The morning didn't start with coffee, but with a map and short, clipped phrases that fell into the silence like heavy stones into a well. We followed barely visible marks on tree bark and trampled grass. The world seemed like a logical blueprint, provided you didn't account for the fact that our guide had vanished, leaving behind nothing but a perfectly written note.
Gellia ran her finger over the letters at the duty counter before we stepped out.
"He has the right to choose his own path," she said, but I saw her fingers tremble. "If the Master called him..."
By noon, Rorro hadn't shown up. We decided to move. The seven days were melting away, and Leliana isn't the type to accept excuses. I kept glancing at Flint. There was a strange satisfaction about him. His coin danced between his fingers far too cheerfully for a man who had lost a comrade. My "Function"—my professional intuition—had already filed this observation away. Flint knew something.
The Ravine was wider than the map promised. The air vibrated with a low, visceral hum. At the far end of the clearing yawned the black mouth of the lair's entrance.
"A young Deep Dragon," I stated, examining grey flakes of shed scales. "A 'Deep Singer.' He hates light, loves dampness. His breath is concentrated swamp. One lungful, and your chest is mush."
I looked at Gellia:
"We need auras against fear. He will 'sing,' and that sound will turn your bones to jelly before he even opens his maw."
Priorin looked grimly at his paws.
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"An aura isn't enough. If he starts howling at full volume, my legs will be the first to fail me. We needed that potion from the money-changer, but we didn't have enough of those damn Dollars."
"Who said we didn't have enough?" Flint fished a vial of sapphire liquid from his pocket with feigned nonchalance. "Potion of Heroism. Freshly brewed, straight from the Mistress's reserves."
Priorin took the vial, suspiciously sniffing the scent of honey and iron.
"From where?" the Leonin growled. "This costs a fortune in local paper. We didn't exchange that much gold."
"Let's just say I found common ground with the local contingent," Flint smirked, adjusting his Boots. "While you were mourning the hobgoblin, I was handling logistics. Consider this my contribution to our shared 'not dying.' Take it, cat, and don't forget to say thank you."
I watched this scene, and the abacus beads in my head clicked. I knew the exchange rate. I knew how much gold Flint had. The math didn't add up. To buy such an elixir and pay for two rooms, he would have had to either rob Leliana herself or get money from Dylan. And Dylan doesn't hand out Dollars for free.
For Gellia, this potion was a salvation. She exhaled visibly, seeing the blue shimmer in Priorin’s hands. For her, it meant she wouldn't have to hold the dome of will against the dragon's scream alone. For Priorin, it was a necessary tool.
For me, however, it became the final dialogue with the "Function." Flint hadn't just "found" the money. He had earned it. And the price of this potion was suspiciously equal to the disappearance of Rorro.
"The plan is simple," Priorin uncorked the potion. His eyes flared with an unkind yellow fire. "We lure him into the passage between the ice slabs. There, the columns stand as tight as the ribs of a dead titan. That carcass will get stuck, and we—we slip through."
I looked at them all—at the tired but bolstered Gellia, at the focused Flint, and at Priorin, who was clenching my shield.
"If something goes wrong," I added, "we admit the plan was trash immediately and improvise."
"With one caveat," Gellia smiled bitterly. "'Improvise to survive.'"
We began our descent. The hum from below grew louder. The Deep Singer was waiting for his audience, and we now had enough "heroism"—bought with someone else’s blood—to enter his hall.
Heroism at a Discount.
Key Highlights:
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The Deep Singer’s Nature: This isn't your standard fire-breather. It’s a creature of sound, pressure, and swamp-gas. It doesn't just bite; it vibrates.
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The Potion of Heroism: In D&D, this potion gives temporary HP and immunity to fear. In Shadows of Vellaris, it’s a physical manifestation of Flint’s betrayal of Rorro. The fact that the party needs it to survive the dragon's scream is a cruel irony.
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The "Function" (Faurgar) vs. The "Pragmatist" (Flint): Faurgar has figured out the truth. He knows Flint sold Rorro. But as a "Function," he doesn't stop the mission. He simply files it away as a data point. This makes him just as complicit as Flint in his own analytical way.
Questions for the readers:
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Priorin’s Choice: Do you think Priorin genuinely doesn't suspect Flint, or is his fear of the dragon making him willfully blind?
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The Potion: If the "Heroism" is bought with blood, is it still heroism, or is it just a magical stimulant for cowards?
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Faurgar’s Silence: Why do you think Faurgar hasn't confronted Flint yet? Is he waiting for a better tactical moment?
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Deep Singer, including the "Sonic Fear" mechanics and the map for the Ribs of the Titan, join us on Patreon!
DM Vault content for this chapter, including:
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The Deep Singer Stat-Block: A CR 8 dragon variant with sonic breath and "Echo Location" blindsight.
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Alchemy of the Forbidden Lands: Rules for "Questionable Potions" and the social consequences of using them.
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Faurgar's Dossier: The secret notes Faurgar is keeping on the party's "Internal Threats."
[Link to Patreon - Enter the Abyss]
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