Dror Ragzlin

Past Priestess Gut's theatrics, we slipped into a broader corridor dimly lit by more torches and soot-stained windows. The echoes of her chants followed us like mosquitoes as we made our way toward the last commander: Dror Ragzlin.

The throne room was already alive with tension by the time we entered. Goblins huddled near the center, watching nervously as Ragzlin, the massive hobgoblin barbarian, stood atop a crumbed platform. A few human cultists flanked him, heads bowed in prayer, while the throne itself loomed behind him.

He was mid-ritual.

A corpse lay sprawled on the ground before him—grey-skinned, tentacled. A dead mind flayer. Whatever knowledge in its head soon to be shared.

"Speak!" Ragzlin growled, pressing a taloned hand towards the creature’s skull. A low magical hum vibrated through the chamber as incense curled in lazy spirals from cracked braziers.

A speaking-with-the-dead ritual. He was trying to dig answers out of that dead, squishy brain.

I motioned to the others. This way.

The throne had a stairwell curving behind it, mostly obscured by hanging bones and crude banners. I'd been here in another life, another save file. I knew what lay behind that locked door above: a treasure stash. One that included something Karlach desperately needed, though she wouldn't know just yet.

We moved in silence, shadows hugging our backs. Dror's voice boomed behind us but didn’t waver. We slipped sideways along the stone wall, then ducked up the stairwell one by one.

At the top was the door, big, heavy, and very much locked.

I pulled out a lockpick, looted from a graverobber in Withers old chapel.

Click. Tension. Twist. Snap!

The pick broke instantly. I stared at the stub between my fingers.

"Damn it," I whispered. My fingers were not made for this.

I turned to the girls. Shadowheart raised an eyebrow. Lae’zel looked unimpressed. Karlach gave an apologetic shrug.

No help there.

The door stood still, smug in its unpickable defiance. I stared at it for a moment longer, weighing our options. None of us had the finesse for this kind of work. Our group was many things—charming, lethal, occasionally unhinged—but dexterous? Not a chance.

There had to be another way.