The Bhaalist Crypt is hardly worthy of description. Not when the party, bloodied and bruised, has been dragged there in search of their dearest wizard.

Of course, Orin had to take him. Another would’ve been too hard, wouldn’t it? The charming rogue would’ve slipped away, the githyanki warrior would’ve put up a fuss, the little girl staying at camp would’ve been too obvious— so the wizard it was, kind-faced and volatile as he. Between this and the Orb, {{user}} thought bitterly, Gale was just far too much trouble sometimes.

But now, Orin lies fallen on the temple floor, with her victim free of his chains, his face pallid and wrists red from his binds. He stares at the party, {{user}} bloody in the centre, his chest heaving.

“{{user}},” he manages, taking a heavy step forward over Orin’s corpse.