02/25/2026: Crossing into Tantlin

“Who is next?” The merragon guard, whose name they have come to discover is Ironbrand, stands before the table of bonding items. Before the group can begin crossing into Tantlin, they must get a bond, and none of the choices appeal: a collar, a tattoo, or a brand.

Noting that there is a stigma in Hell attached to being a Bonded, the other eight, including Cornelius, decide not to choose collars, which are harder to hide. Poor Freda, being feathered, can only be collared. She finds it difficult to bury it in the downy feathers of her neck. The collar is still visible.

Glumbo and Newt elect to receive a painful brand upon their forearm. “It should heal in a tenday,” intones Ironbrand.

The rest of the group  to put the extra scrip for tattoos on credit. Nesquo and Lynx become nauseated from the effects of the infernal ink, and hope they can make the long walk across the bridge. 

After the banding, each of the comrade wearing either a brand or collar knows exactly how much scrip must be repaid to have their souls returned. The number glows dull red from the Bond.

Those with the tattoo on the backs of the necks must have someone read the number out to them. This is an unforeseen inconvenience with this more anonymous method of bonding.  

 From their original 50 scrip each owed, the debt has increased significantly in very little time.

Tall Glumbo and Newt each owe 58 scrip.

Nesquo, the Toe Tickler, Lynx, Krasnyy and Murlack read one another’s tattoos to discover they each owe 62 scrip. 

Freda owes 65 scrip. The number glows bright beneath her beak.

Yikes.

There is grumbling from the companions about the increasing debt.  Ironbrand’s hollow voice is as gentle as it is able. 

“Maybe you will be able to buy your souls back. Work hard. Harder than I did. I tell you this because I was once like you. Living as a Bonded to work toward ransoming my soul. Nearly free. I thought I could outthink Hell, that I had enough time to pay my debt.”

He taps his fused armor—the metal that’s become part of his body.

“I was wrong.”

He turns back to his post, dismissing them, pointing toward the bridge.

“Cross. Report to Proctor Azurath at Intake Plaza. Try not to fall in.”

“What happens if you fall in?” jokes Nesquo. “You get wet and cold?”

Ironbrand’s response is more chilling than the air. “Your memory of yourself will be washed away. You will not be able to recall your past, your present, even your name. If you cannot tell Proctor Azurath your name, your soul will be forfeit and you will remain in Stygia. Eternally.”

They move off, chastened, to cross the bridge, Newt says quietly to no one in particular, “I can’t swim.”

That might be a good thing, but it might not matter. Can one die in Hell? No one in the group knows the answer to this question.

On the alert from Ironbrand’s warning about the high winds, the companions begin to cross the bridge. Walking in single file, they are buffeted by frigid winds. Their footfalls on icy surfaces find purchase, for the most part. 

Except Murlack. The warlock, despite his usual elvish grace, slips nearly halfway across. He begins to slide, falling backward from the side of the bridge. Behind and  below him, he can hear the lapping of black waves against the pontoons. 

The sharp-eyed Toe Tickler lunges for him just in time. The rogue, with her highly tuned reflexes, seizes the warlock around the waist, pulling him to safety. Murlack gasps his thanks to Tick, who bashfully acknowledges the gratitude. 

⚔

They continue onward, the bridge moving disconcertingly beneath them. 

The outer walls of Tantlin are ancient ice compressed over eons and shot through with veins of frozen brimstone that glow dull red. The city sprawls in concentric rings behind these glacial ramparts, each level carved deeper into the ice floe.

At the far end of the bridge, the adventurers pass through an roughly carved gatehouse arch. Leaning against an interior wall, as if waiting for them, is a thin faced tiefling. He is picking his nails with a wicked looking dagger. He ignores the group until his eyes find Frida. More specifically, Frida’s collar. He struts over pugnaciously to confront her.

And looks up. 

Freda is at least a foot taller than the man. She grins down at him. 

He snarls up at her and says, “Give me everything you are carrying, Bonded! I’m the toll collector!”

The tall aarokocra pauses to regard the man, “Why? We already paid a toll on the other side.” Freda can clearly see the man wears no uniform nor badge of office, so not a toll collector. The bandit’s  tattered wolf skin cloak parts to reveal threadbare clothing beneath studded leather armor.

Smiling more broadly still, Freda reaches down to pat him upon the top of his head. 

Enraged, the man pulls a knife from his belt, and slashes at her. She sidesteps the strike easily, and he over-balances.  Inertia and gravity do the rest. 

His blade shatters as it slams into the wall of ice blocks Freda so recently stood in front of, and he slips to fall onto his knees. 

From the slushy ground, a steady stream of orcish swears rises. The man is on all fours, trying to regain his footing and fumbling in a pocket.

Krasnyy and Newt, both speak this language fluently, and are happy to translate for Freda, who narrows her eyes at the fellow. “‘Chicken,’” she tells him, “is a pretty big insult to a bird-of-prey aarakocra. We birdfolk don’t like that!”

Stealthily, the man draws out a second blade, and slashes instead at Nesquo, who is standing quite close. His blade misses the legs of the elf, and plunges into the ice, where it sticks solidly.

The bandit switches to yet more poultry-based insults, and clamors to his feet. Lynx, however, makes sure the man does not rise.

Laying on his back on the freezing street, the man shouts at the cleric, “Mark my words, dragonborn, you will feel Copper Oddington’s revenge, I swear it!”

Tall Glumbo crouches by the furious thief. “Allow me,” he tells his companions. While they cannot hear the murmured words, they recognize that he is, yet again, proselytizing to the downed man. 

And it seems to be having some effect.

The man’s shoulders slump, and he may be weeping. He is nodding his head to Glumbo and finally pulls himself to sit at the paladin’s feet. 

Without warning, he flings himself at the Tall Glumbo, wrapping his arms around him. 

“Master!” he cries, his voice ripe with emotion. “I have waited decades for your coming!”

Glumbo, a weeping bandit hugging his waist, glances back at his companions. 

He shrugs. This might be interesting.