Session 09: Grey Ghosts

Gracklestugh’s dock-quarter crouched beneath a pall of cinder-grey haze, its basalt walls rough with centuries of soot and salt. Past fissured quays and the scowling duergar patrols, the companions threaded westward until Werz Saltbaron’s directions ended at a squat warehouse of rust-streaked stone and iron. No sign marked it, yet an unspoken menace clung to the place—the lair of the Grey Ghosts, if rumor served.

Thorn melted into the gloom first. A whispered word twisted his form into weightless mist; moments later he reclung to solid self high upon the outer wall. Through a narrow ventilator he glimpsed the murk within: ranks of cargo crates, the dust of untended years, and two grey-skinned dwarves—one muttering over a ledger, the other pacing like a wolf on anchor-chain. Squeezing through, Thorn perched among rafters, unseen, the faint susurrus of his cloak lost amid cavernous echoes.

Below, Maledurk strode to the side door and rapped with the flat of a claw. Tempest lounged beside him, humming a tuneless ditty; Elora waited a pace behind, bright eyes measuring every shadow. At length a metal bolt scraped free and the door cracked. A duergar guard, stunted and surly, glared upward at the towering brass dragonborn.

“We seek the Grey Ghosts,” Maledurk rumbled, smoke curling from his nostrils. “Open the way.”

“And I seek peace from surface rabble,” the dwarf spat. “You’ll find neither welcome nor ghosts here.” The door slammed, bolts slid, and a thick timber thudded into its brackets.

Inside, Thorn grinned. He whispered dread into a minor charm, swooped down, and loomed over the ledger-keeper like a pale vampire bat, bared teeth gleaming. Yet the dwarf merely blinked, unimpressed, bellowed a warning—then vanished, body and breath alike. Footfalls retreated toward the back of the storehouse, where a wall of crates parted to reveal a hidden stair spiralling into depths below.

Outside, Maledurk’s patience burst like a dam. With a roar he hurled himself at the barred door; oak splintered beneath draconic fury, iron hinges screeched, and the portal cartwheeled inward. He leapt across the threshold—into emptiness. The warehouse yawned silent, save for the scratch of Thorn’s boots far overhead.

Tempest’s eyes sparkled with mischief. She thrust both hands forward, and a ravenous cloud of stinging beetles, wasps, and black-winged midges erupted, flooding a swath of floor with buzzing malevolence. A single duergar materialised at the cloud’s edge, swatting madly as vermin crawled beneath his mail. In panic he pressed a rune upon his belt—his frame surged, bones groaning until he towered twice a dwarf’s height, spiked pick swinging toward Maledurk’s head.

Elora called a soft name, and a sleek grey rat answered from nothingness. Ratatouille darted between Maledurk’s talons, sniffing the dust. Many, he squeaked into her thoughts, the scent of hidden foes thick upon his whiskers. The druid’s brows knit; invisible blades closed all around.

Steel rang. Maledurk met the enlarged dwarf’s strike with the flat of his greatsword, scales flashing amber in the dim. With a shove of coiled muscle he hurled the giant backward—straight into Thorn’s waiting incantation. A bead of molten light streaked from the rafters, blossoming into a searing bolt that punched through flesh and rune-carved armor alike. The dwarf crashed to the planks, shrinking even as life fled.

Then the true assault began. Footsteps—scores—circled in dust without owners. Picks hissed from empty air, clanging against Maledurk’s pauldrons. Another blade scraped Tempest’s arcane shield in a spray of sparks. The dragonborn bellowed laughter, seized one unseen attacker by inertia alone, and hurled him aside; the dwarf flickered into sight mid-flight before thudding against crates. Yet each displaced air-current spoke of more adversaries than even Maledurk’s rage could count.

Tempest’s grin sharpened. She traced luminous sigils and flung her waterskin skyward; droplets spread, then froze into a brief, silvery rain that pattered upon floorboards—and onto nothing else. The ghosts remained ghosts.

Maledurk gathered his breath for a second charge, but Thorn alighted beside him, eyes aflame with purpose. “Step clear,” he murmured. The barbarian ducked just as Thorn’s voice rose into a thunderous litany. From his spread fingers lanced a spear of cobalt lightning; it skewered one dwarf, then forked with sentient hunger—leaping dwarf to dwarf in crackling succession. Blue brilliance strobed through the hall. Five duergar screamed as electricity blew rune-steel wide and hurled them limp to the dirt. A sixth staggered, armor smoking, beard alight.