RAVEN'S GAMBIT | Part 11: The Echoing Accord
The foul cavern stank of sulfur and scorched hope as Lira Valesong crouched at the ledge's edge, staring out over the bubbling mud pit. The air shimmered with heat. Chains groaned in rhythm above the boiling abyss.
Behind her, Agent Marcus Virelli holstered his revolver with a slow, final snap.
“I count twelve disks,” he muttered, “and no safety net.”
“We're down to two,” Lira whispered, voice hollow. “Too many have died already.”
Marcus nodded, staring out at the chasm. “We did our part. Time to regroup. Recharge.”
Lira turned, eyes still moist with grief. “You sure?”
Marcus gave her a sideways look; the weariness etched deep in his jaw. “I don’t retreat. I reassess. Let’s go.” But they were locked in. The undead looking creature had sealed the door after they came through. They would have to wait for backup, or venture on alone.
In another stretch of the twisting mountain, Group 4 stood at the edge of the same cavern—mud churning below, disks swaying above—but their situation was worse.
Two of their members had already been blinded by previous traps. The rest looked nervously at the distant platform and the steep drop between.
“No rope,” muttered their scout, grim-faced. “No room for error.”
“If we try this blind and fall,” said their cleric, “we’ll be feeding that pit something warm and screaming.”
No one argued.
They turned back, blinded and sighted alike, slipping into the stone corridors—defeated, but alive.
Water trickled around their boots as Group Six stood in the now-silent chamber once ruled by the slain gynosphinx, Etrusca.
Skulvyn growled low. “This would make a good forward camp—if not for the damned flooding.”
Varkul shifted uncomfortably, chewing the edge of a soaked sleeve. “I can smell her bones. So many.”
Theron Blackroot, his fingers crackling faintly with residual energy, nodded toward the exit. “We should send word. Let them know we’ve cleared the area of the beast.”
Morven gave a slow nod. “And mourn our leader, Veyra Mournshade. She died well.”
“Death is not the end,” Skulvyn whispered.
Theron glared. “Not for you.”
Two members of the group departed swiftly, sloshing back through the flooded halls to deliver word of their victory—and their leader’s death.
The sun had long dipped below the horizon when Groups reconvened outside the cursed slopes of White Plume Mountain.
Stories of riddles, mimics, blindness, and death were exchanged in hushed tones around flickering torches.
A consensus was reached: a new party would be formed—one of strength, resolve, and desperate necessity.
Guided by the runners from Group Six, Group Seven arrived in full force—thirteen strong, composed of knights, undead, mystics, and noble blood.
At the forefront rode Lady Vexa Andros, calm and commanding beneath her silver-crested helm. “You’ve cleared a path,” she said to Theron Blackroot, bowing slightly. “Let us carry the torch forward.”
Theron raised a brow. “Hope it doesn’t burn out in the tunnels.”
Beside her stood:
Sir Cedric Lightbringer, shield raised, muttering a prayer to purge the darkness.
Veronica “Vee” Sinclair, adjusting her jacket with practiced flair.
Deputy Mercy Whitlock, cold-eyed and steady.
Elowyn Mosswhisper, communing with a fern growing from the rock face.
Lysara Dawnveil, radiant with divine light.
Varkul, now bolstered by allies who did not flinch at his appearance.
Talen “Whisper” Marr, checking his bandolier of traps and tools.
Togashi Norimasa, silently observing, breath even.
Hachiro Noboru, blade resting calmly in its sheath.
Shino of the Whispering Leaves, eyes closed, lips whispering to spirits.
Skulvyn, trailing behind like a shadow with teeth.
Theron Blackroot and Morven, their undead stillness now surrounded by wary but willing companions.
Lady Vexa turned to the group. “We take the west corridor. We finish what they started.”
White Plume Mountain groaned again—almost welcoming them.
Into the rusted spiral depths, they descended once more, the flicker of torches and radiant auras bouncing off the black water.
Each step forward was not just for treasure or glory now.
It was for vengeance.
And the mountain would tremble in their wake.