Curse of the Crimson Reprieve: The Necromancer Beneath the Snow

 The wind howled across the mountaintop as the party stood before the twin mausoleums—white marble gleaming under drifting snow, their doors flanked by towering statues. Between them, a patch of disturbed ice concealed what they had come for: a trapdoor.

When they opened it, a thin, shrill piping echoed across the peaks—a sound not meant for human ears. Without hesitation, they descended into the darkness below.

The air was colder there, damp with the scent of dust and oil. Bo-Jing drew his flaming sword; its light revealed a chamber filled with crates, barrels, and sacks—but also coffins and urns, too many for comfort. The faintest suggestion of movement made them press on, down a corridor lined with skeletons frozen at attention.

When the first skeletons stepped forward, Salt reacted instantly—her magic missiles struck those closest to them like lightning bolts. For the larger horde, Bangqiu followed with a burst of scalding steam, shattering bone and ice alike.

The second wave came silently from deeper within the hall. The group stood their ground, Salt unleashing another blast, until the air itself seemed to hiss with heat. The hallway fell still.

The next obstacle was an ice maze—a winding field of transparent walls and hanging stalactites. Bangqiu levitated upward to scout and discovered the ceiling bristled with brittle ice spears. With a grin, he shook the cavern itself. The ice fell like rain, clearing a new path through the maze.

At its end was a sloped tunnel of smooth ice. Salt went first, sliding down into a vast, torchlit cavern. A balcony glowed dimly across the expanse. As the others assembled, the torches went out.

In the dark, Bo-Jing and Bangqiu each rose into the air, their enchanted boots and spells carrying them along the ceiling. When they neared the balcony, the magic faltered. Bangqiu dropped—recovering his levitation inches before the ground. Bo-Jing landed hard but steady, sword ready.

There was someone there. A man hunched over a circle of ash and black candles. The necromancer Mouru Zhai—once Acererak’s apprentice, now his would-be destroyer—was in the middle of a ritual. His voice cut off as he turned toward Bo-Jing.

Bo-Jing’s katana guttered, its flame dead in the anti-magic field, but the blade was still sharp and the warrior still skilled. He struck first. Mouru Zhai reeled back, abandoned his spell, and retaliated with necrotic missiles that burst across Bo-Jing’s chest like shards of darkness. The pain drove him forward rather than back, driving the necromancer against the wall.

Bangqiu rose again, his eyes glowing faintly as he hurled his own missiles of pure force. The necromancer staggered under the combined assault. When he fell, the torches reignited themselves for a moment—then died again.

When the echoes faded, Bo-Jing exhaled, and the two of them began the grim work of searching the necromancer’s lair. The laboratory reeked of blood and preservation fluid. On a slab lay Niao—their long-lost companion—her body reanimated and augmented, four arms crudely sewn on. The enchantments had failed when her master died. They gathered her remains gently, detaching the extra limbs and placing her true body into Mouru Zhai’s own bag of holding.

The necromancer’s chambers were a study in poor housekeeping skills and worse personal hygiene. His spellbooks, though foul-smelling, were intact. Salt unearthed notes describing Mouru Zhai’s final obsession: a Power Word spell capable of destroying Acererak—but only if cast from the astral or ethereal plane. The margins were filled with desperate calculations and half-legible invocations.

When they returned to the ship, the sage Lao Ren was waiting. He congratulated them, declaring that by defeating Mouru Zhai, they had opened the path to their true purpose—the destruction of the source of all this evil: Acererak himself.

Salt, who had long resisted this quest, felt her resolve waver. Lao Ren’s reasoning was cruel but convincing: while the curse persisted, they would share Captain Hu’s strange advantage. Any mortal death suffered within the tomb would not be final. For a time, they would be unkillable.

She looked at Bo-Jing, who simply nodded.
Bangqiu’s eyes reflected torchlight.
The Crimson Reprieve would sail again—this time toward Acererak’s island.

The Curse of the Crimson Reprieve: Wings over Guibao

 

For weeks they sailed west beneath red skies and pale moons, but Niao’s ghost sailed with them. She had changed. No longer the quiet, sorrowful presence she once was, Niao now appeared with four arms, each one burdened—knives, saws, hooks, and strange tongs dangling from her spectral hands. The other ghosts were silent, at peace. Only Niao returned, and this confirmed the party’s fear: they had erred in burying her on Guibao.

As they neared Guibao, Salt, Bojing, and Bangqiu debated their course. Sailing into Guibao’s harbor risked alerting the ruling family—the same family suspected of necromantic rites and ties to Mouru Zhai. But the magicians Salt and Bangqiu had grown more powerful, learning to transform into birds, beasts, and things between. Rather than dock, they would drop anchor some distance from Guibao; a small scouting party would make the final approach from the sky.

Salt possessed a rare artifact: a magic cube, no larger than a child’s toy, that could unfold into a modest house. She invited six of her companions—Bangqiu, Bo-Jing, Qui-Gon, Nekhil, Ryu, and Fen— to enter the cube, the extradimensional apartment. She stowed the cube in her belt and took to the air in the form of a seagull.

Salt flew alone to the graveyard and landed there. She called her companions out of the magic apartment and together they tried to remember where they had buried Niao.

The earth had been disturbed. Several graves lay open. As she watched, a pair of gravediggers arrived and, without apology or explanation, silently exhumed another body in its burlap wrappings, loaded it onto a cart, and wheeled it down the hill.

The party followed—quiet and invisible—past rice paddies and through the forest until they arrived at the courtyard of Guibao Manor. There, the family patriarch emerged and gave a single command. The cart was wheeled to a barn and locked inside.

Ryu, ever seeking divine insight, asked to be shown one of the strange tools Niao had carried in her ghostly hands. Nothing appeared. He tried again, this time focusing on a jeweled item once worn by Niao. Again, nothing.

They concluded: Niao’s body was not in the graveyard. Nor in the barn. Somewhere else.

Salt, Bangqiu, and Bojing hatched a bizarre plan. Both Salt and Bangqiu could become albatrosses. Bo-Jing could not fly, but his magical boots made him weightless. If strapped securely to a flying ally, he could drift like a lantern in the sky. With help, they crafted a sturdy harness from horse tack in the stables—enchanting it for strength and comfort. Bo-Jing would hold Ryu, whose magic could seek buried artifacts from above, while Salt and Bangqiu towed them through the sky on ropes, their wide wings cutting over the island like shadows of storm birds.

Their first target: the snow-covered mountains at the island’s northern tip. There, nestled between windswept ridges, lay a half-buried stone structure long forgotten.

They descended.

White marble mausoleums rose from the snow like teeth—silent, gleaming, cold. Ryu closed his eyes, his breath shallow from the thin air. When he opened them, he whispered:

“It’s here. Under the snow. Under the ground. The iron tongs with the clawed hands.”

The wind howled. Snow blew in tight, sharp spirals. Somewhere below, Niao’s body—and something worse—waited.

The Curse of the Crimson Reprieve: Youshi's Bones and the Tomb of Horrors

 Two narrow boats nosed through the still waters, pushing against the sluggish current of a cursed river. Salt sat at the prow of one, the mist wetting her white hair. In the other, Bo-Jing gave quiet instructions to his crew. Fen, inscrutable as always, studied the banks for danger. Bangqiu watched the water, knowing already what they would find there. They were drawing near.

The river widened into a black, silent pond—a moat, artificial and stagnant, encircling the tomb of Acererak. The air was heavy with rot and old magic. The expedition had come for Youshi, the girl thrown into these waters by Captain Hu so many years ago. Now her ghost rode with them, silent but present, watching the place where her life had ended.

Laoren Nanji, the wizened sage who had joined their expedition, made no secret of his true aim: to destroy Acererak forever. But he was patient. He offered knowledge and aid, and even a potion that would allow the drinker to return to this place through magic. Salt drank without hesitation. Bangqiu refused, unwilling to bind himself to this place.

With Laoren’s guidance, they dredged the pond and uncovered bones—not just Youshi’s, but the remains of ten others, all victims. Salt insisted they all be honored. Fen silently agreed. Bangqiu spoke only to ensure that Youshi was among them. Laoren confirmed it.

That was when the water stirred.

From the muck emerged skeletal horrors—enormous bone frogs with snapping jaws and serrated ribs. They moved with unnatural grace and hunger. The boats rocked. Salt, Fen, and Bangqiu fired spells while Bo-Jing led his men in shooting arrows.

Then, one of Captain Hu’s men revealed himself. A stranger no longer, Sha-di-Guan stood and uttered a single word. A shatter spell, precisely cast, destroyed the skull of one of the undead creatures in a crackling burst. Laoren nodded with satisfaction—this was his agent, a fellow conspirator against Acererak. In the aftermath, Sha-di-Guan offered to share his magic with Salt, Bangqiu, and Fen. They accepted.

With Youshi’s bones secured and the undead defeated, they turned back. They passed again through the river’s magic gates, noting a side tributary guarded by an arch carved with the beak and eyes of an eagle—a new mystery for another day.

When they reached the Crimson Reprieve, they set sail west. Sha-di-Guan proved his worth again, reading weather and stars, charting a safe path. He found a conical volcanic island covered in lush greenery—a good place, they thought, to bury Youshi.

But the island was infested. The panthers there bore tentacles—twisting, prehensile limbs emerging from lean, predatory bodies. The crew fought their way free and sailed on.

They found another, quieter island. There, they buried Youshi and the others with care. Salt led the rites. Bangqiu stood silent. Bo-Jing kept his eyes on the sea.

But the curse was not lifted.

Niao returned. The ghost they had thought laid to rest on Guibao reappeared—changed. She had four arms now, each holding a tray laden with invisible burdens. Her face was mournful, accusing. Her presence chilled the air and brought nightmares to the crew. Bo-Jing suggested what they all feared: that Niao’s body had been corrupted by the ruling family of Guibao, who were in league with Acererak and Mouru Zhai, his necromancer-apprentice.

They had tried to do the right thing. But perhaps they had buried her in the wrong soil.

Now they sail on, still haunted, still uncertain, with Niao watching.

And behind them, the tomb of Acererak waits.

The Curse of the Crimson Reprieve: Nyng Again

Salt and Bangqiu—both in hippopotamus form—pulled the boat upriver for several hours. When the spell ended, Salt, drained from the effort, withdrew to her magical pocket apartment to rest.

It was then that Hyamsam made one of his infamous entrances. Like Bangqiu, Hyamsam is a magician who drifts at the party’s periphery—unseen or shapeshifted until the moment feels just right (or wrong). Today, he appeared when they needed him.

The boat reached a structure carved into the river: the Dragon Gate. The party hesitated, debating whether to go around or over, but Hyamsam urged them to simply pass through. They did.

Next, the river brought them to a waterfall, where a large gong rested at the base. While others debated, Hyamsam took initiative again—striking the gong. In response, a squat stone statue descended a flight of crumbling stairs and offered to carry their boats up the falls—for a price.

Bo-Jing haggled, trying to minimize the cost despite his wealth. Bangqiu, more pragmatic, paid most of the toll, not wanting to inspire resentment in one entrusted with such a task. Captain Hu, impressed, quietly promised Bangqiu the Crimson Reprieve—should the curse be lifted.

At the top of the falls, they continued upstream. The river split, winding through brackish and silty islands. There they encountered a strange figure—bandaged, blind, and singing eerily about “The Barrel.” He paddled alone in a small boat and claimed to know Bangqiu and Bo-Jing.

Bangqiu, unsettled, responded with a blast of scalding steam. The figure spilled into the river—only to reappear minutes later as three identical forms, closing in from three sides. The party quickly destroyed the undead attackers.

Then a disembodied voice greeted them. Nyng.

To remind them who he was, Nyng conjured a lavish illusion. The party watched as a younger Bangqiu, seven years earlier, destroyed Nyng aboard a ghost ship. They saw themselves looting the spectral vessel—claiming strange treasures, including a mirror, a set of instruments that could guide a ship to the stars, and a jar of dark sludge. Bo-Jing and Bangqiu reconsidered once more, what they might have had.

Nyng’s voice told them the opportunity wasn’t lost. Not yet. But first, he had to find something. He couldn’t say what it was—not because he didn’t know, but because a geas prevented him.

The party deduced he was referring to his horcrux—the object once inside the jar Shoji had thrown into the sea. Nyng had recovered it once, but lost it again. It now lay somewhere at the river’s bottom.

While Nyng pled his case, Bangqiu turned invisible and took to the air, searching. Hyamsam, despite being able to detect invisibility, turned into a parrot and took flight himself.

Nyng pressed harder: help him find his horcrux, and the door to the stars would open. Bo-Jing agreed to help—later.Nyng disagreed. His voice turned cold: You will help me now.

Bo-Jing resisted the magical compulsion. Bangqiu spotted the invisible Nyng and responded with magic missiles. Once again, Nyng died.

The boat passed through another magical gate and entered a marshy stretch of river—close, Captain Hu said, to the spot where he had thrown overboard the girl named Youshi.

The Curse of the Crimson Reprieve: Into the Heart of Darkness-- the turtle-men

 

The river was slow and breathless, choked on both sides by thick jungle vines and tangled trees that shut out the sun. The insects buzzed dizzily and the two longboats glided forward, paddles dipping silently into dark, turgid water.

Afternoon dissolved into evening and then night and Salt’s boat began to drift — not forward, but sideways. At first it seemed like some hidden current had taken hold, but then shapes moved beneath the surface: broad-shelled turtle-creatures, humanoid in posture, long arms pushing steadily against the hull.

They didn’t attack. They didn’t speak. Only when the boats neared the shore did a cadaverous figure step into the torchlight. It stood upright on the bank — skin stretched tight over its bones, jaw slack and trembling. It let out a gurgling wail, half gibberish and half song.

That was enough. The travelers took no chances. With swords and arrows, they tried to drive off the turtles, but only Bo-Jing have much success in cleaving the hard shells.

As the boats turned and edged toward the opposite bank, the ghoul screamed louder. The turtles began to rock the boats. That’s when Bangqiu raised a hand. Three bolts of crackling light flared from his fingers. Salt followed with a streak of white flame. Fen added a searing spark of his own.

The ghoul fell twitching, its body burning as it slumped into the reeds. The turtle-creatures didn’t seem upset — only confused.

They conferred among themselves in their own tongue, bobbing slightly in the water. Then one of them called out:

“That was the deal. If he lost, we eat him. If we lost, he eats us. He’s dead, so… we eat the loser?”

The party’s reply was cautious, but curious. A challenge was offered — a fair fight, one champion from each side. Bo-Jing accepted.

The turtles directed their chosen fighter to a muddy island in the middle of the stream. The others kept their distance, floating in a wide semicircle. The party remained in their boats. No one wanted a misunderstanding.

Bo-Jing stepped ashore, calm and barefoot. The turtle-creature facing him was larger than the others. It crouched low, knuckles in the mud, but moved with surprising speed. The first exchange was light, respectful — a bow, a feint, a counter-grip. Bo-Jing shifted into Mad Monkey form, playful and elusive, but, when paired with a ki shot, very devastating.

Then the turtle touched him — just a tap to the inside of his arm. A bloom of pain burst up through Bo-Jing’s shoulder. His fingers wouldn’t close properly. He stepped back, eyes narrowing.

The others in the water began to drift closer.

“Wait,” Bo-Jing said. “How about we teach each other?”

The turtle blinked. “We are okay with that,” it said, “as long as we get to eat someone first.”

That ended negotiations.

The fight resumed — but the rules were gone. All five turtles surged at once, splashing and clawing toward the island. Bo-Jing didn’t wait. He leapt clean over their heads, landed in the boat, and barked, “Go!”

The paddlers pulled hard. Bangqiu turned and flung out his hand. A wall of stone erupted from the riverbed behind them, cutting across the turtles’ path — but not for long. The creatures split and swam around.

They were fast. Faster than the boat.

Salt and Bangqiu locked eyes. Without a word, they each grabbed a rope and dove into the river, disappearing beneath the surface — and moments later, two enormous hippos burst from the water, ropes cinched to their harnesses.

The boats lurched forward.

The turtles gave chase, but they were no match now. The great hippos thundered through the dark river, heads high, teeth gleaming. Behind them, the turtle-creatures dropped back — slower, sullen, and hungry.

The jungle swallowed the sound of their escape.

The Curse of the Crimson Reprieve: The Monster and the Delta

 

Salt, Bo-Jing, and Ryu left the heart of the island behind, having buried Tong with honor in the circle of ancient stones. Back on the beach, the surf churned against black coral—but the mood was unexpectedly light. The dead sailors who had fallen to cannibal raiders were waiting. Salt blinked, wary—but they grinned, waved, and laughed. Death, it seemed, was not so permanent for those cursed aboard the Crimson Reprieve. Like Captain Hu, they had returned more than once.

They sailed on, crossing the equator on the solstice beneath a sky split with stars. Salt marked the moment with quiet ritual; Bo-Jing stood at the helm, watchful, shoulders squared beneath his red scale armor. But the ocean had not forgotten its claim.

The storm came sudden and total. Winds shrieked, sails snapped. Then the tentacles rose.

From one side, black limbs slithered over the hull. Bo-Jing and his warriors leapt into the fray, blades flashing, carving the first wave of limbs from the rail. Salt stood near the mast, robes whipping, launching bolts of magic into the creature’s flank.

Then came the real strike—from below.

Tentacles surged from the depths, gripping Salt by the waist and yanking her into the sea. Others seized five of the sailors. As she was being pulled under, Salt called upon elemental power to grant her allies the ability to breathe. 

Chaos erupted. The tentacles lifted Salt and its other prey, thrashing them in the air. Nekhil did not hesitate. Spear in hand, he dove from the deck, plunging into the churning sea to follow Salt.

Struggling against the tentacle tightening around her waist, Salt raised a hand and cast a final volley of magic missiles. They streaked across the ship and into the storm, striking the beast’s massive eye, visible now just beyond the opposite rail.

Bo-Jing answered with action. With a cry, he launched himself from the sterncastle, his magic boots
flashing, sword raised. He struck the wounded eye full-force, gouging it open. The monster screamed.

On deck and in sea, the fight raged. Bo-Jing rode the creature’s head, hacking at its limbs. Arrows from his men rained down. The ghost-sailors—now proudly calling themselves the Seadogs—fought with mad courage. Tentacles fell limp and floated like broken rigging.

Salt reached for Nekhil, who swam to her, injured but undeterred. Together they turned to face the fading shape of the beast.

When at last the creature stopped thrashing, Bo-Jing called for its body to be harvested. Salt, bloodied and wet, ignored him. She climbed silently back aboard the ship, pulling Nekhil with her, lips tight with exhaustion. But the Seadogs cheered and dove to the work, slicing flesh, retrieving ink, harvesting teeth.

For days after, the Crimson Reprieve smelled of smoke and salt and grilled squid. Everyone, even Ryu, ate like kings.

Then came the next crossing.

They reached the far continent—the land Captain Hu once sailed on behalf of Acererak. At the edge of a delta, the river he once used had silted to ruin. The ship could go no farther.

Salt and Bo-Jing stood together at the bow, watching the winding brown water vanish inland beneath fog and green canopy. Wordlessly, they each turned to the lifeboats. There would be two. Each would take their own crew—Bo-Jing with his warriors and Salt with her companions, plus Captain Hu and the Seadogs, hardened by their brush with another death.

The Curse of the Crimson Reprieve: Recovering Tong's Bones

 Sailing east along the equator, the Crimson Reprieve passed through weeks of eerie calm. Then the bell sounded, and Tong’s ghost returned.

Captain Hu remembered little—only that he’d dumped Tong “in the middle of the ocean,” with no clear landmark. The sea held many atolls. It seemed hopeless.

But Salt spoke to the crew. They remembered Tong’s beaded bracelet—dyed mollusk shells, a turtle-shaped charm. Ryu took up his diviner’s rod. Three times a day, he searched the waters for that charm. The ritual endured.

Then—turquoise water. Shallow sea. Volcanic rock formations. Ryu confirmed it: the rod pointed ahead and down.

They dropped anchor over water a hundred feet deep. Salt began her ritual. Before she finished, the rod signaled again. The charm was rising.

Through the clear sea, Bo-Jing spotted three aquatic maidens and their shark escorts. He accosted them. They vanished too quickly to read their intentions.

Bo-Jing spoke with the sharks—threats, bargains, and magical tricks involving snake-transformed sticks. The sharks grew ill. Salt, in shark form, dove to the bottom and found a guarded stronghold carved from lava rock and coral. Six trident-bearing warriors stood at the gate with the vomiting sharks.

She returned to the surface. When she came down again, the sea folk were gone. A stone sealed the entryway. She circled the lair and found another, smaller entrance—too narrow for a shark, just wide enough for someone brave.

Salt returned to the surface, and consulted with Bo-Jing on their next action. 

She returned to the undersea lair as a tiny silver fish and slipped unnoticed through the reef’s crevices.

Deep amongst the sponge seaweed farms, tangled in the amber-lit depths, she found what she had come for: a human skeleton, half-buried in the clinging silt. When she assumed human form, the seaweed, came to life, its tendrils wrapping tight around her limbs and pulling her down.

In an instant, Salt changed form again—a sea turtle, sturdy and calm. She chewed her way free, taking a long, lazy bite of the weed that had meant to devour her. Sated and safe, she returned to human form and gently gathered what she hoped were Tong’s remains.

She swam the surface, and climbed onto the ship. The ghost of Tong, returned, more agitated than ever, and paced over the bones.

The ship sailed on, and three days later, they spotted an island on the port side. Changing course, they reached the island by mid-afternoon. Salt, Bo-Jing, and Ryu went ashore with Tong's bones.

It was a lonely place. Beautifully laid paths framed with coral rag, now overground. Clearings with postholes where wooden houses had once stood. Enormous heads carved from porous black stone that whistled in the breeze. And, they believed a burial ground in the form of a clearing removed from the rest of the settlement, with oblong mounds of stones laid out like a miniature city.

 There, under an open sky, they buried Tong.

The ritual was quiet. Ryu taught them a burial chant and their voices echoed in the stone heads.  As the final rocks were placed, the wind picked up and voice seemed to speak:

“Will the other two be laid here also?”

Bo-Jing put his hand to his sword.  Ryu pronounced an exorcism. Salt smiled and said nothing.