RAVEN'S GAMBIT | Part 9: The Dead Know the Way
The campfire hissed in the crisp morning air outside White Plume Mountain, but the heat did little to prepare the gathering adventurers for the storm barreling toward them.
Seren Willowmere came sprinting from the direction of the plume—sobbing, soaked, smeared with blood not her own. Her eyes wide and haunted.
“HELP! PLEASE!”
Kale Stronemarch was on his feet in a flash, sword half-drawn. Myka Vex stood beside him, already flanking.
Seren reached them, barely able to breathe between her cries.
“The... the damned gynosphinx... Etrusca… she—she killed them! All of them! Jessie, Alyssa, Brother Thamros... Hunter...” She sank to her knees, sobbing. “She said she’d spare me only if I healed her wounds. And I did—barely. But she’s still hurt… she’s still bleeding…”
Kale clenched his jaw, eyes wild with fury. “Then we go now. We cut that beast down.”
A wrinkled hand landed on his shoulder.
Master Oryn Tal, his robes fluttering in the breeze, spoke calmly. “Be mindful of your aggression. Vengeance drives blades dull.”
Kale’s breath shook, but he nodded.
Group Six stood in eerie formation nearby, watching the drama unfold. Most had already prepared themselves. Now, they were eager.
Veyra Mournshade, dressed in violet silks stained at the edges by grave dust, ran a finger over the raven skull in her pocket. She listened. Smiled faintly.
“She’ll be expecting us,” she whispered.
Her companions were creatures of undeath and shadow:
Theron Blackroot, eyes like eclipse-fire, cracking his knuckles as faint trails of black arcane energy danced across his fingers.
Varkul, ghoul-like and sickly, licking dry lips that peeled at the edges.
Morven the Wight, silent, eyes flickering with stolen life.
Khopesh the Mummy, towering and regal, wrapped in age-old fury.
And Skulvyn, the cloaked themohrg, who said nothing—his presence alone causing the nearby camp dogs to whine and retreat.
Torches were lit for those without darkvision, though many of them preferred the gloom.
Without a word, they descended into White Plume Mountain.
The rusted spiral staircase groaned under their weight. Down they went, into the ankle-deep murky corridor, where the stench of mildew, rot, and blood mixed thick in the air. The torchlight flickered on the slick stones ahead—until they reached the chamber where Etrusca waited.
She sat atop a hill of bones that had grown since the last group.
Still licking a bloody wound on her flank, the gynosphinx lifted her massive head, her feline eyes narrowing.
“How many of you are there? ”She sniffed.“ Never mind. What path do you wish to take?”
“East,” answered Veyra Mournshade without hesitation.
The sphinx's fangs glistened as she recited again:
“My creator wants me not, And much in dread will I be bought.
My cold embrace is fiercely fought,Most all who need me know it not.”
There was a moment of silence. A breath held.
Theron Blackroot muttered, “You’d think the survivors would share the answers…”
“I take it,” Veyra said calmly, “if we’re wrong, we become additions to your mound of bones.”
The sphinx didn’t answer with words. Just a slow, savage grin.
“Time’s up!”
She pounced, claws slicing through the air.
Veyra vanished from view beneath the powerful beast.
Theron’s Eldritch Blast struck fast and true, searing her shoulder with shadow-flame. She roared in pain.
Khopesh was upon her next—his massive, linen-wrapped fists cracked against her ribs, and the sickening sound of breaking bone echoed through the chamber.
Etrusca responded with a vengeful claw swipe, tearing into Khopesh’s bandaged side. Dust and dried flesh scattered like ash.
Theron struck again—another blast of otherworldly energy slamming into her flank, the smell of scorched fur thick in the air.
Morven and Varkul circled like predators, ready to strike.
Khopesh raised both fists.
“Return to bones.”
With a deafening crunch, he brought his fists down. Skull met stone beneath the murky water. Brain and bone burst beneath the blow. Etrusca’s body went limp. Her mound of bones accepted her at last.
The room was quiet again.
Blood pooled. Water rippled. A wing twitched—and stopped.
Khopesh, hands still deep in the gore, turned toward the others.
“…Do we still want to go east?”
Back at the surface, Master Oryn sat alone, scribbling new notes into the Great Ledger. His stylus hovered for a moment.
One name faded.
Five more held fast.
He looked up at the mountain.
“…The Gambit continues.”