On the crew deck, Theryn could hear the muffled sounds of a rhythmic drumbeat from below deck. That’s comforting, the monk thought. A narrow hatchway was built into the floor of the deck nearby. A pirate stepped out of the semi-darkness to block Theryn’s path. Theryn dropped down the hatch. The pirate tried to hit the monk with a hammer but caught nothing but air. Theryn landed squarely atop a battened hatch beneath his feet about ten fight down. He looked down. The hatch was watertight with a rubber gasket fitted around the cover plate, which was sealed with a heavy iron wheel and a stout padlock. Theryn looked around at the hatchway he was in. There was a ladder leading back up the way he came. He spied a warning painted on the wall above the sealed hatch. DO NOT OPEN was written in Common, Dwarvish, and four other languages that Theryn didn’t recognize. The monk shrugged and made his way back up the ladder. “Ah, back so soon, eh?” The pirate said mockingly as Theryn emerged. “Have they got your mother locked down there?” Theryn asked. The pirate chuckled. “There’s a lot locked down there, mate.” “Do you have a key?” Theryn asked. “Why, do you like dying?” the pirate retorted. Theryn gestured at the corpses and paralyzed bodies of the pirate’s mates. “I don’t think me dying is what’s going to happen next.” He raised his stormbow. “So, I ask again, do you have a key?” The pirate stared back at Theryn and then smiled grimly. “Is this a parley scenario?” “It could be,” Theryn said. “How about I lay the key down on the deck, and you don’t shoot me with that arrow and let me go?” The pirate said. “I’m tired of all this fighting. You and your companions truly deserve what you find on this ship.” Theryn nodded. The pirate fished around in his pocket and came up with a key, which he placed gingerly on the deck before him. Then, his hands raised placatingly, he backed away from the key and moved towards the stairs leading above deck. Theryn approached the key. The key was attached to a saucy little mermaid keychain, and looked like a fish skeleton finished in burnished brass, its clamshell-shaped bow fashioned to look like two stylized mermaids kissing. Theryn jumped back down the hatch and fitted the key to the lock. There was a sound of waves lapping on a seashore as he turned the key, and the lock disengaged. Theryn turned the greased wheel and heard the hissing sound of pressure being released, and then eased the cover plate from the gasket. He could see that the ladder continued downwards. A smell like rotting fish, stagnant water, and freshly-turned soil assailed his nostril. “A compost heap on board a ship?” the monk murmured to himself. “Curious.” He peered down the hatch with his umbral sight and could dimly make out the wooden planks of the deck below, with a sheen of water reflecting a wan blue light. He could see clods of dirt scattered in hunks across the deck. Theryn planted his feet on the deck and looked around. He was standing in a graveyard. Here and there were mounds of dirt mixed with bilge water to create an algae-covered, moss-infused expanse of soil at the stern of the ship, complete with tombstones leaning at menacing angles. Theryn counted eight graves, and one of them appeared to have been recently dug out. The air was rich with the smell of rot, corruption, and decay. To Theryn’s immediate left appeared to be small chambers with sealed doors along a corridor. Across the chamber was another ladder leading upwards. He could also see where the ship’s mast was rooted to the keel. On the mast was a small sconce, inside which glowed several blue crystals. Theryn pulled out one of the crystals, but his fatigue made his fingers feel like lead. The crystal dropped from his hand to drop to the deck with a clatter. From the graves came the sound of the waking dead. Theryn sighed as four corpses began to rise from their graves, clawing their way out of their earthen mounds. Theryn backed away, an arrow nocked in his stormbow , and sought refuge in the narrow warren of corridors behind him. He readied himself to loose an arrow if more than one zombie stumbled into view. Back on the top deck, the crew of the Tide-Runner consolidated their control of St. Asmod’s Hope. Yeemik dashed towards the aftcastle while Berrick fired a barrage of bolts at the crow’s nest, perforating the drow sniper, who tumbled from the crow’s nest to dash his brains out on the quarterdeck, his musket clattering next to him. Other crew members trained their javelins on the remaining drow sniper, who sighed heavily and held his weapon aloft with both hands in surrender. A loud cheer went up from the Tide-Runner’s crew. Ciamanthe swung her sword at Erwen, missing him with her first strike but catching him on the backswing. Poison wracked his body and he lost concentration . Stegafried’s form blurred back into his half-orc shape. Ciamanthe grinned at Siegfried and moved on him. Her final swing was interrupted by a barrier of force as Siegfried cast shield . Siegfried smirked at the fiend. “You think that was to protect me? It’s just to slow you down!” Erwen poked his head out from where he was hanging on to Siegfried’s cape. “You know what? Quantity over quality!” He cast conjure animals and instantiated sixteen giant constrictor snakes that popped into existence with a slithering susurration. Ciamanthe’s eyes widened as the snakes attacked, grappling her and pinning her limbs. Her armor creaked beneath the growing pressure of the constrictor snakes. She grimaced but betrayed little emotion as the snakes wrapped themselves around her. Something dropped down in front of Theryn. Vaguely humanoid, it looked like a cross between a man and a manta ray, with cephalic fins jutting out from its head. Its skin was green and smeared with dirt that was sloughing off in horrid wet clumps. Its smile revealed a mouthful of needle-like fangs, and its breath was like an abattoir in the heat of summer. “It wasn’t supposed to be feeding time, but I do enjoy a nice snack!” it lisped. It lunged at the monk, claws and teeth flashing with wicked sharpness. Theryn ducked and dodged the creature’s attack. The zombies groaned and milled about in the stern area, heedless. Siegfried’s hair flopped down. He dropped his sanguine axe and manifested Talon , his pact weapon, and callously ran the trapped Ciamanthe through with two neat stabs of the sword. The Erinyes twitched and disappeared in a flash of brimstone. Her longsword clattered to the deck. Siegfried slid both fiendish swords into his belt and, stepping over the snakes, strode out onto the deck to the sounds of the cheering. On his way past, he patted Erwen on the shoulder. “Good team, buddy.” “I agree,” Erwen nodded. Siegfried examined a wooden grate in the deck and, looking down, saw another chamber with a large map table and several doors off to either side. Siegfried turned his attention to the celebrating crew. “For Thann!” he shouted, launching a rousing cheer, which was met by victorious huzzahs from the Tide-Runner crew. Captain Ironclaw doffed her tricorn hat and waved it at Siegfried in triumph. The crew members nearest Siegfried gazed at him in appreciation, considering his cut-up, bloodied appearance. “Now, there’s a non-poncy noble if ever I saw one,” Herc McGurk murmured as he gripped the wrist of a prosthetic hand which held a bottle of rum, drinking deeply from the brown glass vessel. Siegfried conjured a healing spirit in the form of the House Thann battle standard on the deck and bathed in its restorative energy. Varien lashed out with Fiendsbane to slash Markosian and expended a smite, blasting the warlock with radiant energy. He bashed Markosian with his shield, shoving him up against the invisible bars of the forcecage behind him. Markosian’s feet dangled off the ground. “Kneel and repent!” Varien shouted. Markosian threw his head back against the barrier and laughed as he began to chant in Infernal. “From the depths of the Nine Hells, I call forth the malevolent, unforgivable might of Asmodeus!” Waves of psychic hatred radiated out from the warlock, assailing Varien, Bob, Alec, and Skraper with mind-warping pain. Skraper slapped his heavy paws on either side of his leonine head and let out an agonized yowl. Blood began to gush from his ears, eyes, and nose, and the liondrake collapsed in a heap on the deck. “No!” Bob cried, even as waves of fear prevented him from moving any closer. Over his shoulder, Markosian sneered contemptuously. “That was for Sparky, you pathetic, mangy cur.” He turned to Varien. “You thought it would be easy, did you? I think not. This is nothing compared to what you will endure on the flaming racks of Nessus!” He laughed darkly. Alec tried to steel himself against the fear that gripped him, aiming his crossbow at Markosian. “You killed my brother’s cat!” he shouted as he began firing the weapon rapidly, sending four bolts the warlock’s way. Two of the bolts struck Markosian, who twisted and jerked painfully. Bob also shied away from Markosian’s fearful presence, but cast haste on Varien. “I think not!” Joelle shouted, casting counterspell on Bob’s magic. Bob returned fire with a counterspell of his own. The competing magical energies clashed against one another in the air above the pile of bones. “Not so fast,” Markosian growled, casting a final counterspell that stopped Bob’s cast in its tracks. The bones in the chamber began to rise and spin about in a vortex. Markosian’s laughter continued as the bones scythed through the bodies of Bob, Alec, and Varien. Varien raised his shield to ward off the storm, crouching behind it and escaping damage. Bob gasped in pain as he was flayed by the bonestorm and collapsed on the floor of the forcecage . The bones within the cage settled over him. “No!” Alec shouted. “Now you are beginning to understand what it takes to lead, to be master of all that you survey,” Markosian said in a sonorous voice as he began to pace back and forth. “Let me tell you the story of Christophe Jean Markosian. I was the scion of a gentrified family, middle class, if you will, but landed, with a large tract of land. My parents had the foresight to indenture me to a barony on the fringes of civilization, where I would learn discipline and grow into the mantle of command. I climbed the ranks to sergeant-constable of the Baron’s guard by making the necessary decisions. Twenty years ago, there was a blight on the local croplands. The farmers began to agitate, and had the audacity to demand that something be done, gathering in an unruly mob in the city square, threatening not only the guards but the Baron himself. I was dispatched with a dozen pikemen, and I did what had to be done. Imagine my surprise, then, when instead of being lauded for dealing with the threat posed by these pitchfork-wielding peasants, I was thrown into the deepest, darkest oubliette by the thankless, ungrateful Baron. It was there that I discovered the meaning of true power, the power of the true force of will. As my imprisonment continued month after month, year after year, I called out again and again for justice. And one day, a voice answered. That voice was Power. It channels anger, channels bitterness and turns hatred into an effective weapon. What you see before you is only the beginning. When I am done here and have served my dark purpose, all will know of the Devil Behind Thrones, and all will know the name of the Dark Lord whose will I am channeling. The weak will not stand, like those weak, half-starved peasants who foolishly stood against the Baron. All I see around me are like those foolish farmers, even now. You have an opportunity to take the knee before I finish what has been started today.” Joelle warded off the worst of the paladin’s spirit guardians and cast fireball , blasting the forward section of the ship and catching Varien in its blast radius. Varien grimaced but maintained concentration on his spirit guardians spell . The remaining prisoners shrieked in agony as they were enveloped in the inferno. Markosian’s wounds began to close partially as the life energy of the dying prisoners infused him. “So there I was in the oubliette, ruminating on the vicissitudes of power and rulership. Surely the Baron was a fool for not conceding that strength was the only way to deal with mobs? After all, the farmers had already threatened to burn down a local barracks if nothing was done about the blight. Was the threat hollow? Perhaps, but were the lives of my guards really worth risking? Ask yourself the same question, Varien, as the lives of your friends hang in the balance. There is yet time for you to turn from your destructive, pointless path. Sheathe Fiendsbane, and choose a new direction. Or, I could kill your friends.” Alec cleared his throat. “You are the dumbest idiot I have ever come across in all these lands, Markosian.” Markosian blinked. “You killed my brother and you think you’re getting out of here alive? More than that, you think that I or Varien would serve you? How idiotic can a man be?” Markosian recovered his composure. “In desperate circumstances, men will often make choices they would otherwise find deeply unpalatable.” “You are a powerful warlock,” Alec continued, “but you are truly a fool. None will mourn you and none have ever loved you. My ancestors will smile on me this day whether I live or die. Can you say the same?” “Your ancestors?” Markosian mocked and laughed. “Not a lot of smiling going on in the North these days.” “My ancestors come from the East,” Alec corrected. “But you have no friends. You have to lock people in magical cages to listen to your dull sermons.” “Dull?” Markosian snapped. “Well, if anyone was interested in what you had to say you wouldn’t have to chain them up, would you?” Alec continued. “You wouldn’t have to invent cages to hold them still. You would be able to have friends to stand by you, but no. You call them from the Underrealm. You raise them from the dead. You enslave them with the brand of Asmodeus because nobody has ever loved you, and you are an incel!” “Incel?” Markosian drew himself up haughtily. “I chose this life - it has not been thrust upon me!” “Oh, so you threw yourself in that oubliette then?” Alec shouted. “I chose to find a way out,” Markosian retorted. “You chose to do such a shit job of protecting the people you were chosen to protect that you had you had to be locked up for your own incompetence!” “I did those people a favour, they were half-dead and starving,” Markosian shouted. “The blight was unending, there was nothing that the Baron could do. It was a kindness!” “There was nothing you could do either,” Alec said. “If you were so smart you would have ended the blight. You know, I know a guy, an orc guy, an orc wizard, who could make produce grow by sitting on a tree, and he doesn’t even give a shit about that sort of thing, and here you are with all your scary spells, but no, you’re just here getting your ass kicked. Go ahead, make your little threats. Kill us, and raise us as undead. Because you have no friends, or followers.” Varien blinked at Alec’s oratory and eloquence. “I will deal with you in a minute,” Markosian snarled at Alec. “You may first watch your friends die.” He barked a spell in Internal sent ribbons of negative energy to envelope the paladin, wracking him with necrotic damage. Theryn shoved the creature away from him, and then followed up with a flurry of blows. His first strike missed, but his follow-up cracked it in the chest, and sent it stumbling down the hallway. Then he fired his stormbow , marking the creature as a favoured foe. The lightning arrow blasted the creature with electrical energy and secondary bolts struck a nearby zombie. Theryn tried the door behind him. It was locked. Of course it is, Theryn thought. Markosian glared at Varien. “We are not finished yet,” he growled. He sent another bolt of negative energy coursing through the paladin, causing him searing pain as though a finger of death had reached out to touch him. He resisted the worst of the damage. “How many times must I teach you this lesson, Markosian?” Varien said through gritted teeth. “Your magic cannot break my will.” On the deck, a cheerful Gulliper kicked Chauncy the Chull’s head over the side of the pirate ship as the crew consolidated their hold on the St. Asmod’s Hope . “Well, what do you think, mates?” Captain Ironclaw shouted. “Should we accept his surrender or let this drow join his crewmates in death?” “Depends!” Siegfried shouted. “Markosian hasn’t shown up yet, which means he’s still fighting Varien Aether and the Trevelyans. Now, where might that fight be happening where I can’t hear it.” “And what do I stand to win if I give you the information you seek?” the drow called out. “Employment!” Siegfried replied. “If you prove yourself to be someone I want to work with, you can maintain your current position under my employment, and if you prove yourself to be someone I don’t want to work with, you will join your former crew on the unemployment line in the Lower Planes .” There was a pause as the drow considered Siegfried’s words. “That’s one way to win friends and influence people,” Captain Ironclaw muttered. “The Devil’s lair is in the bowels of the ship,” the drow called down. “See? This is why we invite people to surrender at the start of the fight!” Siegfried said. “Come on, let’s go!” Erwen rode out of the chamber on the back on one of his snakes. He commanded his snakes to search the ship. The giant constrictor snakes began to wriggle their way all over the deck. Below deck, Theryn waited quietly as the creature stomped around, vainly searching for the hidden ranger. Markosian cast blindness on Varien, blinding the paladin. The warlock leaned in and whispered into his ear. “Oh, Varien Aether, where you’re going, you won’t need eyes to see.” “See here, drow, please point out which hatch to go down,” Siegfried called to the sniper. “Let’s talk terms first!” the sniper replied. “So, what kind of position are you thinking I would occupy aboard your ship? Is there any paperwork I need to sign?” “I’ve got your paperwork right here,” muttered Berrick as he hefted his crossbow. "That all depends on how many of my companions Markosian has killed,” Siegfried said to the dark elf. “The answer may be dwindling.” “Oh, Markosian is very powerful, very powerful indeed,” said the drow. “But who knows, your friends may have power of their own. It’s hard to say. If only there was a way for you to send them psychic queries or messages to them, you know, the little things.” Siegfried sighed. “Your continued employment depends on how many bullets you get into the man before my companions finish with him. Make haste." The drow began to awkwardly climb down the mast. "Don't you have ropes and pulleys for this sort of thing?” Siegfried yelled. “My grandmother can rappel faster than this!”