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The “Lost” Journal of Arc’teryx

Tales of the Heroes of Auto-Immolatio
Chapter 89 – Spelunking and Spelashing and Speiders

Thieves and Assassins. It’s a classic matchup, and everyone has their favorite team. Auto-Immolatio threw their lot in with the Thieves’ Guild because otherwise things would be awkward with Sander, though with their collective résumé, they’d look good to either guild on paper. Also the assassins were probably in league with the god the party was hunting. Also the thieves were going to pay the party to mess with the assassins. Calling it win-win was like saying Trogdor “thought fire was neato.” At the earliest opportunity, our heroes embarked on a delightfully ironic quest into the cavernous sewers beneath the city, the Assassins’ Lair and the Den of the Rat King, to kill killers.

Scene: rainwater, drainage sewers. Party descends upon a stairway into darkness. A sign reads, “Beware, you enter the domain of the Rat King.” Beneath in blood reads, “Fuck off Rat King.” Dead rats everywhere. Cue jokes, like “one way ticket to murdertropolis” and “deadly deals at the super merc-it” and “it’s a steel” and “you won’t be disa-point-ed.” But nothing brightens the mood. Dark deeds are afoot.

Further in, another signed etched into the wall reads, “Piss on you Rat King.” Seems the Rat King is popular, but probably needs some PR help. As the party advances down a long hallway, a trap is sprung! A net falls on Trogdor, and then… nothing. He is cut loose, and the group presses on. A dark room lay bare but for a chain. Another trap, “Ah hah,” says Sander. Alas, ’tis but a chain of unexpected ordinarity. In the adjacent room, however, were hosts of extra-ordinarity. Inviting our heroes in for a casual meal, a family of giant spiders met their end in a violent inferno fueled by a full bandolier of flasks of oil. Their charred remains were quickly abandoned and forgotten.

More rooms contained debris, halfling bones, and more signage reading “Beware my wrath,” which is fairly lame as far as passive-aggressive notes go. Two men stand guard against our heroes by a door, awaiting a password. The first thing that comes to Sander’s mind is the first thing he says, and is also wrong. With some patience, through trial and error, the party manages to piece together the password, which was a simple pattern of violence with mauls, fire, arrows, and burning a guard alive by turning his armor into a form-fitting, skin-tight oven. In his awkward death throes, the burning man triggers a landslide trap that fills the doorway and bars their passage. His muffled screams heard through the rubble fade to silence as his allies give up on him.

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