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| The Venatrix |
The Venatrix chewed through the shifting sands as the group pressed toward the Red Belvedere, but Avernus proved to be a fickle navigator. The plane’s geography warped around them, stretching minutes into a frustrating hour of aimless travel until they encountered a lone Imp perched atop a rusted wreck. The creature offered its services as a guide in exchange for a ride, only to vanish into thin air once the destination felt within reach. Left to their own devices, they relied on a series of cryptic signposts that seemed to appear and disappear at whim. Twice they found themselves threading the needle through a labyrinth of skeletal war machines, only to emerge exactly where they had started, the towering lair of Tiamat mocking them from the shifting horizon.
On their third attempt, Morthwyl spotted a new signpost - one that certainly hadn't been there minutes before - and followed its direction with grim determination. The Venatrix surged up a final, jagged ridge, cresting the peak to reveal the impossible splendour of the Red Belvedere. The complex sat like a glittering jewel in the rust-coloured wastes, its silver and gold facades shimmering under a rosy light cast by the massive red-glass dome of the rotunda. A stone monument stood at the entrance, proudly announcing the casino's name in a dozen different tongues, welcoming the damned and the daring alike.
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| A Map of the Red Belvedere |
The parking area was a crowded assembly of infernal iron, ranging from nimble scout cycles to heavy haulers. Morthwyl brought the Venatrix to a halt alongside the others, the engine's soul-screams finally dying down to a low, rhythmic moan. From their vantage point, the glass double doors offered a glimpse into a world of jarring luxury. A massive, gilded statue of a roaring dragon dominated the lobby, surrounded by winding staircases and a busy cashier's cage where gold was exchanged for the casino’s 'talons'. Within, the usual horrors of the Hells were masked by a thin veneer of civility; devilish patrons in fine silks stood in clusters, their laughter echoing through the hall as they clinked glasses and discussed the night's stakes.
Stepping through the glass doors, the group was instantly hit by a wave of sweet, cloying perfume that acted as a sensory shield against the sulphur and rot of the Avernian wastes. Vinthanamel, now shrouded in the guise of a weathered, grey-bearded archmage, led the way with a seasoned gravitas. The sheer scale of the Belvedere’s luxury was matched only by the quiet menace of its security; Pit Fiends, usually engines of pure destruction on the battlefield, loomed in every corner, their massive forms squeezed into tailored tuxedos. They stood as silent, bow-tied sentinels of the casino's enforced civility.
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| Windfall Proprietor of the Red Belvedere |
Once she drifted away to attend to other guests, Bessok approached the cashier to convert their hard-won spoils into the casino’s currency. As he accepted the heavy 'talons', a dark, oily surge of greed washed over him, a localized curse designed to stoke the fires of jealousy and reckless spending. Recognizing the magical manipulation for what it was, the group quickly transferred the cursed chips into a bag held aloft by Vinthanamel’s Mage Hand. In this twisted realm, even the wizard’s simplest spell had been warped; the translucent hand manifested not as a human limb, but as a wicked, dragon-clawed gauntlet of shimmering force.
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| Uvashar |
The usual post-race chaos of cheers and curses was interrupted by a clean-cut elven man in a sharp white suit. He drifted toward Bessok with a conspiratorial whisper, suggesting a "guaranteed win" if the group was willing to infiltrate the stables and magically enhance one of the steeds. Bessok, his moral compass steered by his divine encounter, gave the man a flat refusal and redirected him to Vinthanamel. The elf didn't miss a beat, pivoting his pitch to include a tempting detail: winning big enough would earn them the attention of Uvashar and, more importantly, an invitation to the exclusive, members-only club hidden beneath the Belvedere.
The proposal was cut short by the realization that their group was already fracturing. Joe, likely succumbing to the cloying greed of the cursed talons, had vanished into the throngs of the casino without a word. Vinthanamel, wary of a trap and unimpressed by the offer of sabotage, politely declined the stranger. In a sudden, fluid shimmer, the white suit dissolved into white fur as the elf’s form shifted; it was Uvashar himself, testing the newcomers under a magical veil. With a scoff and a flick of his tail, the Rakshasa informed them they were "no fun" before slinking back toward his elevated box, leaving the group to wonder if they had just closed a door they desperately needed open.
Not one to let a potential lead wither, Bessok watched the last of the hellish steeds thunder past and made a silent calculation. Comparing the Nightmares' pace to the divine vigour now thrumming through his own limbs, he turned and marched directly toward Uvashar. The request was bold: he would race the Nightmares himself in exchange for entry to the sub-level club. The Rakshasa’s laughter was sharp and mocking - the image of a stout dwarf in heavy plate outrunning the finest steeds of the Hells was peak absurdity. Yet, as he looked into Bessok’s steady, unwavering eyes, Uvashar saw a golden opportunity for a spectacle. Win or lose, the sheer curiosity would draw every patron in the Belvedere.
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| The Nightmares |
With a smirk, Uvashar tossed Bessok a small, cold iron pendant - a token for the stables - and gestured toward the starting gates. The announcer’s magically amplified voice soon boomed throughout the casino, spreading word of the "Dwarf versus Nightmares" exhibition. Curiosity did the rest. Patrons streamed in from the Cerulean Hall and the Viridian Den, eager to witness the punchline to a joke. While the crowd prepared to mock him, Vinthanamel and Morthwyl exchanged a knowing glance; they had seen the cleric move when the need was dire. They pooled their cursed talons and placed a staggering bet on their friend.
The tension in the stands was thick as the stable doors groaned open. The Nightmares were led out, their nostrils flaring with embers, while Bessok clanked to the starting line in his full suit of plate armour. The stands erupted in raucous derision, the laughter of devils and mortals alike echoing off the red-glass dome. But the mockery died in an instant when the line dropped. Bessok didn't just move; he blurred. He was off the mark before the Nightmares could even kick up dust, his armoured boots striking the track with the rhythmic power of a landslide.
By the first turn, the laughter had been replaced by a stunned, heavy silence. Bessok was pulling away with impossible speed, his heavy armour seemingly weightless as he widened the gap. By the halfway point, he was nearly half the track's length ahead, a silver streak against the red sands. The silence broke into a roar of disbelief and newfound admiration as the crowd realized they were witnessing a miracle in the middle of a hellscape. Bessok crossed the finish line with a dignity that silenced even the most cynical gamblers. Sensing the impending chaos at the cashier’s cage, Vinthanamel moved with arcane precision, reaching the ticket box to secure their mountain of winnings before the stunned masses could find their feet.
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| Nyssa, Blue Abishai |
The group realised that infiltrating the sub-level as a unit would require more than one miracle. Following Vinthanamel’s half-joking suggestion, they turned their sights toward the Scarlet Coliseum. On their way, they skirted the edges of the Cerulean Hall, a chamber of hushed intensity where the clicking of Dragonchess pieces was the only sound. A Blue Abishai named Nyssa drifted between the tables like a ghost, her sharp eyes dissecting the strategies of the players. Though the intellectual challenge was tempting, Morthwyl’s blood was up; she led the way to the arena, her eyes fixed on the roar of the crowd.
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| Map of the Scarlet Coliseum |
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| Khai, Red Abishai |
Since the games required a trio and Vinthanamel preferred to keep his robes clean, they recruited a young, eager veteran fighter from the side-lines who was desperate for a chance at glory. The group of three stepped into the sun-drenched circle of the arena, the heat of the Avernian sky pressing down on them. Khai’s voice boomed across the stands, announcing their arrival as the iron gates opposite them groaned open. Three Barlgura - hulking, ape-like demons with matted fur and fists the size of anvils - leaped into the arena, their primitive roars shaking the very foundations of the Belvedere.
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| Barlgura |
As the fighters centred themselves for the second round, the expected groan of the iron gates never came. Instead, a low-frequency vibration rattled the very foundation of the coliseum. The sands began to liquefy and swirl, and with a sudden, deafening eruption, a gargantuan Purple Worm burst from the arena floor. It towered over the combatants, a segmented nightmare of chitin and muscle, its tooth-lined maw dripping with caustic hunger. Khai’s magically enhanced voice reached a fever pitch, relishing the look of surprise on the adventurers' faces.
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| The Purple Worm |
The battle turned instantly desperate. The veteran, fuelled by a mixture of terror and adrenaline, charged alongside Morthwyl, while Bessok blurred into motion, circling to the beast’s rear to find a weak point in its plated hide. The creature’s scales were like granite; several of Morthwyl’s strikes skittered off harmlessly, throwing sparks into the air. Sensing a gap in the defence, the worm lunged, its massive head sweeping down to scoop the veteran whole. The young man vanished down the creature’s gullet in a single, sickening gulp. The crowd gasped, but the drama wasn't over. Within seconds, the worm began to thrash in genuine pain as the veteran, refusing to go quietly, began hacking at the creature's soft interior. Khai cackled as a sword-point visibly poked through the worm's side from the inside out.
Bessok and Morthwyl became a storm of distraction, drawing the worm’s snapping bites to keep its focus off their swallowed ally. Seizing the opening provided by the creature's internal agony, Morthwyl drove both her blades into a seam in its belly and heaved with every ounce of dwarven strength. She tore a jagged, massive rent through its underside. The Purple Worm gave one final, earth-shaking shudder before collapsing into the bloodied sand. Moments later, a steaming, acid-scarred, but very much alive veteran crawled out of the carnage. The stadium was in an uproar. Khai stood atop his podium, his wings unfurled in excitement. Two challenges down, one to go.
The coliseum floor was a testament to infernal efficiency; within the hour, the jagged crater left by the purple worm was smoothed over by the arcane earth-weaving of a Blue Abishai, leaving the sands pristine for the final act. When Morthwyl, Bessok, and their acid-scarred veteran ally stepped back into the light, they were no longer greeted with mockery, but with the thunderous roar of a crowd that smelled blood and glory.
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| A Pit Fiend |
Morthwyl dove into the fray, her blades a whirlwind of silver against the golems' brass. The veteran, however, found himself helpless as his standard crossbow bolts flattened against the constructs like lead on stone. Recognizing the disparity, Morthwyl didn't miss a beat; in a display of martial camaraderie, she sheathed a blade and tossed a spare magical longsword to the young man. Armed with a weapon capable of biting through the enchantment, the veteran re-joined the assault, carving jagged rents into the machines' legs.
The golems retaliated with a synchronized hiss, venting plumes of toxic gas from their chest plates. While Morthwyl’s dwarven constitution allowed her to shrug off the poison as if it were mere steam, the veteran slumped, his lungs seizing. Before the mechanical fists could crush the life from him, Bessok’s voice rang out in a prayer of restoration, the divine light washing away the toxin and surging the man back to his feet.
The finale was a masterclass in dwarven aggression. With Khai narrating every bone-shaking impact and precision strike, Morthwyl dismantled the first golem, severing its heavy piston-arm before driving her blades into its central core. The crowd was on its feet, a sea of screaming devils and lost souls, as she turned her fury on the final construct. With a metallic clang that echoed like a funeral bell, the second Pit Fiend-mimic collapsed into a heap of sparking gears and silent brass.
The arena fell silent for a heartbeat before erupting. Khai stood atop his pedestal, his wings fully unfurled in a salute. The crowd’s roar was deafening as Morthwyl stood over the sparking remains of the mechanical Pit Fiends, her chest heaving with the exertion. The veteran, still clutching the magical sword she had gifted him, looked around in a daze, but the true climax of the evening was only just beginning. Khai, sensing the electric atmosphere and perhaps nursing a spark of ego, descended to the arena floor. He admitted that such raw talent hadn't graced his sands in years and made an offer that was impossible to refuse: a fourth round against the Pit Master himself. Double the winnings, and guaranteed access to the underground - if they could survive.
The hour of rest was spent in focused silence, the weight of the upcoming duel pressing down on them. When they returned for the fourth time, the shift in the crowd was palpable. This wasn't just gambling anymore; it was a legendary encounter. Khai stood in the centre, a towering figure of red scales and confidence, flanked by two Horned Devils whose barbed tails flicked with lethal intent.
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| A Horned Devil |
The battlefield was a tight, swirling vortex of violence. Morthwyl held the front against Khai’s fiery strikes, while the veteran attempted to flank, and Bessok moved to guard their rear against the swooping Horned Devils. The danger peaked when a devil’s tail found a gap in Bessok's plate, the jagged barb tearing a deep, bloody furrow in the dwarf’s side. The scent of blood in the pit drove the crowd into a frenzy, and it became clear that this was now a race against time.
Summoning every ounce of her martial prowess, Morthwyl unleashed an inspired flurry of strikes. Her blades moved with such precision and speed that Khai’s defences finally faltered. She hammered at his neck and shoulders, each strike driving him further back until, with a final, heavy blow that nearly claimed his head, the Red Abishai was forced to his knees. He raised his clawed hands in a rare gesture of surrender, his booming voice finally dropping the commentary to proclaim the group the undisputed victors of the Scarlet Coliseum.
Khai breathed heavily, a grin of genuine respect cutting across his face despite his wounds. He signalled to the hovering attendants, who rushed forward with a heavy chest of talons. As promised, he reached out to Morthwyl and the veteran, his touch leaving the glowing red glyphs upon their skin.
During their time at the pits, Vinthanamel had spent his time as a silent observer, and came to recognise the spark of arcane intellect in Nyssa’s eyes. He approached the Blue Abishai with the calculated poise of a fellow scholar, steering their conversation toward the exchange of high-level lore. Though Nyssa was wary - the consequences of an unauthorized mark in the Belvedere were severe - the lure of two ancient, high-tier spell scrolls was too great for her to ignore. With a quick, nervous gesture, she branded his arm with the glowing red glyph. Vinthanamel was now a member of the elite, though he was certain the scrolls he’d traded would eventually cause far more trouble for the Hells than they were worth.
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| Map of the Dragon's Pride The Members Only Club |
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| The Members Only Club |
Vinthanamel immediately noted the Pit Fiend guards flanking a set of ornate double doors at the far end of the lounge. Sensing their active magical detection, he subtly guided his companions to a semi-secluded corner, positioning himself out of their direct line of sight. As they huddled to strategize, Windfall descended the lift, her usual prismatic composure replaced by a visible, simmering irritation. She unlocked the heavy doors with a jagged iron key, which she then handed to one of the guards before disappearing inside. The glimpse they caught of a lavish office beyond confirmed their suspicions: this was the heart of the complex.
Morthwyl, ever the pragmatist, decided that a direct but social approach was their best bet. She sauntered over to the guards, leaning on her reputation as the new Champion of the Arena. The Pit Fiend, surprisingly professional in his tuxedo, acknowledged her victory over Khai with a grunt of genuine respect. Under the guise of a curious victor, Morthwyl managed to draw out the information they needed. The guard revealed that beyond the office lay the sanctum of the proprietor, which doubled as the primary gateway to the lair of Tiamat herself.
Before proceeding further, a much needed rest was required. The transition from the blood-slicked sands of the arena to the absolute decadence of Vinthanamel’s extra-dimensional mansion provided a much-needed reprieve. The wizard’s spell conjured a world far removed from the sulphurous winds of Avernus, offering soft linens and a feast that actually tasted of something other than ash. Joe’s reappearance was a messy but expected addition to the evening; the man was practically pickled in infernal spirits, and he collapsed into the nearest silk-sheeted bed before the servants could even offer him a menu.
Morning in the Hells arrived without a sunrise, but the party - minus a snoring Joe - was ready to execute their unconventional heist. Returning to the Dragon's Pride, they realized that a direct assault on the Pit Fiend guards was suicide. Instead, they leveraged the very thing the Belvedere sold: excess. Bessok’s trial run of the Brimstone Springs was a revelation, the heat of the water easing the ache of devil-tail stings and heavy plate. Morthwyl followed his lead, emerging from her three-hour "Luxe Reawakening" looking more rejuvenated than she had since they left the Prime Material Plane.
While the dwarves softened their edges with steam and massage, Vinthanamel functioned as the cold, calculating centre of the operation. He mapped the ley lines and the physical layout of the basement, triangulating the exact point where the spa's back wall shared a border with Windfall’s private sanctum. The social manoeuvre to clear the room was handled with a cheeky bravado that fit the casino’s atmosphere perfectly. The Erinyes, more than accustomed to the eccentric and carnal whims of the arena’s champions, were happy to oblige. With a knowing smirk and a jingle of keys, they vacated the premises, leaving the spa in the hands of the three 'celebrants'.
The silence that followed their departure was heavy and charged. The steam from the springs swirled around them, obscuring the lush décor as Vinthanamel stepped toward the far corner of the room. He didn't reach for a weapon, but for the arcane threads of reality itself. With the spa now a private fortress, he began the delicate work of folding space, preparing to bypass the Pit Fiends and the locked steel doors entirely by simply walking through the geography of the room.
The transition was seamless. With a whisper of arcane power, Vinthanamel unmade a section of the spa's wall, revealing a temporary bridge into the heart of the Belvedere’s administration. The trio moved with the practiced silence of veteran delvers, slipping into the office before the wizard collapsed the magical walkway behind them. The room was deathly quiet, a stark contrast to the distant, muffled jazz of the lounge, smelling of old parchment, expensive ink, and a faint, lingering draconic musk.
While Morthwyl kept a sharp eye on the heavy double doors, listening for the shift of Pit Fiend plate, Vinthanamel set to work. The shelves were a treasure trove of cryptic knowledge; though the majority of the texts were written in a script that defied even his vast linguistic expertise, he swept them into his bag of holding, knowing their value to the right buyer - or his own future research. His eyes widened when he pulled a specific, leather-bound volume from the stack: a Tome of Leadership and Influence. Recognizing its immense power from his time at the Bargewright Inn, he tucked it securely away, a significant prize for the party's eventual return to the surface.
With the room picked clean of its intellectual wealth, the wizard cast his senses outward. The Detect Magic spell hummed in his mind, highlighting the various enchantments protecting the room, but one aura stood out with blinding intensity. It radiated from the stone wall directly behind the red dragon bust. To the naked eye, it was solid masonry, but to Vinthanamel’s arcane sight, it was a shimmering veil of falsehood - a high-level illusion hiding the threshold they had travelled across planes to find.
Stepping through the shimmering illusion felt like plunging into a cold, airless void before emerging into a chamber of breath-taking, lethal beauty. The cavern was a cathedral of faceted, ruby-red crystal that caught the light of their gear and refracted it into a thousand dancing embers. At the heart of the room, suspended in the precarious gap between a massive stalagmite and its ceiling-dwelling twin, floated the final crystalline fragment of the Rod of Seven Parts. Its power hummed in the air, manifesting a colossal, holographic image of a sleeping red dragon that coiled around the chamber like a silent guardian.
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| Windfall's Sanctum |
Windfall stood beside the artifact, her gaze fixed on the shimmering dragon, but the moment the group breached the sanctum, the illusion vanished. She snatched the rod piece from the air with a snarl, her eyes flashing with a predatory light as she demanded an explanation for their trespass. Vinthanamel, realizing that words were useless against a being of her station, unleashed a jagged bolt of mental energy, attempting to seize control of her will. The spell hit her like water against stone; as the Champion of Tiamat, Windfall’s mind was a fortress, protected by the divine vanity of the Dragon Queen herself.
Before the group could adjust their formation, Windfall became a blur of prismatic violence. She began a hypnotic, whirling dance, her clothing and scales shimmering with an iridescent sheen that overwhelmed the senses. The air itself seemed to fracture into a kaleidoscope of colours, leaving the trio momentarily stunned. Seizing the opening, Windfall lunged at Morthwyl. Her rapier was a streak of light, moving with a speed that defied her tiefling heritage. The first strike hissed with the crackle of lightning, searing through the dwarf’s defences; the second erupted in a gout of white-hot flame that blackened her armour.
Windfall didn't stop there. As she spun away, she lashed out with a psychic wave that felt like a hot iron pressed against their brows, sent to shatter their concentration. She moved with a fluid, terrifying grace, never staying in one place long enough for Bessok to land a blow or for Vinthanamel to centre another spell. With every rotation of her dance, she flicked her wrist to launch elemental barrages - a splash of caustic acid here, a concussive bolt of lightning there. She wasn't just a fighter; she was a storm of Tiamat’s fury, and for the first time in their long journey, the party felt the true weight of fighting a champion on her own sacred ground.
The duel in the ruby-crystal sanctum became a high-stakes game of attrition. Morthwyl was a relentless shadow, her blades whistling through the air as she attempted to pin the tiefling down, but Windfall moved like smoke, her feet barely touching the crystalline floor. Every time Tiamat's champion tried to weave a fresh spell to end the encounter, Vinthanamel was there, his hands moving in a blur of counter-magic. He systematically dismantled her arcane efforts while forcing her to burn through her legendary defences just to stay standing.
Yet, a champion of the Dragon Queen is never more dangerous than when cornered. With a desperate, violent swirl of her iridescent silks, Windfall unleashed a blinding flare of prismatic light that seared the vision of the entire group. In the moment of their disorientation, she dove in with predatory precision. Her rapier found the gaps in Morthwyl’s armour again and again, the elemental discharge finally overwhelming the dwarf’s iron constitution. Morthwyl collapsed into the red dust, her blades clattering against the crystal as she slipped into unconsciousness.
Windfall turned, her face a mask of exhaustion and murderous intent, and prepared to finish the remaining two with another staggering flash of light. But she had underestimated the wizard's resolve.
Pushing through the psychic static and the stinging light, Vinthanamel cantered his focus. He channelled every ounce of his remaining arcane reserve into a single, terrifying point of green light. As Windfall began her final dance, the Disintegration beam tore through the air. Drained of her protective wards and caught mid-stride, the tiefling had no defence left. The beam struck her chest, and in a silent, horrific instant, her form failed. Her body vanished into a cloud of fine grey ash, scattered across the floor by the sheer kinetic force of the spell, leaving nothing behind but her vibrant, multi-coloured clothing slumped in a heap.
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the sharp, rhythmic clink-clink-clank of the crystalline rod piece as it tumbled from the air and rolled across the faceted floor. Vinthanamel stepped over the remains of Tiamat’s champion, his breathing heavy, and reached down to claim the prize they had crossed planes to find.
Bessok didn’t hesitate. He knelt beside Morthwyl, his hand glowing with a radiant, golden warmth as he called upon the depths of his divine favour. The healing surge was absolute, knitting bone and sealing wounds with such intensity that the dwarf surged back to her feet, gasping as the strength returned to her limbs.
But as she gripped her swords, the celebration was cut short. The ruby-red walls of the sanctum began to pulse with a rhythmic, terrifying light, and five distinct, massive draconic heads shimmered into existence within the crystal facets. Red, blue, black, green, and white - the chromatic heads of Tiamat surrounded them, their eyes burning with a divine and terrible curiosity.
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| Tiamat, the Dragon Queen |
Then, the impossible happened. The grey ash of the incinerated tiefling began to stir, swirling like a desert gale before coalescing back into the multi-coloured silks. Windfall rose, her body physically restored but her consciousness clearly side-lined, her feet hovering above the ground. The air grew heavy as Tiamat’s collective roar demanded to know who would dare enter her sanctum and strike down her champion.
Bessok, standing tall despite the divine pressure, chose the path of absolute candour. He spoke of the Whispered One, of Vecna’s intricate plot to unravel the tapestry of the multiverse and erase the gods themselves. He detailed the lich’s plan to cast aside the creators - including Tiamat and her brother Bahamut - to rebuild existence in his own withered image. The reaction was visceral. The crystal walls groaned as the Dragon Queen’s fury manifested; to Tiamat, Vecna was not just a threat, but an upstart, a petty sorcerer-king who dared to claim ownership over a reality she had helped forge before the first stars had even cooled.
The verdict was swift. Since their mission served to preserve the world she considered her own, Tiamat’s interest in the group vanished. With a dismissive flick of divine will, the body of Windfall was discarded, the tiefling’s form collapsing back into a heap of lifeless ash and finery as the five heads receded into the darkness of the crystals.
The silence that followed was the signal to leave. They scrambled back through the illusion into the office, where Vinthanamel acted with the frantic precision of a man who had seen too much. He snapped his fingers, collapsing the extra-dimensional mansion; Joe tumbled into the office mid-snore, hitting the floor alongside the heavy clink of his casino winnings.
Before the confused man could even rub his eyes, Vinthanamel slammed his staff against the floor, weaving the complex geometry of a Plane Shift. With a final, jarring pull of arcane gravity, the Red Belvedere and the stifling heat of Avernus vanished, replaced by the cool, unpredictable winds of the unknown.
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