As I landed on the platform, I noticed Frostmane looking past us, towards the nearby wall. When I turned, I saw the clear outline of a stone doorway on the wall. No attempt was made to hide it, but none of us had the chance to pay attention to it while we were in the midst of combat.

Looking over to the nearest of the charmed huntresses, I asked, “Where does that door lead?”

The Huntress smiled happily, and said, “Oh, that leads to our quarters. Father also has his chamber there, though he did not come down last night. Selene went to check on him, but she and Rachel haven’t come back yet. They probably went out to chase whoever caused the disruption in the wards when they fled from Father.”

I looked at her. If she were human, she looked like she would be maybe sixteen, seventeen at the oldest? And she was the second to call the werewolf lord ‘Father’. “Your father, he is the priest in charge of this shrine?”

The Huntress nodded. “Yes, Father is the Huntcaller here, guiding the Hunt. He took Mother from the weakling prey in the surrounding land, and bred with them. All of us serving here are his daughters, in fact as well as in faith.”

So, the Huntcaller had decided to take some human woman, probably from Moonwater, but maybe also from merchant caravans, and bred a group of daughters to serve him. That wasn’t creepy at all. The fact that she had heard about cult leaders doing stuff like that in her old world didn’t help, either.

Siora had walked up by this point, and threw a second switch on the platform, near to the door. Instead of opening, as a normal door might, the rectangular ‘door’ instead proved to be a stone drawbridge, as it lowered itself down, out of the wall upon a pair of iron chains, until it settled on the platform in front of us. Turning to the others, she said, “We might as well check the rooms. Might be informative.”

The second Huntress smiled helpfully, and said, “Most of the rooms are dorms for our sisters, but Father’s room is at the end of the hall. I know sometimes he keeps letters and things in his chest.”

The first Huntress nodded. “I don’t know what you’ll find in there. We aren’t usually allowed in his room unless we’re cleaning, or it is our turn to sleep with Father.”

Vestele’s eyes narrowed. Her voice, however, was carefully neutral. “So, then, the Huntcaller is your blood father, and he is attempting to breed with you all?”

The second Huntress nodded. “Yes, isn’t that what all fathers do? Mother said that it is the duty of all fathers to ensure their Father has strong children. She also said that the demon wolves might help to strengthen our blood, as well.”

I found myself gritting my teeth to keep from saying anything. The damn Huntcaller had clearly indulged in his perversions beyond stealing women and forcing himself on them. It was almost too bad that he was dead, because otherwise I’d have to kill him again, and slower this time!

Not that this ‘Mother’ was any better. I didn’t know whether she had just fallen to corruption, like some kind of Stockholm Syndrome, or whether she was always like this. But she clearly had just as much a hand in brainwashing these Huntresses into becoming their playthings. Maybe worse.

I needed to step away from that conversation. It was drawing far too close to some bad memories from my last life, memories I had no interest in revisiting. Better to check the rooms for anything interesting instead of dwelling on that.

The first room was… a dorm, pure and simple. Two bunk beds stood side by side on one wall, while a tall wardrobe and two chairs stood on the other side, with a narrow passage between the two. Four people were expected to stay in a room this size? Clearly, the cult didn’t care about privacy or personal space.

Melinda’s Search Check: 1d20+2 = 17

I did a quick search of the dresser, but each of the four drawers held the same sets of clothes, in slightly different sizes. Just like the beds, all the clothes were the same. Each drawer had a single personal item. There was a wooden flute, a book of prayers, a sketch pad with a piece of charcoal, and a collection of fanged teeth. I didn’t want to know where the teeth were from.

The next two rooms were just the same. Two sets of bunkbeds, dresser, a pair of chairs. Each drawer had some kind of personal item, usually an instrument, or some tool for arts or crafting. There were no decorations in the rooms, except for the symbol of Malar painted upon the wall across from the beds, in blood.

The fourth room was furnished the same, but it was clear that no one slept here. The beds were unmade, and the dressers were empty, without even the clothes the Huntresses wore. Even to my nose, the room smelled like it had been shut up for some time.

Considering that the last door was supposed to belong to the Huntcaller, that meant only three rooms were used by the Huntresses. If we went by those numbers, then it meant that there were, at most, twelve Huntresses. We had killed six of them. Had to assume a full complement, which meant seven more, plus this Mother.

Finally, I opened the fourth door. This one was half again the size of the dorms. No bunk beds here, but rather a comfortable-looking four-poster, with chains and manacles hanging off each of the posts. Hooks on the wall between the bed and a comfortable sofa held a selection of whips, paddles, and other instruments. Trophies from hunts were mounted on the walls, and a bath tub sat in one corner of the room.

Siora chose that moment to join me. Looking around, her eyes jumped from the tools on the wall, to the chains on the bed, and she whistled softly at the scene. “Man, I figured that the guy was kinky, since he was trying to knock his daughters up, but this takes it to a whole new level!”

I nodded grimly. “Could you search this room? I needed to get a break from the conversation, but I don’t think I’m ready for something like this.”

Siora nodded. In a gentler tone, she said, “Look, if you ever want to talk…”

I shook my head. “Bad memories. I’ve had thirteen winters to work through them, and don’t mistake me, being in this world has helped me a great deal, but they still catch up to me at times. I don’t know if I’ll ever really be done with them.”

“The deepest wounds are like that. Healed over, for the most part, but you never know when they might cause you pain when you least expect it. All you can do is manage the pain, sometimes. I take it, from the context, that there was some ‘history’ between you and another, in your world, that mirrors what we’ve seen here?”

I paused. “Not exactly. I was kidnapped by a stranger, someone who saw me, and decided to take what he wanted. I was kept as a slave, and forced to… I was a virgin before that. After, all I knew of a man was being forced.”

“What happened?”

“There was a doctor, a healer, who was friends with my captor. When he told the asshole that I couldn’t have children again after the ‘accident’? Well, I lost it. That night, I killed him with an iron pan, and ran out of the house on a winter’s night, letting it burn.”

I sighed. “I didn’t know where I was going, but I could hear the wolves hunting me. I ran, blindly through the snowy night, in nothing more than a ragged shirt. I don’t remember if I even saw the ledge. I just remember falling, and thinking that it was good that it was finally over.”

“And then you were offered a second chance. A new life, in a new world.”

I nodded. “Yes. And I swore that I would never let myself be weak like I had been in my old world. That I would do whatever it took to keep myself safe, even if it meant wading through blood.”

Siora nodded. “And the Frostmaiden offered you her blessing, cold and strong as winter itself. I understand. If you want, you can watch from the door as I search the room.”

Siora’s Search Check: 1d20+19 = 25

I took a breath, and nodded once. Siora, thankfully, did not say another word, and turned back to the room. She started in the dressers, but the only thing of interest she found were a few extra ‘toys’ amongst a woman’s clothes. They were basic, nonmagical things, from what Siora said, but they would get the job done. I didn’t bother looking to see what kind they were. I didn’t want to know.

Siora’s Search check: 1d20+19 = 36

Siora’s Open Lock check: 1d20+19 = 25 (Success)

I watched as Siora checked the iron-bound chest by the bed for traps. She must not have found any, since the next thing she did was whip out her tools, and make short work of the simple lock securing the chest. The Huntcaller probably never thought anyone would make it down here.

“Melinda, check this out!”

Bag of Holding, Type IV

Type

Tool

Weight

60

This seemingly simple linen sack actually hides a rather extensive extradimensional holding space. It can carry up to 1500 lbs (or 250 cubic feet) of material.

Trusting Siora that there was actually something worth seeing, I moved up next to her to see what she’d found. I’ll admit that I was surprised to find that someone had hidden a bag of holding inside a chest. That wasn’t the only thing in the chest, but it drew my attention far more than the stack of what looked like old journals or spellbooks did.

Helm of Opposite Alignment

Type

Helm

Weight

3

This metal hat looks like a typical helmet. When placed upon the head, however, its curse immediately takes effect (Will DC 15 negates). On a failed save, the alignment of the wearer is radically altered to an alignment as different as possible from the former alignment—good to evil, chaotic to lawful, neutral to some extreme commitment (LE, LG, CE, or CG). Alteration in alignment is mental as well as moral, and the individual changed by the magic thoroughly enjoys his new outlook. A character who succeeds on his save can continue to wear the helmet without suffering the effect of the curse, but if he takes it off and later puts it on again, another save is required. The curse only works once; that is, a character whose alignment has been changed cannot change it again by donning the helmet a second time.

Only a wish or a miracle can restore former alignment, and the affected individual does not make any attempt to return to the former alignment. (In fact, he views the prospect with horror and avoids it in any way possible.) If a character of a class with an alignment requirement is affected, an atonement spell is needed as well if the curse is to be obliterated. When a helm of opposite alignment has functioned once, it loses its magical properties.

Opening the bag, I found three items. First was a helm made of iron, which burned my hand to hold it, though my skin had toughened enough that I did not take actual damage from the contact. The helmet itself was of a simple design, unadorned, but when I identified it, it was far from simple. This was a cursed item, which would cause all kinds of problems if anyone wore it. Worse, it was not going to be something that could easily be sold, because of that curse.

The second item was a necklace of pearls. Like the helm, it was rather plain and unadorned. Oh, the pearls were pretty enough, but there was nothing about the piece that leapt out at me, and it also did not appear magical, which made me more suspicious. After all, why would a seemingly mundane, if pretty, necklace be hidden in side a bag of holding at the bottom of a shrine to an evil god along with other nasty objects if it didn’t have some kind of nasty sting?

Mercy of the Merciless

Type

Whip

Weight

2

Damage

1d3

Damage Type

Slashing

Crit

X2

Reach

10ft

This ‘weapon’ is a whip made from the skin of demons flayed alive in the flesh markets of the Triple Realm of Azzagrat, which crosses the 45th, 46th, and 47th layers of the Abyss. Because of this, it has properties beyond that of any normal whip, even before it was enchanted.

+1 Enhancement to Attack and Damage

Fiend Whip – Damages creatures regardless of worn armor. Always does lethal damage. Counts as an Evil weapon for overcoming damage reduction. Creatures damaged by this weapon take 1 point of temporary Wisdom and Charisma damage with each hit. This damage is not multiplied with critical hits. Constructs, Plants, and Oozes are immune to this extra damage.

Merciful – Each hit heals the target for 1d8 damage.

The final item was a coiled whip that was, well, most certainly NOT designed for combat. Oh, sure, you could use it, but this was designed for torture, to make a victim insensate. It would only take a few hits of the whip to make someone putty in your hands if you wanted to manipulate them with words or magic. But Siora’s words brought me out of my contemplations.

“Melinda, I think I know who, or rather what this Mother is.”