The acrid taste of failure burns as Zilk watches his psychic connection with the shadow demon dissolve into nothing. His attempts at peace have crumbled like the ancient stones of Argynvostholdt. The air grows thick with malevolent energy as these creatures of darkness prepare to strike.
Biblo’s bowstring sings through the air, arrow after arrow whistling toward the writhing shadows. The sharp crack of wood meeting darkness echoes through the decrepit hall, but the impacts feel hollow, disappointing. Frustration tightens the dragonborn’s jaw as his usually devastating shots barely scratch these otherworldly foes.
Crystal’s hands dance with arcane precision, weaving a Chromatic Orb that pulses with rainbow light. The magical sphere streaks through the stale air, leaving trails of color that seem to mock the encroaching darkness.
“I hope you will come with us!” Ilya’s voice cracks with desperate urgency as he calls over his shoulder to Nike. “Forgive me, I must go help my Papa!” His boots pound against the shattered marble as he rushes back into the fortification. The sound of his arrow being nocked is lost in the chaos, but it sails harmlessly through the shadow creature’s incorporeal form. The metallic clink of the arrowhead striking stone echoes through the vast space.
One of the demons glides forward with unnatural grace, its claws extended like obsidian daggers reaching for Biblo. But Shifty’s voice rises in divine incantation, and suddenly the air around the creature blazes with holy radiance. The Spirit Guardians’ light sears into the shadow demon’s form, and the smell of burning fills the gloom. The creature’s anguished hiss cuts through the air at the barabarian.
Moving with practiced stealth, Zilk slip through the shadows myself, feeling the cold stone beneath his feet as he positions himself for the killing blow. Zilk’s blade finds its mark with surgical precision. The shadow demon’s head snaps back, its maw opening impossibly wide to reveal rows of needle-sharp teeth that gleam wetly in the flickering light. Its death bellow reverberates through the vaulted ceiling, and then it collapses into a spreading pool of black ichor that sizzles against the ancient marble.
Ratrick’s Spear of Throwing cuts through the air with a whistle, but passes through another demon as if it were made of smoke. The creatures begin to melt away into the deeper shadows, hiding behind the broken statues that stand like silent sentinels along the great hall’s walls. The temperature drops noticeably as they retreat into darkness.
Novaril’s eyes narrow with concentration, scanning the gloom until his keen vision picks out the hidden forms. “There!” he shouts, his voice echoing off the stone walls as he directs Crystal’s attention. Her Fireball spell erupts in a brilliant orange inferno above Ilya and Shifty’s cats, the heat washing over the end of the great hall in waves. But the shadow demon below seems to absorb the flames rather than burn, descending toward Ilya with renewed malice.
Nike’s arrival changes everything. Her shortbow twangs, and her arrow finds its mark, causing the creature to pause and turn. Novaril’s Winged Boots carry him upward with a soft whoosh of displaced air, bringing him eye-level with the demon. When intimidation fails, his longbow speaks repeatedly, each shot accompanied by the distinctive snap of his bowstring.
A Sleep spell from Zilk disperses uselessly into the air, and even Crystal’s Wall of Fire proves ineffective against these creatures of shadow. They continue their deadly dance, visible only to Novaril’s sharp eyes. His shouted directions cut through the confusion: “Left! Behind the column! Moving toward the stairs!”
Then Ratrick begins to play his Bagpipes of Invisibility. The cacophonous wail fills the hall with such tremendous noise that centuries of dust rains down from the ceiling like gray snow, obliterating Novaril’s voice. But fortunately, the particles settle on one of the shadow demons, outlining its form in a ghostly silhouette. Seeing its advantage lost, the creature turns to flee, but the comrades are ready for it now. Multiple attacks strike home as it retreats.
Novaril’s final gambit comes in the form of an Entanglement spell. Thorny vines burst from between the cracked stones at the foot of the staircase, wrapping around the fleeing demon like grasping fingers. The creature thrashes against its bonds, trapped and visible at last, ichor dripping from its wounds onto the ancient marble below.
The group circle, approaching the evil shadow demon with caution.
