The Silver Sphinx

 

“The dead are more reliable than the living.”

Hissboda of Naratyr, priestess of Kiaransalee

 

 

Third Clerk's Day of Mortis, 126 HR

The workshop of Krixxi and Figaro was like an embodiment of Xaositect philosophy. As soon as Síkhara had entered, she had been hit by the smell of lubricating oil and molten metal, but on this day there was also the distinct scent of Limbo licorice – a candy that changed color and flavor at irregular intervals. The blood hunter had quickly noticed that Krixxi loved sweets, so it was no surprise to find bags of candied dragonfly wings and small chocolate mephits scattered among the workbenches and boxes full of screws and wire. But above all, tools were piled up everywhere, gears gleamed in open crates and unfinished apparatus filled several shelves. On a table in the middle of the room was a huge collection of wires, tubes and other small parts that apparently only Krixxi and Figaro could make sense of. But despite - or perhaps because of - the chaos, a feeling of unbridled creativity filled the room, which never ceased to fascinate Síkhara.

In the midst of this chaos sat Krixxi, turning a complicated component between her small green fingers. Her yellow eyes glowed behind protective goggles consisting of two magnifying glasses connected together, her clothes were smeared with oil and several strands of her pink hair had come loose from the two pigtails that were probably an attempt at a hairstyle. Next to her, on the top rung of a rickety ladder, the awakened rooster Figaro was balancing. He wore green welding goggles and his comb bobbed slightly as he intently watched Krixxi's examination of the component. Síkhara knew by now, of course, that he was not just a familiar or even a pet. No, Figaro was a true friend and partner to the goblin woman, whose intelligence and skills were often underestimated – but usually only until he stunned someone with an unexpectedly sharp remark. On a workbench covered with felt stood the two shadow-catching devices that Síkhara, Rakalla and Haer'Dalis had salvaged from the laboratory in the Hive. They were strange objects that made even the experienced blood hunter feel uneasy: a kind of cage made of polished steel and reinforced with runes etched into the surface of the bars. Inside was a blackened metal cylinder, also engraved with symbols unknown to them, which glowed faintly in the dark. The devices radiated an unsettling aura of emptiness.

“Interesting, interesting ...” Krixxi muttered as she took one of the apparatus apart with a set of homemade pliers. “The construction is ... exciting, if I may say so.”

Figaro nodded in agreement and picked at a shimmering crystal embedded in the black cylinder. “Yes, a clever combination of night steel and spectral quartz, if I'm not mistaken.”

Síkhara, who, like Krystall and Haer'Dalis, kept a respectful distance from the devices, felt a mixture of fascination and aversion. She had seen many things, both wondrous and repulsive, but devices that could suck out a piece of a living being's soul were new even to her. Rakalla, on the other hand, had stepped a little closer to the workbench and was eyeing the contraptions with the academic curiosity of a scientist.

Haer'Dalis leaned casually against a shelf next to Síkhara and examined the shadow-catching devices with interest. “Night steel ... spectral quartz ... stolen shadows ... severed pieces of souls ...” He brushed a strand of his blue hair behind his ear. “A gruesome melody these shadow thieves are playing. I wonder what kind of performance they have in mind.”

Krystall, who was usually so unshakable, looked thoughtful. “You know, it's the malice of the intent that bothers me about this case. Not just the theft, but the feeling of emptiness the victims feel. Stealing gold, fine. But souls? That's wrong.”

Krixxi set aside a spiral wire mesh that had connected the black cylinder to the cage bars. “Yes, the creators of these things are no ordinary thieves. They are either masters of shadow magic or they paid someone who is.”

Figaro tapped the shimmering crystal again. “This stone is the key, a kind of focus. I'm sure it strengthens the connection to the Plane of Shadow and sucks out the soul essence. But don't ask me how exactly they do it. I'm sure they've been researching it for years. We can't figure it out completely in such a short time.“

Krixxi nodded eagerly. ”And the key point is: the device leaves no detectable arcane signatures that would lead directly back to the user. It ... somehow masks itself. An extremely clever design.” She held up another component that looked like a tiny crystal hourglass. “And this little pod here ... it stores the stolen essence. You could say it's a ... soul battery.”

Síkhara's gaze wandered from Krixxi to the devices. Soul batteries. The thought sent a cold shiver down her spine. Who needed so many stolen soul fragments? And what for? The answers, the blood hunter knew, would hardly be pleasant - but she had to find them. The air in the workshop was filled with the soft clinking and clanking of tools as Krixxi and Figaro delved deeper and deeper into the mechanics - and thus the secrets - of the shadow catching devices. Rakalla stood curiously at the workbench, her snakes hissing softly and her eyes examining the individual parts and components, occasionally asking a question or making an observation. Síkhara felt that she couldn't contribute much here at the moment: technology was not her forte. Krystall and Haer'Dalis seemed to feel the same way, so they left the field to the experts and just watched them work in silence.

Suddenly, the fire genasi felt a slight movement at her long, flaming red hair, so gentle that she almost mistook it for a draft of air. She glanced to the side and spotted a small, winged creature landing on her right shoulder. It was a moth, no bigger than her little finger, but its wings were not made of chitin, but of finely folded paper. The edges were slightly charred, as if it had flown too close to a street lamp. Síkhara knew what that meant. Someone was sending her a message. So she stretched out her left hand, and the paper moth rose into the air again, only to land gently on her palm. 

 

Síkhara felt a slight chill emanating from it and a sensation as if a soft whisper was reaching her from afar. She was familiar with such messages, so she gently reached for the moth and carefully unfolded the paper insect. She unrolled the narrow strip, revealing a brief message written in elegant, curved handwriting.

 

“Síkhara,

come to the Mortuary. I have learned something important. The dead don't lie.

Zamakis”

 

A slight smile played around the genasi's lips. Zamakis. The vampire's gift was as macabre as it was useful. To speak with the dead, sometimes even to learn things from them that they would never have revealed in life - as a blood hunter, she would also have welcomed such an ability.

She went over to Krystall and Haer'Dalis and showed them the message. “Zamakis obviously came to know something.”

The bard raised his eyebrows. “Well, if anyone can pull secrets from the shadows, it's her. Shall we accompany you to the Mortuary, my fire bird?”

“Gladly,” the blood hunter replied. “Six eyes are better than two, and who knows where this clue will lead us.” She turned to Rakalla. “Or eight eyes. Are you coming with us?”

The medusa glanced briefly at the tiefling and hesitated for a moment. Síkhara understood. She obviously knew about her and Haer'Dalis' former liaison. At the same time, it was hard to miss that something was growing between Rakalla and the bard. Síkhara was fine with that. Haer'Dalis was, above all else, a good friend. They had been through things together that would connect them forever, things that went beyond the passion of a brief romance, however intense it may have been. She wouldn't turn down an occasional night together in the future, but ultimately that would depend on Rakalla's consent, should she and the bard get together. And if her relationship with Haer'Dalis were to be limited to a close friendship in the future, she would be able to accept that. Of course, the medusa couldn't know that, so Síkhara understood her hesitation. A quick glance at Haer'Dalis told her that he was thinking the same, so she gave him a slight nod.

“Come, my jungle viper,” the bard said, winking at Rakalla. “Let's hear what the dead have to say.”

Rakalla smiled - relieved, it seemed to Síkhara - and then picked up her cloak, which she had hung over a pulley.

“Yes, go ahead,” Krixxi said without looking up. By now, several dark oil stains were visible on her cheeks. “We're dismantling the shadow thieves' equipment here and want to see what secrets those devices hold.”

Figaro adjusted his welding goggles with his mechanical leg. “That's right. And be careful should you follow any more clues.”

Síkhara smiled. “We will.”

Then she let a small flame flicker from her fingertips and burned the unfolded paper moth to ashes. The fewer traces there were that could be traced back to them, the better.

 

On their way from the Chaos District to the Mortuary, Síkhara, Krystall, Haer'Dalis and Rakalla crossed the Madhouse District and walked across the Hive Market towards Ragpickers' square. Here, in the Gray District, the atmosphere was heavily influenced by the faction philosophy of the Dustmen. There were only a few market stalls left, and even thugs and prostitutes were scarce. Instead, an oppressive silence hung over the alleys, interrupted only by the wind whistling through the street canyons and the soft crunch of rubble under their boots. The sky above them was an impenetrable, dirty gray that made the already dreary buildings appear even bleaker. This was fitting for Mortis, the month of the Dustmen, and Síkhara suspected that the cold wind could soon develop into a so-called ghost storm. This weather phenomenon, unique to the month of Mortis, swept icily and relentlessly through the streets, carrying with it the lost voices of the dead. Often, apparitions appeared in the wind, sometimes the ghosts of the recently deceased, sometimes also of those who had been dead for a long time. Sigil was full of ghostly appearances these days. Interestingly, however, there were only ghosts of the deceased who had not been buried outside the city. The ghost storm was often accompanied by hail, with the hailstones looking like small skulls, some humanoid, but also those of monsters or animals. To escape the unpleasant weather, the four hurried to reach the Mortuary as quickly as possible.

The large, dome-shaped headquarters of the Dustmen dominated the entire Gray District, crowned by twelve huge metal wings and surrounded by massive towers topped with blades. The outer walls were decorated with reliefs of bones, skeletons and skulls, and at the gate stood two large bone golems, completely immobile but ready to protect the Mortuary, the faction members and the mourners at any moment. Two Collectors in tattered robes were carrying a corpse on a bier into the hall. Judging by the hanging arm, it might have been a half-orc. The two guards at the gate let them pass unhindered, and as they entered, a spacious hall of gray stone stretched out before them, supported by mighty pillars and columns and vaulted by a high ceiling. In the middle stood a statue in a dark robe, a symbolic representation of death. Except for a few undead workers, a skeleton and two zombies, the large entrance hall was almost empty. Síkhara heard Krystall sigh beside her. Yes, the leader of the Razor Angels might be a paladin of a chaotic goddess of rebellion and revolution, but she was still a paladin. The strong presence of all the undead here was certainly not pleasant for her, even though she had lived in the Hive for a long time. She seemed more serious than usual, her expression rigid and focused. Even Haer'Dalis was quieter than usual, which did not surprise the blood hunter. The Mortuary was a symbol of decay and decline, and as a Sinker, the bard knew how to face this aspect with a certain reverence and unusual seriousness.

“I've played in dark taverns and gloomy alleys,” he remarked in a subdued voice. “But this place has its own macabre melody.”

The air was cool and dry, enriched with the typical smell of a Mortuary. One might have thought that because of the undead, especially the zombies, there would be a horrible stench of death and decay, but that was not the case. It smelled a little musty and dusty, but above all strongly antiseptic, an aroma emanating from the undead, who were carefully maintained by the Dustmen. In addition, the scent of incense, embalming oil and wilting flowers hung over the place. All in all, the large building had an eerie but also awe-inspiring atmosphere that reminded Síkhara of the burial chambers of ancient kings.

“If Zamakis is working right now, she might be in the embalming chamber one floor up,” Rakalla explained, her voice little more than a whisper.

Since the medusa had been here several times before and knew the way, Síkhara let her go first. She led the others from the entrance hall through several wide corridors and two medium-sized rooms. Faint, bluish light sources in the form of magical crystals cast long, trembling shadows, and the sound of their footsteps echoed unpleasantly in the corridors. Once, they heard soft singing coming from one of the side rooms – a funeral ceremony was probably taking place there. Occasionally, they saw Dustmen, mostly dressed in simple gray robes, quietly going about their work, transporting corpses, accompanying mourners or carrying grave goods to their destination. None of them spoke a word as they followed Rakalla deeper into the heart of the Mortuary. Involuntarily and without consulting, they tried to keep their presence as quiet and inconspicuous as that of the dead themselves.

Finally, Rakalla led them up a narrow spiral staircase, and after following two more long corridors, they heard a faint noise coming from one of the side chambers - a slight scraping, followed by a damp gurgling sound. The medusa led her companions to the door from which the noises were coming. The embalming chamber was smaller and warmer than the halls on the ground floor, the dim, bluish light giving way to a brighter, yellowish glow emanating from several carefully placed lamps. The walls were lined with shelves full of glass vessels filled with liquids of various colors - amber, crimson and deep green - and dried herbs hung from metal hooks, their scent mingling with the heavy smell of embalming oil. Various tools lay ready on a small table: scalpels, forceps, saws and needles, all clean and neatly arranged. In the middle of the room, on a long stone table, lay the corpse of an elderly male whose skin had an unnatural, waxy sheen. And bent over the dead man, Síkhara saw the vampire Zamakis. As usual, she wore an elegant black frock coat, over which she had pulled a gray apron. The sleeves of her coat and shirt were rolled back, revealing her delicate fingers and slender wrists. Her pale skin appeared almost alabaster in the light of the chamber, and her long black hair was pinned up so that it could not fall into her face. The undead woman's red eyes were fixed on the corpse in front of her with cool, matter-of-fact concentration. She was just inserting a fine needle into the dead man's skin to close a fresh incision. The soft scraping and gurgling sounds they had heard apparently came from the vampire's instruments, the embalming oil and the internal organs that had been carefully placed in a bowl at the foot of the stone table.

Síkhara cleared her throat softly. “Zamakis,” she said, although she was sure the undead had noticed her long ago.

The vampire did not look up or pause in her work, but her movements slowed slightly for a moment. “Síkhara,” she said, her voice as cool and even as ever. “I knew you would come here shortly after receiving my message.” Then she carefully set the needle aside and wiped her fingers on a cloth.

“A fascinating workplace,” remarked Haer'Dalis, his voice respectful, even appreciative. He gazed with fascination at the organs removed from the corpse and the rolled-up cloth bandages that were already laid out, ready to wrap the dead body.

Krystall was clearly less impressed by her surroundings, as she remained a good distance away from the embalming table, but she took off her feathered hat as a sign of respect for the dead man. Rakalla, on the other hand, seemed to share Haer'Dalis' curiosity and let her gaze wander over the glass jars on the shelves.

Síkhara stepped closer and briefly examined the corpse. “Who is our friend here? Is this the dead who spoke to you?”

Zamakis nodded. “This man, Kalik, was a scribe of the Signers who was found murdered three days ago. It looked like a robbery and was recorded as such in the death certificate. But Kalik had a lot to say after his death.“

Krystall craned her neck a little, but did not step closer. ”What did he tell you?“

”Kalik was one of the shadowless,“ Zamakis explained. ”One of those whose shadows were stolen. He was desperate. He was looking for answers - and revenge. And he found what he was looking for. He was on the perpetrators' trail. That's why they silenced him.“

”Oho!“ Haer'Dalis took his eyes off the removed entrails and turned his full attention to the vampire. ”That sounds like a very important clue. Did he also reveal who the perpetrators are?“

”Yes, now it's getting really interesting,” Zamakis explained. “He said it was a sect. They call themselves the Illuminated.”

“The Illuminated?” Rakalla's snakes hissed excitedly. “The same ones who infiltrated your faction about nine months ago? With the help of this Toranna?”

Síkhara nodded knowingly. Krystall had mentioned it when she had told her about the Prophecy. A sect headquartered in the gate town of Plague-Mort had turned allegedly dead people into a kind of sleepers with dormant personalities. To do this, they had placed an old ifriti fortress behind the portal that led from the Mortuary to the Plane of Fire, through which the corpses destined for cremation were sent.

Despite her usually stoic nature, it was clear that Zamakis did not like to be reminded of this incident. She nodded briefly. “The same.”

“The ones with the Shadowknave?” Rakalla went on. “The ones who slipped you seemingly dead bodies that were then experimented on? The ones with the fortress behind the portal?“

”Yes, exactly,“ the vampire answered curtly.

”When that happened to Eliath? And when the other Chosen were snooping around here on Sarin's orders, together with Sgillin?“

”Yes, indeed!” Zamakis replied, now with a clear hint of impatience.

Rakalla raised her hands defensively when the vampire snarled at her, as if she didn't understand what the problem was.

With a smile, Krystall signaled to her to let it be and then turned to Zamakis. “The Illuminated, huh? That's pretty steep. After the Hive Wrangler Murders back then, I hoped we'd never hear from them again.”

 

 

Síkhara nodded. “I wasn't in Sigil at the time, but I'm not keen on these berks either. The question is, what do they suddenly want with shadows?”

“Good question,” said Rakalla. “The sect believes, much like the Godsmen, that there is a divine spark that can grow and turn you into a god if it is strong enough. Unlike the Godsmen, however, they believe that not everyone possesses this spark, but only a select few. Among them, of course, are themselves, oh surprise.“

She grinned mockingly, and Síkhara had to laugh. ”I'm not particularly fond of any faction, but I like the Godsmen approach better. Well, I understand that the spark probably corresponds to the soul. And there were soul fragments in the shadow essences. But why the shadows?“

Haer'Dalis ran his fingers thoughtfully over the hilt of one of his short swords. ”What if the stolen shadows are just a side effect? Maybe the Illuminated are actually after the souls and the shadows are simply severed along with them.”

“Hmm, that's not such a far-fetched idea.” Krystall stepped a little closer to the embalming table. “Maybe they want to get the soul fragments to strengthen their own sparks or some nonsense like that.”

“Let's hope it's just nonsense,” Síkhara replied seriously. “These people should not be allowed to gain power in this way.” She turned back to Zamakis. “Did the dead man tell you where the Illuminated are operating?”

“Unfortunately, Kalik was vague about that,” the vampire replied. “He spoke of a secret meeting place, an old temple in Undersigil.”

The blood hunter frowned. The undercity was a labyrinth of catacombs, sewers and forgotten ruins that stretched for miles beneath the surface of Sigil. Finding an unnamed, abandoned temple there would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. “Did he describe it in more detail?” the fire genasi asked.

“Unfortunately not.” Zamakis went to one of the shelves and took out a large clay jug. It was apparently a canopic jar, intended to hold the innards of a deceased person. “The dead often speak incoherently or in riddles. But he mentioned something else that might give us a clue as to its location: he spoke of tears of darkness. They are supposed to be near the temple. But unfortunately, I don't know what that means.” She placed the canopic jar on the small stone table with the removed entrails and carefully put an organ wrapped in thin linen cloths inside, judging by its size and shape probably the lung.

“Tears of darkness doesn't ring a bell either,” Krystall replied. “But the Razor Angels will try to find out more.”

Síkhara nodded. “That's a start. Much more than we had before. Thank you very much, Zamakis.”

“I’m doing what I can,” the vampire said matter-of-factly, glancing briefly at Kalik’s corpse. “His soul couldn’t rest while the truth remained hidden. I’m giving him the chance to bring it to light.” She closed the canopic jar with a lid shaped like a monkey’s head.

Síkhara, Krystall, Haer'Dalis and Rakalla watched silently as Zamakis took another canopic jar from the shelf, then tore their eyes away from the morbid yet fascinating process of mummification. They said a quiet goodbye to the vampire and the now silent witness and left the Mortuary. The trail would lead them deep beneath the City of Doors, into the hidden corners of Undersigil, where the sect of the Illuminated was up to no good. Síkhara wondered whether she should send Amariel a message about this. But she decided to wait until she had something concrete before contacting the decuria.

 

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The paper moth comes from the setting book “Mausoleum – A Gothic 5e Location Guide” by Crow and Crown. It is a variation of the paper bird from "Waterdeep - Dragon Heist".