Chapter 2 / Episode 56: In Nulb, even the shadows steal from you.

 Coldeven 15, 576 CY – Afternoon

Weather Conditions (above ground):
Description: Freezing
Temperature: 13.3°F to 38.4°F
Wind: Moderate breeze (S) 13–18 MPH
Precipitation: None
Clouds: Gray, slightly overcast

Present Party:
Dog, the Ranger of the Gnarley (Forest)
Irving the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert
TerryOr, Cleric of St. Cuthbert - absent this session
Dixon, the Dwarven Fighter
Oleg, Half-Elf Magic-User/Cleric of St. Cuthbert
Slash, the Bard
Crush, the Half-Orc Fighter - absent this session

Muspell Heavyhand, Deep Gnome Illusionist

Tiger Wong, Monk of the Eastern lands

NPCs:
Zert, the Hero
Spugnior, the Theurgist
Lita of the Fjord, Slash’s companion

---

The freezing winds of Coldeven 15, 576 CY, nipped at the battered party as they rode out of the desolation of the Temple. Behind them, the shattered halls of elemental evil brooded in the distance; ahead, the ramshackle sprawl of Nulb awaited.

Countess Tillahi of Celene and her consort, Sir Juffer, offered grateful words to the company.
"You have our lives," Sir Juffer said solemnly, pressing a silver-inlaid brooch into Irving’s hand. "May the Queen of Celene herself hear of your valor."
The countess urged immediate departure, unwilling to linger in the tainted lands near the Temple.

At the Waterside Hostel, the stench of sour ale and rotted wood clung to the walls.
Dog glowered at the common room. "If I wake up lighter in the purse," he muttered, "I'll burn this place to the ground."

In the smoky common room, two strangers were encountered.
Muspell Heavyhand, a deep gnome with shifty eyes and a wry smile, offered a bow. "Lost my dog. Maybe found new friends."
Beside him, Tiger Wong, a monk from the far eastern lands, said nothing—only offering a slight respectful nod, his hands folded calmly before him.

Oleg’s sharp eyes missed little, but even he noticed too late—the sword at his belt was gone. By the time the realization struck, Wat the bartender offered a greasy grin from across the room.

The party made ready for the night. Dog and Tiger Wong, unwilling to trust walls that whispered betrayal, slept among the horses. Tiger Wong boiled a small pot of rice, sharing none and speaking less.

---

Coldeven 16, 576 CY – Morning

Morning was a bleak affair: porridge like mortar, and beer sour enough to strip paint.

Over a whispered breakfast, Oleg quietly cast ESP upon Wat. The thoughts that came back were enough to turn even Spugnior’s stomach.
"Thieves feeding thieves," Oleg growled under his breath. "This whole town deserves to sink."

Mother Scarg provided healing scrolls with a grim smile, while Dog bartered for a stout spear from the village smithy.

Without further ceremony, the battered company mounted up once more and turned their faces back to the horror that awaited at the Temple’s gates.

Chapter 2 / Episode 55: The Eldritch Horror

Coldeven 15, 576 CY – Afternoon

Weather Conditions (above ground):
Description: Freezing
Temperature: 13.3°F to 38.4°F
Wind: Moderate breeze (S) 13–18 MPH
Precipitation: None
Clouds: Gray, slightly overcast

Present Party:
Dog, the Ranger of the Gnarley (Forest)
Irving the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert
TerryOr, Cleric of St. Cuthbert
Dixon, the Dwarven Fighter
Oleg, Half-Elf Magic-User/Cleric of St. Cuthbert
Slash, the Bard
Crush, the Half-Orc Fighter

NPCs:
Zert, the Hero
Spugnior, the Theurgist
Lita of the Fjord, Slash’s companion

Listen to "Chains of the Temple" by Slash the Bard

The Temple stirred beneath their boots. Cold, damp, and pulsing with malevolence, it whispered reminders of ancient blasphemies—of sacrifices long forgotten and horrors sealed below. The adventurers—wounded, weary, and driven—moved forward from Room 225 into shadow, chasing the scent of a fleeing priest and unknowingly stepping into the gullet of something far older than fear.

Dog the Ranger scouted ahead with an instinct honed on the edges of the Gnarley. He knelt in the dusty corridor of 209a, studying scattered footprints where the air stank of rot and the walls pulsed with clammy humidity. A grotesque gargoyle fountain jutted from the masonry, flanked by a solitary chest that drew suspicious eyes. “Tracks head north,” Dog whispered—but it was Slash who knelt at the chest. The click of the lock was followed by something far worse.

The walls groaned. The fountain’s stone cracked. And from below, four glistening, unnatural tendrils erupted in silence.

The battle came fast.

Dog was the first struck—paralyzed, eyes wide as terror overtook him. Dixon the Dwarf charged to drag him free, his warhammer splintering stone—but a lash from the abomination crushed his side and sent him sprawling, lifeless. TerryOr, desperate, dashed forward with a vial of poison to hurl into the maw… but the creature struck first, and the cleric fell, unconscious and bleeding.

As the abomination's tentacles lashed out, Oleg stepped forward, clutching his holy symbol of St. Cuthbert and calling upon divine power to turn the beast — but the ancient thing from below proved unmoved by faith. In that moment, Lita began to play, her haunting melody rising above the chaos, lifting the spirits of the wounded and steadying Slash's grip on his sword as he dove back into the fray.

Only Slash and Irving remained in the chamber.

The bard moved instinctively, singing no tune, but murmuring a druidic spell taught to him by Jaroo. Vines burst from the cracks and wrapped the tentacles in a tangle of unyielding roots. Slash climbed onto the fountain, blade in hand, and carved at the still-writhing limbs. The thing let loose a shriek that echoed down the ancient halls—and retreated.

Irving stood his ground, shielding the fallen. Face battered, blood dripping from his helm, he stared down the void and whispered a prayer to St. Cuthbert.

When the horror fled, time resumed. Potions were uncorked, breath caught, wounds bound. Dixon's life teetered until TerryOr, restored with a sip of healing, lifted his holy symbol and drove the poison from the dwarf’s veins. Dog, too, stirred with a rasping breath.

No words were spoken—none were needed. Their victory had been narrow, and all knew that had the thing lingered, the Temple might have claimed them all.

They limped their way out of the cursed dungeon, up into the biting wind of Coldeven. The rescued captives, once too frightened to speak, now clung close behind, eyes wide at the fading silhouette of the Temple of Elemental Evil.

As Nulb’s crooked rooftops appeared in the distance, the group—wounded and worn—knew they had survived only by will, steel, and a flicker of divine light in a place abandoned by gods. But the Temple still stirred. And deeper evils yet waited.

The horror had retreated… not died.

The war was far from over.

XP: 1000 each

Chapter 2 / Episode 54 – Black Sigils and Poisoned Promises

Chapter 2 / Episode 54 – Black Sigils and Poisoned Promises

Coldeven 15, 576 CY – Afternoon

Weather Conditions (above ground):

• Description: Freezing

• Temperature: 13.3°F to 38.4°F

• Wind: Moderate breeze (S) 13–18 MPH

• Precipitation: None

• Clouds: Gray, slightly overcast

Present Party:

• Dog, the Ranger of the Gnarley (Forest)

• Irving the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert

• TerryOr, Cleric of St. Cuthbert

• Dixon, the Dwarven Fighter

• Oleg, Half-Elf Magic-User/Cleric of St. Cuthbert

• Slash, the Bard

• Crush, the Half-Orc Fighter

NPCs:

• Zert, the Hero

• Spugnior, the Theurgist

• Lita of the Fjord, Slash’s companion

---

Emerging from the fetid chamber where the Otyugh was slain, the party pressed deeper into the underbelly of the Temple. Rot and mildew clung to every breath. In the refuse of Room 230, TerryOr found a hidden latch. A storeroom lay beyond—dusty, half-ransacked, yet with scattered provisions intact. Among them: six stoppered bottles of deep violet liquid.

Dixon didn’t hesitate. “Only one way to find out if it’s wine,” he muttered, uncorking one and downing it.

He choked and dropped to one knee, face going pale. “Spider’s piss,” he wheezed. The liquid was poison—bottled venom of the drow.

In Room 232, the Temple’s black-clad bugbears waited. Thirteen in all. The clash was immediate and merciless.

Irving stepped forward with divine fury. “By the justice of St. Cuthbert!” he cried, cutting a swath through the enemy ranks. TerryOr’s mace cracked bone, while Slash, bloodied and snarling, shouted lyrics that drove his blade home. Crush took blow after blow until Oleg’s healing touch kept him standing.

When the final bugbear fell, the stone floor was slick with gore.

Beyond, in Room 233, their leader lay cold on his cot—his throat expertly slit. “Someone beat us to him,” Dog muttered, crouching beside the corpse. “Clean kill. No fight. Temple politics?”

Room 231, the “Room of the Elements,” proved empty, but the air pulsed faintly with latent power.

Dog led the group southward, following scuffs in the dirt and the faint scent of rot. Room 228 held their next surprise. Crush shouldered the door aside and was met by a hulking ogre.

“Outta the way, ugly,” he growled, and with one bone-rattling blow, the creature fell.

In the dark behind: two crude prison cells. Inside were seven captives—four elves, including Countess Tillahi of Celene and her consort, Sir Juffer, and three from Nulb. The countess, bruised but proud, spoke softly.

“You will be rewarded. This, I swear by the crown of Celene.”

Escorting the captives slowed their pace. Dog’s tracking helped, but the Temple twisted like a living maze.

Room 224 brought another threat: bugbears and gnolls of the Air Temple. Spugnior raised his hand, casting sleep with perfect precision. As the last fell, Slash wiped blood from his blade. “Remind me to write a song about you, Spug.”

Room 225, the high priest’s chamber, was silent. Kelno, the traitorous priest, had vanished—likely warned by the noise.

They gathered in the abandoned room. The air was heavy. Time was slipping. Light still shone above… but the Temple clung to them like a second skin.

And deeper, darker things were stirring.

---

XP: 581 each

Chapter 2 / Episode 53 - Chaining the First Portal

 Players:

Dog the Ranger of the Gnarley (Forest)
Irving the Reluctant (Paladin of St. Cuthbert)
TerryOr the Cleric of St. Cuthbert
Dixon the Dwarven Fighter
Oleg the Half-Elf Magic-User/Cleric of St. Cuthbert - absent this session
Slash the Bard
Crush the 1/2 Orc Fighter - absent this session

NPCs:
Zert the Hero
Spugnior the Theurgist
Lita of the Fjord (Slash's Groupie)

Coldeven 15 - Early day

Description: Freezing

Temperature: 13.3°F to 38.4°F

Wind: Moderate breeze (S)(13-18 MPH | 11-16 KN)

Precipitation: None

Clouds: Gray, slightly overcast

Chapter 2 / Episode 53 - Chaining the First Portal

Coldeven 15, 576 CY – Early Morning

The stale air of the temple's second level hung thick with the remnants of past atrocities, as if the very walls had absorbed the screams of the condemned. The adventurers roused themselves from uneasy rest within the barricaded chamber. The stone floors had offered little comfort, but sleep—however restless—was a necessity. Their torches flickered against damp, soot-streaked walls, casting shadows that seemed to shift of their own accord.

Weapons were checked, prayers muttered, spells recalled. The day ahead promised more horror, more defilement to be uncovered in the name of stamping it out.

The Scorched Hall (Room 211)

Oleg led the way through a narrow passage, ever cautious, his keen half-elven senses wary for hidden threats. The group entered a long hall lined with intricate carvings, their details lost beneath centuries of filth and tarnish. A sudden surge of heat pulsed through the chamber—a trap! Flames erupted from concealed vents, licking hungrily toward them.

Oleg barely had time to react before the flames engulfed him, his quick reflexes saving him from being charred outright. The fire licked at his cloak, singing the edges before he stumbled back, cursing. The group took one look at the treacherous passage and made the grim decision to retreat. The temple had already claimed enough of their strength.

The First Portal Shackled (Room 210)

A door unlike the others—inscribed with symbols of warding, thick iron reinforcements laced with a foul, abyssal presence—stood before them. The air around it crackled with an unseen tension, the weight of something imprisoned beyond.

Irving and Terry’Or wasted no time. They produced the blessed shackles, relics meant to reinforce the arcane barriers that kept a demoness bound. The metal gleamed faintly as they clasped them in place.

The moment the shackles locked shut, the room darkened unnaturally. A presence emerged from the gloom, swirling into shape—an entity of shadow and malice, a Guardian Drelb. Its form wavered, incorporeal, save for the deep-set voids where eyes should have been.

Terry’Or raised his holy symbol, invoking St. Cuthbert’s wrath. Yet the turning had no effect—the creature was beyond such simple banishments. It did not attack outright but hovered, its form twisting unnervingly. The battle was brief, a clash of steel and magic, before the Drelb retreated into the darkness. It would wait for another opportunity.

The group stood in silence, their breath misting in the cold, damp air. The demoness remained sealed… for now.

Further Delving

• Room 207, 227, 235 – Hallways thick with dust and the remnants of past sacrilege. The weight of evil never lifted, even in the emptier spaces. Oleg scouted ahead where possible, ever cautious, but something in the temple always seemed to be watching.

• Room 234 – The Su-Monster’s Lair

The chamber was a lair of filth, scattered with old bones and half-eaten carcasses. A shrill, unnatural chittering heralded the attack of a su-monster, a thing of psychic malice. It leaped from the rafters, its gangly limbs striking out, but the adventurers responded in kind.

The battle was swift—swords flashing, arrows striking true, a final, piercing shriek as the beast fell. Its presence was yet another reminder that this temple drew all manner of monstrosities to its depths.

• Room 230 – The Otyugh’s Den

A stench worse than death itself filled this cavernous chamber. The filth was ankle-deep, a quagmire of waste and rotting flesh. The otyugh that lurked within reared up at their approach, its maw a mass of writhing tendrils and diseased flesh.

The fight was brutal, quick, and filthy. Terry’Or took a savage blow in the melee, and almost immediately, a feverish pallor overtook him. Infection—typhoid. The filth had done its work.

With a grimace, he steeled himself. The power of St. Cuthbert surged through him as he cast Cure Disease, and the sickness recoiled, driven from his body before it could take hold. A close call.

---

The party regrouped, weary but alive. The temple’s horrors had chipped away at them, but they endured. The barrier had been strengthened, the demoness further bound. Yet their work was not finished. The temple’s evil was far from spent, and the deeper they went, the more it seeped into their bones.

As they took a moment to catch their breath, the thought loomed: what awaited them in the darkness ahead?

Midday approached. They would press on.

Creatures encountered:

Guardian Drelb

Su-Monster

Otyugh

769 XP Each

Chapter 2 / Episode 52 - The Fall of the Water Temple

Players:
Dog the Ranger of the Gnarley (Forest)
Irving the Reluctant (Paladin of St. Cuthbert)
TerryOr the Cleric of St. Cuthbert
Dixon the Dwarven Fighter
Oleg the Half-Elf Magic-User/Cleric of St. Cuthbert
Slash the Bard
Crush the 1/2 Orc Fighter - absent this session

NPCs:
Zert the Hero
Spugnior the Theurgist
Lita of the Fjord (Slash's Groupie)

Coldeven 14 - Early
Description: Freezing
Temperature: 13.3°F to 37.4°F
Wind: Gentle breeze (S)(8-12 MPH | 7-10 KN)
Precipitation: None
Clouds: Mostly cloudy

The heavy silence that followed the battle with the gargoyles was short-lived. From the shadowed corridors, the priests of the Water Temple emerged—robes of deep blue, their symbols glistening with unholy power, and at their center stood Canon Belsornig, the High Priest.

With a raised hand, he began a chant, the air thick with unseen pressure, as his underpriests flanked him.

The Battle Begins

Before they could act, Oleg raised a hand, speaking arcane words—the familiar pulse of a sleep spell washed over the acolytes. Their chanting faltered, bodies swaying, and then they collapsed into a dreamless slumber.

Irving did not hesitate.

With his potion of heroism still coursing through his veins, the paladin charged, holy mace raised, bringing it down with righteous fury toward the High Priest.

Belsornig snarled, raising his staff to block, but the force of the blow drove him back.

Dixon’s hammer flew through the air, smashing against the priest’s chest, sending him reeling into the altar, gasping for breath.

Zert followed without hesitation, blade flashing as he lunged for an opening.

The Command of St. Cuthbert

TerryOr raised his symbol of St. Cuthbert, voice booming with divine authority—

“Disrobe.”

The command struck deep, and the High Priest’s hands trembled as he tore at his robes, his sacred vestments falling to the floor.

Exposed, vulnerable, Belsornig staggered, eyes wide with confusion—just as Slash unleashed a storm of searing energy from his Ring of Shooting Stars.

A blinding flash of arcane lightning ripped across the room, arcing into the High Priest, his flesh blistering, robes smoldering.

In moments, it was over.

Belsornig collapsed, his body charred, his reign ended.

Aftermath and Recovery

The adventurers stood among the fallen priests, their breaths heavy, the stench of ozone and burnt flesh hanging in the air.

With the temple’s leaders dead, they spent the next few hours ransacking the living quarters, uncovering hidden treasures, magical artifacts, and wealth hoarded in service to the Elemental Evil.

As the treasures were divided, a decision was made—the Water Temple was broken, and this place, for now, was theirs.

The chamber doors were barred, and the party, weary but victorious, settled in for the night.

2407 XP each    

Chapter 2 / Episode 51 - Hall of Verdigris

Dedicated to Ernie Gygax (1959–2025)

Players:

Dog the Ranger of the Gnarley (Forest)
Irving the Reluctant (Paladin of St. Cuthbert)
TerryOr the Cleric of St. Cuthbert
Dixon the Dwarven Fighter
Oleg the Half-Elf Magic-User/Cleric of St. Cuthbert
Slash the Bard
Crush the 1/2 Orc Fighter - absent this session

NPCs:
Zert the Hero
Spugnior the Theurgist
Lita of the Fjord (Slash's Groupie)

Coldeven 14 - Early
Description: Freezing
Temperature: 13.3°F to 37.4°F
Wind: Gentle breeze (S)(8-12 MPH | 7-10 KN)
Precipitation: None
Clouds: Mostly cloudy

The bitter chill of Coldeven clung to the adventurers as they pushed deeper into the accursed halls. The stench of damp stone and rot thickened, and each footstep echoed against unseen horrors lurking in the dark.

The bugbears had fallen swiftly—mercenaries of the Water Temple, dispatched before they could raise the alarm. Blood pooled in the cracks of the cold stone floor, a silent testament to the battle that had just passed.

Ahead, a massive chamber loomed, its walls streaked with sickly green corrosion, the very air thick with the scent of brine and decay. A massive altar of black stone stood at the center, carved with grotesque depictions of drowning souls, writhing within foamy waves.

The Hall of Verdigris

Before they could take in the full horror of the chamber, shadows detached from the ceiling—twisted, winged forms with stone-like flesh and gleaming malevolence in their eyes.

Gargoyles.

They descended with ear-piercing shrieks, talons slashing, wings beating the stagnant air.

Dixon stood firm, his dwarven instincts rejecting the illusion, but disbelief did not spare him from their razor-sharp claws.

Irving smashed through a beast’s wing with a single mace blow, sending it crashing to the floor where Dog’s arrows pierced its stony hide.

Slash drove his blade into another as Lita strummed a frantic melody, her song lost beneath the clash of battle.

TerryOr raised his mace, the righteous power of St. Cuthbert flaring, forcing one of the creatures to hesitate mid-strike—just long enough for Dixon’s hammer to crush its head to rubble.

The fight

was over in moments, the gargoyles reduced to lifeless shards of stone.

Then, from the shadowed alcoves, robed figures emerged.

The priests of the Water Temple, their faces hidden beneath deep hoods, symbols of elemental power glistening on their robes.

A low chant filled the hall, the air growing heavier, the black altar thrumming with energy.

The battle was far from over.

Ballad of Irving, the Reluctant

 

The Ballad of Irving, the Reluctant
1^st level Paladin (Lyan) of St. Cuthbert

All his life, Irving never once entertained the idea of becoming a warrior—let alone a paladin of St. Cuthbert.

Born on 18 Reaping 558 CY on his parents' farm, he was the youngest of ten siblings and considered the runt of the family. Not particularly strong or hardy, he was, however, sharp of mind and wit. Once he was old enough, his parents sent him to the nearby Church of St. Cuthbert to become a cleric—both to aid their village and to have one less mouth to feed. Here, Irving excelled in his studies.

The years passed quickly, and Irving was set to receive his assignment as a cleric of St. Cuthbert. He hoped to remain at the shrine, where he would have access to books of knowledge, perhaps becoming an instructor or at least a scribe. Alternatively, he would have been satisfied returning to his village to serve as its cleric.

On the day of graduation, those students who had successfully completed their studies lined up for the ceremony—the culmination of which required each of them to grasp the hilt of the Mace of St. Cuthbert and pledge their service. It was at that moment they would receive their assignments.

Each student was nervous, having all heard the rumor that those unworthy to serve would be destroyed upon touching the mace. There was some truth to the tale, though in reality, it merely delivered a shock to those deemed unready, encouraging them to strive harder toward the shrine’s ideals.

Eventually, it was Irving’s turn. He entered the Chamber of the Mace, where his instructors and the shrine's staff stood in solemn anticipation. Among them was the Abbot, who had traveled from afar for this occasion. In the center of the chamber, bathed in golden sunlight and suspended in midair, was the Mace of St. Cuthbert. Under normal circumstances, it might have appeared to be a simple horseman’s mace, like those wielded by many warriors.

The Abbot directed Irving to stand upon a stone block before the mace. Reaching out, he grasped the handle, swore his Oath, and held the weapon before him—then, without hesitation, turned to hand it to one of the staff.

It was only when he noticed the stunned expressions on everyone’s faces that he paused.

“What?” Irving asked, confused.

For every student before him, the mace had remained immovable, unyielding to their grasp. But Irving had drawn it from the light with ease.

The Abbot’s expression shifted from shock to acceptance as he declared Irving the Holy Paladin of St. Cuthbert for this dispensation.

In ages past, the Holy Paladins of St. Cuthbert had wielded the Mace in righteous battle, waxing strong alongside it to defend the innocent against the forces of chaos. Each had been hale and hearty—strong of body as well as soul. They were not always the brightest of warriors, but they were valiant nonetheless. And now, the mace had chosen a stringy young man named Irving.

When the wielder of the Mace perished—whether in battle or old age—their soul merged with the weapon, guiding and training the next bearer in the ways of war. At the time of Irving’s ascension, six such souls inhabited the mace, each speaking to his mind.

Still reeling from the shock of this twist of fate, Irving was swiftly outfitted with gear and sent into the world to bring justice and goodness to it. He frequently found himself in lengthy discussions (and occasional arguments) with the spirits bound to the Mace.

Eventually, he arrived at the village of Hommlet, where he was to meet a cleric of St. Cuthbert and serve as his bodyguard.

Secretly, the shrine’s staff expected the Mace to be back in its rightful place within a fortnight.