Light and noise drew the Hook Horrors toward the adventuring party, yet these underground beings could never have guessed that the tempting prey before them was, in fact, a deadly trap.
Whether alone or in groups, their ambushes were useless against Anthony's keen senses and darkvision. The roaring fire meteors swiftly picked off the monsters, creatures more accustomed to hiding than fighting.
The Hook Horrors communicated in a chittering, rasping tongue—a crude language capable of conveying little beyond simple concepts like food, attack, or retreat.
When their ambush failed, the Hook Horrors charged headlong—only to die even faster. The last of their warning cries had barely reached their kin before the adventuring party surged forward.
Anthony greedily claimed every last drop of EXP, cutting down over thirty Hook Horrors before his relentless advance halted at a forked path.
One branch led down a wide passage, the other into a dark, gaping stone cave. Two Hook Horrors lurked just beyond its entrance, as if guarding their lair.
"This must be their nest. Perfect—let's rest here awhile."
What Anthony didn't say aloud was his hope of finding something valuable among the Hook Horrors' spoils.
The four light orbs floated ahead, and soon, hacking coughs echoed—the creatures' crude attempt at signaling danger. But the noise betrayed their positions, and the party swiftly closed in.
By now, the adventurers no longer feared these monsters. Nothing could be more terrifying than their Master. Their newfound courage made the fights easier, allowing Anthony to conserve energy while hoarding EXP.
A typical Hook Horror tribe numbered around twenty. Clearly, more than one group roamed these tunnels—but time was precious, and Anthony had no interest in scouring every dark corner for hidden lairs. A quick cleanup and rest, then back to the journey.
The stone cave held few Hook Horrors. Most of the tribe had already been slaughtered. At its deepest, safest chamber, a massive male stood guard, claws raised, hissing and clicking in defiance.
A warning. Yet for a creature ruled more by instinct than intelligence, the display only revealed its fear.
Were it not for the primal urge to protect its home, it would have fled long ago.
Pathetic boss. Anthony had no interest in conversing with a monster that couldn't even speak. Too lazy for curses, he dispatched it with a yawn.
Its final legacy: 200 EXP.
"Stay here. I'll check for anything worthwhile."
A glance deeper into the lair confirmed it—the faint aura of magic items.
The others exchanged puzzled looks but obeyed. Truthfully, this had been the easiest stretch of their journey yet.
Most Hook Horrors had fallen effortlessly to the Master's spells. Their lair held no other creatures, and with ample light, the party could finally relax.
Only the little witch wondered: How does he have so many spell slots? Does he only prepare variations of Melf's Minute Meteors?
If so, he must also master metamagic—Empowered, Maximized, perhaps even Intensified. She'd have to ask him later.
Following their Master's orders, the party settled against the walls, lighting a bonfire to restore their stamina.
Meanwhile, Anthony stepped into the heart of the lair.
The vast stone chamber was nearly empty. A single massive female Hook Horror crouched over a cluster of gray eggs, hissing weakly as he entered—yet daring no hostility.
Her mate, the tribe's strongest warrior, already lay dead at the entrance. Resistance was futile.
"Huh. Smarter than I thought."
The scene inexplicably reminded Anthony of his wyrmling days, watching his mother tend to unhatched Serbia.
Meh. No EXP in smashing eggs. More profitable to let them hatch first.
He ignored the wretched creature, turning instead to the faint glimmer of spoils.
A pile of drow skeletons lay scattered—some bare bones, others still clinging to scraps of flesh.
Picked clean.
Beside them, the source of the magical glow.
Most were ruined: exquisite black leather armor, torn to shreds by sharp mandibles; crossbow bolts, snapped and moldering. Clearly, the monsters had no appreciation for craftsmanship.
But a few items had survived. An enchanted belt. Two family insignias. A waist pouch holding delicate glassware. And most striking of all—a pair of boots.
The items didn't match the number of dead. Likely, many had been lost during the haul.
With a glance, Anthony appraised them all.
A Belt of +2 Constitution, crafted from trollhide. Unfortunately, its cap was a mere 18—useless to him beyond collectible value.
Most magic items had limits tied to their materials. Rarely could they push attributes beyond the extraordinary. An 18-cap was already a mark of exceptional craftsmanship; lesser mages' practice works often capped at 16 or even 14.
But not everyone demanded perfection. Even the lowest +2 attribute belts were fiercely sought after. Most adventurers had glaring weaknesses, desperate for magical fixes.
Two points might seem trivial, but battles had turned on less.
Anthony's own 29 Strength rendered most market-grade enhancers laughable. Items forged from materials weaker than him? Pointless.
Better to sell it.
That didn't mean he couldn't benefit from external boosts. His mediocre Dexterity and Perception had room for improvement. Even Strength could climb higher—theoretically.
A legendary party once slew a demigod-tier Storm Giant, harvesting its essence to forge Gauntlets of +8 Strength (Cap 40). With a master enchanter, a dual +8 Belt of Fearlessness wasn't impossible.
Of course, few were mad enough to hunt such beings. Adult Storm Giants wielded spellcasting rivaling high-tier mages, and their innate 45 Strength bordered on divine. Tearing a dragon apart would be no harder than shredding roast chicken for them.
But slaying mortal-ascended demigods? A fantasy. Even gathering five legends for a joint venture was improbable.
Legends weren't mortals anymore. Their perspectives had diverged. Some built empires. Others wove schemes. Those still adventuring usually wandered the multiverse alone. Only cataclysms could unite them.
Next, the two drow insignias—both bearing House Maever's crest. Two unlucky souls, traveling together, dying together.
Yet these were enchanted. The drow, masters of arcane and divine arts, lavished even family sigils with practical spells.
First to third circle, potentially.
Cracking their encryption was child's play for Anthony. A dragon's knowledge traced the mana flows effortlessly. Within breaths, both insignias' spells lay bare.
House Maever Insignia (Low-Tier Magic Item)
Levitate, once per day.
The second was nearly identical, but stored Shield.
Moderately valuable. More importantly, their presence hinted the drow city wasn't far.
Finally, the prize:
Boots of the Untraceable (Extraordinary Item)
Woven primarily from spider silk, these magic boots erased wearers' traces. Only the keenest hunters could hope to follow.
Effect:Footprints fade to near or total invisibility. Trackers suffer a -5 penalty to Perception checks.
Scent-based tracking fails outright.
Weakness:Fire vulnerability.
Anthony tugged them—stretchy. A quick Dust Removal spell, a shake, and he swapped his old boots out.
Waste not. Who cared if they'd been looted from corpses?
Initially snug, the spider-silk fabric soon adapted to his form, fitting perfectly.
A few steps left no prints. A jump, however, left a faint mark—likely due to his weight.
Overrated. Anthony scoffed. Still, they beat his old footwear by miles. He kept them on.
Though stomping skulls just got less satisfying.
The waist pouch held three vials: two Cure Light Wounds potions, and one green—likely poison.
He fastened the belt, draped the pouch over it, and let his voluminous robes conceal both.
Done, he rejoined the party. Behind him, the trembling female Hook Horror exhaled in relief.
Outside, the Light spells had faded, but darkvision revealed his teammates by the bonfire, feasting.
Zad spotted him first. The rotund man scrambled up, offering warmed rations with fawning haste. "Master! We saved the cleanest spot for you. Rest, please!"
Little Witch cut to the chase. "Any monsters inside? Loot worth scavenging?"
Anthony tossed the drow insignias near the firelight. "Left a female guarding eggs. Trash loot mostly. These insignias are magic, plus two healing potions and poison."
"Functional?"
"For now. Using them alerts House Maever. Since we're heading to Menzoberranzan, they'll be returned eventually."
Disappointed murmurs followed. Then again, Hook Horrors were dimwitted, limb-deficient freaks. No surprise their hoard was meager.
Their acceptance spared Anthony a minor headache.
The belt? Useless to him, but he'd never gift it. Selling it in the city was the only logical move.
If his teammates lacked gear, that was their poverty's fault. Not his.
They weren't close enough for handouts. Gold was far lovelier than temporary allies.
Maybe, if they survived this mission, he'd sell them scraps—at a markup.
Free? Never. No one swindled a red dragon. Not partners. Not even a future mate.