Leaving Obould’s citadel, Siegfried slashed a dimensional rift, which widened into a door of his Sequestered Sanctuary . Gnash rubbed his mechanical claws together, making a metallic screeching sound. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to conduct. But you can find me at the Regimental Colours , which is what passes for a decent tavern around these parts. It’s in the barracks district.” “Gnash, it’s been real,” Siegfried said. “It certainly has,” Gnash agreed. The party entered Siegfried’s Sequestered Sanctuary and went their separate ways from the main foyer. Varien entered his chamber. Behind a brass door engraved with a relief of Sune bestowing her boon to the Phoenix was a spiral staircase, leading to a dwarven inspired, steam-heated lodge. Crystal portcullises displayed a vista of frozen tundra, mountains and sea underneath an ever-present aurora. The lodge was cozy, with ceilings slightly too low for Siegfried’s comfort, and contained a sauna, hot pools, an ice-fishing pool, a small glasshouse containing a bonsai rose garden, and a reading nook with a small library that contained a copy of every book that Siegfried, and every guest of the lodge, had ever read. Above the nearby crackling fireplace was a landscape painting of a younger Varien with his father, mother and sister, and a smaller cameo-style portrait depicting Radegast on the mantle beside it. Bob entered his chamber, which featured a cloistered chapel with a 10-foot-tall golden relief of Sune bathing in the waters of Evergold as its centrepiece. The waterfall concealed a hidden doorway, which led to a warm seafront villa of white marble, purple velvet, and golden opulence, with a wide-open balcony facing Bob’s most vivid memory of the port of Kirkwall. The smell of sea-salt and trade spices were carried on a cooling breeze in the warm weather, as ephemeral nymphs waited hand and foot to polish scales, feed grapes, pour wine and sing songs of Sune and draconic ancestries. An ebony piano sat in the corner of a golden dancefloor will lead an ensemble of spectral instruments in any song from the bardic colleges of Waterdeep or the home of the guest. Out on the balcony, anyone who chose to leap from the balustrade would gain the ability to fly and soar over the approximation of Kirkwall below. Erwen entered his chamber. The folds of a large dog bed by a fireplace led to a hidden tunnel just wide enough for him to crawl through, leading to a hollowed-out tree in an expansive swampy forest in spring. The forest was filled with fruit, berries, roots and critters, while spectral wolves hunted magically conjured wildlife. He looked around for signs of the territorial, ill-tempered ogre and his nemesis the talking donkey. Siegfried entered his chamber off the main foyer. It was a grand library, its design based upon sketches of King Nasher Alagondar’s private reading chambers in Castle Never, but around its edges were the chamber’s burned remains. Siegfried walked past book-laden shelves and the large writing desk with its high-backed chair arrayed before a window of stained glass that depicted Castle Never in its prime and let in just the right amount of light any time of day to illuminate its panes. He peered out the window, noting that the vista had changed to resemble the panopticon’s view of the no man’s land of the Battle Cube in Acheron, with the Sword Coast’s geography faintly overlaying it. The party took their rest, weary from their long struggles in Acheron, but though they slept, they could not completely shake the underlying bloodlust and its accompanying anxiousness. Varien ventured out from his snowy lodge, stabbed Fiendsbane into a snowbank, and sat down to speak with the sword about its plans, hopes, and dreams. “Who’s next and what’s next?” he asked his sword. “Do we need to go the the Nine Hells to finish everyone on your list for good? Killing them just banishes them to hell temporarily, and even if we go down to the hells to kill them, they’re just going to come back, right? So what do you want?” These are all good things, Fiendsbane replied. We have most recently sent Rimmon back to the Hells, so that leaves Yancazi, Lorcan, Azazel, and Levistus. I believe we should save the most powerful, Levistus, for last. My charge has always been to send these wayward devils back to the Nine Hells. I am not opposed to destroying them on their home plane. But my primary purpose is to remove them and their influence from the Prime Material Plane. Levistus in particular has fomented cults and dark disciples scattered across the mortal realm of men, and as for Azazel, the Prince of Scapegoats, we have uncovered his hiding place in Avernus. He’s got one foot in the Hells already. As for Lorcan, he is proving to be a thorn in our side well beyond his stature. He is a problem that must be dealt with. And we both know where Yancazi is. A stone’s throw from Neverwinter, as it were. But that said, all fiends on this plane must die. Or at least all devils. That is my bond, my bane. “Hmmm,” Varien replied. I know we are in Acheron had immediate business in Neverwinter Wood before we were brought here, Fiendsbane continued. We are close, however. I can smell the fetid, freezing waters of the River Styx even here. That river can take us places. Places where the fiends await, and our targets too. “Can we walk to Avernus from one of these cubes?” Varien asked. There are waypoints and portals and hidden entrances aplenty, Fiendsbane replied. We just need to find them. “But do we have enough time?” Varien mused. “Because we need to disrupt the Dread Circle. Do we realistically think we can venture to the Hells and be back in time?” Right, replied Fiendsbane. Well, time on Acheron has no meaning – what is sunrise and sunset to the restless, warring dead? It’s anyone’s guess. I’m no sage, I’m merely a sword, but sharper than most, if you’ll allow me the pun, but from here we have a launch point. We may be able to return here as a jumping off point after we’ve rescued your comrades in Neverwinter Wood and put a stop to the Dread Circle. I myself sat unused in an armory for what seemed an entire age before you drew me out. I can wait a little longer. But although I have been slaked by Rimmon’s lifeblood, I would quite like to stab another fiend before long. Fiendsbane’s runes flashed brightly. “That’s fine. I’ll satisfy you soon enough,” Varien promised. More of this, please. But we can resume our pursuit once your immediate concerns have been dealt with. Getting near Levistus will be the most difficult business of all. “Do you think he actually has my father’s blade, or was it a devilish trick?” Varien asked. Again, I’m a sword, not a soothsayer, but I’ve been rattling since I got here, and there may be an answer close by. “What do you mean?” Varien asked. I can smell Stygian ice in close proximity, Fiendsbane replied. “Here, on Acheron?” Varien asked. Yes, even here in Istvarhan! Fiendsbane said. “In that case you should let me rest so that we can head out in the morning,” Varien replied. Siegfried sat down at the writing desk and spent a couple of hours writing up a business plan. He had used some of his best material on Obould Many-Arrows and wanted to order his thoughts. He looked at his grand plans for taking over the Sword Coast, and after a few minutes, he tossed his papers into the fireplace. “That’s a dumb idea. Gruumsh is not swayed by logic, reason, sentiment, and ordered thinking,” Siegfried said to himself as he watched the parchment burn in the hearth. “There’s only one way I can get what I want from him – by spitting in his face, by taking it by strength.” Siegfried prepared the spell Game of Fate and considered his plans. Varien spent his time of rest knelt before the statue of Sune, bathed in the light streaming into the magical retreat. The gait of the walking city changed, at first subtly, and then by great lurches and shudders. The party emerged from Siegfried’s Sequestered Sanctuary to the sound of clanging bells, stomping feet, and half-organic, half-mechanical groaning from below the city’s streets as it became clear that Istvarhan had waded into battle during their respite. Siegfried called Violance and took flight to get the lay of the land. Off on the horizon to the cube’s northwest face, he could make out the tell-tale planar glow of the Godsworn Eye portal, though the city Istharvan had clearly travelled further away from it during their sojourn in the sanctuary. Of more immediate concern, however, were the rhythmic sounds of ballistae firing, gun crews chanting as they reloaded, and the spinning towers of Istvarhan raining death and destruction down on unseen foes. Great trebuchets were launching broken chunks of castle battlements likely captured in battle and repurposed as projectiles – entire keep-sized shards were being heaved skyward to arc out of sight, with the reverberations of their impact rolling in long moments later. More defensive batteries aimed skywards warded off any goblinoid aircraft that dared encroach. Explosions of flak peppered the sky like roiling clouds. Siegfried saw an airship nearly the same size as the Subjugator take a glancing blow from a chunk of castle the size of a nobleman’s townhouse that warped its superstructure and sent a hellish rain of armor plate and shattered masonry down to the battle below as it staggered out of range. As Siegfried looked down he saw the great city stomping through a scene of carnage unmatched in his mind. Indeed, the spirit legions of the orcs and goblins were mixing it up, making the skirmish they saw upon their arrival in Avalas look like a watchman’s friendly credential check on the streets of Waterdeep. It was unbridled mayhem. The streets of Istvarhan were calm by comparison. Existing in the margins of a garrison full of elite warriors, every citizen knew how to react by the numbers and on the bounce. The streets were less crowded; most orcs had already manned their battle stations. Quartermasters drove teams of aurochs pulling heavy wagons laden with ordnance and ammunition through the avenues towards the defensive walls. Captured beasts of burden from across the planes were dragging sledges full of chunks of masonry to the trebuchets. “Make haste or be paste!” was the drovers’ rallying cry to any pedestrian not observing their surroundings. Squads of defenders marched easily on the catwalks above the streets. Damage control teams were also on the move. Spirit wargs trotted unimpeded. The walls were manned by elite units ready to repel any goblinoids foolhardy enough to attempt an incursion. Istvarhan was a war machine at full steam, decimating the goblin air force in the sky and wiping out battalions of enemy troops with each laborious step of its rusted feet. It crushed everything in its past. The central citadel’s guards politely, if gruffly, allowed them to exit to the street level. Varien used his divine sense to pinpoint the reek of Stygian ice. He caught a whiff of evil and a discordant warping of the city’s equilibrium centered on a network of alleys off the main causeway. Varien let his companions know of his intentions to follow the smell of Stygian ice. Siegfried looked about for an arcanoloth to point the way to some Stygian ice but came up empty. Varien led the party through an interlocking series of gatehouse intersections designed with defence in mind, each featuring a detachment of guards ready to drop portcullises and prevent an invading force from reaching the Citadel on foot. Traffic could be involuntarily shunted into dead ends, killing zones, and trapped alleyways. Tucked into spaces with no discernible strategic value were small shops, vendor’s stands, and pocket stalls. Most of the gateways were open, allowing the party passage through increasingly narrow streets. Varien halted at the mouth of an alleyway and frowned. He was sure he’d passed by this very street yesterday, and that the alley had been little more than an alcove with a nearly immediate dead end, save for a guttering grate built into the ground that gave off puffs of foul steam. Today, however, there was a narrow door framed with gold in one of the walls. A sign was hanging off a wrought-iron post, swaying in the breeze from the steam vent. A stylized symbol of a high-backed, ornate chair hovering above an arcane circle studded with glowing runes was framed with the name of the proprietor, written in Orcish and Infernal: KABANI’S ODDITIES. “Hmmm,” Varien said. He opened the door. The temperature dropped sharply as the party entered. The curio shop was indeed packed floor to ceiling with oddities, objets d’art , artifacts whose purpose and utility were inscrutable at first glance, and weird items that defied description. Shelves groaned beneath the weight of stacked shadowboxes, scrolls, and glass display cubes. From the ceiling hung censors studded with smoking incense sticks, giving the shop a cloying, mysterious atmosphere. In one corner of the room a creaking clockwork-and-crystal contraption was emitting soft music at low volume from a curved horn set to a rhythm that suggested The floor was covered with overlapping area rugs, each one an heirloom, and there was an L-shaped counter containing built-in display cases cutting off about a third of the cramped space from customers. Looming behind the counter was a large figure, hunched over so that its head did not crack against the ceiling, easily twice the size of a human man. The humanoid was clad in fine robes tailored and padded to suggest stylish shoulder pauldrons. The creature’s features were elongated and severe, though his welcoming smile seemed genuine. He clasped his thin, triple jointed fingers in front of him – Erwen counted six digits on each elongated hand. His fingers and drooping earlobes alike were adorned with rings and jewellery that sparkled with energy. His exposed skin was a light blue, and his eyes were glowing red orbs. His lipless mouth was drawn back in an altogether too toothy smile, and his chin sported two small horns. His blue-black hair was drawn up into a jaunty topknot. Siegfried identified the creature as a mercane, a race of fiendish humanoids famed as merchants across the planes. The mercane made a beckoning gesture, curling an index finger that was too long by half. “Friends, welcome to Kabani’s House of Oddities,” he rasped in an oddly melodic tone. “Do come in, yes, do come in.” “Thank you for having us,” Siegfried replied. Varien’s attention was drawn to a large icebox-like contraption to the south that was humming mechanically. Its sealed glass doors revealed its contents, lit from within. Blocks of ice. Varien knew that Stygian ice was extraplanar in origin, infused with the plane of Stygia’s soulless evil and the waters of the River Styx. These blocks were crawling with a thin layer of pale blue mist, sublimating very slowly. Stygian could have a dangerous, ill effect on the minds of mortals, being so cold that it could freeze memories. “Ah, I see you are drawn to my supply of Stygian ice,” Kabani said to the paladin. “Rest assured I keep it under lock and key. It is very expensive, and difficult to come by.” The merchant chuckled. “Who do you sell it to?” Varien asked. The mercane spread his long fingers across his chest. “It is mostly for display only, but if the right buyer were to come along, then, well,”—he made a theatrical shrug— “everything is for sale at a certain price, as they say.” Siegfried’s truesight let him know that nearly the entire room’s wares were an illusion. The few things that were real included several small, ornate chests stacked behind the counter, and the Stygian icebox. “This is very nice craftsmanship,” Siegfried said to the proprietor. “This would be a programmed illusion?” Kabani’s smile widened impossibly. “Ah, I see you have a discerning eye! I might have known. This is, how do I say, a hedge against burglars, and those who would steal. However, if you see something you like, we can view it in a more tangible fashion. But,” he tapped his long index finger between the horns on his chin, “Now that I have gotten a good look at all of you, I think that I may have items that would very much interest you.” Siegfried cast encode thoughts and extracted a memory from his mind, depositing it in a small crystal vial. “Well, I happen to have here a memory called A Child’s First Victory .” The memory was of the first time young Siegfried won a schoolyard fight against his bullies in Waterdeep. “Oh ho, you are coming into my shop to sell, then?” Kabani grinned.