03/04/2026: Tantlin, City of Ice

A functionary — one of a nameless army of administrative devils that Tantlin, the City of Ice seems to have — summons the group and delivers their assignment with the brisk inefficiency. The party is to travel to the Cave of Lost Things and retrieve an item. Their transport: a dog sled, paid for by the group and added to their debt, will be drawn by hellhounds. Six will be tethered to their transport, and one — the lead — will be running free as a guide for the sled dogs and guard to prevent the party from wandering off.

The devil produces a scroll case and hands it to Krasnyy. Inside is a scroll bearing the details of what must be retrieved. He instructs them not to open it until they arrive at the Caves.

“Lose this,” he says, with the flat certainty, “and you stand no chance of winning your souls back.”

Krasnyy tucks it away with appropriate solemnity.

Before the group is dispatched, Zadok — whose religious ambitions have not dimmed in the slightest since arriving in Hell — requests a private audience with the functionary to discuss the tenets of his faith. The others are sent into the hall. The functionary, apparently intrigued despite himself, agrees to 60 seconds. Zadok delivers his pitch: an eloquent summary of the Church of Tall Glumbo, its lawful disposition, its one true god, and its openness to new membership. The functionary is not converted, exactly. But he is listening.

Travelling with the party are two familiar faces: Cornelius Mallard, the desperate father whose fraudulent contracts set all of this in motion, and Copper, the soul Zadok collected at the gate and is already counting as a convert.

⚔

The party is released into Tantlin with a dormitory address, a warning about the cold, and the understanding that everything they purchase — everything — goes on their tab. Their various devices–collar, tattoo or brand–will show what the amount of scrip they owe. 

The tab is already not small. The bridge tolls, the maintenance fees, the intake costs — it all compounds. Each purchase makes their trackers uncomfortably warm against the skin, the number ticking upward with silent, infernal precision. Several in the party worry about the escalating sums. What to do?

Go to the mall, of course.

The Infernal Mall is, in its way, a marvel. Merchants hawk cold-weather gear of every variety, from the magnificent to the desperately functional. A fine red cloak costs 20 scrip. A perfectly adequate gray one costs 2. The gray one will keep you just as warm. Or not warm. But will keep you functioning in the icy cold of Stygia.

Krasnyy spends 20 scrip on the red cloak without visible regret. It is a fine cloak, which accumulates an obvious stain immediately.

Others make more economical choices. Several settle for the gray. One acquires something green, but quite scratchy, for 7 scrip. Freda, practical as ever, finds something workable. The debt numbers rise accordingly.

Tall Glumbo’s shopping experience goes somewhat differently.

Glumbo draws out a vial of holy water inside one of the shops. The merchant does not take this well. The devil leaps to stand atop his counter almost instantly, shrieking and pointing at the door, ordering Glumbo out. He refusing to serve anyone in the party until the offending item is removed from his establishment. Krasnyy, with admirable presence of mind, seizes Glumbo by the arm and carries him outside, depositing him in the cold.

Unfortunately, Glumbo has not yet had a chance to buy a cloak. The cold does not care, and Glumbo shivers violently in the swirling snow, feeling a deep exhaustion creep into his bones. He realizes that every subsequent venture into open Stygian air without a coat will cost him, physically. He is, of course, not allowed back into the mall, and none of the devils entering or leaving will give him a moment’s notice. One snarls at him, cruelly, that this is Hell, after all. Glumbo is meant to suffer. Hell does not run a charity.

Inside the Infernal Mall, debt accumulates. 

When the rest of the group emerges, Tick tosses Glumbo a coat. Nothing fancy, but the tiefling will not freeze. 

This is not to say they are warm. They are all bone-chillingly uncomfortably cold. This is, after all, Hell. They simply will be able to function in Stygia’s ice environs.

⚔

The group is assigned to a room with triple bunk beds. Sleeping outside in the slushy street is not an option — no rest without shelter in Stygia, not in this cold — and the party resigns itself to the company-store accommodations with the weary pragmatism that Hell seems to cultivate. On their devices, more debt accumulates.

Downstairs from their room is a grungy tavern from which what raucous and discordant sound spills into the streets and finds its way into their room. Bagpipes. And accordion. The music of Hell.

No matter. Krasnyy has plans for the evening.

The only table with customers is in the corner of the tavern, and at it are two ice devils. They are large, intimidating, and — it quickly becomes apparent — extremely uncomfortable in their chairs. Too small for their lanky bodies, the seating forces their knees up around what might be their ears.

Are either of these fine devils interested in a game of cards?

Krasnyy produces a Kesselarian Sabacc deck, settles herself across from them. As she explains the rules, the chair in which she is seated grows hard, and no matter which way she shifts her body, Krasnyy cannot get comfortable. But, she presses on, teaching the rules of Sabacc. 

The game is something like blackjack, but with the added wrinkle that players aim for positive or negative 23, black cards are negative, and the card symbols carry different values. Negative 23 beats positive 23. The circle card is a zero and is, by Krasnyy’s own assessment, useless.

They must play the ice devils in scrip. Bets, they discover, come off their existing debt — or add to it. This does not stop anyone from playing.

Zadok, meanwhile, uses the opportunity to recruit yet again. He sidles over to one of the ice devils as it stares at its cards and begins a sidebar about Glumbo-based theology. The other players briefly consider whether to help or to let him fail on his own merits. The question of whether an ice devil can be converted to a minor infernal religion remains technically open.

A practice round is played. Then a real one.

⚔

When the cards are finally laid down: Nesquo wins, netting 30 scrip. 

The devils lose. Glumbo, Freda, and several others find themselves down varying amounts, including one player who somehow loses despite not appearing to have done anything, but this is, after all, Hell. There is a brief debate about whether the card game should be played again or whether the party should exercise fiscal restraint, given that their souls are on the line.

The devils grumble, and this decides the group, who elect to take their winnings and go. The devils grumble more, wishing to win their scrip back. But the group excuses themselves to return to their frigid dorm room with its uncomfortable mattresses and smelly sheets.

The Cave of Lost Things somewhere in the frozen distance, and the scroll case is unopened.

The debt, as always, continues to accumulate.