Thanks to information by Gravebinder Panshal al-Marhji in gratitude for them saving his daughter, Arcael and The Oooze were first on the scene after a recent sand storm uncovered the hidden resting place of Maraut, the Elephant God.

Key events in this story include:
the destruction of a group of wights led by a Dreadwight,
the utter defeat of an elite kobold sleeper unit, resulting in the death of Bartiman Greenbough (raised by Saabu Theet),
the defeat of Herutob, fiendish water naga,
the defeat of a Devouring Mist and a Sacrificial Spirit,
overcoming several deadly traps,
the defeat of resident and summoned SHADOW DEMONS,
the defeat of swarm-filled skinstitches and gibbering allips,
the defeat of a hellwasp swarm,
despatching a belker and two blood golems,
the destruction of THE ELEPHANT GOD, Maraut, resulting in the death of Goran (restored by MIRACLE performed by High Priest of Anu-Akma), and the subsequent PERMANENT marking of each character as “GOD SLAYER” by an immovable tattoo on the forehead of each party member.

After the excursion to the Tomb of The Elephant God, where Goran died upon the destruction of the God Maraut, and all other party members were marked with the eternal symbol of “God Slayer”, the noble Cleric Saabu Theet received a DIVINE DREAM, informing him that nothing short of a Wish or Miracle would restore the party’s rogue to life – a seemingly difficult task to achieve in a city not very well populated by 17th Level Clerics or Mages. Xavier could offer no help. Arcael and Bartiman Greenbough asked their contacts in Siwal and both suggested that the best hope was to approach the Church of Anu-Akma, Lord of the Dead.

On gaining an audience with the High Priest of Anu-Akma, the old man asked the party: “Does the recipient have a black ear?” The party nodded, not sure what this meant.
“Then, I have a scroll prepared!” the priest proclaimed triumphantly. “Leave the body here, along with a small token of 35,000 Gold Pieces, and you may collect your friend tomorrow.”

When the party returned to Anu-Akma’s shrine the next day, Goran met them at the fountain. He still bore the symbol of “God Slayer” and still his ear was black. But he was alive!

Khors, wearing the bright mask of Aten, sat in a large circle at an elite performance of the travellling musicians who played under the name Peter and the Puddings. In a large private tent in Nuria Natal in honour of the birthday of Abdul Bashir, Siwal’s trade ambassador in the Capital City, the Divine Son of Svarog appeared human to all but one in the crowd, and listened carefully to the music of the young bard La Fayette. A singing style no doubt enriched through practise and devotion, but even more wondrous, the dextrous mastery of the lute in his hands.

Khors’s eye caught that of a beautiful woman who sat opposite him, yet closer to the singer. From across the circle, she winked at him knowingly. Any other person in that tent would have been beguiled by the seduction of that wink and smile, but Khors was not fooled.

“Nakresh,” he realised, understanding immediately the divine Patronage lending its power and influence to the young singer in the centre of the circle, and yet it was not pride that Khors saw in that smile. It was something else. Something more sinister. Something malevolent. Something befitting the wiles of the Many Handed goddess. Something terrible was happening. He felt sure of it…..

Those who say they know the gods say that Horus, the Desert Falcon, sees all that happens in The Sarklan. A desert eagle flies high above the wispy cirrus, where once a winged camel soared. Its piercing vision spies the temple opening and yet there is no prey in that arid land. But, he who used the raptor knew its import.

Memories stirred in the very heart of The Majestic One of a long lost friend, cursed by the Serpent, crushed by Divine Power, yet not devoid of hope. Resurrection? Could a DEAD God live? Not his place to intervene. All in the hands of mortals now.

The eagle turns and flies away. Ever searching. Ever hungry. But the Eye of Horus fixes its gaze upon the ancient temple, seeing all that can be seen. No other God but one has had its eye upon this place, and He that did would not intervene. Would Anu-Akma be called by the passing of a soul? Even Horus knew not this. He must wait. Like Providence, the fate of one once noble balanced tentatively on the sharp point of a deadly knife.

Selikk Aman, Desert Disciple and High Lieutenant of Ogun flew over the dry winter Sarklan on his winged camel, Nagritte. There were no sand dragons aloft today, which pleased the Wind Lord greatly, for he despised such creatures and endeavoured at all times to keep such evil monsters away from civilized people.

On the dry lands below, a few caravans struggled across the slow terrain, and in the distance his divine ears heard the smooth swish of a Siwal sandship as it made its way through the Sands of Sorrow. But this was not his calling.

Flying over an oasis, he saw two merchants arguing, their hands on their daggers, their wives and servants wild eyed and pleading for peaceful resolution to whatever trivial disagreement they contested. But this was not his calling.

As Selikk swerved westward on his winged beast, away from the Hariek Hills, he noticed a group of dead reptilians, their life essence ripped from them, their bodies already decaying in the warm winter sun. But this was not his calling.

After a short time he descended to a vile pool at the foot of a short ridge. The recent storms had blown away tons of sand and had revealed an ancient temple of the Elephant God, Maraut, so old that even Selikk Aman had not been born when it was built. This was his calling.

Leaving Nagritte outside with instructions not to approach the pool, Ogun’s Servant strode through the maze of passages on the edge of the ethereal plane, being careful to avoid triggering the powerful magic preventing interdimensional travel within the temple. Deep into the dungeon he ran, past desecration painful to behold.

Avoiding a large room guarded by the souls of wretched priests, he strode through a series of tombs and through a dark passage leading into the most vile room he had ever entered. Black was its essence, putrid its stench. Mortals engaged with demons in fierce contest. He would pray for them when he left, but he was not sent here to battle demons, just to eject one from the body of a loyal follower.

Dispel Magic was a simple spell for Selikk Aman, and he cast it with pleasure, forcing out the horrid demon from the body of the unwilling barbarian. “A fairer contest now,” he thought, and turned whence he came. He could have stayed to help the mortals against such demons of shadow and disgust. But that was not his calling. And it was unfair to leave Nagritte alone in such a terrible place.

A group of scholars sat around an low round table in a favoured tea palace of Siwal. Their tutor was a visiting gravebinder from the great city of Nuria Natal, one Alaine de Djanot. They were discussing the powers and effects of Consecration and Desecration on a sacred temple. One scholar asked: “What sort of things might linger after severe descration of a Holy Place, even after thousands of years, if that is even possible?”

“Possible?” de Djanot grunted and shook his head at the student’s shaky faith. “Severe desecration of a Holy Place may last for an eternity …. and longer!” The Gravebinder’s beady eye roved across his students as he contemplated but some of the horrors he could imagine.

“Consider a vault of secret rooms, filled to the brim with the spilled blood and offal of a hundred castrated priests, dripped dry of their life source while being reviled with Unholy words by an antipriest of opposite faith, their hands bound, their eyes peeled open by hot tongs to witness the raping of their priestesses by demons of dark horror. After death, their bodies ripped by hyeanas and the excrement of the slain beasts smeared upon the walls of their tombs, closed up and buried for thousands of years in the deep desert. What horrid creature might transpire from such terrific deed?”

“Perhaps a mist. A deadly devouring mist. An evil undead creature in several parts, compartimentalised in separate tombs, unable to congeal, unable to act, or even think, but willing its own existence, even though it has none. Nothing to give it substance but the hunger for more blood and offal and the nebulous desire to take vengeance on any living thing. If that tomb were ever opened to adventurers thousands of years later, would that spirit have enough Undead force to bring itself together and to coalesce into a shadowy mist of death, aching with hunger for blood and the life force of those who discovered it? Would it have enough strength after thousands of years, to bring itself into existence and exact horror on the living? Well, many would say that it would….”

Travelling through the Sarklan Desert on their way to The Tomb of the Elephant God, Arcael and The Oooze stumbled upon an ELITE KOBOLD PATROL See Below and, without so much as a nod or a wink…or even a friendly Draconic gesture, engaged in good old fashioned COMBAT!

The two kobold rogues, Snaretoe and Eggrunner moved close to flank their enemy but Eggrunner fell foul of Goran’s invisibility and paid the ultimate price. Xavier, the barbarian took some well aimed arrows from the five Gearcobbles and some channelled energy damage from the flying cleric, Crooktail; and started raging. With his own hovering abilites, Arcael delivered a deadly fireball into a crowd of archers, killing three and wounding two more Gearcobbles and their protective Oracle, Grubgrinder, but the leadership remained at the rear, with Sorcerer, Bentfinger setting up a Minor Globe of Invulnerability for himself and his Dragonkin escourt, Silverscale.

Goran and Saabu Theet charged forward and Snaretoe tried to snuff Goran out with the aid of one of the Gearcobbles, but he could not score a hit against the deadly rogue. When Arcael dispelled magic on the flying cleric (thwarting Bentfinger’s prepared counterspell), Crooktail moved back behind a Gearcobble, who moved to help Snaretoe the rogue, opening up the cleric to the terrifying charge and grapple of Bartiman Greenbough in HUGE bear form.

From his vantage point at the rear, Bentfinger was already considering raising the white flag but it was too late. Goran, Saabu and his summoned cheetah and Xavier all moved in to attack his flanks and he was swiftly killed. With the Cleric, Crooktail, screaming in the death throes of a huge bear hug, the mighty Dragonkin warrior, Silverscale, advanced, and with a mighty critical sweep of his greatsword, ended the life of the shapechanged druid, Bartiman.

But Silverscale was now alone. Just as Saabu’s surrendered Oracle prisoner fell foul to the intercepting blade of Xavier, so too did Silverscale fall the to combined fury of the group, and for Arcael and the Oooze, music is only their SECOND favourite activity…

But the great Bartiman is not destroyed. A Raise Dead scroll and two Resurrection scrolls cast by Thoth’s servant, Saabu Theet, brings him back into the game.

Travelling through this desert is thirsty work indeed!

Note on Kobold Sleeper Unit: During the wars with the Mharoti Empire about 40 years ago, when the dragons knew they were going to have to retreat, some of them dropped off highly trained kobold sleeper units to dig themselves into the ground and wait for a time when the dragons could return in a second wave. Bentfinger’s was such a group. Disturbed from their hiding place by a recent earthquake, they have been roaming around the desert looking for a new hiding place and just happened upon Arcael and The Oooze before they could find one.

In the great halls of Eternal Darkness that are the chambers of Anu-Akma, a minion of the God of the Underworld sits at the Midgard Communication Station, listening for prayers, promises and cries for help.

From the Deep Desert about a day’s travel outside of Siwal, a Dread Wight (and ex cleric of Aposis) calls out for help as his body is savagely torn apart by Arcael and The Oooze!

“My Lord,” cries the minion, “Will you hear the plea of a recently departed soul – a scion of evil, a lord of Undead, exiled from his home graveyard by a zealous church, and cut down in his Undead prime by a bunch of human murderers posing as musicians….Will you hear his cry, Lord?”

Anu-Akma does not even look up from his holy book. He simply utters a single phrase that seals the Dread Wight’s fate:

“Nah! Fukkim!”

A yound maiden crosses into the realm of the Undead, lured by the Siren’s call of an Owl Harpy, and into a series of dangers culminating in her capture by the Evil Necromancer, Ramzhi al-Sharif, who wants to add her to his group of devoted wights. Her father, Panshal al-Marhji is distraught, and implores The Oooze to intervene.

Band practice is never easy with a replacement member. How do you replace metallic backing vocals with a softly plucked harp? Enter Xavier into Arcael and The Oooze! Practice is lacklustre, but the Yuletide performance at The Lingering Odour is a success, increasing the status of the band, and lifting their spirits enough to embark on the quest to save The Gravebinder’s Daughter.

The night is dark. The tracks have faded. The scent is gone. The Ghost of the Cleric, Abdul Quddus does not help them, but warns them that in their quest to find the maiden, they will find it is not the Undead who pose her danger, but other creatures who inhabit the graveyard.

The first of these is Milandra the Owl Harpy and her Fire Dancer Swarm. With both Arcael and Goran entranced by the will of the harpy, things are going to have to get a bit tight. Bartiman Greenbough chooses HUGE bear form, and grapples the seductress. Saabu Theet takes some serious burning arrow damage, but with his healing powers, keeps himself alive. Xavier manages to sunder Arcael’s enchantment, and the tables are turned.

With her life near it’s end, the Owl Harpy bargains information for mercy but there is NONE to be had. If Owl Harpies have souls, then this one has departed from Siwal, escourted by the harsh justice of Arcael and The Oooze! The Fire Dancers flee and the quest continues.

Old Golamesh the Gravedigger Fire Troll is a hardworking citizen by day, but much less so by night, as the party discover him unearthing the grave of one he has already interred. Realising he is discovered he seeks to trap his new foes with a web spell and pulverise them with his Fire Breath and Flurry of Blows, but he did not count on the battle-prowess of “The Oooze”. Soon, they have him begging for mercy, and spare his life in return for some information on the whereabouts of Aiysha. He directs them to the laboratory of the Nercromancer and creeps away to his fire on the East Gate.

Evil necromancer, Ramzhi al-Sharif likes wights. He has some already. But he wants more. And a beautiful maiden wight will do just nicely, thanks very much. In his well hidden undeground vault, fashioned out of the sunken tombs of scholars of old, he feels there is not much to stop him. But his Cacodaemon familiar Communes with its overlord and tells him that unwanted guests are expected. He must work quickly!

Preparing himself as quickly as he can, he is still shocked and horrified at the speed with which his assailants find him and enter his domain. Without even time to perform the WIGHTING ceremony, he is forced into battle, with only his wights, his wits, his familiar and his magic to help him.

The party are slowed down by the wights at first, and by the Wall of Bones that the Necromancer erects, but eventually, they make their way through. Xavier sunders the wall and Goran and Saabu’s summoned cheetahs give chase. They catch the evil human, they even damage him, but the necromancer is too well prepared, and on the back of a Phantom Steed, he slips out of the area, locking his exit with a sealing tombstone as he leaves.

But Aiysha is safe! She is returned to the Gravebinder and once more the deeds of The Oooze echo around the Garden City of Siwal.

Lady Wintesla Marack strode through the antechamber of the Blue House with swift purpose, but ever mindful of the web of plots that continually connected all major players in the city of Zobeck. The balance of “web-strands” between the council members were of particular importance to her and her recent capture by Darakhul crime lord Radu Underhill, had severely influenced her thoughts and schemes, even more troubled by the fact that she was miraculously still alive, and free.

It was not like Radu Underhill to make such a mistake, so the Lady of The Blue House, and supreme leader of The Spyglass Guild, still had to question the whole affair. Perhaps it was some secretive plot by Volstaff Greymark. He was ever a tricky one, and she knew from her spies that he was still smarting from the invasion of his secret chambers by those that called themselves The Oooze. She knew they had tried to steal The Fish and The Rose, and although they had failed in this, the very fact that they had discovered his secret chambers must be troubling the corrupt Zobeck Counsellor.

And after all, was it not Arcael the Caelmaran, who had been responsible for coercing Lord Greymark’s daughter, Ilyana, to leave town? The fact that The Oooze were currently in Siwal did nothing to quell Lady Marack’s suspicions – plots were her reason for living, and plots stretched toward all sides of the world, as far as she was concerned.

She turned to her officer, a stern faced man who seemed to notice every speck of dust that moved in the air around him: “Keep the watch on those musicians in Siwal. I want to know every move they make. And get more information on that were-lion Cleric. They may be far away in worldly position, but I would yet keep them closer in thought. And book me a meeting with the Guildmaster of the Arcane Collegium – It’s time he and I had another chat.”