"The wraith had plans to drag me into a secret basement beneath the mansion," Alex began, his voice calm but tinged with an undercurrent of weariness. "Or at least it tried." He leaned back slightly in his chair, the weight of his recounting settling over the table like a dense fog.
Amanita and Shadowheart sat across from him, their expressions fixed in quiet intensity. Shadowheart’s hand rested unconsciously on her mug, her grip tightening as Alex delved into his story.
"There were undead down there," Alex continued, his tone neutral, "but nothing too powerful—mostly skeletons and a couple of restless spirits. The basement had clearly been used as a laboratory by Carrion. The air was thick with the stench of decay and alchemical fumes. Strange apparatuses cluttered the space—vials of noxious liquids, scattered notes, and ancient tomes bound in cracked leather. But the most telling find was his journal."
Alex’s gaze grew distant as he recalled its contents. "The entries painted a strange picture of Carrion—a creature torn between his insatiable hunger for power and his equally insatiable desire to experience the fleeting pleasures of mortal life. One passage stood out:
'Some mortals might wonder why a mummy lord would abandon a subterranean crypt where he has abided for several human lifetimes, safely conducting delicate experiments into the very nature of life and its so-called opposite, death, and trade all that for a perilous existence in a ramshackle waterfront house in the cesspit of Baldur's Gate.
Some mortals might be morons.
An entity of erudition and taste must naturally have a keen appreciation for what the surface world has to offer: the lilt of music and the lyricism of poetry, the cry of seagulls over Grey Harbour at sunset, the touch of a soft, non-decayed hand. You don't need a nose to savour a fine wine.
All of these things and more I have earned through my dedication to esoteric studies. But all of these things—as well as rare alchemy ingredients, alembics, and athanors—cost money. A lot of it. Thus my new career as a high-priced and exclusive mystic consultant to the wealthy of the Upper City. I have needs, and they will not be denied.'"
Alex's voice softened as he finished the excerpt, the macabre humor of Carrion's words hanging in the air like a dark cloud.
Amanita raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a faint, incredulous smirk. "A mystic consultant?" she repeated, her tone dripping with both amusement and disdain.
Alex nodded. "Mystic Carrion, as he called himself, was surprisingly popular. The nobles adored him—his services were exclusive and obscenely expensive, which, of course, only made them want him more. He offered séances to speak with deceased relatives, lovers, and even pets. But being a mummy lord, his help always came with a price—one far greater than gold."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering. "There was a boy who came to him once, desperate to speak with his deceased dog. Carrion obliged but cursed the boy to occasionally hear the bark of his dog in the dead of night. Terrified, the boy returned, convinced his pet’s soul was haunting him. Carrion, ever the opportunist, offered to 'banish' the spirit—for an outrageous fee. It was all a game to him, one that fed his twisted sense of humor."
Shadowheart frowned, her expression darkening. "Good thing we took care of him," she said firmly, her voice laced with satisfaction.
But Amanita’s expression grew more serious. She glanced at Shadowheart and said, "You don’t know what a mummy lord truly is, do you?"
Shadowheart’s frown deepened, her gaze flicking to Amanita. "I know enough. We destroyed him."
Amanita shook her head slowly, her voice steady but grave. "Mummy lords are like liches. Destroying their bodies isn’t enough. They’ll revive themselves within a day unless their heart—sealed in a special urn—is destroyed."
Shadowheart’s eyes widened slightly as the weight of Amanita’s words sank in. Her grip on her mug tightened. "You mean…"
"Yes," Amanita confirmed, her gaze shifting to Alex. "If we didn’t destroy his heart, Carrion will rise again."
Alex sighed, his expression unreadable. "That’s why I kept searching. The basement didn’t hold any urns or signs of his heart, so I combed through his journal for clues. Eventually, I found a passage that mentioned his tomb—hidden deep within the sewers of Baldur’s Gate. The sewers were a labyrinth of filth and darkness. The air was suffocating, the stench unbearable."
Amanita and Shadowheart leaned in, their eyes fixed on him."
Alex’s voice took on a darker, heavier tone as he began recounting the next part of his story. "When I finally reached Carrion’s tomb, it seemed I wasn’t the first to find it. At the entrance, three bodies lay sprawled, their blood still fresh. They had died recently." He glanced at Amanita and Shadowheart before continuing, carefully omitting the fact that the bodies belonged to Bhaalists.
He took a slow breath, his gaze distant as if reliving the moment. "The tomb’s walls were lined with ancient carvings, each one a chilling testament to Carrion’s rise to power—scenes of conquest, experiments on the living, and the countless souls he had damned. In the center of the room was an ornate sarcophagus, its surface adorned with intricate glyphs that pulsed faintly with malevolent energy."
His voice dropped, becoming almost a whisper. "But what caught my attention most were the figures surrounding the sarcophagus. Mummies—motionless at first, their tattered bandages hanging loosely over enchanted armor and weapons. They looked ancient, their forms withered, yet there was an unmistakable aura of power about them. And the moment I stepped into the chamber, they rose, their eyes glowing with an eerie, unnatural light."
Shadowheart tensed as she listened, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table.
Alex continued. "They moved with surprising speed for their decayed forms, their weapons cutting through the air with deadly precision. It was a quick fight. "
He leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on the table. "I resumed my search, but the sarcophagus held no clues, and neither did the rest of the chamber. That’s when I noticed a faint indentation in one of the walls—a hidden mechanism. When I pressed it, a section of the wall slid open, revealing a secret room."
Alex paused, his expression darkening. "The air inside was worse than the main chamber—thick with the stench of rot and chemicals. This was Carrion’s private laboratory. Body parts were strewn across tables, grotesque experiments suspended in jars. Shelves were crammed with books, potions, and strange materials. It was a macabre workshop, the kind that could haunt someone’s dreams for a lifetime."
Shadowheart shifted uncomfortably, while Amanita’s gaze remained locked on Alex, her expression unreadable.
"I searched every inch of the room," Alex continued, "but still, no urn. Frustration was beginning to set in when I stumbled across a crumpled piece of parchment—a note written in Carrion’s hand. It revealed the truth I hadn’t wanted to hear: Carrion had placed his heart inside one of his undead servants and that servant had run away. The note admitted he had no way of tracking it, and the servant was gone."
Amanita’s brow furrowed. "So the heart wasn’t even in the tomb?"
Alex nodded grimly. "Exactly. With no further clues, I returned to the city and began searching. There were countless places an undead could hide in Baldur’s Gate. I started with the Lower City, combing through every rumor and lead. I was very lucky that I overheard a group of locals talking about an abandoned house that reeked of an unbearable stench. I knew I had to check it out."
He leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing as he recalled the scene. "The house was a ruin, its windows boarded up, and the door hanging off its hinges. Inside, the smell was overwhelming—death and decay mixed with something acrid. That’s where I found him. The missing undead—Thrumbo. He was a zombie, his body rotting but his mind surprisingly intact. When I questioned him, he told me his story, and it was… heartbreaking. He and four friends had been ordinary people once, until Carrion killed them and resurrected them as his undead servants. They had no choice but to obey him, enduring his cruelty and his twisted experiments. One day, one of Thrumbo’s friends tried to end their torment. He took a set of coffin nails and drove them into Carrion’s skull until the mummy lord’s body went limp."
Alex’s voice grew softer, tinged with sadness. "For a brief moment, they believed they were free. But their joy didn’t last. The next day, their friend—the one who had 'killed' Carrion—collapsed, writhing in unimaginable pain. Carrion reappeared, unharmed and grinning, his immortality mocking them. That’s when they realized the truth: they could never kill him through conventional means. So they made the only choice they had left—they ran."
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Amanita’s expression hardened, while Shadowheart’s jaw clenched.
"When I told Thrumbo that Carrion’s heart was inside him, his reaction was… haunting. He clawed at his own chest, tearing through rotted flesh until he pulled out the urn. His voice cracked as he begged me, 'Destroy it. Please, destroy it.' I’ve seen many things, but that moment…" Alex’s voice wavered briefly before he steadied it. "It’s something I won’t forget."
He paused, taking a deep breath. "I obliged. I didn’t expect the urn to explode like a bomb, but I managed to shield the blast with a well-placed barrier. When the dust settled, the urn was gone, its dark energy snuffed out. Carrion’s heart was destroyed, and his immortality was severed."
Amanita and Shadowheart exchanged a glance, their expressions heavy with the weight of his words.
"Thrumbo wasn’t finished, though," Alex added. "He begged me to help him find his friends—the others who had escaped. I couldn’t say no. It didn’t take long to locate them, and once I did, I returned to the mansion."
Alex’s gaze softened as he looked at them. "And here we are. Carrion is truly gone, and his victims… well, they can finally have some semblance of peace."
For a moment, the table fell silent, the gravity of Alex’s tale settling over them like a heavy shroud. Shadowheart finally spoke, her voice quiet but resolute. "You did the right thing. For Thrumbo. For all of them."
Amanita nodded in agreement, her expression thoughtful.
Alex offered a faint smile.
----------------------------------------
Jaheira frowned as she looked down from the dimly lit balcony where she and the rest of the party were concealed. The faint scent of metal and old stone filled the air, and the quiet hum of conversation below drew their attention. They had barely stepped inside the Counting House vault when it became clear they weren’t alone.
Beneath them, a scene unfolded: two heavily armed guards—a man and a woman clad in polished armor emblazoned with the emblem of the Counting House—stood uneasily beside a stout dwarf. His golden hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and his beard was meticulously groomed .The dwarf wore rich red robes trimmed with intricate gold embroidery, and a finely crafted pipe rested between his lips, smoke curling lazily upward.
Jaheira’s sharp eyes narrowed as recognition struck her like a blow. Rakath Glitterbeard, the head banker of the Counting House—his reputation for ruthlessness and cunning was as polished as the wealth hoarded within these walls.
“It’s still moving,” the female guard whispered, her voice trembling as her gaze darted nervously toward the large, ornate chest beside them. The metal bands securing its lid glimmered ominously in the faint light, but it gave off a faint, unsettling shudder, as if something inside was alive.
“Hush your fussing,” Rakath snapped, puffing deeply on his pipe before exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. His tone was dripping with disdain. “Nine-Fingers had this one made especially. That little mouthful inside will barely slow it down.”
“But the stories…” The woman’s voice faltered, her fear palpable, but Rakath interrupted her with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“Stories, bah! Tall tales and big names, lass—don’t let them fool you. Elminster the Archmage, Drizzt the Drow exile... Heroes have power, aye, but not half so much as we do. A little coin in the right purse, a soft word in the right ear... That’s what spins the planes. Not glory, not swords or spells. Gold. Gold is the only real power in this world.” His voice carried a smug certainty, his words punctuated by the rhythmic tapping of his pipe against his palm.
The guards shifted uncomfortably, but before Rakath could continue, the chest beside them suddenly convulsed violently, its surface rippling like liquid.
The guards’ hands flew to their weapons as the chest shuddered again, the faint hum of enchantment turning into a sinister growl.
“What in the Nine Hells—?” Karlach murmured under her breath, her fiery eyes widening as she leaned closer.
Across the chest’s glossy surface, a pair of bulbous eyes emerged, bloodshot and glistening. The lid creaked open with a guttural growl, revealing rows of jagged teeth that glistened with saliva. Then, with a wet, nauseating squelch, a bloodied fist punched through the gaping maw from inside.
Rakath stumbled backward, his face draining of color as his pipe fell to the floor. “Moradin’s cracked clay…” he muttered, his voice shaking.
The guards drew their swords, trembling as the mimic began to lurch open wider, its grotesque form writhing like a nightmare brought to life. But all eyes were drawn to the figure emerging from within—a towering, muscular man forcing his way out of the mimic’s jaws with sheer brute strength.
The mimic groaned, its body spasming as the man’s bloodstained hands gripped its jagged edges. With a final, furious roar, the man ripped himself free, standing tall as the mimic’s broken form shuddered in defeat beside him.
“There is no gold in here,” the figure growled, his deep voice dripping with anger as he wiped blood from his face.
Karlach’s breath hitched, her voice barely above a whisper. “That’s Minsc.”
Minsc’s bald head gleamed in the dim light, the purple tattoo streaking down one side of his face marking him as both fearsome and iconic. Faint scars crisscrossed his scalp and face, whispering of battles won and foes defeated, his imposing presence sending a shiver through the room.
Minsc raised a single, accusatory finger, his voice booming with righteous indignation. “If there is one thing Minsc hates more than beasts with bad breath—” He paused, his hand darting out as the mimic jerked beside him. In one swift, brutal motion, he grabbed the mimic’s long, slimy tongue, spun it in a dizzying arc, and hurled it across the room.
The mimic’s body collided with the far wall, a sickening splatter of blood and viscera coating the stone as it slid lifelessly to the floor.
Minsc turned back to the stunned trio, his chest heaving. “—it is those who are tricksome with the truth. And turnips. But you are not turnips. Let that be a comfort to you in your final moments.”
“He still seems very much himself to me,” Jaheira murmured with a smirk, her eyes lingering on Minsc’s towering frame, now streaked with mimic blood.
“Great. Another idiot,” Lae’zel muttered from the side, arms crossed, her tone laced with disdain.
Jaheira straightened suddenly. With a deliberate step, she moved forward, her presence commanding the attention of everyone in the room. The two guards and Rakath immediately snapped their heads up, their confusion deepening as they watched.
But it wasn’t just them. Minsc’s body stiffened as his eyes narrowed dangerously. His posture changed, his hand instinctively tightening on the hilt of his blade. “You,” he growled, his deep voice carrying a weight of tension that cut through the room.
Jaheira tilted her head slightly, her smirk growing. “Stone Lord? Better to call yourself Stone-Head,” she quipped, her voice laced with playful derision.
Minsc grimaced, visibly struggling to process her words. His brow furrowed deeply, but what he said next made Jaheira’s smirk falter.
“Your false face does not fool my eyes,” Minsc spat, his voice dripping with barely contained fury. He took a step forward, his towering presence now radiating menace. “Your false face does not fool my eyes. I will cut until you look like the monster you truly are.”
Jaheira blinked, her expression twisting into one of frustration. “…Somehow, you’re making even less sense than usual,” she replied, her tone tinged with exasperation.
“Perhaps I can explain,” came an eerily familiar voice from the far end of the vault.
Everyone froze. Heads turned toward the colossal vault door now standing ajar at the room’s far side. Dark, viscous blood began to coalesce from the air, pooling unnaturally and taking form. The crimson mass twisted and rippled, its shape solidifying until the blood receded entirely, revealing a figure that left Jaheira stunned—a perfect replica of herself.
“The Stone Lord sees through your lies, shapeshifter,” the fake Jaheira declared with a sneer. Her voice was calm but dripping with mockery. “Count yourself lucky he cannot stay.”
The real Jaheira stared, her face a mixture of disbelief and disgust as the imposter’s words sunk in.
“By the gods…” Karlach whispered, her eyes narrowing as she readied her glaive.
The fake Jaheira turned her attention to Rakath, who had gone pale as a ghost. “Nine-Fingers set a poor trap, little banker,” she taunted, her lips curling into a cruel smile. “Let the Absolute’s faithful show you how it’s done.”
Even as she spoke, shadows began to twist and materialize in the room. A dozen figures appeared from the dark—each cloaked in blood-red robes, their faces hidden beneath hoods. They moved with a sinister precision, forming a circle around the vault. Their weapons gleamed wickedly in the dim light, and their intent was clear.
The fake Jaheira’s gaze shifted back to Minsc, her smile widening. “Now come, Stone Lord. We have the gold—and the Absolute has need of it elsewhere.”
Minsc hesitated, his large hands trembling as his grip tightened around his blade. He cast one last, angry glance at the real Jaheira as he began to move toward the fake.
Before he could take another step, a sudden crash shattered the tension. A gigantic blade—glowing with ethereal, purple light—came slicing down like a divine hammer of judgment, cleaving through the fake Jaheira in one brutal motion. The blade’s impact shook the ground, leaving a deep, jagged scar across the stone floor as it bisected the imposter’s body.
Lae’zel stepped forward, her hand raised as the psionic blade hovered back up into the air, its blood-stained edges gleaming ominously. She smirked, brushing imaginary dust from her shoulder. “Let’s get this over with,” she said dryly, her gaze flicking briefly to Astarion. “I have a date tonight.”
The room fell silent, her casual remark cutting through the chaos like a blade of its own. Everyone—Rakath, the guards, the cultists, and even the party—stared at her in stunned silence.
The cultists, however, recovered first. Their muffled curses and whispered prayers echoed through the room as they drew their weapons.
Jaheira’s gaze fell to the bisected body of her fake, now reverted into the grotesque, shapeless form of a doppelganger. She sighed, her grip tightening on her scimitars. “Starling shapechangers,” she muttered. “Let’s deal with these cultists and find out where they’re nesting.”
Minsc let out a roar of fury and charged toward the party , his greatsword gleaming in his hands.
But before he could reach them, the air shook with a thunderous impact. Something massive crashed into the ground before him, sending cracks spider-webbing across the stone floor. A figure rose slowly from the impact site, clad in ethereal, jagged heavy armor that seemed to ripple with dark energy. The towering figure loomed even over Minsc, its ruby-red eyes glowing like embers through the narrow slit of its helm.
Minsc took a step back, gripping his sword tightly. “What sorcery is this?” he growled.
“It seems Astarion has joined the fray,” Karlach said with a fiery grin, her glaive bursting into flames as her body ignited. Without waiting for a reply, she leaped from the balcony, descending like a comet. She crashed into the middle of the cultists with explosive force, scattering them like leaves and leaving a trail of fire in her wake.
Jaheira rolled her shoulders and raised her scimitars, casting a quick glance toward her companions. “No time to waste,” she said sharply before following Karlach into the fray.
Wyll was quick to join her, his rapier flashing as he charged into battle. Behind them, Gale stood firm, his hands already tracing intricate arcane sigils as he prepared to unleash his magic. The room descended into chaos, the clash of steel and the hum of magic filling the air as the fight began.