Session 8 - The Horns of Fate: Death at the Tower of Varda

Leaving The Hollows

The grey dawn broke across the wild, broken hills of the Forbidden Lands, casting long shadows that twisted like reaching claws across the desolate ground. The party, weary from their journey and the growing tension in the Hollows, had ventured once again into the wilderness. Behind them, Yarwim’s grim confession still echoed in their minds—he was a dwarf, hunted by his own kin for betraying the sacred art of dwarven brewing. But even this revelation paled in comparison to what awaited them.

Their destination loomed ahead, sinister and silent: the Tower of Varda, crumbling and overgrown, long abandoned by the sorcerer who once ruled within its ancient walls. Rumors of untold treasure whispered through the wilds, a siren’s call that pulled them toward danger.

Yet it was not just the tower they had to contend with—Hyrne, typically alert and keen-eyed, had missed the ominous signs. A thick fog, born from the north, had swallowed them as they traversed the lands. It crept in silently, dampening their senses and shrouding them in a gloom so thick it seemed to crawl into their bones. Each step they took through the mist sapped their strength, leaving them disoriented and vulnerable. It was a failure, and Hyrne knew it, but there was no turning back now.

By the time they emerged from the fog, drained and battle-worn without a fight, the Tower of Varda loomed over them, half-buried in decay. But as they neared, the ground began to tremble beneath their feet, and from the rolling hills surrounding the ruin, something terrible stirred.

The Beast Attacks

From behind the mounds rose a beast of myth, a towering Minotaur, its eyes blazing with ancient fury. Its breath came in snorts, steaming in the cold morning air, its massive form casting a long shadow across the land. The earth shook as it stomped forward, a massive axe clenched in its hands, its horns glinting like the blades of some cruel god’s weapon.

BomTom, the fearless halfling bard, was the first to step forward. His heart burned with a need to prove himself, to face this monstrous foe head-on. He raised his blade, his small figure dwarfed by the titanic beast, yet he stood firm.

But the Minotaur did not slow. With a deafening roar, it charged, its hooves pounding the earth with terrifying speed. Before BomTom could react, the beast lowered its massive head, and the razor-sharp horns struck true. The impact was brutal, the horns impaling him through the chest, lifting his body into the air like a grotesque banner.

Time seemed to freeze. BomTom’s scream was cut short as the Minotaur thrashed, flinging him aside like a broken doll. The halfling’s body hit the ground with a sickening thud, lifeless and twisted, his blood painting the earth a deep crimson.

BomTom was gone. His heart had been torn apart by the beast, his life snuffed out in a single, savage moment.

The rest of the party stood paralyzed in the wake of BomTom’s brutal death. Aran, the elf who had fought beside the halfling countless times, felt his breath catch in his throat. Hyrne and Galivan shared a glance, their eyes wide with disbelief. This was not a foe they could reason with, nor a foe they could outwit. This was pure, unrelenting violence.

The Minotaur roared again, blood dripping from its horns as it stamped the ground, ready to charge once more.

But it would not be BomTom’s death alone that defined the day.

Hyrne, finally shaking off the fog of failure, reached for his longbow. His hands trembled with rage and grief, but he steadied them as best he could. He loosed an arrow, the shot striking the beast in its hide but doing little to slow its advance.

Aran, his face pale with fury, followed suit. His arrow found its mark, driving into the beast’s thick skull. The Minotaur bellowed in rage, but it pressed on, undeterred, its eyes burning with the promise of more bloodshed.

Galivan rushed forward with his staff, the wood cracking as it connected with the beast’s flank. But the Minotaur was relentless. It lashed out, striking Galivan with a hoof that sent him crashing to the ground, teeth shattered, blood pooling in his mouth.

And then there was Aran, standing alone in the beast’s path. The elf’s heart raced as he notched another arrow, his mind flashing back to the image of BomTom’s impaled body, broken and limp. His hands steadied, his breathing slowed. He pulled the string back, waiting for the perfect moment.

The Minotaur charged again, horns gleaming in the dim light, intent on ending them all. But Aran’s shot was true.

The arrow flew straight and fast, piercing the Minotaur between its blazing eyes. The beast stumbled mid-charge, its roar cutting off in a sickening gurgle. It swayed on its hooves, standing tall for just a moment longer, before collapsing with a thunderous crash. The earth shook beneath its fall, dust rising into the air as its massive form lay still.

The silence that followed was oppressive. BomTom’s body lay in the dirt, impaled by the creature’s savage horns, his life stolen by the brutal reality of the Forbidden Lands. His companions gathered around him, bloodied and broken, their victory as hollow as the cold wind that swept through the clearing.

They buried BomTom beneath a cairn of stones, their hands trembling as they worked in silence. There were no songs for him here, no grand gestures of remembrance. Only the grim reality that this land takes more than it ever gives. The Tower of Varda stood before them, indifferent to the blood it had drawn, its crumbling walls hiding secrets none of them were sure they wanted to uncover anymore.

But there was no turning back. BomTom’s death demanded justice—if not for him, then for themselves.

Onwards to the The Tower

Inside the Tower of Varda, the ruin was as bleak as the land outside. The once-majestic stone walls were overgrown with vines and crumbled by time. A broken statue lay toppled over, its shattered remnants scattered across the mosaic floor. Doors led deeper into the structure, some blocked by debris, others ominously dark, waiting to reveal whatever horrors lurked within.

They pressed forward, hearts heavy with grief and exhaustion, yet driven by the need to survive. Somewhere beneath these stones lay the sorcerer’s treasure, guarded by traps, puzzles, and perhaps more creatures like the one they had just faced. But the true battle had already been fought outside, and the cost had been BomTom’s life.

As the remaining members of the party stood amidst the rubble, the crows circling overhead, they knew one truth—the Forbidden Lands were a cruel and savage place, and the only way to endure was to become just as brutal, just as relentless.

BomTom was gone, but his death would not be in vain. This place, this cursed land, had taken their friend. But they would take something back before it was over.