The Audience with Xal'Zyress continues

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Round 2 - The Tide Turns

Pit of Maleficence

I'll show you waste

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Round 2 - The Tide Turns

The chamber erupts in a frenzy of motion—blades flashing, bodies twisting, the air thick with the scent of blood and the ozone crackle of magic.

ORIN:

Orin grabs the sling from Azalie's hair as she struggles with Vornaath, and several sling stones. He then retreats to a safer position.

Suddenly, A sling stone whistles through the air, striking an Umbral Stalker squarely in the back of the head with pinpoint accuracy. The impact is brutal—bone cracks, and the Stalker staggers , clutching its head. (10 damage, critical hit.)

But the Stalkers do not hesitate.

DROW COUNTER ATTACKS:

One of the Umbral Stalkers lunges toward Mutt, its blade a blur of dark steel, but the bard twists away just in time.

A second Stalker moves in low and fast, slamming into Mutt’s legs and sending him crashing onto the cold stone floor.

Before he can recover—pain.

A third Stalker drives a blade deep into his side, twisting it viciously. Mutt gasps, blood staining his tunic. (18 damage.)

The Brutal Grapple – Azalie vs. Vornaath

Vornaath snarls, his eyes wild with rage and humiliation. He grabs a fistful of Azalie’s hair, yanking her head forward before driving his forehead into her nose. (9 damage.)

"You like playing rough? Let’s see how much you can take!"

he hisses, before smashing his forehead into her skull again. The impact rings out like a drumbeat. (6 damage.)

Dorf Faces the Enforcers

Dorf, locked in a brutal melee, dodges a wild swing from one Enforcer—but the second drives a blade into his shoulder. The impact barely registers through his rage-fueled haze. (10 damage, halved to 5.)

"Stubborn little beast—I`ll carve the fight out of you!", "You should’ve stayed on your knees, surfacer!"

The second Enforcer strikes in kind, the first swing misses, but the second grazes Dorf, barely harming the raging halfling! (5 damage, halved to 2)

"Break, damn you!", "Let’s see how long that rage keeps you standing!"

Uptharr Strikes Back

Angrily

Uptharr grips the Drow short sword tightly, his expression grim as he steps forward into the fray. With a swift, precise swing at the nearest Umbral Stalker, he growls—

"Let’s see how you like your own steel, you shadow-crawling bastard!"

Snarling, Uptharr twists the stolen short sword in his hands and delivers a furious two-hit combo, cutting deep into a Stalker’s side. (10 + 12 damage, killing the stalker.) The Drow chokes on blood, collapsing at Uptharr’s feet.

Fizzbum’s Transformation

Fizzbum snarls, starting out high pitched and grumbling to a deep roar—his form warping, limbs twisting—until he crashes onto all fours as a massive crocodile! His jaws snap toward a nearby Drow, his jaw snaps closed, nearly biting the Drow Stalker in half, dealing 9 damage, Killing him!

Azalie’s Ruthless Precision

Azalie doesn't have the time to think about how bad her face is hurting. Her eyes blurred, his eyes fearful.

She leans in, dragging her tongue across her own blood smeared on his forehead, tasting iron and victory. A wicked smirk plays on her lips.

"Was it as good for you as it was for me?" she says right before she flips him into the green liquid

Using the Drow’s own weight against him, she wrenches free and hurls him into the sickly green lake beneath the Beholder. She really hopes it's the excrements from the Beholder. He deserves to drown in a lake of shit.

Vornaath screams in agony as his body starts being disintegrated in the Pool of Unmaking

The Pool of Unmaking

A grotesque sizzle fills the chamber as the Pool of Unmaking churns violently. The bubbling green liquid lashes up like grasping fingers, dragging Vornaath in.

He screams.

The liquid starts eating away at his flesh —

He thrashes, howling, as acid consumes him. (25 damage.)

Azalie’s Killing Blow

She sees Mutt falling but knows he will be ok. She bolts forward, her spell already forming on her lips. With a few subtle words, her Hunter's Mark latches onto him just as she does.

"Hands off the halfling!"

Her eyes wide and smile sharp. She yanks the bolt from the wound twisting it just enough to turn the next strike into a killing blow. He collapses at her feet. He falls to her side as looks into Hruna's eyes.

His body goes stiff. His eyes roll back.

He collapses. Dead. (28 damage, critical hit.)

Azalie pulls the bolt "You`re not as fun as Vornaath."

Mutt staggers to his feet, coughing blood.

He glares at the Drow who stabbed him.

"Nobody makes me bleed my own blood."

Then, with a savage grin, he rams a stolen Drow blade deep into his attacker’s side. (10 damage.)

Dorf, still locked in brutal combat, unleashes a flurry of furious blows.

His Frostclaw Gauntlets rake across the Enforcer’s body in rapid succession—three brutal hits.

(33 damage total.)

The Drow barely has time to scream before Dorf rips him apart.

He crumples, lifeless.

The chamber shudders.

A deep, reverberating pulse rolls outward from Xal’Zyress, an unseen force pressing into the minds of all present.

The fight does not stop because the Howlbears will it.

It stops because Xal’Zyress wills it.

Those still standing feel it first—a sudden, suffocating weight pressing into their limbs, slowing their movements. A silent, implacable force holds them in place.

Not paralysis. Not a spell.

Just power.

The Pool of Unmaking churns hungrily.

Vornaath convulses as his flesh peels away in sickening, wet strips. His body dissolves in layers—skin, muscle, sinew, bone—until nothing remains.

And then—

The Beholder laughs.

It is a deep, rippling sound, a wave of amusement that slithers through the air and into their skulls.

"Ahhh… such passion. Such delightful carnage. How utterly… entertaining."

His eyestalks twitch, shifting unpredictably, his grotesque grin widening.

"You surprise me, little ones. I did not expect you to be so… vicious."

His gaze drifts to Azalie.

"And you…"

One of his eyestalks curls downward, scrutinizing her like an insect under glass.

"You waste nothing. A stolen bolt, a broken man, a promise of blood. You are… efficient."

The last remnants of Vornaath disintegrate, his existence reduced to nothingness.

The air thickens.

The weight in the room presses heavier, a silent reminder that their victory was allowed, not earned.

Then—

A shift.

A single movement.

Azalie steps forward.

She does not kneel.

She does not break.

She speaks.

"Master, if you wish, I will cover her.", as she looks at Hruna

She does not address him only with her mouth.

She speaks directly to his mind.

She waits for him to respond.

Her cloak is already in her hands, the hidden potion nestled within.

Her eyes lock onto the Drow, watching for the first flicker of movement.

If they strike—so will she.

She glances at the warriors, her voice curling into something sharp, venomous.

"I could go three for three."

The chamber holds its breath.

For a long moment, Xal’Zyress says nothing.

Then—

He grins.

His eyestalks coil and uncoil, his massive eye narrowing.

"So bold."

His voice is both mocking and approving, twisted into something unreadable.

"And yet, for all your sharp words, you are still in my hall, still alive because I allow it."

His gaze drifts—slow, deliberate—across the Howlbears.

Then, with no more than a flick of his mind—

The force holding them eases.

The Drow warriors do not move.

They await his judgment.

Xal’Zyress’s eye narrows.

His grin widens.

"Cover her? You wish to keep her?"

His gaze shifts, piercing into Hruna. The dwarf stiffens under the weight of it.

"Very well."

Xal’Zyress’s massive eye lingers on Hruna for a long, unsettling moment before shifting to Uptharr.

His smirk widens.

"She will be yours."

A beat of silence.

"But I will take something in return."

The weight in the room increases, suffocating, inevitable.

"You will give me the paladin."

The words hang in the air, settling like a cage around them.

Dorf tenses, rage bristling beneath his skin.

Mutt’s mind races, calculating.

Orin’s breath catches, a warning forming— but Uptharr steps forward.

His expression is calm. Steady.

"If this is what it takes, then so be it. But—"

He lifts his chin, standing firm.

"I have one condition."

The moment the words leave his lips, a sharp, resonating pulse hums through the chamber.

Xal’Zyress’s eyestalks twitch.

A slow, deliberate ripple of amusement slithers into his voice.

"No conditions."

The weight around Uptharr doubles. His body locks in place, muscles straining under invisible pressure.

Xal’Zyress drifts forward, close enough that the rancid heat of his breath touches skin.

"I do not hear the voice of a potential slave."

The grin stretches wider, obscene.

"Your companions will decide."

The air tightens around them all.

"One minute."

The hum grows sharper. The Pool of Unmaking bubbles hungrily.

"Or I execute them both."

What do you say to Xal'Zyress?

The choice is theirs.

2 rounds have passed

Current Time: 1:02 PM

Date: Eighthday , 28 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 52°

Current Phase: Exploration

Pit of Maleficence

Azalie crouches over Hruna, draping her cloak protectively before rising to her feet. She moves with deliberate care, her steps light as she tiptoes toward the dissolving remains of Vornaath.

"Yes, Master, you are right. I am efficient."

Her voice is measured, smooth—though her mouth is painfully dry. She keeps her gaze locked on one of the lesser eyestalks, knowing better than to meet Xal’Zyress’s central eye directly.

"You offer us another choice? But we both know the truth—you do not need us to call out what is already yours. Even my lesser self understands that we belong to you."

She hopes that was the right play. A single crack in her voice could cost them everything.

Azalie drifts toward Uptharr, resting a hand on his shoulder before rapping her knuckles against his chest.

"But why waste him here? Why not test him on the surface?"

Her voice is smooth, but there’s a faint tension beneath the words. She swallows, forcing herself to stay steady.

"A paladin, carrying out your will, under the open sky. Surely, you could think of a more… creative way to make him suffer?"

She hesitates for the briefest moment. Had she gone too far?

Azalie exhales softly and takes one last gamble.

"You have allowed us to live. Let us rest—and we will fight for your amusement again. It is far more entertaining when the prey can fight back, is it not?"

She can hardly believe the words leaving her mouth. Her friends mean everything to her. A familiar pull coils around her, tightening like a noose, but she forces herself to remain open—ready to be tested, to be weighed.

She waits.

And prays she said enough, or too much.

The chamber stills.

The weight of Xal’Zyress’s will presses into the air, thick as stone, sharp as glass. The psychic presence coils around their minds—not as an attack, not yet, but as a reminder. There is no power here but his.

And then—laughter.

Not the cruel amusement from before. This is deeper. Hungrier.

"Amusing, isn’t she?"

The words slither out, smooth as poison. "So eager to please… so desperate to bargain. Ahhh, but I do love it when they know their place… and yet still think they can change it."

A pulse ripples outward. Not an attack. Not a threat. Just pressure.

"I have decided."

The words roll through their minds, calm and absolute.

"You will all leave. Even the paladin. Even the dwarf."

A pause. A cruel, knowing silence.

"But you will not leave for the surface."

The weight in the room shifts—a tightening coil, a snapped leash.

"No, no, no, no…" The voice ripples with something like amusement, twisting, dragging itself through the air. "You do not crawl back into the light—not yet. Not until you have proven yourselves worthy."

The Beholder drifts forward. The ruined remains of Vornaath hiss and dissolve into the Pool of Unmaking below. The bubbling mass below hungers.

"I have a task for you."

His eyestalks twist, angling downward.

"Below this lair lies a pit… a place of echoes and ruin, of power lost and waiting to be claimed. In the depths of that place slumbers an artifact—one I desire."

Silence. The chamber holds its breath.

"Retrieve it for me."

A long, deliberate pause.

"Or die screaming. Either outcome is… acceptable."

The weight in the chamber intensifies. The walls pulse. The stone itself seems to shudder, as though listening. Waiting.

"This artifact once belonged to a Beholder Tyrant. Its purpose is forgotten, its power undetermined. But I know this: the thing that guards it… is not forgotten. And its power is absolute."

An eyestalk drifts lazily toward Azalie.

"You asked for entertainment. You asked for the prey to fight back. Very well."

A hum of satisfaction slithers through the chamber.

“Let us see if the huntress is still the hunter…when the prey is already dead”

A deep, suffocating silence follows.

Then, a final, simple command.

"You will go now. The pit will take you. And should you return…" A thoughtful pause. "Mmmh… I suppose we shall see if there is anything left of you to return."

The ground beneath them shudders.

Something moves.

The air hums with power as Xal’Zyress drifts back, his gaze never leaving the Howlbears. Behind him, the obsidian wall shudders, then splits with a deep, reverberating thrum.

Cracks of violet energy crawl across its surface, unraveling ancient runes that flicker and fade, peeling away like dying embers. The darkness beyond yawns open—a swirling void of shifting green and purple light. A wave of stale, unnatural air spills into the chamber, thick with an eerie, whispering presence.

Xal’Zyress does not turn.

"This is your path," the voice presses into their minds. "The only one."

The runes along the passage’s edges pulse

The way is open.

The beholder drifts back slightly, his eyestalks twitching in amusement. The passage behind him remains open, the swirling void of the Pit whispering its silent promise.

"Ahhh… but you are ill-prepared. Stripped. Defenseless. That would not be entertaining at all."

A pause.

His massive eye narrows.

"Some of what was taken from you will be returned. Just enough to survive… or at least to make your failure interesting."

A ripple of unseen force spreads through the chamber. From the southern passage, a Mind Flayer glides forward, its movements unnervingly smooth. Two large chests hover in front of it, held aloft by an unseen psionic grip. With a flick of its tendrils, the chests slam to the ground with a resounding thud.

The lids creak open

(Items in the chest have been returned to your inventory)

Inside, several of their weapons and magical equipment rest in the dim light—familiar, yet incomplete. Some pieces are missing, deliberately withheld. Xal’Zyress has decided what is necessary—and what is not.

Then, his gaze drifts to Azalie.

"Where is your pet, ranger?"

The voice presses into her mind, cold and invasive.

"I know it lurks in my halls. Call him to you. His fate is bound to yours."

The weight of his words lingers—there is no choice. If Mellon still lives, he will be found. He will be part of this.

Xal’Zyress watches, his jagged maw stretching into something like a grin.

"Now, take what is given… and enter."

What do you do?

10 minutes have passed

Current Time: 1:12 PM

Date: Eighthday , 28 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 52°

Current Phase: Exploration

I'll show you waste

The chamber hums with a lingering tension. The battle is over, but the war of wills continues.

Azalie stands motionless, assessing the situation. The Beholder seems pleased—pleased with her, with her submission. If he knew the truth, if he sensed even a hint of deception, he would crush them all, turning their insides into their outsides without a second thought.

Her gaze flickers toward the open chest, its gleaming contents catching the dim light. Weapons. Weapons they could use to escape. But she knows the truth—they don’t stand a chance against the floating, bloated monstrosity. Still, the thought lingers. The thought of making him pay.

Her mind twists, reshaping itself into violent imaginings. Dorf, launching through the air, his fury unchecked. She pictures him landing atop one of the Beholder’s writhing eyestalks, his small but powerful hands wrenching each one from its base, tearing them free like roots from scorched earth. What a sight that would be. A gruesome, glorious spectacle.

Dorf kneels beside Hruna, his calloused hands trembling as he helps her sit upright. He gently wraps his arms around her, offering whatever meager comfort he can.

“Fizz,” he calls over his shoulder, voice low and urgent. “Can you please bandage up her worst wounds, my friend?”

His eyes flick toward Xal’Zyress, and though he keeps his tone measured, there is no disguising the weight behind his words.

“I’ll go find your artifact for you.” He exhales sharply. “Can I ask a question before we go? Have you sent anyone else on this quest?”

The Beholder drifts forward, eyestalks twitching.

"Many."

The response is eerily calm, laced with something unreadable.

"Some were my enemies, some my servants. Each was promised a prize for their success. None returned."

A lingering silence follows, thick and oppressive.

As the chests open, Orin kneels to gather what has been returned. His fingers tighten around the worn leather of his mentor’s codex, and he exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The weight of loss is heavy, but the relief of recovery is heavier.

He turns to Azalie, her silhouette sharp against the glow of the pit.

“I believe this is yours,” he murmurs, offering back the sling and stones. “Thank you. It served me well… better than expected, actually. Perhaps I should fashion one of my own.”

But his thoughts drift to the descent ahead, to the whispering abyss that now calls to them.

"If we are to descend further yet, I think we need time. If we collapse from exhaustion before we reach the artifact, then we will have failed before the trial even begins. Perhaps we can leave this place and find somewhere to gather ourselves?"

The words barely leave his lips before Xal’Zyress chuckles—a dry, dissonant noise that grates against the mind.

"Rest?"

The word drips with amusement.

"If you collapse before you reach your goal, then you were never worthy of it."

His grin stretches wider, as if savoring the thought.

"Find your strength, mortal. Or let the Pit devour you."

Mutt seethes. His grip tightens around the hilt of the Drow short sword, but the fury burns deeper than the wounds across his body. He presses a hand to his chest, wincing as he pulls it away, stained with blood. With a muttered word, his wounds knit together, but his rage does not abate.

This was needless. A waste of life, of effort. None of the Drow had to die.

He sheathes the short sword with a sharp movement and kneels beside the fallen Drow at Uptharr’s feet.

“What a fucking waste,” he mutters, reaching to pilfer what he can from the body.

Then—Mutt lifts the dead Drow’s head by the hair, turning it toward the remaining warriors still standing.

“This is what you serve for? To have your lives thrown away for nothing? Do you truly value your lives so little?” His voice is sharp, cutting through the silence. “None of this was necessary. Nobody had to die here.” He lets the head drop with a sickening thump.

Then, he turns his glower upon the Beholder.

“Fuck you for throwing their lives away.”

A breath.

“And fuck you again for thinking you can throw ours away.”

He strides toward the chests, snatching up his crossbow, bolts, and bag of holding.

“I’m going to help find your artifact,” he says, his voice low, simmering. “But I’m doing it for them.”

He gestures toward the Howlbears.

The silence is deafening.

Then—Azalie moves.

“Mutt!” The urgency in her voice is sharp, like the edge of a drawn blade. “Can you wait until we are out of this lair?”

She knows better than to tell the Beholder anything. Nothing will displease the floating monster more than that.

Shaking off the unease, she gathers what remains of her gear, then turns her attention to her bloodhawk.

“Mellon, come here.”

She watches as the bird flutters into the lair, landing where she needs him.

“Yes, Master,” she says smoothly, her voice practiced. “I wasn’t sure where my bird went. Thank you for pointing him out.”

Her words fall into an abyss of stillness.

Then… the Beholder laughs.

Not the mocking, indulgent laugh from before. Something deeper. Darker.

A weight presses into their skulls—a quiet, terrible thing, like the whisper of inevitability.

"Waste?"

The word is slow, measured.

"No, little bard. Let me show you… waste."

The Mind Flayer shifts from the shadows, its clawed fingers flexing as it turns toward the southern passage. It does not speak, does not need to. It merely calls.

The Drow stare coldly at Mutt, they do not speak, they wait with stoic expressions on their faces.

minutes later—three dwarves are dragged into the light.

Their chains rattle, their feet stumbling as they are forcibly pulled forward by unseen force. Their eyes widen at the sight of Hruna—alive, free.

And for the briefest, foolish moment… they hope.

Hruna chokes on her breath. “No—”

A beam of energy lances forward.

The first dwarf barely has time to scream before his body disintegrates, turning to dust in mere seconds..

Hruna lurches forward with a strangled cry, her eyes wild with desperation. Dorf catches her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, holding her firm—holding her back from a death she cannot stop.

Another beam lances forward. Another life turned to dust.

Uptharr stares in horror, his fists clenched. “Please—no! Let them go!”

He steps forward, but his body suddenly jerks upward.

Xal’Zyress’s telekinetic grip crushes him in place.

"Be silent, Paladin."

Uptharr gasps as he is lifted higher, struggling against the invisible force. The Beholder drifts closer, his grin curling.

"Your god is not here. Your god does not care."

The third dwarf is left kneeling, trembling, his face twisted in terror. Xal’Zyress waits.

He delights in the silence.

Then, he turns his massive eye upon Mutt.

"Shall I waste another?"

His eyestalks twitch toward Hruna. Toward Uptharr.

The moment stretches.

Then, finally—he releases his hold on the paladin, letting Uptharr drop unceremoniously to the floor.

The Beholder drifts back, his appetite for cruelty sated.

"If you have nothing else to say… then enter the pit. And prove yourselves."

The chamber groans as the eldritch seal behind him slowly pulsing with energy revealing the of the Pit of Maleficence.

It yawns open. Beckoning. Waiting.

10 minutes have passed

Current Time: 1:22 PM

Date: Eighthday , 28 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 52°

Current Phase: Exploration

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