The party arrives back in Alhaster, invigorated – triumphant even – and intrigued at what Lashonna will have to share. They arrive at their midnight meeting at her palace on time, and are impressed by the tasteful and comfortable office you are led to by her mostly silent servant. Wrapped in a gold-trimmed gown, she dismisses her obviously well-armed help and opens the conversation by showing them what is left of Balakarde’s journal. She draws the party all in to her real purpose for the midnight meeting – to reveal that she is likewise on the trail of the Age of Worms, and about her hunch as to what must be done to stop it.
“Two millennium ago, my father Tellanar was one of the leaders of the army that dared to approach the befouled city of Kaluth-Mar in the aftermath of Kyuss' failed apotheosis. It was his righteous army and the drudaic Order of the Storm that constructed the ring about the center of that accursed place that forever would bind the servants of Kyuss within its obsidian walls. Through Tylanthros, leader of the Order of the Storm, we learned that the ring was raised too late, for while it most assuredly bound the remaining servants of Kyuss in that benighted city, the great monolith that rested atop the ziggaraut was taken by the red dragon Dragotha years before. Even in that distant time, the name Dragotha was a name of death and fear. The heroes of the army quailed at the thought of seeking him out to reclaim the stone that held the essence of the failed god of writhing undeath.”
“Despite the risk, my father, the leaders of the Order of the Storm and others began to search for Dragotha. He was never found. Mighty spells were cast, the past and future were plumbed, the gods themselves were consulted to no avail. All that could be gleaned was that Kyuss remained trapped between worlds and that at some point in the future, his agents would move to bring him forth, to cover the world in darkness, to bring about the Age of Worms. So the Order established a network of Watchers in those places their divinations told them yet had a role to play in the coming darkness and they waited. Decades passed without a sign, and then a century and another and another. And then finally word came that Dragotha was dead, slain on another plane by the b&%%&-queen of dragons, Tiamat. But the elation was short lived, for the Watchers soon learned that Dragotha was remade by the will of Kyuss as a dracolich and it was this abomination that would serve as Kyuss' general when his armies blighted the land. But there was a glimmer of hope, for the Watchers were vigilant and they noted Dragotha's return to our plane; they watched him bore like a maggot into the heart of the Wormcrawl Fissure, a putrid offshoot of the great Rift Canyon that lies less than 200 miles north of this very spot. Plans long laid were put into motion. The Order gathered the Watchers and once again assembled an army. Little did they know what awaited them.” Lashonna pauses for a moment to sip her wine. She closes her eyes and collects herself for a moment and then resumes her tale.
“I had come of age by then and served in the vanguard of this army. My father and Tylanthros led our forces to the edge of the Rift Canyon and beyond. At my father's insistence, I remained above with our reinforcements. I know not what happened in that battle, only that Dragotha had built a vast undead army and our surprise attack became a pitched battle. Our forces were overcome and my father...” at this Lashonna cannot hide a catch in her throat, “fell, only to rise as a servant of Kyuss. As the undead swarmed toward our position, Tylanthros and other leaders of the Order of the Storm arrived, caked with blood and filth. They bore a chest or stone upon which were carved leering demonic and draconic faces. This, they claimed ,was Dragotha's phylactery. Their arrival could not have been more opportune, for just then Dragotha climbed into the sky above the battle and made straight for our position. His advance filled our foes with a madness and filled the hearts of our bravest with fear. But as his undead gaze took in those that stood against him, he saw that his phylactery was taken. What passes for wisdom in his mind gave him doubt or perhaps fear and he fled the field. This turn of events restored our hope and our forces were able to buy Tylanthros and the other leaders of the Order of Storms time to flee with the phylactery.”
“The next 50 years were ones of constant fear. One by one, the servants of Kyuss that survived the battle hunted down the Watchers and members of the Order that managed to escape. They searched too for the hiding place of Dragotha's phylactery but their search was in vain. For my part, I came here to this land at the instruction of Tylanthros himself. I was to assume the role of a Watcher and inform the Order should anything stir within the Wormcrawl Fissure. Over time, the city of Alhaster rose and my own divinations told me that this place has some part yet to play in the Age of Worms. I waited, always vigilant for the signs of Kyuss. I had a hand in destroying the Cult of the Ebon Triad and it was I that told the few Watchers that remained that the cult was but a front for the cult of Kyuss himself. I have remained here, acting quietly as an advisor to rulers great and small all the while maintaining a watchful eye on the events in Redhand.”
“This was the state of affairs when Balakarde found me twenty years ago. A new leader conquered Redhand, Prince Zeech, and I was busy ensuring I was a trusted advisor. Perhaps this distraction was why Balakarde was able to so readily convince me that he could aid me in my task. I met with him and heard how his research led him step by step to me. It seemed he knew much of the tale I already told you, though not as completely and not as accurately as I. I shared what I knew, glad to have found a compatriot that could help free the town of the last of the Ebon Triad. For his part, he was a good man, but I believe now he suffered some deep hurt at the hands of Kyuss that left him obsessed with the Age of Worms. As I worked with him, it became clear he trusted no one; he was feral and prone to bouts of melancholy or mania. One night he announced that he had learned enough, that there was nothing left for him to do here. I tried to get him to stay but it was no use. He left magically that evening, leaving only a scrap of his notes behind."
“He mentioned trying to learn more about Dragotha by traveling to the Wormcrawl Fissure. I advised against this reckless act but my words went unheeded. He never returned.”
“This brings us to tonight, and our meeting. I no longer can ignore the portents. Look at it this way: Balakarde learned much of this tale before he met me, which indicates things long held secret are coming into the light and I am afraid more now know of this lore than ever before. Prince Zeech is building that damnable ziggarut that reminds one far too much of the blasphemous architecture found in Kaluth-Mar. You heroes have risen, battle-weary from fighting the servants of Kyuss. Even the raving predictions of the cultists have come to pass. Something has changed, the writhing dead grow restless, the Age of Worms is at hand.”
“If things but were as they once had been, I would fulfill my duty as a Watcher and report all I know to the Order. However, this is no longer possible. The Order fled to their island-fortress of Tilagos almost 1500 years ago to avoid destruction at the hand of Kyuss' minions. There they are strongest and it is there they kept the greatest bulk of their lore. It is said that they built a library of sorts there that houses hundreds of years of history, memories, dreams and secrets as a last bastion of knowledge against the Age of Worms. Of course, merely fleeing to an ocean fortress would not ensure their safety. It is said that the Order drove a lasting bargain with primal elemental forces. They sacrificed their lives to whisk the island's interior off the Material Plane. In its place is a barren rock surrounded by an ever raging storm of such intensity that that any ships that approach within ten miles are invariably lost. The island appears on no maps, but lore maintained by the Watchers hints that the druids left a way for those in need to reach their secrets while at the same time warding the place away from the eyes of Kyuss' undead fanatics.”
“Fate has left us to deal with the rising of the Wormgod. But it is fate as well that seems to have placed heroes capable of the task here with me, in the very hour of our need. It seems obvious that Dragotha intends to release Kyuss from his prison and in so doing usher in the Age of Worms. The solution is also obvious. A king without his general is powerless. It has taken Dragotha 1500 years to reach this point. If he can be removed now, it will certainly be centuries before anyone or anything has a chance to release the Wormgod again. Of course, you cannot follow Balakarde into the Wormcrawl Fissure, one does not simply attack a dracolich without forethought. Dragotha may not know where the Order of the Storm hid his phylactery but that does not mean it is not useful to him. If he is destroyed before his phylactery is found, it is as good as turning it over to him. "
“The first order of business must be to find his phylactery and destroy it. I have no idea where it may be hidden but then again neither does Dragotha. Certainly his doubt to its location is the main reason he has not tried to simply destroy himself as a desperate way to discover it. It has undoubtedly been secreted away by the Order of the Storm for this very need, either on the isle of Tilagos or elsewhere. Furthermore, if a written account of what Tylanthros did with the phylactery exists, it must be somewhere within the library. It is my fervent hope that you will take up this task, travel to Tigalos, and uncover the lore that the Order of the Storm gave their lives to hide from the world.”
Lashonna ends her tale and pauses for another drink, attending to questions from the party.
“I’m afraid others have learned this as well, in part as an unfortunate result of my own research. I have a fair amount of competition in the arena of gathering and keeping secrets, and invariably word gets out that I’ve made a discovery. My enemies are always quick to nip at my heals. I speak, in particular, of a simpering dog of a man named Heskin who once served me. I’m afraid Heskin has been wooed from my side with promises of wealth and power, and has taken word of this discovery to a disreputable man indeed, a powerful priest of Vecna named Darl Quethos.”
She offers to use a scroll to scry on Heskin with the party right now, to see how pressing this competition is. The party agrees and a tumultuous scene fades into view.
There is the howling sound of an oceanic tempest. The image clears to show a deathly pale man lashed to a ship’s mast with several coils of rope. Although details beyond a ten-foot-radius around Heskin are hazy and unclear, it’s obvious that the ship is caught in a tremendous storm—the decks are awash in foamy water as both waves and driving sheets of rain torment the terrified man. Sounds of gruff sailors shouting commands and curses in Orc can be heard under the raging tumult of the storm, and now and then, frantic orc sailors move quickly into view and then back into obscurity as they busy themselves at securing the ship. At one point, two lithe, cloaked figures drop to the deck from the rigging on either side of Heskin. They are identically dressed in tightly wrapped silken scarves, small devilish horns sprouting from their heads. The cloaked figures spare condescending glances at Heskin, their eyes glowing faintly with infernal fire before they move out of sight toward the ship’s unseen bow. Soon thereafter, a blazing red-skinned humanoid with an immense, bulging frame strides almost casually through the scene. The rain skin. As he reaches Heskin, he looks down at the man and then looks toward the bow, crying out, “Darl! It looks like your pet might be taking on water!” With that, the creature explodes into a tremendous belly laugh. A few moments later, another two figures step into view. The smaller of the two is a shifty-eyed humanoid bird who wears a hooded cloak and carries a repeating crossbow. The other is a towering man clothed in flow ing blue robes trimmed with eye designs. His cowl protects his face from the wind and his hands are obscured by long, rain soaked sleeves. He squats before Heskin and speaks to him in a low voice, “Only a few hours more, Heskin, and we shall see if you live or die.”
Suddenly, the blue-robed man’s head whips around to look directly into the scrying sensor. His face is pale but command ing, and twists into a snarl as he stands. “It seems we have guests, my friends,” he says. “Perhaps allies of this cur?” He turns back to the bound man, and as he does he pulls back his left sleeve, revealing a rot ten, black-nailed appendage that seems to writhe and twitch with its own life. “We can’t have your friends watching us, so it seems your journey comes to an early end, Hesken!”The putrid hand unfurls and reaches out to caress Heskin’s brow. Heskin shrieks in mortal pain as the fingertip freezes the skin it touches into an angry black scar. The blue-robed man then makes a fist and utters a single unintelligible word. As he utters the word, Hesken’s eyes bulge, the cords in his neck throb, and he slumps against his bonds, dead. The scrying link is broken, and the image fades from view.
Vasco observes that the rotting hand is none other than the Hand of Vecna, the terribly powerful artifact. Those of the party who had seen the visions in the Zigurat of Kyuss, recognize the man and the hand as the same as they had seen in their vision.
The party takes some time alone to weigh their decision, choosing in the end to pursue this as the best possible next lead. They debate arrangements for travel into the storm at length. Polymorph into a whale? Water Walk? Elemental Bodies? Finally, they shadow walk most of the distance along the coast of Nyr Dyv, and then conjure phantom steeds, to make their final leg dropping down into the eye of the storm from above, and making it in good shape.
Landing one clear beachhead, they see it littered with the wreck of a ship. Eight orc pirates, more interested in having their ship repaired than doing battle, end up bartering with the party. As an act of good faith, the keel and gunnel are repaired by the party’s powerful magic, and Grosgriss, their captain reveals that they had been hired by Darl Quethos to bring his henchmen to the stormy isle. They tell the party that Darl and his men entered the ruins to the north, but the orcs were deterred to follow by ‘loud, angry rocks with lots of ropes’.
Trusting that the orcs truly have the self-interest of departure in mind, the party heads in to trace Darl’s group. They soon encounter the rope-wielding rocks, six bizarre Ropers, all etched with ancient druidic runes. Though Yldar is for a time grappled by three ropes, the party Vasco and Zeek manage to use scorching rays and arrows to destroy the creatures. Ambushed briefly during their skirmish by crossbow bolts shot from the fringes, the party mobilizes to search for what might be at least one remaining member of Darl’s party...
