Chapter 5: What the Jungle Hides

Chapter 5: What the Jungle Hides

Much has transpired since Regan and Admiral—unlikely allies—first banded together.

They repelled Donatello the Black and his undead crew, then steered a fey lantern-lit skiff up the Menehune, where half-drowned ruins whispered Makai secrets. Fey children begged them to free Aldran the fossergrim from a sea hag’s grip; in that hunt they discovered a Makai grimoire of hellglass prisons—and an imp sealed within one such orb, hissing half-truths. With Lelay’s amulet Cordey cleansed a mirror’s curse. Then the three charged the hag’s 'great hall'. Admiral fell, Reaver slipped away, and Cordey—grasping the blade—let it devour the hag’s soul to revive the rakasta.

They surfaced from the Fossergrim's Falls and the Babbling Brook into Queen Naidra’s mist. The River-Court monarch scoffed at Lady Oceana’s legacy, set them a riddling contest. Allowed time where Regan found counsel with the old fey Rookstem, who cryptically warned that fey do not choose the "least damning" path but the "prettiest fire," while Admiral, with Cordey, swam back to the falls and the freed fossergrim to inquire about how to best the Queen in the fey challenge. They learn about Nai Nai’s history. Then, armed with knowledge, Admiral and Regan best the Queen and her nobles after Regan turned the demon cursed-mirror on the fey lords, trapping all but the Queen and Lord Etrivel, therefore winning the fey game.

Allowed to pass, they then wisely skirted a lakeside fey revel, abandoned their skiff to travel by foot, and ambushed a boggle procession to rescue a captive boy, along with Khyree and Rowan. Exhausted, they reached a mysterious stone slab—only to be assailed by synchronized packs of eel-hounds. Regan stood while comrades fell; Admiral darted through the jungle canopy, slew the controlling boggle, yet the child died in the melee. Then the slab’s ancient Makai mists rose, whipped into a cyclone that hurled the hounds to their deaths.

Paying Reaver’s steep price, Admiral poured its necrotic power into the boy and dragged him back to life.

Naidra returned with the storm’s calm, thanking for the warning regarding her grandson, and bearing news and veiled envy. She revealed that only Jin’s lantern, by his invitation, can lead the way to the Moonroot Nexus—Lady Oceana’s charge. And then came her warning: beware Lord Etrivel, who would twist all things including the Nexus to his will if given the chance.

...

Now recharged, with the slab behind, the company cuts through the dense jungle toward the ancient Makai temple...

The trek from the slab to the temple should have taken only minutes, yet the cyclone left a mess of obstacles behind.

Splintered trunks lie in tangled heaps; palms uprooted by the wind now bridge ripped ravines. Shattered stone from the ledge litters the ground like dark hail, some pieces marked with the bloody, slick scales of eel-hounds that were slammed into trunks hard enough to leave grisly smears. Where those bodies fell intact, they lie contorted and silent, eyes dulled, tails half-coiled, as if the storm simply plucked the life from them and dropped the husks behind.

Mist clings low, curling around ankles and pooling in the hollows torn by falling limbs. Every few yards the party must hack through a fresh snarl of vines or clamber over a downed tree whose branches still twitch with settling insects. New day light pokes gently through ragged holes in the canopy, illuminating the path in stuttering intervals.

Admiral leads, slinking between trunks. Rowan, face streaked with dried tears, walks beside him carrying the sleeping boy. Cordey fingers his amulet and occasionally mutters Makai words. Jin keeps a wary eye on the jungle while Tasya steadies Mischa over the slick roots. Taresh moves again with his typical focused grace. Regan keenly guards the rear, armor dented but polished clean by Naidra’s healing mist.

The first hint of Makai masonry appears through the jungle undergrowth as moss-covered flagstones half-buried in soil. Soon after, through a break in the foliage, the tiered façade of the temple emerges: time-worn steps climbing to a weather-stained ziggurat, flanked by toppled walls and strangler-rooted ruins. Mist curls across the circular courtyard in front, tracing the labyrinthine carvings etched into the ancient paving.

Regan stands, taking a long moment to take it all in. However, he was not familiar with the specifics of the Makai nor was he knowledgeable on all things fey. He could appreciate the architecture, and he could respect the idea of Old Ones, ancestors, or whatever one wanted to call the... but these ruins were well outside of his depth. Without looking at his companions, he asked a simple question:

"Now what?"

"Now we go inside," Admiral declares. "Right, Cordey?" He looks to the sea-elf for confirmation that this is safe to do.

"Umm...I don't know. I recognize some of the symbols from the Makai tome on the circle in front of the temple. I think they signify the pact between the Makai and the fey. But that doesn't help us much." replies a puzzled Cordey.

.

After Cordey offers no extra insight into how to proceed Admiral looks back toward the temple and notices, partially covered under some stone rubble, a shape in the center of the circular courtyard. The shape at the center of the labyrinthine of carvings is larger than but identical to the shape of Cordey's amulet.

"Here, look at this!" says Admiral, moving aside some of the rubble to reveal the shape. "Doesn't this look a lot like that amulet of yours, Cordey?"

Cordey heads toward Admiral, pulling the amulet from beneath his shirt. The charm quivers as it nears the inlaid symbol.

When Cordey steps on the shape, mist billows up from the labyrinth of carvings, climbing like pale flames. Within a heartbeat the jungle, the ziggurat, even the dawn itself vanish behind a misty veil. Confused murmurs of the party fade. Only three shapes remain visible in the swirling white: Admiral, Regan—and Cordey, the half sea elf standing on the shape, head tilted as though listening to surf miles below the earth.

When he speaks, his voice is not his own—deeper, tidal, each word weighted like stone dropped into water.

"Old door… old oath."
"Blade-bound cat. Hammer-bearer."
"Below."

He turns, eyes glassy, and traces an invisible spiral in the air. Mist spirals and parts revealing a stairway that is reminiscent of the ziggurat stairs...but its location is disorienting to Regan and Admiral's sense of direction and it is uncertain if the stairs lead upward or downward. They lead into darkness. The mist funnels, beckoning.

Cordey murmurs again, voice echoing with many throats.

"Forged for bane—steel kissed by Fey-King, alloyed with Abyssium.
Carry it to the heart-forge; wake the runes.
Demon blood will feed the hurt… back to the hurt."

Regan feels his war-hammer vibrate, a faint answering hum from metal long asleep. Its head flares briefly, then fades like embers waiting for breath.

"Alright... I'm guessing this is why we're here... thoughts, Captain?" Regan shifts, caught between following the mists and letting the Captain lead.

Admiral feels his fur stand on end at Cordey's words and the eerie sound of his voice, distorted by whatever old magic lingers here. Unsettled, he glances around at the swirling mists and, seeing that they seem to be cut off from the rest of their companions, draws his swords and nods to Regan. "Aye, looks like someone-- or something-- has been expecting us."

Hackles raised, he cautiously approaches the stairway.

The stairs lead Admiral, Regan, and Cordey (in his possessed state) into a darkness that is soon illuminated by faintly glowing mist that follows the trio—stone cool underfoot, air growing heavy with damp and the faint sting of brine. It is hard to tell if each step taken is a little lower or a little higher than the last; ears pop, moisture beads on armor and blades, and somewhere a drip keeps time like a water clock.

The misty veil that swallowed the jungle thins to threads and follows the three, clinging to the walls like illuminated cobwebs.

Regan’s hammer gives a quiet, anticipating hum with every step.

The passage opens onto a short landing and a single door: carved from of sea-dark stone fitted so perfectly the seam is a hairline. No hinges. No rings. Its face is carved in low relief—Makai spirals and symbols braided with fey knotwork. Carved into the stone, a shaman stands hand-in-hand with antlered fey figure, waves rising to drown horned shapes beneath them. At the center, where lines converge, rests a shallow recess and at its center is another smaller recess the size and shape of Cordey’s charm. A breath of colder air leaks from the join, carrying salt and something older.

"Cordey... I think this is you, lad," Regan says gently.

Cordey blinks as if surfacing from deep water. The glaze leaves his eyes; he sways, clutching the amulet. "Wh—where are we? I… was on the circle. Did we—?" His gaze skitters over the carvings without landing on the recess.

The large half-sea elf whispers Lelay’s name under his breath, eyes flicking across the carvings with surprise, and swallows, trying to remember how—exactly—they came to be here.

Admiral frowns at Cordey, concerned. "You all right, big guy? You went kind of glassy-eyed for a while there— like you were in some kind of trance— and you were saying all this stuff about a fey king and demon blood ‘feeding the hurt’, whatever that means…"

Regan will point out the recess that seems to fit his amulet as Admiral checks on their companion.

"I dunno. On the circle I felt the presence of the Old Ones and heard Lelay's soft song singing me to sleep." replies a puzzled Cordey to Admiral while following Regan's direction to the recess.

Seeming to understand Regan, the fighter-made-shaman moves to the door and lifts the amulet off his neck.

"Lelay, always told me in the quiet of night that I was special. I never truly believed it. It was just lovely bedtime banter to me. The night we all met, she gave me this and told me I was meant to help you. This must be what she saw."

The amulet glows faintly in his palm—just a pulse of light, pulsing once, twice, in time with Regan’s humming hammer.

He hesitates, breath fogging the cold stone. When he raises the charm, the mist along the wall brightens.

The moment he sets the amulet in the recess, it draws itself in with a soft click. Lines of sea-green light thread through the fey knotwork and Makai spirals; the carved shaman and antlered fey seem to breathe. Below, illuminated etched waves stir—stone ripples rolling outward to drown the horned demons in a quiet, satisfying hush.

A breath of brine sighs from the hairline seam. The circle turns a quarter step, and the door parts into fours—not swinging, but receding—leaving a dark arch ahead and the faint, steady sound of water somewhere beyond.

Admiral’s claws tighten around Reaver’s hilt and, after a brief moment of hesitation, he steps forward, leading the way through the darkened archway.

Regan will usher Cordey in after Admiral, and then follow the others through the opening.

The open arch breathes a cool draft across their faces as they step into a narrow tunnel that slopes downward. Admiral walks in the lead, followed by Cordey, with Regan's watchful eye at the rear. The floor is river-smooth stone; shallow gutters run along either side, which the following mist fills. As the gutters fill with mist, the vapor condenses into luminous water that follows and lights the trio's way. As they move, a steady hush ahead grows into a layered roar—the sound of falling water in a large, enclosed space.

The passage opens into a cavern: ribbed stone, bending sound into a soft thunder. From a cleft high above, a waterfall drops in a silver column, its plunge throwing up a cool gale that fills the air with luminous spray. The falls feed grooved patterns in the round stone floor ringed by carved ledges; channels cut by old hands.

At the cavern's center rises a low islet and, upon it, a dark anvil with a golden horn. No furnace glows here. Around the chamber, armory niches are visible filled with ancient Makai spears and sheilds with dark metal tips and surfaces.

The mist water that funnels into the cavern with Admiral, Cordey, and Regan meets the water from the falls that fills the grooved patterns on the floor. When the two sources of water—the falls and the condensed mist—meet in the grooved floor the anvil sparks with magic and a dark ichor begins to drip from its base. A delicate rod lies near the thick ichor. It looks fey-created and has a head made of blue water that shifts and shimmers yet keeps its form at the end of the dainty rod.

Regan's hammer hums as the anvil lights up.

Regan is stunned by the beauty of the chamber, standing for a few long moments to drink in everything before him. Briefly, he remembers the view from the platform -- before it all went to shit -- and chuckles to himself that arguably the most beautiful view he'd ever seen was edged out of the top spot not even a day later.

And then, he notices the hum of his hammer.

"Well hells... it looks like at least one of us is excited to be here! And if the old slaver-whacker is excited, then I am just happy as a pig in shit to be here, too. Let's go see what's the deal with the anvil, shall we?" And with that, the grizzled older man kicks his hammer up over his shoulder and whistles a merry tune as he makes his way -- carefully, of course -- into the room.

As Regan steps up to the islet, Cordey staggers as if a tide catches his knees. His breath frosts and his posture stills. When he looks up, his eyes are pale and far away. When he speaks, it is not one voice but many, braided and tidal:

"The Heart-Forge beneath Menehune remembers. River-iron smelted. A thread of Abyssium, sweetened by the Fey-King’s vow. Forged for demon bane."

Cordey's hand drifts to the delicate fey rod beside the anvil and lifts it. The blue water at its tip firms like glass; with a small turn of Cordey’s wrist the waterfall splits into multiple powerful cascading streams. The chamber settles into a steady, resonant chord, each stream playing a different note.

The dark ichor, demon blood, beads thicker at the anvil’s base and threads along tiny blood-channels toward the water in the floor pattern. When the ichor touches the water its color and texture changes, becoming a lighter vibrant red. Cordey touches the tip of the rod to a spot where water and blood meet. The head of the rod draws water from the channels until it becomes a large maul made of shimmering blue water. The maul head glistens and shifts in the light yet keeps form as a enchanted smith tool.

"We bound a keeper in the steel—Warden of this place. Threshold-guard. Chain-breaker. Returner of hurt."

Cordey’s gaze finds Regan’s hammer which hums in answer. His glossy eyes then move to meet Regan's.

"You swore in chains to stand where others break. We heard. We crossed. Your oath made a place for us. The tool you gripped became our body; the pact, your breath."

Cordey touches the anvil’s face it sparks again with magical enchantment.

"Unfinished work; will be finished here."

Cordey places the water hammer on top of the anvil.

"You remember the gate bar, the stink of rust and fear. Shackles biting bone. No torch, only cold. You said, If I live, I free the bound. That word was iron. We answered. A hammer formed in your hands—cold current given shape—long enough to break links and bar. From that night, call and dismissal were yours: tide in, tide out; weapon there, weapon gone."

Cordey's head tilts, listening to voices only he hears; the water-maul resting in the anvil swirls a shade deeper.

"What you carry is older than that night. Here, long before The River Court quarreled, river-iron was smelted with a thread of Abyssium that the Fey-King sweetened and vowed would bite fiends yet spare the bearer. One head unfinished, tempered by waterfall and song, not fire, sleeping under song, laid waiting for oath to fit hand. When the last demon war ebbed, it was hidden with other demon-bane tools that were forged in the Heart-Forge through a pact with Makai and the Fey King and eventually slipped into mortal storerooms, its spirit drowsing. With your vow, we crossed into it—your promise made the bridge. The pact you bore found its body."

The waterfall’s chords rise half a tone; Regan's hammer hums with them..