04/20/2026: What is Left of the Hag’s Arm

What is left of the taproom of the Hag’s Arm has seen better decades.

Kiki flings a Web spell into the churning mass of devils still standing between the party and survival. The sticky lattice blooms outward and catches three of them mid-swing, fusing limbs and torsos together into something that can neither fight effectively nor stop making a deeply unpleasant noise about it. 

She takes this as an opportunity and begins scaling the wall toward the exit — a reasonable plan, executed with the confidence of someone who has not yet fallen. She tumbles from the stone and lands squarely on the broad back of a large devil, which turns its head to regard her with an expression of deep professional affront.

⚔

 At this point, Vali’s tail has become difficult to ignore. It has been growing since the brandy. It is now considerable. In a moment of inspired experimentation, Vali discovers that the thing is coiled with genuine structural integrity — that if he commits to it fully, he can use it as a spring. 

He commits to it fully. He departs the Hag’s Arm at a speed that could be described as blinding, bouncing across the ruined taproom floor and out into Malbolge’s orange-tinged exterior, where Lula is waiting at the truck. They open the door without asking questions. 

⚔

In the shattered remains of the bathroom, the nightmare shepherd turns its attention to Arman, who is still wearing Lawrence’s face, with the practiced calm of someone who has done nothing wrong and resents the implication. The celestial — the solar, vast and smoldering and radiating judgment from its corner of the ruined stall, glares at them both. Likewise, it resents having been summoned into Malbolge by Reklaw, who currently is in no fit state to receive their complaints.

“You will cease,” Lawrence is saying to the nightmare shepherd, “No more lightning. The conversation we are having does not require lightning.”

The nightmare shepherd glares at him. It is not interested in what the conversation requires. “Are you unwilling to share the glory with one such as I, Lawrence the Great?”

It turns to hurl a Confusion spell into the corner, missing the rolling of ‘Lawrence’s’ eyes. 

The solar regards the incoming magic with supreme indifference. The spell breaks against it like water against granite. What the spell does catch, Reklaw — seated atop the closed toilet and suddenly no longer certain what a floor is for — and Fork, beneath Reklaw’s bottom and submerged to the waist in the questionable water. Fork, somewhat protected by the porcelain exterior of the commode, discovers that being confused while also being stuck is a particular kind of misery.

Reklaw cannot speak. Reklaw cannot move. He sits on the toilet seat with wearing a vacant expression. Beneath him, Fork begins to pound on the inside of the lid, pushing but unable to unseat the monk.

Fork, bewildered, coils himself and shoves against Reklaw’s seat with considerable effort. Reklaw still does not move. Fork shoves again. Reklaw remains. He is, in every functional sense, a statue, planted on the toilet seat while Fork heaves at him from below, the rank water swirling around him.

⚔

The flaming treant has had enough of the nightmare shepherd.

It brings both burning arms down on top of the creature’s head. The shepherd goes to one knee, driven down by the force of the blow. For a moment it simply crouches there, shaking its head.

⚔

Across the bar, Thunk raises his hands and calls a Guardian of Faith into existence, placing it in the blown-out frame of the distant bathroom.

The entity that materializes is enormous, luminous, and deeply committed to its purpose. It immediately demonstrates this commitment by slamming the treant and then the nightmare shepherd with equal enthusiasm.

Of note: Arman is still wearing Lawrence’s borrowed face. The Guardian does not strike ‘Lawrence.’ Fortunately, his nightmare shepherd companion does not notice this oversight.

⚔

In the back of the bathroom, Borark surveys the remaining devils and arrives at a practical question. He turns to the solar, which has moved to stand just outside the restroom, its radiance cutting through the smoke and debris.

“Can I throw you at them?” Borark asks.

The solar considers this. Then it declines, with the quiet gravity of a being that has never been thrown in all of its very long existence and intends to keep it that way.

Borark shrugs. He pivots. He looks at Thurk. Thurk nods.

Thurk is launched, becoming airborne.

The barbarian’s aim is, technically, perfect. He flies, straight and true, toward the clutch of writhing, angry bearded devils, the intended targets. Thurk, however, is a large and heavy individual who falls short, instead coming down hard on a chain devil. Thurk collapses the devil, splaying him on the floor. They both suffer for it, the chain devil taking the worst of it. Thurk rolls clear and draws his glaive. 

A frisson of arcane energy vibrates up the weapon’s long handle as it as Thurk swings it. The chain devil is bisected before it finishes standing.

⚔

Fork plants both feet against the toilet and pushes.

Reklaw is launched off the lid and hits the floor with a painful crash. Fork does not wait. He collects Shovel. He collects his crab. He collects the undead goat — an errand that, under the circumstances, takes longer than anyone would prefer — and the three of them, plus undead goat, scoot out of the restroom with all available speed.

The nightmare shepherd catches Fork at the threshold. Its staff comes down hard, and Fork staggers, absorbing the blow with a grunt.

Then Fork turns around. He is injured. He is soaking wet. He is dragging an undead goat.

He raises one hand and hurls a Fireball into the center of what remains of the Hag’s Arms’ patronage.

The blast does not discriminate. It catches the last of the devils, takes two tables with it, scatters crockery and chair legs and things that were recently internal to infernal bodies. A tankard bounces off the far wall and lands upright on the bar, improbably intact.

The blast rolls across a wide swath of the taproom. The Hag’s Arm tavern is, at this point, largely a memory of itself.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Fork scrubs his hands together with satisfaction of a job well done, and moves toward the door at the head of his little family.