Mountain of the Mad Marquis - Epilogue

In the mountains, a mantis-man woke up to a strange presence in his tent. He was blind but he perceived the world through other senses, and he suppressed his instinctive reaction to kill the intruder when he realized it was none other than his long lost leader. The Bandit Chief's aura was hazy with sulfur and an inner-heat, like fire burning. But the smell and sound was unmistakable.

"Gorrister, you have returned to us" chittered the Mantis man. All was not lost. The headman would lead them out of their exile and it would be just like the old days, with blood and plunder for everyone.

The blind bug couldn't see it, but the bald bandit's eyes blinked twice, once with his eyelids and once with the nictating membrane over his new, slit pupils.

"Yes." the brigand said. "...Gorrister."

At the top of a vast tower, Fever River danced. He had poisoned a man with his blade and now he danced around the man as the man died. He stomped soundlessly in a prayer to O Sun and Great Moon, and held his blades up in the air so the white could reflect the light and the black could drink it. The blue leather squeezed his body tight with each breath. The dying man scraped and kicked, turning in a loop on the ground. Fever River danced to the edge of the platform and seemed to leap out into open space. He landed nimbly in the exact spot where he had left and continued to whirl.

"Old Friend" the dying man spoke through his choking in a voice that wasn't his own. "We need you."

Fever River's face heated up, mask tightening further with the surge of blood to his head. It was just like Rope Trick to interrupt his magnificent fetishism with yet another quest. The back of his jaw tingled and stung. His salivary glands, anticipating more dancing and more music and more blood, were already working overtime.

Fever River spun on his heel and bowed. The dying man used his last breath to laugh in Rope Trick's voice.

"Pervert."

Fever River took the thing he came for from the dead man. A gust of wind chased a cloud across the sunset.

On the fourth level of the Mountain of the Mad Marquis, The Cave Elf Angrboda gave prayers of thanks to Mothermonster and Leper Heart and Hungry Dungeon and The Headsman. Some adventurers had been through here and left unlooted bodies in their wake, and a bright house with shining windows and piles of treasure. She scooped wands and scrolls and potions and armor and weapons into her sabretache and, when it was full, into the saddlebags on her mount. The tuatara Pythia croaked happily and continued munching the remains of the Devil Swine as Angrboda stuffed enchanted firearms and diamonds and silk coverlets into the pouches hung across her scaly back.

One corpse went to Pythia as a treat for good behavior. The others went into the river as thanks to Hungry Dungeon for the whalefall. A giant Olm perched on a glowing orb thanked her for her largess and swallowed one of the bodies whole. Angrboda took this for a theophany, the God accepting the offering. She mounted Pythia and returned, by a system of caves descending into the earth, to the deepest groves. Those farthest from the nigh-forgotten sun.

Inside the stone egg, Hasdrubal the Red dreamed that he was in a vast dark space. There was a tiny bald man in front of him. Uninterested in what the man had to say, Hasdrubal ate him. The momentary pleasure of eating a human turned to panic as the Ancient Red Dragon felt a sensation like falling. Like his heart stopping in the middle of a seizure. He woke up for a moment, with the feeling that something had left his person.

He pondered the subject for a moment, ate a piece of treasure and went back to sleep.