The Tide of the Trollskull Syndicate

The Trollskull Syndicate had returned to their home at Trollskull Tavern in Nightstone, but rest eluded them. Though the tavern’s hearth still crackled warmly and the ale still flowed, a dark truth lingered like a storm cloud overhead: Queen Sameria, wife of Norbert the Evoker, had been kidnapped and replaced by a doppelganger. The revelation had struck hard and fast, upending what little peace the group had managed to carve out following their recent battles.

The doppelganger Sameria had been clever—subtle enough in behavior to escape notice for a time, but not clever enough to outwit the sharp eyes and arcane minds of the Syndicate forever. It was during their recent travels that suspicions mounted and, ultimately, the truth was uncovered. In the aftermath, Bob retrieved a strange book from the doppelganger’s quarters—filled with cryptic references, dark symbology, and fragmented plans.

For days, Bob and Norbert studied it within while the airship flew towards Irongate. Bob seated in a high back chair scribbling notes with the same precision he used when firing his ranger rifle, while Norbert muttered incantations and translated hidden passages, sweat clinging to his brow. The book was difficult, shadowy in nature, but a message began to form: Varkoth, an ancient and terrible threat, was preparing to strike the kingdom of Arduria.

If Queen Sameria was truly a captive and not dead, then time was of the essence. The journey to Irongate took several days. The airship cut through clouds like a knife, its metallic hull gleaming against the light of a setting sun. Captain Chester manned the helm of the ship, while his first mate Wilbur and the crew worked day and night to make the journey as fast as possible. The Trollskull Syndicate had restless sleep where they could. Norbert barely slept at all. He clutched the Staff of Heroism close, driven by a single thought: Find Sameria. Save her.

Irongate rose from the mountains like a carved jewel, its dwarven walls carved into the living rock of the cliffs. Towers stood watch over narrow bridges, and the great gates opened slowly as the Airshob descended onto a wind-swept landing platform.

Waiting for them was Kimeren Battlearm, a battle-hardened dwarven cleric with auburn braids and eyes like polished granite. She was an old ally of the Syndicate—she had fought beside them during their harrowing confrontation with the vampire queen Faneara. Kimeren wasted no time with pleasantries.

“I haven’t seen King Galgred in three weeks,” she explained grimly as she led them through torch-lit corridors of Irongate. “He sent strange missives. Disconnected thoughts. And now, this morning, he’s stepped down from the throne.”

The group stopped in their tracks.

“Stepped down?” Arace asked, narrowing his eyes.

Kimeren nodded gravely. “Aye. And in his place, he’s named Nernolir Hammerchest as his successor. The vote’s been called. Hammerchest is already consolidating support, and will no doubt be king before the day is out.”

“He’s a plant,” Bob said, voice flat behind his mask. “If Galgred’s a prisoner and Sameria is gone, Hammerchest benefits.”

Morthos spoke next, his bardic magic tingling in the air. “The book we recovered—it connects the doppelgangers to something deeper. A long game. I think the real Galgred may be alive. Hidden.”

Kimeren’s expression darkened. “If they’re being held anywhere in this city... it would be in the old dungeons. King Lygon’s legacy.”

Centuries ago, King Lygon had ruled Irongate with a merciless hand. He’d secretly imprisoned political enemies in a labyrinthine dungeon carved deep beneath the city’s foundations. After his death, the cells had been discovered—filled with bones, remnants of the forgotten. The place was declared sacred, a grim reminder of tyranny and power abused. Still, some dwarves descended each year to pay respects to ancestors lost to those dark halls.

With no time to lose, the Syndicate followed Kimeren down into the depths of Irongate.

The entrance was hidden—behind a weathered mural depicting Irongate’s founding. Kimeren pressed a rune, and a passage creaked open, revealing stairs that twisted downward into blackness. As the group descended, the air grew colder, heavy with the weight of centuries. Faint whispers echoed—some spell residue, or perhaps the memories of those who had died in chains.

Traps greeted them first—arcane wards, pressure plates, and illusionary paths.

“These did not exist here a month ago” said Kimeren “If they have placed these here there is no doubt that someone is trying to keep us from finding what’s below.”

Bob’s keen eye and Honkess’s precise scouting neutralized most threats, while Norbert’s magic disarmed the rest. Blueterion broke through ancient doors with brute strength, while Bob's pass without trace spell kept their moverments quiet and Mortho's magic kept their movements masked from magical surveillance. The team moved like a well-oiled machine, each playing their part.

The carved stone corridor twisted downward like a serpent, the ancient chill of King Lygon’s forgotten prison clinging to the Syndicate's skin. As the party turned the final corner of the winding hall, a dull light flickered in the distance—torches, burning low in rusted sconces.

Then they heard it: the murmur of dwarven voices, low and grim, mixed with the harsher, throatier chatter of duergar. Bob signaled the group to halt with a sharp hand motion. The team crouched in silence behind a collapsed column as the scene unfolded before them.

Ahead, just outside the barred cell doors, stood a small garrison of armored dwarves and gray-skinned duergar—united in purpose, a sight that immediately caused Kimeren’s brow to furrow.

“Duergar and dwarves... working together?” she whispered, incredulous. “That’s... wrong. Duergar were exiled generations ago. This alliance is no accident.”

Among the guards, one duergar loomed tall and stern, his eyes glowing faintly beneath a bronze half-mask—clearly a leader. Near him stood a hulking duergar warrior, already crackling with the energy of his enlargement magic, swelling in height and muscle. And behind them, a dwarf with flaming red tattoos along his arms clutched a focus crystal—a wild sorcerer, judging by the arcane static curling off his hands. A duergar wizard, robed in darkened scales and bearing a twisted staff, stood beside him, eyes narrowed and scanning the passage like a hunting hound.

There would be no stealth. Only blood.

Blueterion stood first, stepping into the torchlight with a thunderous snarl. “You don’t belong here,” she growled, hefting her Hammer of Thunderbolts over one shoulder. “Stand down, or be broken.”

The guards barely had time to react before Bob opened fire with his ranger rifle, the shot crackling with heat as it struck the shoulder of the dwarf sorcerer, staggering him backward. In an instant, the cavern erupted into chaos.

Morthos stepped into view, strumming a sharp chord across his glamoured lute, weaving a spell of Mantle of Majesty. His voice surged over the battlefield, commanding attention—some of the enemy faltered, distracted, bewitched. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he unleashed a Hypnotic Pattern overhead—two of the lesser duergar froze, eyes wide, caught in the spell’s illusory brilliance.

The duergar wizard snarled and countered with a wave of darkness—Black Tentacles erupted from the stone floor, writhing and grasping at the Syndicate. Norbert, caught by surprise, stumbled—but then lifted the Staff of Heroism and, for a moment, steadied himself. The fear that often overtook him ebbed away as the staff pulsed with radiant light. He lifted his free hand and hurled a Wall of Force between the enemy casters and their warriors, briefly dividing their ranks.

Honkess and her drake swooped into the fray from above, wings spread wide in the low cavern ceiling. She fired two precision shots with her ranger rifle—one hitting the enlarged duergar square in the chest, the other slamming into the duergar wizard’s shoulder just as he began casting again.

Kimeren shouted a battle prayer to Xarce and waded into melee beside Arace, who activated the Rod of Lordly Might, its form shifting into a a glowing radiant mace. Arace clashed with a steel-helmed dwarf captain, the ringing of their blades echoing like thunder in the narrow corridor.

Then, Blueterion roared, her rage surged, and lightning danced across her scaled arms. With a mighty leap, she closed the distance to the enlarged duergar warrior, swinging her Hammer of Thunderbolts down in a devastating arc. The blow cracked armor and stone alike, the shockwave tossing nearby enemies like rag dolls. The duergar, though massive, staggered backward, wounded but not fallen.

The dwarf sorcerer retaliated with a fireball, forcing the Syndicate to scatter. The flames roared through the hallway, but Morthos, catching the spell’s shape mid-air, used Cutting Words to twist the energy—and the fireball veered just enough to spare Norbert and Honkess from full blast.

Bob moved through the smoke, switching to his flame brand longsword and engaging a wounded duergar in close combat. His movements were fast and deliberate, blade flashing like a forge fire.

The duergar wizard, bleeding and desperate, attempted to teleport away—but Norbert, confident now, raised his staff and counterspelled the attempt with pinpoint precision. Then, channeling his full power, Norbert unleashed a Chain Lightning that arced through three enemies, leaving smoldering craters in their armor and knocking them to the ground.

With the enemy casters neutralized, Kimeren and Arace advanced on the enlarged duergar warrior. Kimeren brought down her warhammer glowing with divine light, while Arace struck from the flank. Blueterion, eyes wild with fury, brought the Hammer down one last time, and with a bone-jarring CRACK, the duergar crumpled to the ground.

The remaining dwarves, disoriented and demoralized, surrendered. Silence fell once more.

The Syndicate stood among the fallen, breathing heavily. Blood and ash stained the stone floor. The magical darkness faded, and behind the final cell door, they could now hear faint voices… one of them familiar.

Kimeren turned to them, her face grim.

“That was no coincidence,” she said, spitting blood onto the stone. “Someone powerful is pulling strings if the duergar have crawled out of the Underdark and made allies in Irongate.”

Morhtos nodded. “We’ll deal with that later. Right now, we have to get to the King.”

The silence following the battle was heavy, broken only by the soft hiss of scorched stone and the rasping breaths of wounded foes. The Trollskull Syndicate, bloodied but victorious, pressed forward into the lower cell block, where ancient iron bars stretched in mournful rows.

In the final chamber, behind reinforced cell doors etched with the runes of Lygon’s tyranny, they found them.

King Galgred sat slumped against the cold stone, his once-proud crown discarded in a corner like a forgotten trinket. Beside him lay Queen Sameria, her breathing shallow but steady, her eyes fluttering open at Norbert’s voice. But they weren’t alone.

In two adjoining cells, dwarves of noble bearing stirred—Lord Barvek of Clan Embervault and Lady Keldra of Stonehearth—both missing for weeks. Recognized immediately by Kimeren, the implications were clear. These weren’t just prisoners—they were figureheads of Irongate’s most powerful families. Their absence had no doubt been hidden by doppelgangers, ensuring the illusion of unity behind Hammerchest’s ascension.

“By Moradin,” Kimeren whispered, gripping the bars. “They replaced the voices of the noble clans. No wonder Hammerchest had no resistance.”

The group freed the prisoners swiftly, Honkess and Bob working in tandem to disarm the old locking mechanisms. Galgred rose on unsteady legs, still regal despite his wounds, and turned to the Syndicate.

“We have been played,” he said. “If Varkoth placed these fakes among the kings and queens of the eastern Northlands, this isn’t just about Arduria—it’s about conquest.”

Norbert knelt beside Sameria, his hands glowing with soft, healing light from the Staff of Heroism. She took his hand in hers, tears in her eyes.

Galgred continued, eyes grim. “Varkoth means to start a war in Arduria, then use the confusion and betrayal to sweep west, conquering the Northlands one kingdom at a time.”

Then Kimeren delivered the final blow of truth.

“Just days ago,” she said, “the fake Galgred claimed that Ardurian assassins had killed Queen Sameria. He used that lie to rally the war council. Fifteen thousand dwarven soldiers have already begun crossing the mountains—marching to join Varkoth’s assault.”

The group stood stunned. Bob tightened the strap on his rifle. “Then we move. Now.”

The Syndicate, joined by the freed nobles and the true King and Queen, ascended swiftly from the dungeons. But they were too late. As they emerged into the great stone corridors of Irongate’s High Hall, servants and guards parted, eyes wide with confusion and fear. Word trickled through the halls like wildfire: The vote had already occurred. Hammerchest was named King.

“He wasted no time,” Galgred spat, fury burning through his weariness.

They advanced toward the Throne Hall, but the party split as they reached the antechamber. Kimeren, Galgred, Morthos, and Norbert would enter the audience chamber to confront the new usurper. The rest of the group—Blueterion, Bob, Honkess, and Arace—would remain just outside, ready should anything turn.

Kimeren turned back once, eyes meeting Morthos’s.

“If he’s half the traitor we fear,” she said, “he won’t let us walk out.”

The doors opened to reveal King Hammerchest, newly seated atop the Throne of Lygon, clad in regal black armor, surrounded by guards loyal not to Irongate—but to their paymaster. His expression twisted the moment he saw Galgred alive, and Sameria standing behind Norbert.

“You weren’t meant to return,” Hammerchest said, rising. “But no matter. The kingdom is already mine.”

Morthos stepped forward, his lute in one hand, power coiling around him like velvet smoke.

“The mask has fallen, Nernolir,” he said. “It ends now.”

Without another word, Hammerchest raised his hand—and his guards drew steel.

Battle erupted in the chamber, blades ringing against marble, magic flaring like wildfire.

Morthos immediately cast a Major Image, creating a phantom swarm of celestial warriors, throwing several guards into disarray. Norbert fired off a Scorching Ray, striking down one soldier, but he was quickly overwhelmed. A guard's sword slashed across his shoulder—then another—and Norbert crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Beyond the heavy stone doors of the Irongate throne hall, the rest of the Trollskull Syndicate—Blueterion, Bob, Honkess, and Arace—waited in an adjacent chamber carved from solid granite. Though they could not hear the confrontation in the throne room, the tension hung heavy in the air.

Blueterion stood with her massive arms crossed, the Hammer of Thunderbolts resting on one shoulder, her breath steady but shallow. Arace sat in meditation, the Rod of Lordly Might across his lap, its surface faintly glowing with divine power. Honkess idly polished the lens on her rifle. Bob watched the hallway through his mask, silent and unmoving.

Then came the sound. A grinding click.

The door they’d entered through—slammed shut. Behind them, a second door sealed with a metallic groan. Heavy dwarven runes on the walls lit up, and valves in the ceiling hissed.

Water burst into the room.

At first, it was just a trickle. But in seconds, the flow surged to a torrent, icy water cascading from brass vents and pooling rapidly across the floor.

“Trap,” Bob said flatly, rifle already in hand.

“COWARDS!” Blueterion roared, eyes sparking. “You think THIS CAN HOLD ME?!”

The water reached their knees as she planted her feet. The Belt of Cloud Giant Strength shimmered at her waist. Her grip tightened around her hammer, and she swung with all her might at the sealed exit.

BOOM. The impact echoed like thunder. Cracks spiderwebbed across the thick stone.

“Move!” Arace shouted, holding position behind her. “We’ll cover you!”

BOOM. The second blow struck true. The enchanted hammer, charged by rage and strength beyond mortal reckoning, shattered the locking mechanism. With a final CRACK, the great slab of stone door blasted inward and flew off its hinges, slamming into a guard on the other side.

Outside, Hammerchest’s elite guard waited—two spellcasters and a dozen elite soldiers in blackened dwarven plate. Surprise flickered across their faces for only a moment before they raised weapons.

They had expected four corpses, drowned beneath the mountain.

They hadn’t expected a furious dragonborn barbarian with godlike strength.

Kimeren let out a roar and channeled divine power through her holy symbol, casting Revivify even as blood ran down her side from a fresh wound. Her spell sparked with urgency, restoring Norbert just in time for him to raise a Shield as another attack came down.

King Galgred fought like a lion, wielding a ceremonial blade taken from the wall. Though dull, the edge still bit deep—but his old wounds and weeks in captivity left him vulnerable. A crushing blow from a warhammer dropped him to one knee.

Kimeren stood over him, shielding him with her body. The guards closed in. One struck her across the ribs. Another stabbed into her thigh. She was bleeding heavily, near collapse.

Then Morthos acted.

Drawing deep on his reserves, he raised his hand, fingers crackling with psionic energy, and cast Psychic Lance—targeting Hammerchest directly. The magical bolt lanced through the air, invisible but unerring, striking through armor and skull alike.

Hammerchest stiffened.

Eyes bulged.

He collapsed like a felled statue, his crown clattering to the stone floor.

Silence fell in the chamber.

The remaining guards, seeing their master slain and the rightful king still breathing, lowered their weapons. Some fled. Others simply knelt.

As the dust settled, Norbert staggered to Sameria, who caught him with a fierce embrace. Kimeren dropped to her knees beside Galgred, pressing a healing spell into his wounds as tears tracked through the soot on her cheeks.

Morthos stood over Hammerchest’s corpse, the final echoes of psychic reverberation fading from his fingertips.

The throne room stank of smoke and blood—but the truth was revealed. The coup had failed.

Outside the throne room the battle raged on. Before the guards could recover, Bob fired. His ranger rifle ignited with a burst of pressurized flame, and a round slammed into the chest of the first spellcaster—a dwarven pyromancer, who reeled as a second round from Honkess found his heart. Her drake launched forward, winging through the hall, strafing the second spellcaster with acid breath.

That caster—a duergar illusionist—attempted to vanish, but Bob’s next round pierced the center of his mirage, striking the true form. The duergar collapsed, spell incomplete.

The hallway erupted into chaos.

The remaining guards charged, but standing in their path was Blueterion, steam rising from her drenched armor, eyes wild with fury. She howled, raging, and slammed her hammer down on the lead dwarf, sending him flying into the wall with such force the stone cracked.

Arace, stepping beside her, raised his weapon and invoked divine power. The Rod of Lordly Might burned with golden light. He struck, and a Divine Smite surged through two soldiers at once, radiant energy pulsing from the blade and exploding through their armor.

Another squad tried to flank them. Blueterion was faster. She leapt, shoulder-tackled one to the ground, and brought her hammer down in a two-handed arc that collapsed two more under sheer brute force. Steel clanged. Sparks flew. Blood sprayed across stone walls.

Bob reloaded with precision and dropped another crossbowman with a headshot.

Honkess ducked behind a pillar, sniping anyone attempting to cast or coordinate. “Seven down,” she said as she fired another shot "Make that eight".

One elite dwarf attempted to strike Arace from behind. The paladin turned, his shield glowing with Holy Aura, and parried the blow. His counterstrike pierced through the dwarf’s helm, knocking him cold.

Three more dwarves surged toward Blueterion, hoping to flank her.

“BAD IDEA,” she snarled, spinning her hammer in a brutal arc that swept them all off their feet. As they staggered up, Arace raised his weapon in tandem. “Together?” he asked.

Blueterion bared her teeth. “Let’s.”

They moved as one—divine fury and primal rage—and smashed through the final line of elite soldiers like a living battering ram.

When the dust settled, twelve dwarves lay broken, and the two spellcasters were dead.

The floodwater still sloshed underfoot, but the battle was won. Bob signaled for a regroup. Honkess checked her drake’s wounds—superficial. Arace wiped blood from his shield. Blueterion was already pacing toward the throne room, hammer still in hand.

When they burst through the doors, they found the aftermath of another battle—Norbert bloodied but alive, supported by Queen Sameria; Kimeren kneeling beside a grievously wounded King Galgred, and Morthos, standing over the corpse of Hammerchest, his fingers still smoking with psionic energy.

For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then Blueterion grunted. “Next time... maybe keep us in the same room.”

Morthos gave her a tired smile. “You would’ve ruined their trap too quickly.”

Norbert laughed—then winced, clutching his ribs.

But the smiles faded quickly. Outside the city, 15,000 dwarven soldiers marched toward Arduria. Doppelgangers still ruled kingdoms across the east. Varkoth’s plan had only begun.

And the Trollskull Syndicate—bloodied, furious, unbroken—would be the ones to stop it.

The wounded silence that settled over Irongate in the wake of Hammerchest’s death was not celebratory—it was somber, uncertain, and filled with quiet reckoning. King Galgred, draped in fresh bandages and seated in the high seat of the council chamber, did not speak at first. He looked older than he had just days ago, the fire that once defined him now flickering gently behind tired eyes.

When he finally stood, the nobles leaned in.

“I will not return to the throne,” Galgred said. His voice was hoarse but steady. “I was taken, replaced, and manipulated. And though some still support me, doubt will always cling to my name. Irongate cannot have a fractured crown, not with a war looming.”

Gasps swept the chamber. Murmurs of protest swelled, but he raised a hand.

“I serve my people best not as their king—but by ensuring they are led by someone who has earned their trust now, not years ago.”

Thus, for the first time in dwarven memory, the noble houses were summoned again—twice in a single day—to choose a new monarch. The walls of the High Hall echoed with argument and uncertainty.

And then, with a clarity as sudden as a sunrise, a name began to rise from every side of the chamber.

Kimeren Battlearm.

A priestess. A warrior. A daughter of no noble blood, but a defender of Irongate through every crisis. She had unearthed the coup, stood beside the rightful king, and nearly given her life for the realm. And when the votes were cast, they were unanimous.

Kimeren was named Queen—only the second in Irongate’s long and ironbound history.

When she stepped forward to accept the crown, there were tears in her eyes.

“Irongate must be iron not in name, but in unity,” she said. “And I swear by Moradin’s Forge that I will not fail you.”

Queen Kimeren's first act came swiftly. She dispatched envoys by airship—including nobles, clerics, and surviving military leaders—to intercept the 15,000 soldiers already en route to Arduria. These trusted voices would spread the truth: the Queen lived, the King had been rescued, and Hammerchest was a traitor.

“Turn the march from a warpath,” she told them, “into a shield.”

Meanwhile, under the vigilant gaze of the Irongate City Watch, the Trollskull Syndicate began their final task within the dwarven halls—the search of Hammerchest’s private estate.

The manor was lavish but dark, lined with thick tomes and stone corridors etched with ancient runes. It was in the private library, beneath a loose tile, that Norbert found the truth.

Letters, scrawled in a strange, layered hand. Arcane maps, written with mirrored script. And finally, a correspondence between Hammerchest and a construct named only “V.S.”

Norbert paled.

“He’s not even here,” he muttered. “Varkoth’s not in the Northlands.”

Morthos stepped closer. “Then where?”

Norbert spread a map across the table, revealing swirling symbols and planar glyphs. “He’s hiding in the Astral Plane. A place called Jetoya. He’s been using a simulacrum—a magical duplicate—to orchestrate everything from afar.”

“Good thing we smashed his puppet then” said Blueterion.

“We must now smash the real Varkoth, I think I can teleport us there. It can be dangerous going to a place I have never been but I think it is the only way” said Norbert.

“Well then, let’s bloody do it’ said Morthos with dramatic strum of his lute.

They emerged on a floating island, suspended in an endless sea of starlit mist. The city of Jetoya rose around them—twisting towers of silver and quartz, lit by ethereal orbs that drifted like jellyfish. Buildings stood upside down or sideways. Bridges curved through the air with no support. Everything shimmered.

This was Jetoya, a city of displaced sages, planar scholars, and beings who existed outside the boundaries of time and realm.

The Syndicate’s sudden appearance drew glances from robed astral elves, cloaked minders, and strange beings shaped like mirrored glass. Inquiries led them slowly—carefully—toward rumors of a crimson-scaled tyrant who had arrived some months ago. One who took residence in an obsidian tower near the outer edge of the city. One who gathered soldiers, constructs, and planar mercenaries, and spoke only to those who knelt.

A red dragonborn with burning eyes and a command of the arcane so great, his magic lingered in the air like dust. Varkoth was here, and he was waiting.

The city of Jetoya dwindled behind them, swallowed by the chromatic forests of the Astral wilds. The Trollskull Syndicate traveled on foot beneath canopies of gold and purple leaves, the light here neither day nor night—just a constant shimmer of ambient starlight. The air was still, but occasionally strange shapes passed overhead: drifting creatures, floating stones, flickers of memories.

On the second day, as they crossed a valley carpeted in silvery moss, Bob held up a hand and signaled for silence. Voices echoed from over the ridge. Cautiously, the group crept forward and peered down.

An astral airship, its hull gleaming like polished obsidian, was moored in a glade. Around it, a herd of diprotodons—massive, shaggy behemoths—ambled through, ignoring the flustered efforts of two crew members trying to herd them off with shouting and sticks.

Bob lowered his spyglass and grinned behind his mask. “We’re stealing that ship.”

Blueterion flexed. “We’re what now?”

“It’s a pirate vessel,” he shrugged. “And it’s pointed in the right direction.”

With quick planning and quiet movement, the Syndicate crept through the underbrush, bypassed the distracted crew, and boarded the vessel. The gangplank retracted with a metallic groan, and Bob settled into the helm.

“This isn’t like the Airshob,” he muttered, eyeing the shimmering glyphs and floating interface nodes. “But I’ll make it work.”

The ship lurched into motion.

Then alarms blared from above. A sister ship, hovering high in the sky, had spotted the theft. The pirate crew aboard it manned stations and gave chase immediately.

The stolen vessel bucked and weaved as Bob wrestled with alien controls. Crystalline panels shifted beneath his fingers, and magical currents surged through conduits like veins of light.

“Someone figure out the cannons!” he yelled.

Arace, Blueterion, and Honkess scrambled across the deck, finding the cannon controls—rotating platforms infused with planar energy. None of them had ever fired arcane turrets before, but they figured it out quickly enough.

Honkess took the first shot. Her blast of force grazed the pursuing ship’s hull. Bob zigzagged through floating rock clusters as fire bolts and mana-laced projectiles rained down from the pursuing ship.

Blueterion, laughing wildly, launched another blast—this one obliterating one of the pirate ship’s forward turrets.

Bob dipped the ship suddenly to avoid a barrage, and the whole vessel rolled. “Sorry!” he called. “Still getting used to the rudder!”

“WHAT rudder?” Blueterion shouted as she hung onto a rope to stay on deck.

Arace, focusing through the chaos, managed to land a hit that shattered a mid-deck mast on the enemy ship, causing it to list slightly in the air. But the stolen vessel was taking hits too—deck planks cracked, and one of the lower propulsion nodes fizzled out, sending sparks trailing behind them.

Then, on the horizon, Varkoth’s tower came into view—a looming spire of black stone, wrapped in rings of floating arcane satellites.

Bob gritted his teeth. “That’s it. We’re going in.”

The enemy ship accelerated, closing the distance. Flames licked at the rear decks of the Syndicate’s stolen craft. The crew braced.

Bob angled the nose down slightly and, with a furious groan of the hull, landed hard, skidding into a crash field near the tower. The ship shuddered violently, struts snapping and anchors shearing off—but somehow, it held together.

Bob let out a breath. “Might not fly again, but that was a masterpiece.”

Varkoth’s soldiers emerged quickly, summoned by the crash. But the Syndicate slipped away into the shifting shadows of the tower’s perimeter, entering through a service stairwell concealed behind a ruined annex.

Once inside, Norbert cast Fly on himself and Blueterion, and Morthos conjured Bigby’s Hand, lifting himself, Bob, and Arace up to a narrow balcony on the second tier. Honkess soared above them, wings folding as she landed silently on the ledge.

Through a window they entered and stumbled into a small sitting room—lavishly decorated, and occupied by a startled gnome woman.

“Oh! Oh—don’t hurt me!” she squeaked. “Name’s Chloe. Just visiting! I don’t work for him—I was trying to study the architecture!”

She looked nervously at their weapons.

“He’s at the top,” she added quickly, “Varkoth. You’re looking for him, right?”

The group exchanged looks, then slipped out the other door. As they crept down a stone hallway lit by shimmering glyphs, they heard a deep, sermonizing voice echoing from behind a large obsidian door.

“Is that him?” Blueterion asked.

Norbert hesitated. “Only one way to know.”

They opened the door.

And stopped.

Inside stood a Fallen Planar—a being of angelic origin, corrupted and broken. He stood at a pulpit carved from bone, preaching to a massive crowd of monstrous followers—a thousand fiends, warlocks, and aberrant soldiers, seated like a twisted congregation.

The planar looked up. Saw them. Screamed.

“INTRUDERS! SLAUGHTER THEM!”

Norbert panicked—but gripped the Staff of Heroism, planting it like a lightning rod. Arcane power surged through him, and with a trembling shout, he cast Tsunami.

A massive wall of water burst into existence, blasting into the sermon hall and throwing the front rows into chaos. Blueterion and Arace slammed the door shut, bracing it.

“RUN!” Norbert shouted, already stumbling up the spiraling tower stairs. Water began to leak around the doorframe.

The tower shook violently, a groaning, screeching tremor building from its base. They raced higher, feet pounding the steps.

Norbert realized it in a rush of horror—the staff was still channeling the spell. The tower wasn’t just flooded, it was being filled, and the structure was buckling under the pressure.

“We have to get out!” he shouted. “I—The tower’s collapsing!”

A window opened ahead. They dove toward it.

Norbert cast Feather Fall, catching the group in a bubble of slowed descent. Moments later, they landed on the soft Astral soil at a sprint—and behind them, with a scream of collapsing stone and snapping steel—

Varkoth’s tower fell.

A wall of mist and debris rose skyward.

And from the smoking ruin emerged Varkoth.

The red dragonborn, scales scorched, one horn broken, blood running down his side, stumbled into view. His eyes burned with fury and hatred.

His gaze locked on Blueterion.

“You,” he rasped, “should have died as a child. You were never meant to survive. And no one will ever accept you, not with your broken limbs, your shattered voice—”

Blueterion stepped forward, her hammer already crackling with thunder.

“You’re wrong,” she said, voice strong and clear. “They already have. And what you called disabilities—they’ve made me stronger than you could ever be.”

Then she charged.

And with the force of storm and fury, she brought the Hammer of Thunderbolts down on Varkoth—once, then again, and again.

Until he stopped moving.

There was no celebration. Only relief.

With Varkoth slain and his tower reduced to rubble, the Syndicate gathered what remained of their strength. Norbert prepared the Teleportation circle, tracing the runes through fatigue, pain, and rising emotion.

The glyphs lit.

And with a final glance at the ruined island of Jetoya, the Trollskull Syndicate stepped through the veil of planes.

Home waited.