Rainbows, Nose hairs, and First Mate Curses

Nightstone, though quiet beneath soft spring rain, carried the echo of long-forgotten laughter. Within the walls of the Trollskull Tavern, the Syndicate had returned, not as warriors or adventurers—but as survivors. Norbert and Sameria held hands quietly by the fire, reunited after a year of deception, danger, and plane-hopping peril. The tavern, once meant to host their wedding celebration, now sheltered a group that had weathered a war, defeated an ancient enemy, and brought down a tower by mistake.

They had saved the Northlands. But now, they sat in silence. At one end of the table, Morthos toyed with the strings of his lute, idly plucking a wandering, unresolved melody.

“Maybe it’s time,” he muttered. “Find a new stage. Just me, a tavern corner, and the stories I’ve lived.” Honkess, seated across from him, nodded absently, polishing the edge of her curved hunting knife.

“I never found that damn bow,” she said, her voice soft but determined. “Still think it’s out there somewhere. And I’m going to find it.”

Bob, ever still behind his mask, swirled a glass of milk. I’ve got coin, he thought. Could start a town. A kingdom, maybe. Something worth defending. I think I’ve earned the right to build something real, a place where there would be no evil, everyone would be happy. No matter the cost everyone would be happy.

Blueterion, shoulders broad and armored even at rest, stared into the flames. “Varkoth’s gone,” she said. “There’s nothing left in the way now. I can go home. Finally.”

And Arace, quietest of them all, looked out the window toward the temple square. “I never planned to stay long. My path’s still mine to walk.”

They sipped their drinks in silence, each feeling the heaviness of that truth: the Trollskull Syndicate, for all their victories, had always been temporary. Comrades. Friends. Heroes. But never built to last forever. And then the door burst open. A wind-blown figure stumbled into the tavern—Chloe, the gnome scholar from Jetoya, panting and clutching a damp scroll case.

She didn’t wait to be offered a seat.

“I came from Kaspolis,” she said, “by griffon courier. There’s no time.”

She unfurled the scroll on the table, revealing diagrams of ancient ruins, sigils of binding, and the curling script of Primordial.

“There’s an evil djinn—Johka—he’s found something. The tomb of Infinite Night and Endless Dominion. Within it is a book—a book that lets him anchor himself to this world permanently. Once he has it, not only can we never banish him… he can also bind a demon army to this plane.”

She looked up, eyes urgent. “And once he does, he’ll unleash them on A’riil. He’ll enslave its people.”

The Syndicate exchanged glances. No one moved. The weight of the last year still clung to their bones.

Even Chloe seemed to sense it. “I… I know it’s asking a lot. You’ve done so much already.”

But Bob stood, finishing his milk in a single pull.

“One last mission,” he said. “We do this, and then I’ll fly each of you wherever you want to go. This one… it matters. And no one else can do it but us.”

There was a pause, and some confusion. It was rather unlike Bob, but, one by one, they stood. The next morning, the Airshob launched from Nightstone’s edge, its polished hull gleaming in the dawn. Chester, Bob’s ever-anxious airship steward, was already fretting about logistics.

“We still haven’t replaced Wilbur,” he said. “You remember… the unfortunate cheese incident?”

“I remember,” Bob grumbled. “We’re banning cheese aboard. Just find someone not obsessed with dairy.”

Chester nodded, already flipping through a stack of applications. Hours later, they introduced the new first mate: Titus, a young, sharp-eyed fellow with excellent credentials and, critically, a stated hatred of cheese.

“He’s perfect,” Bob said. “Let’s not ask too many questions.”

Unfortunately, Titus had a crippling phobia of seagulls—a detail that revealed itself as they crossed the Costerian Ocean. A lone gull appeared on the horizon. Titus screamed. And, without hesitation, threw himself off the side of the Airshob.

Chester gasped. “He forgot his parachute!”

Bob sighed. “You had ONE job, Chester.”

They made an emergency stop at Dark Harbour, a grimy, wind-lashed port town with more rats than morals. There, Chester found a new candidate.

“Her name is Elvira,” he said. “She’s a medusa. Keeps her hair tied back. Wears dark sunglasses. Doesn’t like cheese. And not afraid of seagulls.”

Bob raised an eyebrow. “I like her already.”

Elvira boarded, offered a courteous nod, and immediately began issuing crisp, efficient orders to the crew—without turning anyone to stone.

“She is stunning” Morthos muttered, “this voyage might have just become more pleasant.”

With supplies restocked and the wind at their backs, the Airshob rose again, soaring west toward the continent of A’riil.

Below them, the ocean shimmered with light from a twin moon. The crew moved like clockwork. Chester stopped fretting. Even Bob seemed relaxed behind the helm.

The Airshob drifted lazily through the upper ether, golden clouds beneath her hull and the stillness of late morning stretching across the horizon. The crew began to stir, rubbing eyes and nursing hangovers from last night’s awkward tavern songs and lukewarm cider.

When the group awoke in the morning, each member found a strange portrait on their wall. It was a woman of stark beauty and unsettling presence. Her skin was pallid, almost porcelain in tone, contrasting sharply with the deep black shadows that streaked down her face, as if ink or tears had permanently marked her. Her eyes were wide and intense, their shape symmetrical but uncomfortably deep, with a gaze that wass piercing and unreadable. They seem to hold ancient grief, perhaps judgment, or even prophecy—impossible to tell. Her expression wass eerily calm, but not soft; and it left the viewer with a sense that the woman in the portrait was looking at them just as much as they were looking at her. It gave the members of the group the creeps. Honkess touched the painting and found that some sort of black ichor was on her hands. In the end the group got rid of the paintings.

That’s when a strange merchant ship pulled alongside them—long, barge-like, with shimmering sails and a carved prow shaped like a squid with a top hat. Its crew wore flowing silks and strange goggles, and they hailed the Syndicate with gleeful shouts of “⚡BOTTLED LIGHTNING, BEST PRICES EAST OF THE STORMREALMS!⚡”

Bob, Norbert, and Morthos leaned over the rail, intrigued. The bottles crackled visibly—arcs of actual lightning snapping against the glass. Even stranger was the price: nose hairs.

“That’s the currency,” said the merchant, gesturing to a sign. “One jar of lightning for three nose hairs, well-plucked. No clippings.”

Bob shrugged. “Honestly? Seems fair.”

One after another, the three handed over their nasal offerings—Bob stoic, Norbert grimacing, and Morthos theatrically weeping about artistic dignity. Each received a jar of bottled lightning, which they promptly stored in their belts like mystical grenades.

Honkess, feathers bristling with irritation, stood aside.

“I don’t have nose hairs,” she growled. “This is discriminatory commerce.”

Norbert, ever the quiet support, plucked a few more from his already traumatized nostrils and handed them over. “For you,” he winced. She beamed and clutched her lightning bottle like a child with a new toy.

The next morning the group woke up to find the portrait of Mother Fornaut on the wall of their cabins. They had never seen the painting before but somehow knew it to be Mother Fronaut. This was getting strange. Later that afternoon, several crew members fell sick—bad mayonnaise, from a forgotten crate marked “do not eat.” As the afflicted doubled over, groaning, a clumsy midshipman tripped near the helm, bumping into Elvira. Her sunglasses flew off. She caught a glimpse of her own reflection in a polished anchor chain. The result was instantaneous petrification. A stony Elvira toppled over mid-command, arms still frozen in a “you dropped that” gesture.

They made port in a seaside village called Reynolds, seeking medicine, supplies—and once again—a new first mate. In Reynolds, Honkess met an old friend: Ryan Reynolds. He quickly introduced his brother Ryin, his cousin Ryan, second cousin Ryin, and third cousin Ryun. There was also Dan, who smelled like turnips and spoke to trees.

“Why are you all named Ryan Reynolds?” Bob asked.

“To reduce confusion,” said Ryan. “Makes things simpler.” Bob thought that it really didn’t, accomplish that, but all the Ryan’s agreed.

The family shared a tale of Florida, the distant town they once called home—now ruled by Titus, a “hero” who protected the city from bandits… poorly. His daily battles caused collateral damage and rarely stopped the bandits, who always came back for the next “round.”

“Titus and the bandits,” Ryan sighed. “We got tired of the cycle and left.”

Honkess and Blueterion, hearing the chaos wrought on their friend’s hometown, insisted they do something about it. Chester, with remarkable optimism, hired a new first mate: Dirk Blunderbus, a chipper dwarf with a wide grin and an unshakable motto:

“What could possibly go wrong?”

The crew began to loathe him within an hour.

En route to Florida, the ship passed through a rainbow arc, and an inexplicable wave of joy swept across the deck. Crew began to dance. Someone threw glitter. Dirk sang loudly. Unfortunately, Dirk was allergic to glitter. His reaction was swift and dramatic. Within the hour, the Airshob needed yet another first mate.

Honkess scooped up some of the rainbow and tucked it into a jar. “Could be useful,” she muttered.

They landed in Florida, and Chester recruited Squib, a mostly mute man who seemed ideal after Dirk’s nonstop chatter. Squib died immediately, slipping off the gangplank and vanishing into the sea. No one spoke for a moment.

Then Chester muttered, “I’ll find someone sturdier.”

Meanwhile, the Syndicate marched to Mayor Titus’s mansion, where guards denied them entry—until Morthos gave them a dazzling smile and Blueterion cracked her knuckles behind him. The guards opened the door without another word.

Inside, the group overheard a meeting. Titus was planning the next staged robbery, assigning roles to his cronies disguised as “bandits.” A scam. Bob kicked the door open, and Blueterion dragged Titus across his own desk. The fight lasted mere seconds. Titus’s goons were unconscious before they could finish a sentence. He was promptly tossed in the town’s jail.

Florida, finally, was free of its so-called hero.

Back on the Airshob, Chester presented the new hire: Munch, a goblin with aviator goggles and no apparent fear of death.

“I’m the world’s greatest goblin first mate,” he declared.

Bob was skeptical, but Munch knew every control, barked clear orders, and made the ship run smoother than ever.

He also claimed to speak to the Airshob, often having full conversations with the ship, which unnerved the crew.

“He’s weird,” Norbert whispered. “But functional.”

A couple days passed and each morning the portrait of Mother Fornaut returned. It was beginning to be unnerving. They were getting close to Kaspolis and the group was happy that they would soon be at their destination. Bob also seemed to be acting strange. One night, dark clouds rolled in and the ship entered a violent storm.

In the distance: a shape. The Abyss Stalker. Monstrous, void-eyed, colossal. It rammed the ship, tearing it apart. Everyone died. Then, with a gasp—they woke up.

“Is something wrong” Elvira asked? Morthos looked at the woman laying in his arms, he was most happy that she had not died.

“Just another one of Bob’s dreams” said Morthos. He looked over at the wall and smiled and least the creeping painting was no longer there.

Everyone looked at Bob. He shrugged. “I honestly don’t know why you keep getting pulled into my dreams” he said. Then Norbert noticed the painting on the wall, the portrait of Mother Fornaut hung in Bob’s cabin.

“Who is that demanded

“That’s… my mother,” Bob said simply.

Silence. The group exchanged glances. Something was wrong. And it was getting worse. Whatever was happening inside Bob’s head—it wasn’t over. And it was following them.

The Airshob touched down smoothly on the warm grass outside the city of Florida. It was quiet—peaceful, even. Honkess rushed off first, reunited quickly with her old friend Ryan Reynolds and his extended, confusingly named family. To her relief—and Bob’s—everything was fine. The chaos in Florida had been just a dream, another bizarre twist in the strange web of Bob’s subconscious. The air was clear, the people were happy, and Ryan greeted Blueterion with the same enthusiasm.

Yet as the Syndicate departed again, bound for their final destination, a quiet tension crept into the air.

The city of Kaspolis rose on the southern horizon like a jewel of polished obsidian. With over a million souls, its streets buzzed with endless life. Temples and towers vied for skyline dominance. Steam cars and spell-barges glided down wide avenues. The city was an impossible sprawl of ambition.

It took them a day of whispers and gold-laced bribes to locate Johka’s manor—a brutalist arcane fortress of black stone and silver glass tucked into a shaded district above the Garden Quarter. The group scouted from across the street, cloaked in enchantments, arguing over approach.

Then, to their surprise, Johka emerged. Tall, ruby-skinned, wrapped in gold-threaded robes, the evil djinn lord strolled with effortless arrogance. His burning eyes locked on Morthos, and his face lit up with recognition.

“I saw you perform once,” Johka said with a voice like warm coals. “In Northwind. Years ago. Your voice lit that night brighter than the moon.”

Morthos smiled. “Still got a few songs left.”

“Come,” Johka said. “Perform for me tonight. For my inner circle. It will be... private.”

That evening, the Trollskull Syndicate entered Johka’s estate under moonlight and pretense. The manor was lavish—floors of living crystal, hovering servers pouring shimmering wine, food enchanted to rearrange its flavor mid-bite. Johka’s inner circle of demonic nobles and cultish bureaucrats filled the room with laughter and menace. Morthos took center stage in the lounge. His lute glowed faintly as he sang, weaving a spell of stillness and wonder. Meanwhile, Bob and Honkess slipped into the shadows, moving room by room until they reached Johka’s office. There, amidst strange maps and flame-dusted books, Honkess found a hidden compartment beneath a drawer. She reached for it—click. The air shimmered. A pulse of light flashed across the house.

Johka’s eyes went hard in an instant. He stood. “We have thieves.”

The air rippled with heat. Fire exploded in the main hall as gates opened mid-air, spilling forth demons of claw and brimstone. Winged fiends dove from the ceilings. Flame hounds burst from summoning circles. And Johka rose above them all, his body glowing with divine hatred, crackling with lightning and sandstorms.

The Syndicate drew weapons. Blueterion charged, hammer swinging wide, knocking two flame-touched berserkers into columns with a single blow. Arace called on the divine might of his god, his Rod of Lordly Might glowing as it smote a boneclaw in half. Norbert, eyes wide with fear, teleported away, leaving the others behind.

The group fought on. Honkess and Bob, rejoining the fray, fired bolt after bolt from their rifles, dropping infernal horrors even as wounds mounted. Morthos, still standing on stage, shifted from song to spell, unleashing psychic daggers and illusions that shattered the minds of lesser demons. But it was a losing battle. For every fiend that fell, another took its place.

Back on the Airshob, Norbert found Elvira. “I need your help,” he said. Norbert explained his plan and Elvira agrred to help. Back in the manor, the Syndicate fought in blood-soaked ruin, armor cracked and magic drained. Then, with a flash of light—Norbert reappeared.

“DON’T LOOK!” he screamed.

From behind him, Elvira stepped forward. The moment Johka turned to face her, she pulled off her glasses. Their eyes met. The djinn screamed, his skin turning to cracked ash, then stone, the roar of ancient rage frozen in time. Silence fell. The battle was over. They began to relax, tending wounds, recovering breath.

Then Morthos looked around. “…Where’s Bob?”

They sprinted back to the den. The drawer was smashed. The Tomb of Infinite Night and Endless Dominion was gone. Honkess was already moving. “Tracks. Out the back. He’s heading for the Airshob.”

Norbert wasted no time. He cast Teleport again—and moments later, the group appeared just outside the rising airship, Bob sprinting toward it, book in hand.

“Bob!” Morthos yelled.

Bob froze. “You can’t take that book!” Norbert shouted. “We have to destroy it!”

Bob turned, furious. “That book is power. It’s knowledge. I’ve earned it!”

“Then prove it,” Honkess said. “Prove you're more than this.”

Bob stared at them. Then, with an angry snarl, he tossed the book high into the air. Norbert raised his hand. Disintegrate. A bolt of light struck the tome, and it vanished in a flash of golden ash.

Bob’s shoulders sagged. “You betrayed me,” he muttered. “All of you.” He climbed aboard the Airshob. Elvira didn’t follow.

Chester, nervously checking the damage, looked to Bob.

“So… uh... new first mate?”

Bob growled. “Just fly.”

The ship lifted and disappeared into the clouds.