Session 9

From Brian

The cavern is quiet now, its walls still heavy with the echoes of your battle. Throgg the Devourer lies broken upon his hoard, his tyranny ended by your blades, spells, and will. Victory was not the work of one, but the strength of all:

• Felix cursed Throgg, opening the way for Alruik’s devastating strikes.
• Alruik, his armor thrumming in the dragon’s presence, stood unbroken where others would have fallen and drove terrible wounds into the beast.
• Longshanks pressed the assault tirelessly, his dual weapons wearing the monster down blow by blow.
• Daxxon’s healing light kept his allies alive, while his blessing turned near-misses into telling strikes.
• Lyra’s summoned moonbeam dealing the final, crushing blow that toppled Throgg.

But victory was not without cost. Kerg the Crazed, chieftain of the Brackwater Black Teeth, fell in the fighting. The tribe now looks to a new leader: Bibblebib, quick-witted and sharp-tongued, who claims the mantle of chief. Whether he seeks alliance or advantage remains to be seen. Beyond the cavern, shadows stir. A week before your assault, Jenna faced Hamid Dreamshard in a confrontation unseen by you. She was left blinded, her fate uncertain. Now, Zuruk the bugbear carries her to his home, promising her shelter until she recovers. Though her sight is gone, her words remain, especially her prophecy of two ancient brothers, bound by blood but opposed in all things, now waking from six centuries of slumber.

In the wake of Throgg’s fall, the road forks before you:

• Return to Umbrafell: Deliver your victory to Prince Draven Marrowfell, your ally and patron, and decide how best to use his resources and guidance as the shadows over the realm deepen.
• Seek Jenna’s Guidance: Once healed, she may yet unravel the prophecy’s deeper meaning—her blindness perhaps hiding stranger insight.
• Secure the Black Teeth Alliance: With Bibblebib in power, the goblins could prove a valuable ally—or a dangerous rival if left unchecked.
• Venture Into the Shattered Realm: The prophecy whispers of the brothers’ awakening and powers long asleep. To seize your fate, you may need to walk those broken lands.

Throgg has fallen, and your legend has begun. But the shadows are not yet lifted—and greater trials await.

 

 

NOTES:

Jenna’s Prophecy (as remembered )

"I see banners… two houses, proud and mighty, their war written in fire and blood. The Dragon of Umbrafell rises, its breath a storm of flame, scales cracking as it thrashes. Against it comes the Lion of Valthoria, its mane bright as gold, but its roar carries hunger, and its claws drip crimson. Their clash shakes the world — steel splinters, the earth quakes, and even the heavens bleed."

"Yet above the ruin, I see shadows… not men, not beasts, but greater. Brothers. One shrouded in light, a rod of law gripped in his hand. The other wreathed in darkness, crowned in rusted iron, laughter spilling like open graves. They do not fight one another… not yet. Instead, they set their pieces on the board — kings, crowns, kingdoms, all the lives between."

"The dead rise to march again, hollow-eyed, their strings pulled by a hidden hand. The Dragon staggers, its fire dimming. The Lion roars, but the sound is twisted, as though another voice speaks through it. And between them, a wound splits the land, black fire spilling from it, like a gate… or a prison undone."

"Six centuries the world has slept. But now the sleepers stir. Their quarrel begins anew. And no realm, no crown, no soul will remain untouched when blood calls to blood."

Her voice falters, her body trembling as if seized by some unseen force. She whispers:

"Beware the crowned skull… and beware the rod as well. For neither brother’s hand is clean."

Then, softer still, almost as though speaking to herself:

"There was… something more. Two bound by blood, torn by fate. One burns bright but unbending, a weight heavy as stone. The other coils in shadow, cruel and endless. Their bond runs deeper than kings, deeper than graves. Forgotten by the world… but not by blood. Not by blood."

Her voice breaks to a near-whisper, shaking:

"The Dragon may fall. The Lion may rot. It matters little… for their struggle is but an echo. The true war is the brothers’ alone."

 

Throgg’s Throne Room Treasure:

120 Gold coins depicting various halflings

 Ancient bones

 2 gem encrusted chalices 80 GP

A badly faded battle standard depicting a black dragon

A broken Magical  Longsword.

2000 GP in misc. coinage. (Serval minted from Valthoria)

Stone Dragon Egg

 

 

Dying statement ( as you remember):

"You… hah… you think killin’ me changes anything? This swamp remembers. My kin remembers. And when they come… you’ll wish it was me you were fightin’ again. You think Umbrafell’s dragon can shield you? The Lion of Valthoria already roars… and I… I was its claw in these lands.

Sweetberry… aye, that was us. The warband broke your walls, burned your homes, and left your kin in the mud. They laughed while the village screamed. But don’t fool yourself, boy… it wasn’t just slaughter. We were searchin’. And yet… we did not find what we sought. The Lion still hungers for it. Your village died for nothin’ but ash and smoke.

So remember that when you dream of vengeance. Sweetberry was only the beginning. Others are comin’… stronger, crueler. And when they do, you’ll beg to face me again."

 

 

The description of the man that was working with Throgg (Pieced together from Harissa and the goblins):

 

Angvar Thesilverit

A tall, imposing man draped in flowing black and green robes, Angvar Thesilverit exudes an aura of cold arrogance and unshakable confidence. His sharp, hawk-like features are twisted into a perpetual sneer of disdain, and his piercing eyes seem to strip away all pretense, laying bare the flaws and weaknesses of those who stand before him. With neatly kept hair slicked back and a pointed goatee framing his cruel mouth, he looks every inch the calculating mastermind.

Angvar carries himself with rigid poise, one hand often curled around a slender smoking pipe as though savoring some secret victory only he knows. The dark silk of his garments is trimmed with subtle gilded patterns, suggesting wealth and influence, while the heavy armored gauntlets covering his arms betray a readiness for battle and a hidden reservoir of power.

Emblazoned upon the breast of his robe and etched into the golden trim is the sigil of Valthoria—a roaring lion’s head, crowned with jagged rays like a blazing sun. The same motif repeats in the intricate filigree of his gauntlets, and a ring on his finger bears the lion’s mark in blood-red enamel. The faintest green shimmer clings to these symbols, as though the very air recoils from the pride they represent. Wherever he stands, it is as if Valthoria itself casts a long shadow behind him.