03/23/2026: The Hag’s Arm

As the truck rolls slowly up to the Hag’s Arms, a landmark in the land of Malbolge, the massive, mummified limb that gives the tavern its name rises one hundred feet into the lowering sky, casting deep shadows over the public house beneath it.

Clunk, Lula, and the tiny griffon are tasked with remaining behind. Kiki plants the Immovable Rod into the truck’s gears so the vehicle cannot be moved until she returns. The rest of the party crosses the rope bridge spanning the narrow fissure between the mesa where they have left the truck and the one from which the arm and the tavern rise. The bottom of the fissure writhes with thousands of maggot-like larvae — the souls of cheats and liars, suffering their appointed punishment in this level of Hell.

⚔

Within the cavernous space of the Hag’s Arms, a quasit shifts nervously upon a stool at the bar. The hood of his cloak is drawn up to hide his face, for the demon knows he will be pulled to pieces should any devil discover how deep into the Nine Hells he has wandered.

Another patron feels equally out of place. She settles onto the stool beside him, tucking her great feathery wings — just beginning to lose their shine — behind her back. “I’m Jaquila,” she smiles, and the quasit notes that the teeth in her otherwise quite beautiful face are very slightly pointed.

“Fork,” the quasit says, hoping the woman does not clock him for what he is — which the devils would surely do, if his hood slipped.

“Morda, bring us something to drink.” She places three soul coins — a large sum — upon the damp bar. “What would you like?” Jaquila asks solicitously.

Fork turns to Morda with some excitement. “The strongest thing you have.”

With her snarled teeth, Morda pulls the cork from a squat bottle and sets it fuming before him. The heady vapors do not deter Fork in the slightest. He ignores the glass, tips the bottle back, and drinks deep. As he sets it down again with exaggerated gentleness, his eyes roll up and he tumbles from the stool, unconscious. His hood, at least, remains in place.

Jaquila, annoyed at having paid more than expected for her companion’s beverage of choice, moves away. She has spotted a familiar face, and her attention is drawn elsewhere.

⚔

Reklaw shoves open the doors of the Hag’s Arms in time to see a hooded figure at the bar slide from his stool to the floor. “We’ve got to help him!” calls Thunk. Before Reklaw can formulate a response to the kind-hearted bugbear, he freezes. There, at the bar, is the unmistakable face of the fallen angel who stole their souls. The monk moves to confront her — then thinks better of it, holds up a finger to indicate he’ll be right back, and slips away toward the bathroom.

He chooses among the various stalls. Beneath the door of one of the larger cubicles he can see a pair of massive, taloned feet, but before he can wonder what manner of creature they belong to, something else catches his eye: a massive black feather rocking gently on the tiled floor.

A twinge of guilt moves through him at the thought of the rooster — their former friend, abandoned in the frozen hell of Stygia.

Reklaw shuts himself into a stall and opens Nolzur’s Marvelous Pigments. He knows what he wants to paint: a book of spells for summoning celestials — specifically, a Solar. An archangel is never a bad choice for an ally.

He begins to paint.

⚔

Kiki and Thunk push past the dusk hag called Scratch, who offers a very gruff greeting from her post at the top of the stairs. They make their way past Jaquila — Kiki pointedly ignoring the fallen angel, Thunk having no idea that this particular individual is responsible for stealing his companion’s soul.

They stand over the stranger now unconscious at their feet. “What’ll you boys have?” Morda snarls from behind the bar.

“I’ll have whatever he had,” Kiki tells her. Morda gestures at the half-empty bottle.

Thunk looks at the bottle, then at the figure turning a concerning shade of blue at his feet. “Is that a good idea? I only have one spell that can help with—” he gestures broadly at the unconscious and very possibly poisoned stranger “—whatever this is.”

Kiki ignores him. Kiki also discovers the power of fire whiskey, and joins Fork on the floor.

Thunk swears. He bends to cast Lesser Restoration on the foolish mapach — alcohol poisoning, both of them — and rolls the unconscious stranger onto his side, just in case. The stranger must take his own chances.

As Thunk straightens up, he notices a table of succubi watching him work. He brushes his hands together, squares his shoulders, and strides over.

“Hello, ladies!” Thunk wears what he hopes is a winning smile. Many outside the Underdark find a bugbear’s grin somewhat alarming, given the quantity of fangs involved. Three of the succubi giggle unkindly at the far end of the table. One, however, slides a pitcher and a wooden goblet toward him.

Thunk suavely pours himself a measure of whatever the vessel contains and swigs it down.

Something not quite liquid slips past his lips just before the stench hits him.

He has just enough time to set the goblet on the table before a wave of nausea sweeps over him. He is going to be sick. Very sick.

As Thunk sprints for the bathroom, the unkind laughter of the succubi rings in his ears.

⚔

Still wearing the guise of the nightmare shepherd, Arman is greeted with calls of “Lawrence! Hey, Lawrence!” The changeling joins a table of other nightmare shepherds and fields questions about his recent arrests. The criminals now in his charge, he explains, are to be brought before Asmodeus himself.

“How did you get Lady Glaysa to send you down to Asmodeus? I thought she’s the only one who deals with him directly.”

“Umm…” Arman, as Lawrence, has little to say by way of an answer.

The nightmare shepherd across from him cuts his eyes away, smiling wryly. “She’s headed down to see Daddy veeeery soon. But you didn’t hear that from me. She’s bringing him something extraordinary.”

“Maybe she’ll let me bring it—” Arman begins to think aloud.

“That’s you, Lawrence. Never leaving anything for the rest of us!” The two nightmare shepherds raise their cups. “To Lawrence.” All Arman can do is chuckle along.

The shepherd’s voice drops to a low hiss. “Word has it Glaysa has some sort of very powerful secret weapon she’s bringing to Asmodeus. And some sort of twelve-foot-tall monk from Stygia on a vengeance quest. But you didn’t hear that from me, either.”

“Twelve feet tall,” Arman marvels. “He must be quite the warrior. Perhaps they’d welcome an escort.”

The group laughs mirthlessly. “What an ambitious fellow you are, Lawrence. What would a twelve-foot-tall chicken who happens to be a monk need an escort for? But you didn’t hear the chicken part from me.” The nightmare shepherd and ‘Lawrence’ watch as Vali and Borark cross the room, following the sprinting Thunk toward the bathroom.

⚔

Vali and Borark push open the bathroom door to the sounds of Thunk heaving in one of the stalls and the quiet scratch of Reklaw’s paintbrushes in another. Borark moves toward the sounds of distress. Vali drifts toward the larger cubicle at the end of the row — the one with the enormous taloned feet visible beneath the door — and peers carefully through the gap between the planks.

Inside, a tall female devil stands with leathery wings arching high over her back, whispering to a massive black rooster. The rooster shifts uneasily in the tight space of the stall.

One saurian eye suddenly narrows at the gap in the planks. Vali throws himself out of view, pressing his back against the wall and praying he has not been spotted.

“So jumpy!” A low voice, a woman’s, comforts the rooster from behind the door.

“They are here, Mistress! I would like permission to confront them!”

“Patience, my sweet. Let me straighten your headband. There!”

A rooster. Their rooster. Well — thinks Vali — their ex-rooster. The one they abandoned in Stygia. The Headband of Intellect rests on the creature’s brow, gifting it with preternatural insight. Somehow, impossibly, it found a way here. And who is the woman with it?

It dawns on Vali that the devil standing beside the rooster, its soon-to-be rider, might be Glaysa — the only daughter of Asmodeus, King of the Nine Hells.

Before he can do anything with this information, Reklaw bursts from his stall. He holds up a painting of a Summoner’s Spellbook — a high-level one, by the look of it — with the expression of someone very pleased with themselves. “I’m going to bring in a Solar to help us deal with Jaquila! How does it look?”

He thrusts it at Vali, who is madly gesturing toward the occupied stall. “Um… good. Great.”

In truth, the book is somewhat fuzzy around the details.

“It’ll have to do!” Reklaw pulls the book free from the surface of the paper and begins to cast the summoning spell he finds inside.

“We must warn my father!” A strong female voice rings out from behind the stall door. There is a flash of light and the sharp smell of brimstone.

The feet beneath the door disappear. Vali peers beneath: the stall is empty.

Fluttering in agitated circles around Reklaw’s head is a very small pixie, profoundly unhappy about being

summoned to the Nine Hells.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​