Session 7 – Pacts and Plunder

An Ominous Messenger
The ship creaked eastward toward the red sands of Tal’Dash, sails fat with desert wind. Not long into their sail, Bart, the messenger wi was summoned so they could send word to their contact Kiefer. Minutes later Bart flapped back—yet his cheerful chirp was gone.
The wi’s eyes darkened, feathers twisting into slick green plumage. Wings folded, body lengthened, and where Bart perched now stood a kiwi-headed figure draped in emerald brocade.
“Well met, little mortals,” the being crooned—Lord Kals, Archfey of tyrant whispers. “Your blood sings on my altar.”
Vials of crimson glinted between his talons: Illidan’s and Cetiri’s life-essence, harvested during some forgotten scrape.
“Remove the Rune Walker from his ley-line throne—or I gift these to the demon hosts. They will own your hearts… and end them at whim.”
Fear cracked the deck planks, but Illidan stepped forward, bow lowered. “Return Cetiri’s blood. I’ll do what you ask.”
Lord Kals’ beak curled into a smile far too human. A scarlet vial vanished; another remained. “A pact sealed. Break it, and the sands will drink you dry.” Then the Archfey melted into mist, the scent of kiwifruit lingering like mockery.

Vows on the Open Sea
Belowdecks, tension coiled tighter than rigging lines. Cetiri’s voice trembled: “Why risk your soul for me?”
Illidan’s answer was quiet but iron-clad. “A hunter guards. No matter the prey.”
Rabbert traced nervous constellations on the bulkhead, muttering, “Deals with unknown archfey never end well… never.” Lyria only inspected her whispering rapier, as though gauging which oath to trust—the blade’s or the ranger’s.

Raiders in the Fog
Two dawns later, cannon smoke stained the horizon. A corsair brig, sails black as void, cut across their bow. Grappling hooks clattered; snarling pirates spilled over the gunwales.
General Ironclad roared orders. Arrows sang from Illidan’s perch on the main-mast; Cetiri hurled star-fire sigils that exploded across the forecastle. Rabbert, hands sweeping, commanded the boarding planks, sending marauders screaming into the turquoise drink.
Lyria danced through the melee, the cursed blade purring, “Feed me… feed me.” Red arcs answered.
At the peak of chaos the pirate captain—a gaunt tiefling named Grim Jask—brandished a tarnished coin etched with an empty circle. “You’ll not take me so easily!” he hissed, flipping it once. He vanished in a violet shimmer, reappearing ten strides aft, blade poised for Illidan’s back.
“Cute trick,” Illidan snarled, loosing a point-blank arrow that shattered the captain’s horn and resolve alike. Lyria followed with a hamstring slash; Cetiri’s eldritch blast finished the job. The coin clinked to the deck, radiating a hush that swallowed sound itself.

Booty and Burdens
The surviving pirates, trussed like crab pots, babbled about a ledger below—inked plans to raise an undead armada. Rabbert skimmed the pages, brow creasing. “Necromantic supply chain. Someone’s building an arm.”
And the coin? When Illidan palmed it, a chill whisper crawled through his veins. Rabbert asked to see it, its weight not as heavy in his palm and pocketed it..

Landfall and Parting Ways
Corsair brig in tow, the crew beached at sandstone docks. The crew sold the captured ship, divvied spoils, and handed prisoners to desert wardens. Captain Ironhelm saluted the party. “My duty calls elsewhere. May your shadows stay short.” He and his sailors marched west, leaving the companions alone with the desert wind.

Footsteps in the Sand
Supplies secured, the four struck out for Verzara, caravan hub of Tal’Dash. Heat shimmered over cracked flats when a hunched figure emerged: bug-eyes magnified behind brass goggles, trench coat flapping.

“Psst! Fancy a trinket?” he hissed, snapping the coat wide—to reveal absolutely nothing inside.
Lyria blinked. “Is… is the joke the trinket?”
“Exactly!” the stranger cackled, scuttling away, goggles glinting.

Kiefer’s Guidance and the Sandworm Ambush
Near sundown a lanky figure flagged them from a rocky outcrop—Kiefer, desert tracker and Rabbert’s old contact.

“You brought half a menagerie of trouble behind you,” he drawled. “Come, Verzara’s two days east.”

The first night, shifting dunes erupted beneath them. A colossal sand-wurm, plated in ochre chitin, roared skyward. Illidan planted arrows in each jointed segment; Cetiri’s eldritch blasts forced it to surface, where Lyria vaulted onto its head, rapier seeking softer membrane. Rabbert’s thunderwave burst inside the creature’s maw, and with a final convulsion it sank, dune sands hissing shut.

“Not bad for travelers,” Kiefer whistled, kicking loose grit from his boots.

Arrival at Verzara
They reached Verzara at dawn: sandstone walls rose like sunrise, bazaar awnings snapping in hot wind. Kiefer led them through incense-thick alleys to a shaded inn.

Illidan fingered the hush-coin in his pouch—its whisper promising invisibility at a thought—while Cetiri clutched the returned vial of her blood. She murmured, “A debt I will repay.”

Outside, desert winds howled against ancient stone. Inside, pacts, pirate plunder, and unseen enemies waited to see which oath Illidan would break first.