept, preparing for the job to come.

The dawn was misty and damp. The five made their way through Behemoth Bend to the Bridge of Sins, where protestors were already gathering. They’d set up a crude barricade made from bits of furniture and piled scrap. They held up signs: “Summoning is Subjugation” and “Break the Circle!”

Soon enough, the Warders’ carriage approached the bridge: an armoured carriage of gunmetal grey rumbling across the cobblestones, drawn by a team of four automaton horses, snorting steam from their furnace-bellies. The carriage had a Warder driver, a second Warder with a crossbow in a small turret, and two Warder escorts riding alongside the carriage on their own mechanical steeds. One was accompanied by a bound demon who keeps pace with the carriage, led by its summoner with a silver chain. The creature had a sigil-graven collar, a magic circle round its neck; it had chicken-like legs, a beard of writhing tentacles, and carried a wickedly glinting scythe. Judging from the decorated uniform of the summoner, he was the ranking officer of the group.

Alongside was an identical carriage, flanked by identical guards! One of them must have been an illusion.

Alabastor urged the protestors on. “Look at what they’re doing!” He said, gesturing to the bound demon. “Enslavement!”

Sister, thinking quickly, used detect thoughts to perceive which of the carriages was crewed by real people. As she furthered this information to Yam, the Warders began casting a spell to suppress the crowd, and a stinking cloud of magical teargas exploded over the bridge. Dozens of protestors slumped to the ground.

Yam, thinking quickly, hurled an acid arrow at the demon’s chain. The demon, newly freed, turned quickly on its master.

Alabastor, a gas-mask hastily affixed, conjured an illusion: another protest, coming from the other direction. The Warders spun in place, confused, even as their own demon lumbered towards them.

Meanwhile, the shadowy Garvin and Viridian crept toward the carriage, Grove transformed into the shape of a zoog. Garvin used his abilities to flit through space to enter the carriage stealthily, Grove close behind. A large steel chest was the only object within. Hastily, Garvin used the Portal Chalk to create a portal in the floor, dropping the chest through to the Cockroach Pub.

Outside, the demon raged, charging the summoner, but the quick-thinking Warder cast mending, restoring the chain. The demon spun, once more under Warder control.

A guard from the turret darted down into the carriage, arriving just in time to see the thieves making off with the chest. He dart forth as the Portal closed, and instantly was severed in half.

“Gah!” Those in the Cockroach winced as the man fell into the room, screaming, blood pouring everywhere. He passed out quickly, dying within moments.

“Damn,” Garvin said. “That wasn’t in the plan.”

“We’ll get the remains back to the Guild,” one of the Ravenswing associates said. “Ravenswing’ll raise him and wipe his memory. Guild policy.”

Garvin nodded soberly. Ravenswing frowned heavily on deaths, but recognized that occasionally, accidents happened. Garvin picked the lock on the chest; within was the Sclera of the Angel’s Eye, a white, opalescent stone with a depression where the Iris would slot.

Back at the Bridge of Sins, Yam, Alabastor, and Sister had hastily fled, scattering into the streets as the Warders dealt with Alabastor’s illusory crowd, unaware that their prize was gone.

One down, two to go.

Next stop: the Dark Drop.

Badblood Boulevard led towards the open square of Crow Court from the districts of Faunsweald and Groanwell, more salubrious neighbourhoods where the folk of Hex revel and carouse. Some of the spirit of hedonism had spilled into the Commons here, as the Boulevard was lined with taverns and drug dens – places like the Bloated Flea and the Laughing Fiend, as well as a large shadowmilk den, the Dark Drop, from which junkies stumbled with eyes like lightless voids.

The Drop was typical for a shadowmilk bar: a place where those seeking to empty themselves of all their cares and woe could seek the abyss at the bottom of a cup. The folk who crowded the dingy bar and swilled down cups of the stuff, served by a good-natured hunchback tattooed with holy sigils of the Unspeakable Ones, were a mix of poor and desperate souls in search of some relief from their suffering and avant-garde philosophers, nihilists hoping to map the terrain of the unthinkable through alchemical means. A good number of dark-robed necromancers from Grey Hook were in evidence, too – students from the Académie Macabre, slumming it in Corvid Commons and discussing thanatology, necropolitics, antivitalist metaphysics, and the ethics of reanimation.

The group took up seats at the bar, while Lenore scuttled stealthily from Garvin’s shoulder. Able to peer through the zoog’s eyes, the arcane trickster used her to scout out the backrooms of the Dark Drop. She entered a chamber filled with complicated distillation equipment, including huge copper tanks and masses of snaking pipes and tubes. Portholes in some of the tanks revealed them to be brimming with a viscous black liquid – shadowmilk. There were two exits. Some of the pipes extend from the machinery through one of the corridors.

Sister provided a distraction, asking the barkeep about the possibility of stowing stolen items at the Drop, a known rookery. Meanwhile, Albastor crept down the stairs and drew a portal; the rest of the party exited the bar and entered through the other end, scrawled in a nearby alleyway. Alabastor got out his dowsing wand, and the group stealthily followed its pull down one of the corridors.

They followed the hall to a stair leading down into a cavernous brick vault that had been made habitable with the addition of a few wall hangings bearing Crowsbeak symbols, a handful of tables, and a well-stocked bar of cheap ale – Blackheart Brew and Moonrise Pale Ale. Three ugly ruffians lounged about the room, drinking and counting coins – two humans and a trollblood. There were two wooden doors visible, one of them open.

Though the thieves were using the utmost stealth, the new member of the group – Viridian – stumbled on the stairs. A brief and vicious fight ensued, bullets, crossbow bolts, and spells whizzing across the chamber. At the end, Grove’s ear lay bloody on the floor, blood streaming from his face, but the three Crowsbeak thieves lay dead.

“Shit,” Alabastor cursed. “We’d better get the Iris and get out of here fast.”

They quickly found a safe hidden behind one of the wall hangings.

Yam quickly cast knock, and the combination lock swiveled to 7, then 13, then 43. Within was the Iris: another gem, this one iridescent and bluish, with a final depression for the Pupil. The safe also contained various other ill-gotten gains, including various articles of jewellery, gemstones, gold, and an obviously enchanted necklace.

“Only four murders and a riot so far,” Grove muttered, holding his severed ear to his head while Sister cast a healing spell, divine spiders flowing from her robes to switch the ear back to the druid’s head.

The band beat a hasty retreat through their getaway Portal, before additional Crowsbeak could appear.

Only one piece of the Angel’s Eye remained – the Pupil, lost in the tunnels beneath Fanghill. The party hastened there now, as sullen twilight turned to light, waspkin streetlighters flitting about with torches in the poorer districts, electric and magical lights flickering on in the more salubrious ones. They reached opulent Fanghill as the sun slunk beneath the jagged silhouette of Mount Shudder. An investigation of the plaza near the Museum of Magical Arts quickly turned up a manhole askew.

Exhausted, the party decided to retire for the evening and to meet up again early the next day, full of fresh spells and energy.

They returned to the Museum in the pre-dawn darkness; the city was once again clad in heavy mist. Careful to avoid detection by early-morning watch patrols, the group dropped down into the sewers.

Even the sewer tunnels were ostentatious in Fanghill, the stonework well-maintained, but even so the corridor was as filthy as any in Hex, puddles of murky water growing stagnant on the floor of the tunnel. Buzzing insects were everywhere, having laid their eggs in the filth.

Garvin – having scavenged his share of sewers as a lad – knew that valuables often turned up in such much. A moment’s search produced a glittering pearl necklace, dropped from the street about and swept into the drain.

Grove, eager to show his worth, transformed himself into a bloodhound-like creature, though hairless and alien. He sniffed about, trying to smell the Crowsbeak thief. The group followed the druid to a larger tunnel. Heavy rains and snowmelt had left the storm drain swollen with dirty water, flowing steadily south. A slippery-looking metal catwalk led across the tunnel. There was something lying on the ground on the other side of the bridge, but it was hard to see what it is.

Use of the Portal Chalk and a rope which Garvin shimmied along bypassed the treacherous torrent. The lower half of a human being lay on the floor of the tunnel . It looked as if something had ripped a person viciously in two. A trail of dried blood led from the remains through a doorway to the south.

Following Viridian and the blood-trail, the group made their way to an old maintenance room with several burst pipes spraying filthy liquid into the chamber. The cause of these was a rent in the wall – a huge split, leading into a dark, natural tunnel beyond. The scent-trail led through this chamber and down the tunnel.

Tentatively, the group descended into the darkness, the smell of blood and decay clotting their nostrils. There was a steady, rhythmic noise, like something breathing slowly.

The tunnel opened up. A great pile of gnawed bones and clothes was strewn across the floor of the disgusting cavern beyond. Squatting in the darkness were three twisted creatures that looked as if they might once have been people. Horribly deformed, the monsters had massively prognathous jaws and enormous yellow teeth. Their eyes were shrunken deep into their sockets, while their nostrils flared, sniffing constantly. One extended a hideous dripping tongue as if tasting the air.

Alabastor was the one to blow the group’s cover this time, sending a stray bone clattering down the tunnel. He used some sort of illusion to intimidate the monstrous creatures, looming up out of the darkness.

Lenore’s zoog eyes glimpsed magic – the Pupil! Garvin hastily used mage hand to grab the obsidian gem from the carrion heap. However, the creatures were creeping back towards the group. Hastily, Garvin scrawled a portal, while Sister, Yam, Alabastor, and Grove flung blasts of force, waves of thunder, and other spells to keep the creatures at bay.

The group were back at the bridge over the tunnel of surging sewage. They crossed, Yam casting ray of frost to cover their escape. Hastily they made their way out of the sewers, returning to Hex, all three parts of the Angel’s Eye in their possession.

Once safe, the group assembled the eye. Sister – eldest and perhaps bravest of the crew – decided to test its abilities. Garvin stood ready with the Pocketwatch of Time Dilation in case some adverse effect took hold. What Sister saw through the Eye appeared to be a universe very much like their own, but subtly different. Shimmering ghosts of the various adventurers seemed to bud off their forms – choices unmade, roads untaken. Swiveling the Iris and Sclera, it seemed she could peer into a plethora of alternate timelines – many of them ruins, burnt-out or overgrown or monstrously mutated.

Reluctantly, she gave the item over to Garvin and Alabastor, who made their way back to the Ravenswing safehouse, the means of their promotion within the Guild secured.