Zel'Gazar
Sweet as Caramel
Session Overview:
Crème Caramel, 1st of her kind
There was a woman in a box once.
Not a metaphor. Not a riddle.
A literal, glowing, rune-etched box—swiped by a thief, misplaced by fate, and ultimately smashed open in a moment of divine chaos.
Her name?
Crème. Crème Caramel, 1st of her kind
She entered the story with flair: springing upright from broken arcana, mid-chaos, her first words ringing through Warehouse 13 like the chime of a goblet tossed off a balcony:
“Hi!”
The scene was pure madness.
Vorana, their treacherous guide, had just been electrocuted to death by an enchanted lock.
The package she’d stolen burst open—unleashing the Shard of Balakar, which fused itself into Eilibh’s palm, twisting her in ways not yet understood.
Eilibh screamed and wretched, while Duruk stepped back in horror, sensing something foul and wrong now tainted her.
And then came the box.
The box fell, shattered open, and Crème was born again into a room full of secrets and smoke.
The Rogue in the Wrong Skin
Crème didn’t know how she got in the box. But she had guesses. “It was a job. Impersonating someone important. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong face. You know how it is.”
She laughed it off, but there was a flicker of something else—uncertainty, maybe fear. She danced past it like she did everything else.
And from that moment on, she was part of the team.
Fast with a blade. Quicker with a joke. Faster still to steal hearts she had no business holding.
Trip the Light Fantastic
When the party passed through the Hall of Strings, they met the Herald of Warehouse 13. A creature of impossible beauty, of sorrow and seduction and ruin wrapped in silk.
During this deadly walz, the Herald offered Crème a hand. She didn’t hesitate.
They danced. She bled.
Grabthar’s blow—meant for the Herald—struck her instead. She collapsed.
And in its midst, the Herald did something unexpected. He teleported away with Crème. Leaving in his wake a wave of ecstasy that enveloped Eilibh. And after an encounter with the Infernal Enrapturess and her man/slave steed, the party found the Herald and the mortally wounded Crème.
The Herald knelt beside Crème, at the threshold to a massive whispering gatelike structure, cradled her, and as abeing from beyond breathed a kiss of violet mist into her lungs.
It was not love. It was not mercy. It was art.
Crème lived again, reborn under the whisper of a trickster god’s breath. She stood, eyes shining with something new and unspoken.
And even as the Herald granted the party passage to the pearl, and vowed to not try to stop them, their battle wasn’t over.
The Dark Pearl
There was still one trial left: the Antechamber.
There, two Slaangor Fiendbloods stood in silent, brutish vigil. Guardians of the final prize.
The party fought. Crème fought. And when the last of the Slaangor fell, they stepped into the vaulted sanctum of the Dark Pearl.
Whatever its purpose—hope or ruin —they had earned it.
Then came the retreat.
Crème’s Goodbye
They backtracked to the room where Vorana’s body still lay. There, in the shattered ceiling, they saw the jagged hole left behind by the Black Fang Gang—and the rope they had used to descend.
They had not survived. Thylaris Elmwood, a silver-haired dark elf and double agent who had infiltrated the gang had made sure of that.
Noticing a strange look on Crème’s face, he points up, “It’s how my team got here,” he said, gesturing to a rope and the ceiling. “It leads… elsewhere.”
Crème stared at the rope. Then at the tunnel.
Then back at the party she had barely just met—but who had already seen her at her best, worst and weirdest.
She gave them a grin. Bright yet a little sad.
“Don’t wait up for me. And don’t die in here. If you do, I’ll never forgive you.”
And with the Herald’s parting gift—a crozius-scepter adorned with twin masks of joy and sorrow—tucked beneath her arm, Crème turned toward the unknown.
“This is just the next dance,” she said over her shoulder.
And then she was gone.
Into the dark.
Into her story.