Chapter 5.5: The Sightless Citizens of Saal

“That sounds horrible, R’uth.”
Lyssa stares at him with sympathy in her eyes, even though the minotaur can’t see it.
“Horrible, yes”, he slowly repeats after her. “I have been alone for long time. Demons do not understand me. I do not understand demons. They do understand coins and pointing at food and drinks. Time passes quickly when a stomach is full and the mind is drunk.”
The satyr looks at the table. Maybe all of those empty glasses explain the slur he speaks with?
“What game did you play, R’uth?” Bruq sounds intrigued. “Never heard about a minotaur playing games instead of the usual wandering through labyrinths.”
R’uth leans back in his chair, eyes closed, and he waves his hand towards him in a slightly uncoordinated manner, not entirely clear what he tries to make the satyr understand.
“People throw stuff at me. I smash it with a club and the stuff flies away. I am very good at this game. One time someone got in the way of my swing. His head flew right to the clouds!”
The minotaur laughs out loud. His heaving pectoral muscles push against the thick leather strap across his chest. At its bottom dangles a giant club, which has obviously seen better days. The head of the wooden weapon is splintered all over and it is covered with rusted metal shards and dried up blood.
(Deception 17)
“It does sound like fun.”
It helps that R’uth can’t see the siren’s face when she says this, because her squinted eyes and pressed lips might give away she thinks otherwise. For now, she thinks he believes her.
“If you’re finished with everything”, she continues as she looks at the partially empty plates, “we can help you walk over to the bar and meet our friends.”
He swipes his hand across the table, knocking over almost everything and getting all kinds of food on his palm and fingers.
“I am good. We can go now.”

“Excuse me, sir?”
The half-elf tries to draw the patron’s attention, but he doesn’t seem to hear him above the noise the demon’s making. Or he chooses not to respond, which is also an option. Oslando guesses it’s the first one.
“Demon”, Dargothoth says loudly before the eldritch knight can speak again, “we require your service.”
The toad-like demon puts down the cloth he’s cleaning with and turns around slowly. He slams his hands on the bar and leans over towards them, his slouch increasing. His bright yellow eyes seem too small compared to his bloated head and his slit-shaped pupils jump from stranger to another.
“What do you need, ucha’ari? Food, bed or both?”
His deep voice makes him sound grumpy and harsh. but his smile, although revealing sharp teeth, is welcoming. When he speaks certain letters, his cheeks bulge, only adding to idea of his toad-like demeanour.
“Both”, the cleric answers, “and advice.”
The patron widens his small eyes and places five clay mugs in front of them.
“I presume the two looking like a balam and succubus want a drink as well?”
The demon picks up a small barrel and pours a dark brown liquid into their mugs, spilling surprisingly little in the process.
“Dargothoth.” Mero whispers. “We don’t have any money to pay. Shouldn’t we tell him?”
The sivak shakes his head subtly, making sure the patron remains unaware of this potential problem.
“What is this beverage you’re pouring us? And what do you recommend us off of the menu? I want something with a lot of meat.”
The patron chuckles, not taking his eyes off of their drinks.
“It’s krogg. Not the best ale, but still ale nevertheless. Bitter and sweet, just like life.” He sighs and his smile disappears. “Just a little too bitter for my taste, these last few dekani.”
They understand that he’s speaking about weeks, but it doesn’t translate properly into their heads, as if there is no word in the Common tongue for what he’s saying.
The patron looks up and sees the questioning glance in the half-elf’s eyes.
“My apologies, urcha’ari. I didn't mean to bother you with the stories of an old hezrou. I’ll get you something to eat. And you asked for advice? What can I do for you?”
Now that they have his attention, Oslando feels like he can join the conversation again.
“We’re here to help with the curse that struck your town and a lady named Audrea told us to talk to you. She told us to say hello on behalf of her. Is there anything you can tell us?”
The demon stops pouring the drinks and looks up.
“If you can truly help us, then food and drinks are on me. Please, have a seat. I’ll get the plates and then we can have a serious talk.”

Chapter 5.4: The Sightless Citizens of Saal

(History 21)
They have seen few demons during their short while in Abaddon, but it’s obvious to them that a minotaur doesn’t belong on a demonic plane. They haven’t seen many minotaurs in their world, but they have heard or read about them. These half-bull humanoids mostly dwell in dungeons or caves and prey on helpless victims that get lost in their maze-like homes. They are renowned for their excellent memory and pathfinding skills, knowing exactly which route to take by just being in a certain place and walking around. It’s because of this skill that cartographers and pirates alike prefer having a minotaur with them.
(Religion 10)
They also know that not every minotaur is necessarily an evil creature, but most of them worship Baphomet, the Prince of Beasts, a lord of the Abyss who dwells in a mythical place called the Endless Maze. Because of this, most citizens deny minotaurs passage through their cities, based on the gruesome stories and rumours told about them.
“I want to talk to him”, Lyssa whispers, pointing at the only other non-demon in this place. “Maybe he has some valuable information.”
Bruq nods agreeingly and he turns to the others.
“Maybe you could go talk to the patron?” Bruq speaks with eyebrows raised. “Fix a room for us all to spend the night in and get some intel on whatever in the bloody Burning Hells is happening here.”
He doesn’t really wait for someone to agree with him as he turns his back to them and walks together with the siren towards the minotaur.
“Great”, Dargothoth murmurs slowly, “I’m stuck with the half-elf again.”
“You can just sit down if you want”, Oslando answers. “Mero and I can talk to him if you don’t want to help. It’s probably for the better.”
Even though he doesn’t feel the urge to help them with smalltalk, he dislikes proving Oslando’s point even more. Dargothoth looks at the chair with an angry frown and pressed lips, but turns back to the half-elf after a few seconds.
“Let’s talk to the patron”, he hisses.

“Excuse me, Sir minotaur?” Lyssa addresses him carefully and keeps a safe distance between them. “Do you mind if we join your table and-”
The siren can’t finish her sentence. The minotaur flips his head upwards, moving his gaze from the empty glasses to the woman in front of him, and he slams both hands on the table. A broad smile of amazement and joy cover his face. He stands up, flipping over his chair, and spread his arms as if he wants to give them a welcoming hug.
“I understand you!”
His shouting if followed by bellowing laughter. Now that he’s standing, they can get a good look at him. When he was sitting, he was just as tall as Lyssa and Bruq standing, but now he really towers over them, probably nine, maybe ten feet tall. If he didn’t respond so enthusiastic, they would easily be intimidated by his formidable athletic build, large horns and deep voice.
“Yes”, Lyssa says hesitantly, “we understand you as well.”
He claps his hands and gestures to the chairs.
“Sit”, he bellows as a burst of hot air extrudes from his nostrils. “Eat and drink with me.”
The two adventurers pull back a chair and join the minotaur at the table. They now notice something that stood out more with the demons. He’s afflicted by the curse as well, but instead of his eyes glowing brightly orange, his are just orange without the glow. His hands run across the table to find a pint with still some ale in it. When he finds it, he chucks it down and sighs in sweet relief.
“I am happy”, the minotaur says. “Demons don’t speak Common tongue. I don’t speak demon tongue.”
Lyssa reaches into her bag.
“Don’t you have one of these?” She waves her translation stone in front of her. “With this we can understand everything.”
Bruq pokes her bluntly with his elbow and waves his palm in front of his face. The siren is startled with how easily she has ignored the fact that the minotaur can’t see.
“A magical stone that translates everything”, she quickly adds, hoping she’s not pouring salt on his wounds.
He shakes his head. His horns move the wind and create a soft howling sound.
“Broken. Weeks ago. It is hopeless.”
“What is your name, friend?” The satyr tries to lighten the mood. “My name is Bruq and this is Lyssa.”
The minotaur stretches out his arm with his hand open, waiting for one of them to shake it.
“R’uth”, he says. “Why are you in Abaddon?”
Since this is the first time they’ve both met a minotaur, they don’t know if the way he speaks is normal for every minotaur. He talks slow, almost as if he hesitates after every couple of words how to continue his sentence. With the stories they’ve heard, they could imagine that they aren’t the most literate kind of humanoids. Being trapped in a maze doesn’t give you much opportunity to practice in the art of elaborate conversations.
“We were sent to deal with a problem. One of our friends over there at the bar has an uncle and he asked us to investigate something here in Saal. I suppose whatever it is he wants us to solve, has to do something with the curse that’s afflicting your eyes.”
Lyssa wants to be truthful, but to immediately tell a stranger about their quest to get rid of seven archangels may be a bit drastic.
“There are more than two?” He huffs and smiles, revealing his yellowed teeth. “How many?”
The siren enjoys his enthusiasm. The minotaur seems more friendly than the average stories depicts them.
“Three more”, she answers. “You’re going to like them.” She wanted to say ‘most of them’, but he hopes Dargothoth will make a more pleasant impression when he can’t be seen. “Tell me, R’uth, why are you in Abaddon?”
The hulking mass of muscle breezes air out of his nose, gently shaking the metal ring piercing his nasal septum, and he sighs.
“Me and friends played a game. We were very good. Someone tried to bribe us. We refused and won the game. We got here as a punishment. I do not know for how long. And now my friends are dead.”

Chapter 5.3: The Sightless Citizens of Saal

They keep passing unlit homes and quiet streets until they reach their suggested destination: the Ebony Hoof Inn. It’s about four times the size of the houses they passed by and easily recognizable by the sign hanging above the door: a dark hoof painted on a shield-shaped piece of dark wood. The letters making up the name are nothing like the alphabet they know, but luckily their translation stones make it understandable.
“Aren’t you going to make any jokes about booze?”
Bruq jokingly pokes Lyssa’s shoulder, but she doesn't meet his frivolousness with the laughter he anticipated. Instead of the badly repressed smile he hoped for, she stares back at him with a blank face.
“I’m not feeling it tonight”, she answers with a weak smile on her face.
Her voice sounds small. Bruq guesses she’s still busy with what happened in the temple and that’s okay. He still thinks about it as well. He decides to postpone questioning what she’s saying and give it a rest for now.
“Alright”, the satyr replies. “Shall we just go in?”
The others nod, but they all keep staring at him. He’s closest to the door, so it makes sense that he should open it. He’s just worried about what’s going to happen when they enter the inn. Their first confrontation with a demon ended miserably and their second encounter left them all partially traumatized. He hopes for a more fruitful scenario, but he has his doubts.
An other thought crosses his mind: Daemion said that out of the five of them, he resembles a demon the most with his horns and hooves. Besides that, with the very recognizable weapon strapped to his back, the association with Gor-Thar is clearly visible for any demon to see. He just hopes it’s enough to prevent any kind of trouble.

(Perception 18)
The sharp sound of a metal bell breaks the silence inside the Ebony Hoof Inn. One by one the adventurers enter the cosy but rather empty inn. The pleasant smell of cooked meat fills the air and their noses, making their mouth fill up with saliva.
They see four people in the room, two working and two sitting at a table. Behind the bar stands the only person whose eyes aren’t glowing orange from the strange cursing plaguing this town. He’s a big man, even with his slouched hunchbacked posture he’s over eight feet tall. His dark brown skin and broad amphibian head give him a somewhat toad-like appearance. His big and muscular arms contrast with his slightly protrusive belly hidden beneath his thick leathery apron. They hope the bloody smudges on his clothes are from preparing meals instead of killing visitors. They have no reasons to assume the latter. They don’t have to worry about him yet anyway. He seems too occupied with drying the pints.
The other demon working in the inn is a woman. She walks around carefully, moving her hands in front of her to feel where she’s going. She responds to the sound of the bell and turns her head towards them.
“I’ll be with you shortly”, she says. “Just grab a seat and make yourselves comfortable.”
She sounds and looks young. She’s the same kind of demon as the patron, but smaller and less robust. She’s probably the waitress, an idea that’s supported by her walking over to a demon staring to his empty glass and her asking if he wants a refill. He murmurs something without looking up.
What really draws their attention is the man sitting closest to them. A lot of empty plates and pints are in front of him and his eyes are just orange and glowing as the other two, but there’s something very different about him. He isn’t a demon. He’s a minotaur.

Chapter 5.2: The Sightless Citizens of Saal

“It’s really quiet here.”
Mero looks around him, but there’s no one to be found. They entered Saal from the south less than a minute ago. Just before passing the village’s border, the barren ground changed. It looks less dry and lifeless. A few halms of what they assume is grass wave slowly with the soft wind blowing at their back, gently pushing the adventurers into Saal. The grass is dark red instead of green and makes a more crisping sound when stepping upon it.
The other sign of civilization besides the obvious buildings in front of them, is the road they now walk upon, the first kind of infrastructure they’ve seen since entering Abaddon. The road is not much more than just an almost straight line of dirt, other than the dusty land, that leads the way. It’s not very pleasant to walk upon, but it surely beats the steep hills with ease.
“It’s night, Mero”, Oslando answers with a smile on his face. “It’s supposed to be quiet. I think demons need to sleep as well.”
The half-elf turns to Dargothoth to get some sort of confirmation, but their gazes don’t meet. The cleric is focused on something the distance, something he points at.
“Apparently not everyone is sleeping.”
He speaks with a lowered voice, still too loud to call it whispering, and he moves their attention. They all look at a wooden bench near the road. They wouldn’t have noticed it if it wasn’t for the strange source of orange light above it. As they come closer, they see what Dargothoth means. The orange glow doesn’t come from a lantern or something like that, it comes from the eye sockets of someone sitting there.
They slow down their pace, taking enough time to get a closer look at whoever’s there. It’s an elderly woman with a wrinkly deep purple skin and broken horns atop of her head. She leans forward, both hands resting on a cane, and she turns towards them.
“Good evening”, she says with a creaking voice, “lovely night for a walk, isn’t it? Couldn’t sleep either?”
(Arcana 14)
They look at each other in silence, realizing the curse the priest spoke about probably struck her. They are unsure how to respond: should they play along? Oslando decides not to.
“We’re not from around Saal”, he responds truthfully, but still keeping some ambiguity in there. ‘We’re here to visit the priest to talk about the strange phenomena happening here. Maybe you can tell us something? It looks like the curse struck you as well.”
She shifts her head, turning it to face everyone at least once. They can’t see her eyes moving in their sockets, but it seems like she’s looking at them.
“I have gone blind, yes”, she says, her radiant gaze fixed on where Dargothoth stands. “However, I can still see the divine blessings you carry. I have no problems discussing these matters with the followers of Gor-Thar. I’m a very strict worshipper of Achalion. I believe in balance in all things, but what I do not believe in is any good intent of someone who wears the faceless mask.”
Her crooked and wrinkly finger points threateningly at the cleric. Her nail is broken and dirty, they assume from feeling around where to walk and pushing herself of the ground after falling many times. Her knees are scraped as well and her clothes are muddy.
They expected the Faceless God’s mark would result in some kind of difficulties along the way, but this is sooner than they all anticipated.
(Spell save DC 15 versus wisdom 6)
“Can you at least tell me where we can go at this time of night to find someone to talk to?” Lyssa’s comforting draws her attention. “We’re tired and I don’t know where to go. Please?”
Something about the way she speaks seems to be persuading her. The old woman doesn’t know why, but she feels the urge to help her. The captain’s companions know why: she’s charming her.
“Oh, dear, I will, I will”, she says as she turns towards the right, facing the village. “Go to the Ebony Hoof Inn. You’ll find that the patron there is very kind and will give you a bed for very few azmal. He’s one of the few Saalians who can still see. Tell him Audrea said hi. Off you go now, child. You’ll need a good night of sleep if you want to solve our problem.”

Chapter 5.1: The Sightless Citizens of Saal

Night is almost upon Abaddon. The two smaller suns are disappearing at the horizon behind the five future heroes, while they’re chasing the larger star in front of them. Akaleth slowly sinks in the west. It has been their guide for the last few hours. As its yellow glow fades, so do their conversations. They talked about a lot of things, carefully maneuvering between topics to evade the obvious subject: discussing their fears.


The dusk’s sky grows more indistinguishable from the deep blue and purple clouds. Lyssa finds the colour spectrum similar to the glowing tears of Gor-Thar’s statue. From that point her mind easily drifts to her youth, to Port Lorain and the Wailing Wench. Maybe she should get rid of the accordion. She almost never plays it anymore and looking at it always brings her back to days she wants to forget. She knows he will never hurt her anymore - she made sure of that - but he has left her damaged in ways that she can't recover from. She knows a pirate’s life is anything but a stable environment to raise a child in, but she hoped she could settle after she found peace. She doubts any kind of treasure will grant her wish, but how will she know for sure if she doesn’t try? She has nothing to lose, especially after this painful reminder that she will never be a mother.

While Lyssa silently mourns her motherhood, the fading light reminds Mero of his own mother. Akaleth’s warmth grows cold, similar to when the aasimar woman in the temple returned to the darkness. He subconsciously tortures himself with life-changing questions and their uncertain answers. In any other scenario he would be thrilled to discover who he was in a previous life, especially something so majestic as a being of angelic descent. However, with the angels’ proven maleficence and their role in destroying an entire world, he dreads whatever role he has to play in their schemes.


Although they sometimes look up to maintain their sense of direction, they let their heads hang for most of the time. All but Dargothoth, that is. He walks a couple of feet behind the others, his gaze fixed on the nothingness in front of him. So many new sensations occupy his head. He didn’t expect to rid his thoughts so quickly of everything related to Nerull, but he did. He has a new deity, a new purpose. When they have the time, he needs to take a quick look in the book the priest gave to Bruq. Maybe it has some information about how to pray to the Faceless God, what customs he needs to know. It’s exciting, something so new and promising. Is this the power Cyrzana told him about? It has nothing to do with the Mark, at least, not that he knows. Maybe it’s worth to try and gather information in Saal. The demons may not be so willingly to talk about something as obscure as the Mark, but he thinks he can persuade at least some of them. Or intimidate them, that’s also an option. The citizens won’t be the problem. How does he convince his companions? He needs to think of something, something plausible but not too much unlike his regular passive aggressive attitude. He will think of something. He has to.


The half-elf and satyr walk in front of the rest, just a few steps ahead, scouting, observing. No threats around, no demons or wolves to keep an eye on. When their gazes meet, they merely exchange a frugal smile and turn their eyes to the barren land in front of them. Their attempts to talk about something leads to nothing, just a reminder of how occupied their minds are right now.
They have received their blessings and they’re pleased about it, but they both doubt if it was worth it. It probably is in the long run, but everyone, except Dargothoth, has been demotivated beyond what they thought was imaginable. Their future is grim. The horrors of Bruq’s past will haunt him even here in Abaddon. Lyssa was brutally confronted with her past in an awful way. Mero may never see his father or he has to kill him, according to his wicked mother. Oslando will have to face the wrath of the Hollows once again. It’s been tough and they are tired. Giving up is not an option, they know that, but it would be so much easier for them to just walk away. Instead, they’re walking right towards their next destination: Saal, a town cursed with unexplainable blindness, waiting to be saved.
They can see they buildings not too far away from them. Almost no lights burn to distinguish the town from its surrounding darkness. Why should there be? No sight means no need for light. That thought hits them harder than they hoped and anticipated. If they have no sight on what this world holds for them, no sight on when or how they can help, how long can they keep focusing on a fading light and not give in to the darkness? How long before they can’t shake the thought that this tremendous plan to save an entire world is impossible?