The very next morning, the heroes awoke and immediately set into action after barely a night of some well deserved rest. Having already arranged an alternate reward – perhaps hoping to claim some of the far-seeing powers of the dwarven clerics of the Library of Dumathoin – the heroes made their way to this well fortified location. Once inside, the sly Oghman cleric allowed his hexblade companion to ply his silvered tongue, and the clerics agreed to part with a crystalline skull that could let one speak with the dead. However, as some within the church secretly wish to see the heroes campaign against The Elder Elemental Eye successful, this, rather than quick or honeyed words may have been the reason for a rich reward for an otherwise non-related task.
However, no sooner had they came into possession of this powerful item of necromancy, than they heard a clatter and hushed tones hurry through the subterranean monastery fortress. They rushed through the dimly lit catacomb-like halls of the library and discovered the High Doomseer, struggling upon the floor, struck down by some unseen force, surrounded by clerical aides and trusted bodyguards; each casting an array of defensive spells and activating the latent prayer-defences of the mighty hall. Large stone statues armed with crystalline blades sprang to life and a shimmering silvered glow began to play about the place as innumerable dwarven runes began to alight upon the walls and doors. Their earlier contact suggested the heroes leave the temple alone in crisis.
Before they left, the High Doomseer motioned to them from the ground and muttered ”...the skies…climb…” and then lapsed into a deep, unwaking sleep.
When they returned to Firewater’s Rest, their cleric began a wide array of divinations and spells and prayer, in hopes of discovering the location of the original wendigo that savaged Cannith’s unlucky band of heroes; the group recognising that they could lend little aid that Dumathoin’s clergy couldn’t already come by. After a few short hours in secluded prayer, the cleric received spiritual visions of the beast that destroyed the company of heroes that Cannith led – consulting with the psion, they verified that a particularly large and fierce blood tiger had somehow come under the dire curse of the wendigo, and was using the drafty back alleys of the Greypeak Mountains as its personal hunting grounds. They met for a warmed supper beside the firelight at Firewater’s Rest and discussed the need for a guide who knew the territory, but as well would be able to lend a hand, when they would inevitably encounter the fell beast.
The psion spoke with members of his guild, The Golden Gear and they suggested the heroes speak with one of the few remaining guides within Zhedarak, the rakish half-elven scout, Kaeyterodel. They encountered him attempting to woo some of the daughters of the wealthier houses in Zhedarak, and managed to pry him from this task with the promise of gold; he agreed to travel with them far away enough from civilization, so as to set up a trap for the wendigo. After packing up, they set off into the cold, dusky night.
They travelled for an entire day through the bleak and rocky mountainside, and began to look for a suitable location to set camp up, but as the darkness overtook the mountain, the keen ears of Kaeyterodel and the psion noted something lumbering through the dark. His psionic sight revealed several giants shambling toward them, limbs torn and bodies weeping blood – undead ogres! After a brief, but tense battle, the heroes proved victorious and decided to move their camp to a less cursed area. Then, during the night watch, the warlock began to notice walking figures, that he identified as skeletons. As he blasted each one with sizzling crimson blasts, another would appear to take its place, until an entire hoard – nearly one-hundred strong – fell upon the heroes and rent their tents and clawed at them as they attempted to retreat up a gravel-strewn hill.
Springing into action, the psion unleashed a massive cryokinetic orb that cascaded and burst at the centre of the horde, but did little more than rime the bones with frost. The cleric used spells to fly gently above the horde and called upon his faith to cleanse the undead filth below him: dozens of the unspeaking skeletal forms shuddered and burst with a golden light, falling forever still. They poured over the psychic warrior and their guide, Kaeyterodel, who both barely made it out alive. Learning from his mistake, the psion unleased another orb of pyrokinetic fire that swept through the mass, charring and burning the brittle bones. The cleric called upon another golden swirl of faith which fully dispersed and scattered the few remnants of the bony mass.
Spending another hour or so in the middle of the cold night to ensure all of the stragglers were crushed into the dry earth, or burnt, the heroes set their camps back up and resumed watch, until the dawn crept across the canvas of the tent, and they awoke to a rocky landscape strewn with the remnants of the walking dead. The psion commented on the age of the bones, but little else could be said about them. With that, they packed up and set off.