Luke, Halfling Fighter: Part 13 – The Resurrection-ish of Valygar and the Planar Sphere
(Tried to go for a bit of black comedy in this one)
By this point, Luke had been dragging Valygar’s corpse around so long it had become less of a companion and more of a lifestyle choice. When Tolgerias mentioned that the body was the “key” to the Sphere, Luke took it as gospel truth, because of course the best way into ancient magical technology was to tote around a few weeks-old corpse.
Standing before the sphere’s door, Luke sighed, popped open the bag, and immediately regretted every decision that had led him here. The smell. Oh, sweet Lathander preserve him, the smell. It hit him so hard. Birds fell dead from the sky. Rats fled the Slums squealing. A distant priest spontaneously began vomiting holy water.
Still, Luke soldiered on. He dumped the contents onto the cobblestones. Nothing happened.
“
Alright, buddy,” Luke muttered through gritted teeth, “
let’s make you presentable. This one goes here, hand goes right there, twist the neck aaaand… voila. Yep, looking good, champ.”
The Sphere did nothing.
Luke frowned. Maybe the door wasn’t impressed by Valygar’s artfully scattered parts. Maybe it needed something more... cinematic.
He posed the body like a wax figure, rearranged the limbs with painstaking artistry, even adjusted Valygar’s jaw into a winning smile. “
There we go! It’s like you’re waving hello, pal. Just... you know, with less skin.”
Still nothing.
“
Damn it,” Luke cursed. “
Do I have to stitch this clown together too?”
And so, like any sane halfling who has long since abandoned moral compasses, he strolled into the Copper Coronet.
“
Bernard! My man! A beer, and also… uh… you wouldn’t happen to have some thread thick enough to reassemble a man, would you? Asking for a friend.”
Bernard blinked twice, polished a glass for ten uncomfortable seconds, and said: “
Sorry Luke, can’t help you there.”
Luke tapped the bar with his finger, thinking. Then it hit him like a crit to the skull.
The Tanner! That creepy murder-artist in the Bridge District had plenty of materials. Sure, Luke had left behind that suspicious bundle of human skin before, but now? Oh, it was craft time
A bit later (don’t ask how he carried it without gagging), Luke had himself a genuine DIY Valygar Wrap. He stuffed the limbs, torso, and head inside the grisly skin like some nightmare sausage casing, adjusted the seams, patted the chest, and stood back to admire his handiwork.
And just like that, the Sphere’s ancient doors groaned open:
Luke stood triumphantly, hands on his hips, grinning ear to ear. “
Finally. See, buddy? I knew lugging your rotting carcass around for weeks would pay off. This better be worth all the damn trouble.”
Upon entering the Sphere, Luke was greeted by a band of armored knights. They spoke in weary tones, warning him of “half-men” lurking behind the next door—feral things, addicted to human flesh.
“Half-men?” Luke blinked. “You mean halflings? C’mon, we’re adorable. Friendliest folk on the Sword Coast. Just look at me! Do I look like I’d eat your spleen?”
The knights said nothing. One actually shivered.
Luke swaggered through the door to prove his point.
And then he froze.
They were halflings. His kin. His people. Or at least they had been. Now their eyes gleamed with feverish hunger, their mouths ringed with fresh blood, their fingers twitching like claws. They hissed at him. One belched a wet, meaty burp that smelled like last night’s paladin.
“Oh gods,” thought Luke, stepping back, hands trembling. “Not like this. Not like this.”
He bolted. Slammed the door shut. Braced it with his whole body as small fists pounded on the wood like a thousand demented drums. He scrambled back into the knights’ chamber, diving through another door and slamming it behind him. For a while there was only chaos: the clanging of steel, the barking of orders, and then—oh gods—the wet, endless sound of chewing. Mulching. Slurping. The noise went on and on, as if the door itself was being devoured:
Luke curled up against the wall, whispering: “
Not my problem. Not my circus. Not my halflings.” But the sounds didn’t stop. Crunch, rip, slop. One of the knights screamed for his mother, and Luke covered his ears, humming loudly to drown it out. “
La la la—can’t hear you—everything’s fine—happy halfling thoughts.”
When the chewing finally ceased, silence pressed down like a tombstone. Luke knew in his bones the knights were gone, just… converted into mulch. And now, it was just him. Him and the hunger behind that door.
The problem was, the room he had hidden in wasn’t empty either. Lurking in the shadows were some kind of sea-spawned horrors—wet, flopping things with too many teeth. Under normal circumstances, terrifying. But compared to cannibal halflings? These guys were a children’s puppet show. Luke actually sighed in relief. “
Thank the gods. Something normal for once.”
A few darts and an Efreet later, the sea-things were nothing but puddles of fish guts. The Efreet even got into a flame-duel with one of the halflings who burst through the door, both of them hurling fire shields until the Efreet roasted him like festival meat:
The Sphere dragged him further in. Fire elementals. Slowed with the Flail of Ages. Darted. Luke was starting to actually enjoy himself—like finding a new rhythm after almost being eaten by your cousins:
Eventually, invisible and sneaky, he stumbled upon his old “friend” Tolgerias. Luke decided not to waste words this time. One dart tipped with poison and stun—both Tolgerias and his apprentice dropped before they could even start their lecture. Luke grinned. Then immediately regretted it. (
Side note: I kind of regretted doing it this way and decided I will talk to everyone after this encounter so they can put up their defenses):
But Tolgerias was nothing compared to the Noble Efreeti waiting behind him. That thing smacked Luke so hard he hadn’t seen his health that low since his Beregost bar brawl days. He staggered back, clutching at his ribs, muttering: “Never trust a flaming genie with abs.”:
Deeper still, he found Lavok, a mage whose first words were:
“
Ah, welcome traveller. I have seen wonders beyond imagining. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate. What brings you here? Are you one of those Witcher types, come to claim my head?”
Luke blinked. “
…Mate, I don’t even know what half of that means. I’m a halfling. Dart-thrower extraordinaire. Accidentally stitched your relative together a while back. Long story.”
“
Halfling? Hobbit? Ringbearer?” Lavok leaned forward eagerly.
Luke shrugged. “
Ringbearer? Well, I’ve got a nice shiny Guard's Ring here, a claw that technically acts like a ring—so yeah, I guess I’m the Ringbearer.”
“
Fascinating,” said Lavok. “
And tell me—did you also bring balance to the Force?”
Luke groaned. “
Oh for the love of—ENOUGH TALK.”
Buffed to absurd levels, his saving throw vs death and spell deep in the negatives (thanks to potion of invulnerability and stone form), Luke buried the mage in darts until the possession left him like smoke from a dying campfire. Lavok, finally lucid, begged him for one last task: find a demon heart so he could return home.
Luke obliged. He popped outside, found a demon, and Power Attacked it in the face until the heart came free. Job done:
When Luke returned, Lavok thanked him and asked for a final wish:
“
Take me outside, into the sun. Let me see it once before I die. That will be my last request, the last wish of this Corthala.”
Luke stared at him for a long, long moment. Then shook his head.
“
Listen, mate. I’ve had enough of Corthalas to last me a lifetime. Your great-grand-whatever’s body is still scattered across the front lawn like some kind of discount scarecrow. I’m not carrying another one of you outside. Ever.”
Say one thing for Luke, say he never wants to stitch another body together again.
