Session 8

Heroes (lvl 4): Bastion, Thrum, Aibell, Emile

The heroes’ arrival upon Athas allows no time for questions or caution. Beneath the crimson sun and before the roaring masses of the arena, they are set upon at once by a pack of thri-kreen gladiators.

The insect warriors move with startling speed, leaping across the sand with chitinous limbs and flashing weapons. Yet the heroes, though disoriented by their sudden arrival, answer violence with discipline. Steel rings, dust rises, and one by one the thri-kreen are brought low. The crowd, expecting easy slaughter, instead finds new champions to cheer.

Their reward is immediate. The gates grind open once more.

From the dark tunnels emerge three towering half-giants, armed with brutal clubs and clad in piecemeal armor. They stride into the arena to thunderous approval, each certain that the battle is already won. What follows is anything but certain. The heroes meet strength with resolve, outmaneuvering the larger foes and driving them down before the eyes of a stunned audience.

By the end, the arena chants for blood no longer. It chants for the newcomers.

Victorious, the heroes are not granted freedom, but escorted below the arena into the slave pits where gladiators are housed, fed, and prepared for further spectacle. There they meet Kallor, a veteran trainer whose scars speak more loudly than his words.

Kallor studies them carefully.

He praises their skill, but it is not their prowess that interests him most. It is their weapons.

Metal blades on Athas are treasures beyond price. Here, bone, obsidian, and stone are the tools of war. To carry steel is to carry wealth, status, or mystery.

Kallor wants to know where such arms were found.

The heroes, wary of revealing too much, claim to be desert folk who discovered forgotten ruins buried beneath the sands. Kallor listens, unconvinced perhaps, but practical enough not to press.

Instead, he offers a warning. They would do well to draw a map. For the templar who oversees the arena will surely wish to inspect these miraculous ruins for himself.

That night, the heroes remain in the slave quarters among exhausted gladiators, chained laborers, and broken men who wait to be spent for sport. There, by torchlight and whispered voices, they hear troubling rumors.

Entire villages have vanished. Not raided. Not burned. Not conquered. Gone.

Caravans speak of empty roads, abandoned wells, and a strange brightness seen in the far distance. Some call it a curse. Others the judgment of sorcerer-kings. Most simply refuse to speak of it for long.

Sleep comes uneasily.

At dawn, Kallor returns. There is no ceremony, no comfort, only purpose.

The trainer informs the heroes that they are wanted. He has come to escort them from the pits and into the presence of the arena’s master: Templar Maerigal.

LEVEL UP!