The Audience with Xal'Zyress

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The Chamber of Judgement

Mutt's offer

Dorf's Outburst at Hruna's abuse (retro)

Azalie's Trial

Show me who you are

The Clash with the Drow - Round 1

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The Chamber of Judgement

Azalie stands as still as she had when Xal'Zyress first sank his will into her mind, peeling back layers of thought and memory like a predator toying with its prey.

"I have learned much through pain and suffering," she says, the words slipping from her lips before she even understands why.

Her gaze flickers to her companions, the ones who have fought beside her, suffered beside her. The ones who have become her family. "But I have learned far more through love."

She lifts her chin.

"I have nothing to hide." The statement is bold, unwavering. A lie wrapped in truth.

"If this is the day we die, then I will count myself fortunate to fall beside them." A steady resolve hardens in her chest, but fear hums just beneath the surface.

"I keep parts of myself hidden—not just from you, but from everyone. After everything I've been through, I think that’s fair." Her voice is steady, but a flicker of warmth betrays her, revealing more than she intended. There’s no taking it back now.

Her eyes lock onto Xal'Zyress. "So tell me, what have you learned from invading our minds? Surely, you have found something worth your effort."

She does not move. Does not flinch. She is truly curious. Not just about what he has discovered—but why they still draw breath.

A moment of silence follows Azalie’s words—not an absence of sound, but an absence of breath. A stillness so profound it feels as though even the pulsing veins in the walls hesitate, as if the entire lair is listening.

Then, the Beholder laughs.

It is not a sound, but a sensation—a pulse of psionic energy that slithers through the air, twisting through each of their minds, brushing against old wounds and buried fears.

"Pain. Suffering. Love."

The words ooze with mockery, echoing between thought and sound, shifting unpredictably.

"Little thing… you speak as though your suffering is your own. But suffering is a gift. A tool. A lesson to those who endure it—and to those who inflict it."

Xal’Zyress drifts forward, his massive central eye locking onto Azalie, his many stalks writhing with interest.

"You have learned. But have you taught? Have you shaped the world in your image, as I have? Or do you merely scrape along, a creature of instinct, surviving but never ruling?"

A pause. A wide grin.

"You asked what I have learned."

Xal’Zyress tilts ever so slightly in the air, his presence pressing downward, suffocating.

"I have learned that you all—**each and every one of you—**are bound by your weaknesses. But more importantly…"

A slow pulse ripples outward.

"I have learned that you are willing to break yourselves for one another."

The words hang, heavy and terrible. Then, a flicker of movement.

A ripple in the psionic field.

A command unspoken.

And from the shadows—Hruna is dragged into the light.

The Drow pull her forward, bound, gagged, stripped of dignity but not of defiance.

Her sturdy miner’s armor is gone—stripped to rags, and bare skin, her body marred by bruises and exhaustion. Her wrists are raw from struggling against her shackles, her breathing ragged.

Yet when her eyes meet Dorf’s, she stiffens. Tries to stand taller. Tries to tell him, without words, to stay strong.

Dorf’s name nearly escapes her lips. But before she can speak, a sharp backhand from one of the Drow sends her crashing to her knees.

Xal’Zyress does not look at her. He does not need to.

Instead, his central eye turns to Uptharr.

"How simple creatures are," the Beholder muses. "Give them something to fight for… and they will break themselves upon it."

A long, slow pause.

Then—a single word.

"Paladin."

The weight of the word alone feels like an accusation.

"You believe your cause is righteous. That your god sees you. That He will reward your faith in the end. "

A psionic pulse ripples outward. The command is felt before it is spoken.

"One of you will kneel."

Uptharr does not move.

The Beholder’s grin stretches impossibly wide. An eyestalk flicks.

A Drow crouches beside Hruna, drawing a cruelly curved dagger from his belt. With deliberate slowness, he presses the tip into her breast, letting the blade bite into her skin.

"Cut," Xal’Zyress murmurs.

A heartbeat.

Then—metal slices flesh.

A thin line of crimson beads across her skin.

Hruna flinches. She does not scream.

The Drow smile.

The Beholder looms.

The words press into their skulls.

"If not the Paladin, then who?"

A pause.

"Or will you watch as she is unmade, piece by piece?"

A pause as he looks at Uptharr.

“Your faith commands obedience. Your god commands righteousness. Yet here you stand, watching. Does your god weep for her, I wonder? Or has He turned away? Will He save her… or must you beg?”

A whisper, dripping with venomous amusement.

"So tell me, Howlbears…"

His many eyes flick from Dorf, to Mutt, to Orin, to Azalie, to Fizz, and finally, back to Uptharr.

"Who will kneel and pledge loyalty to me?"

Before you can answer, you hear another muffled scream as the Drow cut again.

The chamber is silent, save for the slow, deliberate drip… drip… of Hruna’s blood hitting the cold stone floor.

Uptharr’s jaw tightens. His hands clench into fists at his sides. Every fiber of his being screams at him to act—to strike, to fight, to do something.

But to do nothing… to watch her suffer…

His god is silent.

Not absent. Never absent. But silent.

The Beholder’s many eyes leer at him, waiting. The Drow’s blade hovers at Hruna’s throat. The air is thick with the weight of the moment.

Then, he moves.

Slowly, purposefully, Uptharr falls to one knee.

His head does not bow. His back does not break.

He kneels—but he does not submit.

His voice, when it comes, is steady, unwavering.

“I serve the light.”

A simple truth. Unshaken. Unyielding.

He meets Xal’Zyress’s gaze, his own eyes burning with something fierce, something unbreakable.

“I kneel to spare her life. But do not mistake this for loyalty.”

He lets the words hang, their weight undeniable.

“My god is not silent. My god is watching.”

A beat.

Then, quieter, yet no less defiant:

“And he is patient.”

He does not need to threaten. He does not need to lie.

The war is not fought in a single battle. The light does not flicker out so easily.

Uptharr kneels.

But he does not bow.

The chamber holds its breath.

Then—laughter.

It is not a sound, but a feeling. A psionic pulse that coils around their minds, slithering into their very bones.

Xal’Zyress shakes with amusement, his massive form writhing with mirth. His many eyes gleam, delighted—mocking.

“Ahhh… how noble. How predictable.”

The air warps around his presence, a ripple of unseen power pressing down on Uptharr like an iron weight.

“You kneel, yet you deny me.”

A low, knowing chuckle slithers through their thoughts.

“But tell me, little paladin…Did your god command you to do this?”

The question lingers, poisonous and sharp.

“Or did you make this choice… alone?”

a long moment passes...

The Drow warrior at Hruna’s side suddenly wrenches her up by her bindings, dragging her to her feet. The dagger at her throat does not waver, the blade glinting in the sickly green glow of the chamber.

Xal’Zyress drifts forward, his presence pressing closer.

“I have no use for empty gestures.”

The Beholder tilts in the air, watching Uptharr like a beast considering how long to let its prey struggle before the killing blow.

“Kneeling is not enough. Prove your faith to me, as you would to your god.”

His eyestalks flick toward Hruna. The pressure in the room deepens.

“Raise your hand against her.”

A beat. A terrible stillness.

“Strike her down. Show me that your faith is stronger than sentiment.”

The words are soft—almost a whisper. A test. A command. A trap.

The Drow smirk. The Howlbears tense.

Xal’Zyress’s many eyes gleam with pleasure.

“Or shall I take your hesitation as defiance?”

Uptharr kneels, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turn white. His breath is steady, but there is a storm raging behind his eyes. The weight of the Beholder’s presence crushes down upon him, yet his gaze does not waver.

Then, Xal’Zyress speaks.

“Raise your hand against her. Strike her down. Show me that your faith is stronger than sentiment.”

The words slither into his mind, wrapping around his soul like chains. A test. A trap. A mockery of everything he stands for.

Uptharr exhales slowly.

His voice is steady, unwavering. “My faith is not yours to twist.”

He rises, slowly, deliberately, and looks upon Hruna—not with hesitation, not with fear, but with certainty.

“I would strike down evil, Xal’Zyress. I would destroy those who torment and corrupt, those who seek to break the will of others.”

His eyes burn with righteous fire.

“And if you think I will raise my hand against the innocent—against a prisoner who has already suffered at your hands—then you know nothing of faith.”

He turns his gaze back to the Beholder, standing tall despite the weight of psionic force pressing against his mind.

“I will not betray my god. I will not betray what is right. And I will not be made into a weapon for you.”

He tilts his chin slightly, a flicker of defiance behind his calm.

“So if this is the moment you decide to kill her… then know that I will die fighting you for it.”

The words settle. The chamber is silent.

And for the first time since this began, Uptharr does not kneel.

Xal’Zyress does not speak immediately. The chamber hums with psionic energy, the very air thick with anticipation. His grin does not falter—but there is something behind it now, something darker.

A long, slow chuckle ripples through the room—not a sound, but a sensation, a psionic vibration that slithers through the Howlbears' minds.

“Ahhh… righteous to the end.”

His amusement does not wane, but the weight of his presence intensifies. The room feels smaller, the air thinner, as though the very walls lean inward at his command.

“You would fight for her?” The Beholder drifts closer, his central eye boring into Uptharr. “Die for her?” His grin widens, teeth gleaming wetly.

Then, an eyestalk twitches.

The Drow holding Hruna tighten their grips, and the one with the blade presses deeper, just enough to draw another thin line of blood. Hruna grits her teeth but does not cry out.

“And yet… your god does nothing.”

The words slither like oil. “Tell me, Paladin—where is he? Where is your beacon? Your guiding light? You kneel. You pray. And still, you are here. Still, you are mine.”

A psionic pulse ripples outward.

“Faith is an illusion—a shackle you choose to wear.”

He tilts slightly in the air, his many eyes shifting between Uptharr and the others.

“But… perhaps you have made your choice.”

The eyestalks writhing above him twitch with dark intent.

“Very well.”

The Beholder does not give the command aloud, but the Howlbears feel it.

The Drow’s blade slashes downward.

But just before steel meets flesh—the chamber shifts.

A surge of unseen force ripples outward—not from Xal’Zyress, but from Uptharr.

The paladin’s form blazes with sudden, searing light, an unseen force pushing outward. It is not a spell. It is not his will.

It is something greater.

Xal’Zyress recoils. His eyestalks twitch, his grin falters—but only for a moment.

Then, the Beholder laughs.

A deep, rasping, horrible sound.

“Ahhhhhh… there you are.”

The moment passes. The light dims. The Drow stagger backward in momentary confusion, their hands loosening from Hruna.

Xal’Zyress watches Uptharr with renewed amusement, his eyestalks curling with intrigue.

“Perhaps you are not as worthless as I thought.”

Then, with slow, deliberate cruelty:

“Perhaps you are worth keeping.”

The air remains thick with tension, but the moment of execution has passed.

For now.

With Uptharr momentarily spared, Xal’Zyress drifts back, his massive eye scanning the Howlbears, his many stalks twitching in erratic thought.

“Fascinating.” His voice slithers between thought and sound, his tone neither approving nor disappointed. “You break… but you do not shatter.”

The words coil in their skulls like living things. Then, he grins.

“Perhaps I have been too hasty.”

A pulse of psionic energy ripples outward. The tension in the room shifts—from immediate threat, to something colder. Calculated.

“You have… potential.” His many eyes flick from Mutt, to Orin, to Azalie, to Dorf, Fizz, then back to Uptharr. “I have learned much from you, little things. And now, you will learn from me.”

A slow, terrible pause.

“Your survival depends on what you can offer.”

What do you say to Xal'Zyress. Posts may require a skill check.

5 minute has passed

Current Time: 12:53 PM

Date: Eighthday , 28 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 52°

Current Phase: Exploration

Mutt's Offer

A silence falls over the chamber as Mutt steps forward, addressing Xal’Zyress with the calm confidence of a man who’s spent his life making deals.

"As you've said, you've seen into us. You've seen what makes us up. You know now that we bend, but we do not break. It may be difficult to find someone to serve you, because outside those that serve another," Mutt gestures to Uptharr. "The Howlbears already serve each other. While we may not serve you, we are willing to work with you—"

The chamber shudders as an unseen force slams into the air around Mutt—not an attack, but a warning.

A pulse of psionic energy ripples outward, curling through the lair like an invisible tide. The walls seem to breathe, their bioluminescent veins pulsing in time with the heavy silence that follows.

Then, a voice.

Not a sound, but a presence—a crushing weight in their minds, in their bones.

"With me?"

The words are slow, drawn out—mocking.

A deep, rumbling chuckle follows, but there is no amusement in it. Only disdain.

"Hnnhhh… No. No, no, no."

Xal’Zyress drifts lower, his massive central eye narrowing. His grin does not widen—instead, it tightens, stretching thin, sharp.

"I see into you, little bard, yet you see nothing."

The pressure around Mutt intensifies—a sickening, invisible weight, not enough to crush, but enough to remind.

"Work with me?"

The words slither, bitter and sharp. A wave of psionic force shudders through the chamber again—small stones tremble beneath their feet.

The Drow tense. The Mind Flayer tilts its head, watching.

"Reconsider your words… before I reconsider your survival."

The Beholder's central eye and all it's eyestalks twitch as it awaits a response.

1 minute has passed

Current Time: 12:54 PM

Date: Eighthday , 28 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 52°

Current Phase: Exploration

Dorf's Outburst to Hruna's Abuse - (Retro)

Before you can answer, you hear another muffled scream as the Drow cut again.

The chamber is silent, save for the slow, deliberate drip… drip… of Hruna’s blood hitting the cold stone floor.

A gasp escapes Dorf’s throat. His mind is a storm—a tangled mess of emotions crashing into each other. Relief at seeing Hruna alive. Fury at the bruises marring her skin. Shame that he cannot reach her. Helplessness in the face of the monster towering above them.

And then… rage.

“Touch her again and it will be the last thing you do!” Dorf roars, his voice cracking through the chamber like an axe splitting wood.

The Drow barely react, save for a cruel smirk as they drag the blade across Hruna’s skin again, letting another thin line of crimson bead at the tip.

That’s it.

A cry of unfiltered rage rips from Dorf’s throat as he charges.

His vision tunnels, the edges of his world going red as his muscles coil like a drawn bowstring, his body moving before his mind can catch up. A predator leaping for the throat.

He doesn’t even realize he’s unarmed. He doesn’t care.

His shoulder slams into the nearest Drow, lifting him off his feet and sending him crashing hard against the stone wall. A sickening crunch follows as the impact forces the air from his lungs. The Drow crumples, dazed. (Athletics Check 21)

But Dorf has no time to revel in his strike.

Two more figures lunge at him from the sides.

A sharp strike to his ribs. A vice grip around his arms.

Dorf thrashes, muscles surging with primal fury, but the Drow are trained for this—they don’t fight him head-on. They move like hunters, working together, twisting his limbs, using his own strength against him.

A second later—Dorf is on his knees.

His arms are wrenched behind his back, iron-like grips clamped onto his shoulders, forcing him down. He strains against them, veins bulging, but they do not let go.

Silence.

Then—laughter.

It starts as a vibration in the walls, a pulse through the air, before erupting into a full-bodied, rattling sound from Xal’Zyress’s grotesque maw. Amusement. Genuine amusement.

“Hnnnhhhhhh—! Yes… YES…!”

The Beholder drifts forward, his many eyestalks writhing, drinking in the sight of Dorf straining against the Drow’s grasp.

“Ohhhh, how predictable you are… how deliciously simple.”

His voice is not mocking, not dismissive. It is pleased.

“I knew you would fight. I wanted you to fight.”

The Drow holding Dorf wrench his arms back further, eliciting a sharp, involuntary grunt of pain.

“And yet… you did not stop them.”

A slow grin stretches across his maw.

“You had all the rage in the world… and still, she bled.”

He lets the words sink in, lets the weight of the moment press down upon them all.

“You are not warriors. You are not champions. You are pieces on the board. But perhaps… you can still be useful.”

His central eye flicks to Uptharr.

The grin does not fade.

“But I wonder…”

A pulse of psionic energy ripples outward.

The Drow yank Hruna upright, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as they force her to stand before the paladin.

Xal’Zyress looms closer.

“Tell me, Paladin. Will you kneel now?” His grin stretches wider. “Or shall we see… how much she can endure?”

(this ends the retro scene - and leads back into Uptharr's scene, where he kneels, the rest continues as originally posted)

Azalie's Trial

As the beholder rages and the psychics pressure squeezes his body, Mutt winces and curses himself for his poor choice of words. He needed to be careful. Their survival rested on a knife’s edge. He attempts to smile and raises a hand in supplication.

“Sorry, sorry! We would work FOR you. Serve your needs. You’re the boss. We’re not pretending that we’re equals here.”

Mutt wipes his brow.

“You’ll have to forgive my poor choice of words. I’m a bit hungry, my mind is still a bit fuzzy from the probing, and I’ve had to piss ever since your thralls stopped me a while back.”

Mutt takes a moment to gather himself before continuing.

“Setting aside my poor choice of words for the moment, you have already seen into me. You know I’m not a hero, a fighter, a bleeder. I’m a maker of deals.”

He continues to walk forward with his hands up in a peaceful, placating gesture.

"As we've said since we arrived here, we were just looking for our friends." Mutt nods towards Hruna and begins removing his cloak from his shoulders. "We did not come here with thoughts of violence and our intentions have been peaceful. You've helped us find her, and for that we are grateful."

A breath of silence lingers in the chamber as Mutt speaks, his voice measured, his hands raised in placation. The oppressive weight of Xal’Zyress’s unseen psionic presence does not lessen—but it does not strike, either.

But then… Mutt moves.

Slow, careful steps toward Hruna. A simple, human gesture—offering his cloak, a scrap of dignity amidst the filth.

The Drow react instantly.

The two holding Hruna tighten their grips, yanking her back.

Another steps forward, drawing a dagger. The ripple of their movement is like a pack of jackals bristling as an outsider nears their kill.

Above them, Xal’Zyress’s amusement flickers into irritation.

His eyestalks twitch. The air hums with psionic pressure, shifting ever so slightly.

Fizzbum feels the pulse in his skull, a faint itch behind his eyes that makes him wince. He lets his fingers brush the Blizzard Bomb hidden in his pocket. His thoughts race—if this went bad, how fast could he get a spell off?

Dorf's rage has not cooled. His breath comes in sharp, angry bursts, his body still coiled with tension. The only thing keeping him from lunging is the two Drow elves that holds him in place. He strains against their might, he is a moment away from bursting free, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the Drow who dared to harm Hruna.

Then, a shift.

Azalie’s breath is steady, but her pulse hammers in her ears. She sees Hruna. Naked, bruised and bleeding.

Her body tells a story—one Azalie knows far too well. She scans for deeper wounds, for the kind that never fully heal. The kind that remain long after flesh has mended. Hruna’s skin is marred but intact. The Drow have not yet broken her beyond repair.

Hruna meets her gaze, silent. But her eyes scream.

She wants vengeance—violent, merciless vengeance. She wants these beasts torn apart, limb by limb, their remains stuffed into the empty eye sockets of the Beholder itself.

Azalie understands. Gods, she understands.

But she also knows they will die if they act now. Hruna knows it too. That’s why she doesn’t beg, doesn’t sob, doesn’t demand rescue.

Stay alive.

That’s what her eyes say. That’s what Azalie has to make happen.

Without hesitation, she moves—not forcefully, but deliberately. She shifts just enough to step ahead of Mutt, not shielding him, but placing herself where the Beholder’s gaze must pass through her first.

Then, she does what she knows best.

She lowers herself.

A knee bends, her head dips—not groveling, but controlled, measured. A careful display of deference without surrender.

“Forgive his words, Great One.” The title is deliberate, respectful without being excessive. “He speaks from habit, not from wisdom.”

A flicker of something—approval?—passes through the air.

Xal’Zyress does not speak. He waits.

She does not look directly at his central eye. That would be foolish. But she tilts her chin slightly, just enough to expose her throat—a silent recognition of power.

“You do not need empty words. You do not need flattery. So tell us, Great One… what is it that you do need?”

The chamber is still.

Then… the Beholder shifts.

A slow, eerie levitation forward, his massive eye narrowing as the grin stretching across his grotesque maw widens.

"Ahhhhhh..."

The sound is not quite laughter. Not quite speech. It seeps into their bones, a sensation rather than a sound.

His eyestalks curl, one after another, shifting as though in thought.

"Finally. A voice of reason."

His gaze lingers on Azalie, then flicks briefly toward Uptharr as the paladin steps forward beside her.

Not kneeling. Not speaking. But standing in silent solidarity.

Xal’Zyress does not address him. Not yet.

Instead, he focuses on Azalie.

"What do I need?"

He drifts higher, his grotesque form swelling with quiet satisfaction.

"Power? I have it."

"Servants? They are countless."

"Knowledge?" The word is drawn out, slow and indulgent. "Hnnhhh... yesss... knowledge is always worth the taking..."

A pause. Then, his voice darkens.

"But knowledge is also... unreliable."

His eyestalks twitch, one glancing toward Mutt, another toward Dorf, as though tasting their emotions still simmering beneath the surface.

"People lie. They deceive. They hide secrets even from themselves."

Xal’Zyress’s massive eye narrows, his grin stretching wider.

"You asked me what I need."

A pause.

His gaze lingers on her, slow, deliberate.

"You are not the first to ask. Others have knelt before me, whispering their honeyed words… offering empty loyalty, thinking they could trick me."

A slow pulse of psionic energy ripples outward.

"And now, you do the same. You play the role of the careful diplomat. The voice of reason. But what do I see in you?"

A shift in the air.

The past stirs.

Memories.

The presence of the Mind Flayer slithers into her consciousness, not attacking, but tasting—pulling threads of her past to the surface.

"You know pain, little huntress. You have learned through suffering. You have survived it."

A long, eerie silence.

"But tell me… have you learned to inflict it?"

The words linger, curling around her like a trap.

Xal’Zyress tilts slightly, his form expanding as he presses into her space without moving.

"You were given pain. You were given power in return."

A flicker of psionic energy dances along the edges of her mind.

"Let us see if you are worthy of it."

A pulse of psionic energy ripples outward—and something moves in the shadows.

A Drow is dragged forward.

Not Hruna.

Him.

The one who threatened her before.

The one who looked at her with quiet, smug malice when she was still bound in her cell.

The one who thought himself untouchable.

Now, he is kneeling.

His wrists are bound behind him by an invisible force, his expression one of shick, and anger'

He thrashes—but an unseen force crushes down on him, forcing his head low before the Beholder’s throne.

Xal’Zyress does not even glance at him.

Xal’Zyress’s grin stretches, grotesque and knowing, as his massive eye sweeps over Azalie. His many eyestalks twitch, curling with quiet satisfaction.

"This one..."

His voice drips with mockery, his tone light, almost amused—but the weight behind it is crushing.

"...thought himself powerful. Thought himself untouchable."

A slow, eerie hum vibrates through the chamber.

"He thought he could do as he pleased."

Xal’Zyress’s gaze sharpens—locking onto Azalie.

"And you remember, don’t you?"

The words slither into her skull, curling behind her ears, wrapping around her throat like invisible chains.

"You remember what he promised you."

The Beholder’s many eyes flick toward the kneeling Drow—the one who, just hours ago, had spoken to her through iron bars, his voice thick with amusement. The one who had dragged his fingers along the cell door and whispered vile promises.

"Such cruel little words he spoke. The things he would have done."

A pulse of psionic pressure slams down on the Drow’s shoulders, forcing him lower, making him writhe against the rocky floor. He snarls in his own tongue, cursing, struggling, but the unseen force tightens, grinding him into the dirt like an insect beneath a boot.

Xal’Zyress leans in—not physically, but psychically, his presence pressing against her thoughts.

"And you, little huntress." His voice turns sickly sweet. "You hate him."

The words settle into her bones, like something alive and writhing.

"You want him gone."

A pause. A breath. The air hums with unspoken expectation.

"Then tell me… what will you do about it?"

A sharp pull.

The Drow’s blade jerks free from its sheath, ripped into the air by invisible force. It spins once—twice—lingering just a second too long, a glinting temptation hanging in the unnatural stillness.

Then—it drops.

The blade clatters against the stone at Azalie’s feet.

A gift.

A command.

"Kill him."

The words are not a suggestion. They press into her mind, coil around her fingers, wrap around her heartbeat.

Xal’Zyress does not blink. Does not move.

"You want to. I can taste it."

The kneeling Drow spits blood onto the ground, his dark eyes locking onto hers. Daring her.

He does not beg. He does not plead. Instead—he smirks.

A slow curl of his lip, mocking, hateful.

A final insult slips from his mouth in his own tongue—a reminder of what he would have done, if she had been weaker.

"Do it."

Xal’Zyress’s voice slithers through the silence.

"Or shall I assume that, like all the rest, you are only pretending to be strong?"

The chamber is silent.

The Howlbears are watching.

The Drow is watching.

The Beholder is waiting.

The dagger is at Azalie's feet.

What do you do?

4 minutes have passed

Current Time: 12:58 PM

Date: Eighthday , 28 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 52°

Current Phase: Exploration

Show me who you are

The air in the chamber is thick, humming with psionic energy. The moment stretches, poised on the edge of a blade. Xal’Zyress watches—waiting, calculating.

Azalie’s fingers curl around the dagger before her, its weight cool in her palm. Her gaze flickers toward the kneeling Drow, the one who had threatened her in the darkness, who had whispered promises of suffering with quiet, sickening pleasure.

She lifts the blade, letting it twirl idly in her grasp. Slow. Measured. Not eager, but not hesitant.

Then, she speaks.

“I will take his life for hers.”She nods toward Hruna. “I need her to keep that raging halfling under control.”

Xal’Zyress does not respond immediately. His many eyestalks coil, considering. A single, amused pulse of psionic energy ripples through the room. The words hang—floating, waiting.

Azalie does not lower her chin. She does not cower.

Then, she shifts her focus to the Drow at her feet, her voice smoothing into something colder, sharper.

“But you?” A slow smirk tugs at her lips.“I don’t need at all.”

The Drow glares up at her, fury igniting in his crimson eyes. He shifts against his bindings, straining—but the unseen force that holds him does not yield.

Azalie exhales softly, tilting her head.

“Release his bindings. He should be allowed a chance.”

She waits.

Xal’Zyress’s grin stretches wider.

Then, a slow, deliberate pulse of psionic energy presses down against her mind, like fingers trailing along the edges of her thoughts.

"Ahhhhh… such confidence, little huntress."

A chuckle vibrates through the chamber.

"You would bargain with me? Dictate the terms of my game?"

The Drow stills. The chamber stills. Something shifts.

Then, his voice drops, slithering into every corner of the room.

"No...." long, and drawn out.

The moment collapses.

A sudden, sharp pulse of violet energy rips through the air. The dagger in Azalie’s hand disintegrates—crumbling into dust before her fingers can tighten around it.

The Drow flinches, the force holding him releases in the same instant. He lunges, scrambling to his feet, teeth bared, hands flexing into claws.

Azalie is unarmed.

Xal’Zyress’s voice hums with pleasure.

"You will fight him—hand to hand. And if you do not… I will let Hruna’s blood coat this floor until nothing remains."

He leans closer, his central eye looming impossibly large in her vision.

"And when you are done… I will decide if she lives or dies."

The chamber pulses with tension.

But before Azalie can move—another ripple of chaos erupts.

Dorf Breaks Free

Dorf’s breath hammers in his chest, his pulse thrumming with pure, raw fury. He doesn’t hear the Beholder’s laughter. He doesn’t hear the echoes of the chamber.

All he hears—is Hruna’s pain.

A snarl rips from his throat as he pushes against the two Drow gripping his arms. Their grips tighten, their strength formidable, but not enough. With a ferocious surge, Dorf yanks his arms inward, ripping free as the force of his movement sends them staggering.

His mind sees red.

Dorf swings his arms inward—ready to slam their skulls together, to make them pay for laying a hand on him, for hurting her.

But these are not weaklings. These are killers.

Two flashes of steel.

The first Drow spins with predatory precision, his short sword whipping upward, blunt-side first. The strike catches Dorf clean in the ribs, knocking the wind from his lungs with a dull crack.

The second is faster. A step, a pivot, a flash of silver. The flat of the blade smashes across Dorf’s shoulder, sending a jolt of pain through his arm.

(Dorf takes 5 bludgeoning damage after resistance.)

The Drow regain their footing. They are ready.

And the Beholder?

He is delighted.

The laughter erupts. A deep, guttural, wet sound. Not cruel, not angry—pleased.

"Ahhhhh, YES!"

The air trembles with his delight, his eyestalks writhing, drinking in the chaos like a fine vintage.

"You struggle. You rage. You refuse to be still—just as I wished."

His gaze sweeps across the Howlbears.

And then—a new thought twists through his mind.

"One battle is not enough."

His central eye gleams.

"One test is not enough."

He hovers higher, expanding his presence, his voice vibrating through the chamber like a storm rolling in.

"No. I will see you all. I will judge you all."

The walls pulse, veins of unnatural bioluminescence surging with a slow, rhythmic throb. The air thickens, charged with invisible energy.

Then—movement.

The Drow do not come as prisoners. They do not stumble forward in chains.

They step from the edges of the chamber, emerging from their watchful posts, their presence deliberate, controlled. Predators answering the call of their master.

Each one moves with lethal grace, their hands curling around the hilts of their swords. Blades gleam under the chamber’s eerie glow—sharp, polished, eager.

One for each Howlbear.

These are not captives. These are not fodder. These are Xal’Zyress’s chosen.

They are the ones who marched them here. The ones who shoved them forward. The ones who watched them suffer.

And now, they are here to test them.

Only Azalie’s foe is unarmed. The tormentor who had whispered his threats in the dark. The one she had wanted to kill from the moment she was thrown in that cell.

Only Dorf faces two. The enforcers who had pinned him down, who had struck him.

The rest—Mutt, Orin, Fizz, and Uptharr—each stand across from a Drow warrior, blades in hand.

The chamber tightens with expectation.

Xal’Zyress grins, his many eyes shifting, drinking in the moment.

"Each of you will fight."

"No mercy."

His massive form drifts lower. His voice curls through the chamber like an insidious whisper.

"Win… or die."

His grin stretches, terrible and wide.

"Now—show me who you are."

4 minutes have passed

Current Time: 1:02 PM

Date: Eighthday , 28 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 52°

Current Phase: Exploration

The Clash with the Drow - Round 1

The chamber erupts into chaos. The Howlbears, stripped of their gear, now fight with desperation and fury, snatching weapons from fallen foes, hurling magic, and turning the test into a true battle.

Mutt moves with practiced subtlety, dusting Azalie with resilience, a quiet act of protection unseen by the Beholder’s many eyes. With a smirk, he readies himself.

"Guess we’re done talking, eh?"

His hand disappears down his pants, and with an expert flick, he presses his component pouch into Orin’s hands.

Orin seizes the gift like a drowning man grasping a rope. He quickly assesses the approaching Drow, searching for signs of enhancement or unseen threats, but the only truth is the uncertainty of Xal’Zyress’s game. He knows better than anyone: a Beholder does not play fair.

Then, the battle ignites.

Round 1 Combat Results

A shattering wave of sound erupts from Orin, hammering the Umbral Stalkers—three stagger, suffering 10 damage each, while another reels in pain, taking 19 damage. Orin swiftly steps away, repositioning himself carefully.

The Drow respond swiftly.

A blade bites into Fizzbum, dealing 8 damage, but the second attacker is not so lucky—his weapon clatters to the floor at Orin’s feet. A third Drow lashes out at Uptharr, but the paladin barely acknowledges the attack, his focus solely on the battle ahead.

Dorf, a storm of fury, faces two Umbral Enforcers, each making 2 attacks. Three strikes whistles past harmlessly, but the second cuts across his side for 5 damage—a mere scratch against his unyielding rage.

Uptharr lunges for a fallen sword, his fingers brushing the hilt—only for it to slip from his grasp entirely. The drow smirk, unimpressed.

Fizzbum, already irritated at being struck, throws his arms wide and bellows,

“Get off me!”

A thunderous wave erupts outward, sending two Drow flying backward 10 feet, their bodies slamming against the rocky floor, each suffering 11 thunder damage.

But then—Azalie turns the game on its head.

Vornaath lunges, intent on domination—but Azalie meets his charge, twisting in a fluid motion, using his own weight against him.

He thinks he has her in his grasp.

Then, she whispers, "You think you can have me? How cute."

"Let`s get closer." Azalie leaps and wraps her legs around the Drow, using his stance against him. She drops him onto his back. "Isn`t this what you wanted?" she says delighted to be able to stare into his eyes.

With practiced precision, she retrieves a poisoned bolt from her belt—the same bolt she stole hours ago, waiting for the perfect moment to use it—

She stabs him in the ribs, letting the bolt twist slowly through his flesh.

"Now be a good boy and hold still. I don`t want the poison to travel too fast. I haven`t had enough fun."

Vornaath grunts in pain, suffering 13 damage,

Vornaath snarls through gritted teeth, his breath ragged as pain sears through his side. His lips curl into a bloodied smirk as he slams his forehead into hers, cracking against bone. his defiant headbutt catching her off guard, dealing 3 damage.

"Enjoying yourself, little girl?" he hisses, his voice laced with venom. "Let’s see if you’re still smiling when I’m on top."

Mutt, seeing an Umbral Stalker closing in, shoves him backward with a

growl.

 "That's close enough!" Then, with flair, he snatches up a fallen sword and hands it to Uptharr with a wink.

Dorf, fully unleashed, becomes an avalanche of destruction.

Frost and fury tear through his foes, his Frostclaw Gauntlets raking deep wounds across his opponent, dealing a brutal 26 damage as bloody, freezing gashes rip through the Drow’s flesh.

For a moment, there is only the sound of breathless combat, of metal clashing, of Drow curses and Howlbear defiance.

Then… a chuckle.

A low, slithering sound that wraps around their skulls.

Xal’Zyress hovers forward, his massive eye gleaming with dark delight. His eyestalks twitch, flicking between each of them, drinking in their struggles like a fine wine.

His voice slides into their minds like silk wrapped in steel.

“Ahhhh… now this… this is entertaining.” His gaze shifts to Azalie, his amusement intensifying. “You… you are full of surprises.”

His eyestalks curl in satisfaction as he watches her dominate Vornaath, twisting his own weapon against him, turning his cruel intent into his own downfall.

“A thief of opportunity. A hunter who understands that a predator is only as strong as its prey.”

Then, his focus widens back to the room, his grotesque grin stretching impossibly wide.

“But let us see… how you fare… without your tricks.”

The air shudders.

A pulse of energy ripples outward.

Then, silence.

No crackling magic. No glowing runes. No divine power.

The central eye is open. The Anti-Magic Field takes hold.

“Fight with your hands. Fight with your steel. Show me if you are still worthy… when the Weave abandons you.”

The Howlbears feel it immediately—a suffocating void where their magic should be.

Their spells are nothing now.

And the Drow warriors smile.

Xal’Zyress leans back, his amusement palpable.

“Let us continue.”

1 round has passed

Current Time: 1:02 PM

Date: Eighthday , 28 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 52°

Current Phase: Exploration

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