Krynn's Vanguard mulled over their next move and after some scouting, decided it was best to try and rush through the next floor to get to the bottom as quickly as possible. After entering the next floor to, suprisingly, nothing deadly - nothing at all - the group decided to take the door to the North.
Upon entering they were very warmly greeted by a group of 7 abashai, three red, three black, and one green, who attacked immediately. It took some time but the group dispatched of them and took the staircase nearby to get to the last floor, Floor 15.
Some more decisions and some more fighting along with meeting some jumpscare Banshee's, the group reached the center of the room, the air grew heavy—not just with heat or moisture, but with a psychic weight, as if the Abyss itself were leaning against the fabric of the world.
They emerged into a vast, open circular chamber—a cyclopean forge-hall of blackened dwarven stone, cracked and glowing faintly with veins of molten corruption. Jagged arches rise like broken ribs around the room, each twisted by infernal energies. At the chamber's center yawns a massive circular pit, a spiraling void that seems to stretch endlessly downward. From it rises a howling wind — not of air, but of suffering and madness. Screams echo faintly from its depths, distant yet intimate, as though clawing from inside your own mind.
Standing at the very edge of this gaping wound in the world is a towering figure—a hulking beast-wrought titan. His bull’s head crowned in steel and bone, his eyes glowing with unnatural fury. In one hand, he drags a colossal glaive etched with runes that burn a sickly crimson. His very presence bends the space around him, the scent of blood and hate sharp in the air. Though unknown to the party, this is Baphomet the Horned King—the Demon Lord of Beasts and Labyrinths, drawn here by the Abyssal rupture like a shark to blood.
To his right, a being of unthinkable stature looms—a figure that might once have been celestial. Wings folded tight to a broad back, skin like polished obsidian, and burning golden eyes that weep radiant fire twisted into malice. His noble visage is haunted, enslaved by abyssal will. Though his form resembles legends of divine warriors, he is no savior. This is an Empyrean corrupted—its divinity subverted, now nothing more than a vessel of wrath.
And flanking them are two immense devils, skin a molten red, wings spread wide and crackling with embers. Each one bears a massive flaming sword and barbed whip, their smiles stretched cruelly across snarling faces. These are Pit Fiends, generals of Hell’s armies, summoned to serve in this unholy convergence of abyssal and infernal forces.
As the party steps fully into the chamber, the hole pulses, a heartbeat of anti-life. Baphomet slowly turns to face them, the glaive resting across his shoulders, no words are spoken. None are needed.
Around them, the floor begins to crack—fractures spreading in spirals as the pit pulses again, the Abyss hungry to consume all.
This is no simple battle.
This is a descent into chaos incarnate.