Continuing our night’s endeavor, the group had captured a half-orc Cult initiate / guard when we reached 11 PM. Governor Nighthill interrogated the zealot, sadly learning little. The cur, under duress, identified himself as a Cult member who goal was collecting loot “for the great hoard that will usher in the reign of the Queen of Dragons.” As yet, the agenda of returning the fiend Tiamat to this world – as I have already discerned – remains veiled. To what end? We are left to question further ends.
Nighthill gathered us help shore up an imminent breach to the keep’s sally port perpetrated by a battering ram. It seems the serpents finally decided the lion’s share of gold might be found within the keep itself. We rushed to the port as an alarm sounded. A mass of foes forced a breach: an acolyte, four kobolds, and an ambush drake. With time, blade and spell we defeated these foes. With full concentration, Peren noted a sizable breach in the door.A call was made to a resident mage to fix the damage. In the meantime, a guard, three cultists and four kobolds pushed through the breach. Poison breath, boarding ax, magic, and my rapier cut down these intruders. With skill, our group held its own, while a wizard mended the fractured bolt and brace. No further foes would invade.
Just then, a piercing yell went up. We recognized the voice as that of Governor Nighthill. The great wyrm circling the keep was moving to assault the keep’s roof. Wiping sweat and a stray lock from my brow, my voice and lute mustered our group to battle – whatever its outcome.
As we rushed up the stairs, the beast’s icy cold breath fully encased four guards, while leaving two others moaning as they were covered head to toe in hoarfrost and frostbite. An unexpected occurrence gas the giant wyrm featured dark blue scales. Hm? Without hesitation, two warlocks, a paladin, a druid, a cleric, and a bard stepped across the flagstone roof into sheer folly.
With daunting odds, we engaged our missile weapons and spells. Drawing forth my lyre, I plucked to quick songs in succession: one to rally our paladin’s bow and a second to assail the beast with a discordant melody. As it rushed toward us, the beast shook its head and turned to restart an attack run.
Beshaba be damned! Tymora did not shine upon us this midnight. The dragon spread its jaws. The last I recall was being lashed by a great cone of cold. Then darkness.
A bright backlight outlined a massive scroll lit by candlelight. Writing on the scroll seemed to become readable, to a degree. Then a flash of a five-headed huge dragon surrounded by soaring flames and bodies.
Then I awoke. I weakly raised my frame, seeing a white cot and a benevolent cleric smiling warmly at me, “Milady, thankfully you have returned. The beast is gone. Your actions speak of your courage. We seek to engage your bravery again.” Around me, I saw my companions lying on cots.
Yes, I time has not come. To haste, my friends, to great deeds. Our presence is demanded. To battle and intrigue again. The Cult must not triumph!