As Marcus Twainiax once said, “The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated.” We managed to slog through a stack of corpses—barely—but I’m dispirited nonetheless because I lost sweet, noble Majenko today. Burns would kill me if he knew what I allowed to happen to his beloved pseudodragon.
The room we entered was a large, high-ceilinged warehouse with a catwalk arching overhead where fucking Rolth stood grinning, surrounded by his stooges—more physicians, zombies, and priests of Urgathoa, the last group stinking like a wino’s rotten-toothed breath.
Finarfin fried a bunch of them but the spell took a lot out of the little bugger. We were all packed into a tight space and I couldn’t get the room to maneuver so I hacked away like a butcher with my new rapier. I tossed knives down a couple of gullets as well. Majenko got zapped right away by Rolth (who is a lot more powerful than I imagined) when Finarfin kicked the door in. He wasn’t killed outright but I had him hide away until the action was over.
Things were looking as badly as predicted in my last letter when, with a loud roar and body odor strong enough to stop an orc in its tracks, a strange Shoanti barbarian waded into the fray trailed by a cleric of Desna, blessed be Her name!
We slowly hacked our way to Rolth who rewarded those dying in his name by slipping through the dimensions past us.
Without time to rest we entered the next room. Five doors, two leading somewhere evil where in four glass chambers four horse-headed leukodaemon simmered in their sour red-yellow amniotic fluid, deep blue veins pulsing obscenely, like woebegone sailors lying senseless in their own blood and sputum beneath the docks. Veneration tithes waited nearby for a christening. One of the creatures moaned softly and PJ—for reasons I cannot fathom, him being a cleric and all—made it an offering. It rose forth like Big Mable emerging naked from some octogenarian’s birthday cake. It killed Majenko outright, the same blast parting my hair. But I was more stunned seeing the roasted stump that was once a friend. Majenko, I hardly knew ye! I failed to protect him like I promised I would. I fought the rest of the battle in a daze of sorts, my throat burning, tasting gall. Finarfin had run out of tricks, retreating to the back. He was the one who had been carelessly urging Majenko on though the poor guy was badly injured and I wasn’t savvy enough to naysay him. May Lamashtu find him sleeping! But that’s unfair. Majenko was my charge and in that I failed him.
Before Finarfin retreated he did manage to engorge the Barbarian. Like an 8-foot erection he re-killed the undead as quickly as they threw themselves on him, his turgidity making him bleed faster—but show me a Barbarian who doesn't like the taste of his own blood. My new rapier got a workingout carving slabs off the creature but it took a higher power to put the kibosh on it.
We were invited into the next room by a Priestess of Urgathoa. I know, I always said I wanted to fuck one but I’ve changed my mind. We emerged inside a chapel dedicated to the goddess of the putrid and foul. The priestess levitated above us. Like all of them she was arrogant in her power but we fought like a team and conquered her. Unfortunately she was then reborn as a Daughter of Urgothoa and rumbled us again. The barbarian had enough juice left him to beat her back down and we celebrated by collapsing on the floor exhausted. I’m taking the time to write you again, loved one. If my body survives I’ll bring it to you personally.
Your friend,
Cordobles
Finarfin's Tenth Report Next
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