Chapter 3 / Episode 1 - The Invitation

 

Coldeven 17-18

Arrive at Hommlet

Training with the Church, Rufus, Jaroo and Burne

Resupply

A messenger/invitation from Safeton

Life of Dixon the Dwarf Son of Haxor the Dwarf Born in the Year 480CY

 

Dixon the Dwarf, Son of Haxor the Dwarf born in 480CY on Sunrise the 8^th.  He worships Dumathion like most of the Dwarves of the Kron Hills.  Born under the Sign of the Esoteric Star Fungus and with domains of caverns, disease, mold, & poison. In this way Dixon has Photo Phobia and will hide from light always seeking out dark passageways and deep underground places. 

Neutral good in alignment & suffering cursed with greed like most Dwarves one would meet. A great thirst for the brew they call beer, and a voracious appetite afflict him as is common among his kind.  His father Haxor a self-made hero and minor Lord of the Dwarves.  

Kidnapped and sold into slavery at a young age by Gunnl Kro Dwur Half Drow Cultist Captain of The Children of the Spider Cult and taken to the Kingdom of Zeif while still quite young. Dixon can with practice poorly speak the language of Zeif as he was only there for four years. Shortly after capture the Cult branded Dixon on the back of his right shoulder with their Spider Brand. This brand is encircled with symbols of the Five Elements to demonstrate the magic power of the Cult and their Goddess. This is how they mark their property in the Cult.

Four years later he is sold to the Retiarius Gladiator School and is given a small brand on the right cheek just below his right eye of a Murmilo Gladiator Helmet with Three Skulls under it.  He was then taken to the school located in the Great Kingdom. Fortunately, six years later and just before his second match.

Dixon was sold to the Famous Noble Family of Talmudius Marullus. In the Talmudius Marullus Family their tradition is to always gives a slave a chance to win their freedom in a series of games of chance. It was in this manner their Great Great Grandfather Kaeso Talmudius Marullus won his freedom and joined the army. He rose from simple soldier to General of Generals.

 Dixon won his freedom and quickly boarded a ship headed in the direction of Safeton & Narwell. There he was able to find his way home to the Kron Hills and the Toy Maker Guild. Not before killing a slaver from across the seas in a duel in Safeton in the year CY522. This duel may still be remembered in Safeton & Narwell.

For years now Dixon the Dwarf, Son of Haxor the Dwarf has worked as a Guard & Merchant for the Toymaker’s Guild of the Kron Hills Dwarves. Infamous for their ability to smuggle the finest Dwarven Made Weapons anywhere they please. Prices are of course open to negotiation. It was in the year 574CY that the Abby and Tower Folk of the Village of Hommlet took delivery of many loads of the finest dwarf made weapons.  

After missing many payments. Several groups of dwarves went out to investigate the possibility of recuperation of loss. During this was when Dixon the Dwarf meet the group now called The Hell Gate Binders.  After joining The Hell Gate Binders (As they are now called by the people in the area of Hommlet).  Dixon was involved in a series of adventures. 

These adventures led to him getting revenge and payment upon his enemies. The Tower & Abbey People paid with their lives. In addition, the Tower and Moat House are being restored to once again protect the land.  The books now marked paid and closed. Dixon’s Father Haxor the Dwarf gifted him the Family’s Heirloom Dwarven Hammer. Dixon now seeks purpose to continue adventuring.  Hints of a large slaver plot brings his blood to a boil. Could these slavers have something to do with the Children of the Spider his old nemesis. 

Chapter 2 / Episode 59 - Chaining of the Temple

Coldeven 16 - 17, 576 CY — Noon 

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

Slash the Bard

Muspell Heavyhand, Deep Gnome Illusionist

NPCs: 

Spugnior the Theurgist

Lita of the Fjord (Slash's Groupie and companion / Level 2 Bard)

The lightless passage up to the surface broke as Prince Thrommel crossed the temple threshold. Color returned to his cheeks. With a whistle, his great white steed galloped from the trees. “I return to Furyondy,” he said, mounting. “And I shall not forget this.” He vanished into the mist.

The company descended once more. Inside the shattered vestry, Muspell clambered up the rafters to retrieve a pristine robe, red and blue, its thread woven with malignant intent.

Deeper still, they reached the grand staircase and its throne of judgment. Above loomed an invisible wall of power. Not even TerryOr’s ring could pierce it. They bound the final great doors with the divine chain—silver glyphs glowing faintly. Three down. One to go.

After a night of rest in the bandit tower, they plotted how to confront the last threat—four towering earth elementals standing guard. They spoke of desecrating the brazier, dragging it down with ropes, earning divine favor with bold irreverence.

They returned below, careful in their steps, avoiding the screeching stirges and dark pools.

In Room 134, they made short work of four guards—until reinforcements from Room 135 burst forth. Spells flew. TerryOr's Hold Person locked three in place. The others fell to sword and spell. Irving, eyes burning with zeal, made the captives kneel and touch his holy mace. “Swear to St. Cuthbert or be unmade.” They swore. The old cloaks were torn, trampled, burned.

Room by room, the party pushed on—collecting potions, scrolls, magical armor, and a nugget of pure gold.

Then, Room 145. The heart of the elemental menace.

TerryOr, cloaked in Sanctuary and Protection from Evil, stepped alone into the massive chamber. Earth trembled. The elementals stirred—but did not strike. Like sentinels bound by divine law, they watched him approach the runed doors. With trembling hands, he affixed the last chain, sealing the way forever.

A shudder passed through the temple. The fetid wind stilled. The demon’s prison was now locked.

Exhausted but triumphant, the group gathered in silence. Their work was done. The Temple was chained. But the darkness they had disturbed was not gone. Only waiting.

The next chapter looms.

Chapter 2 / Episode 58 - The Prince Beneath the Temple

 Coldeven 16, 576 CY — Noon 

Dungeon Level 3 – Temple of Elemental Evil

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
Slash the Bard
Muspell Heavyhand, Deep Gnome Illusionist

NPCs: 

Spugnior the Theurgist
Lita of the Fjord (Slash's Groupie and companion / Level 2 Bard)

The corridors ran colder than the air outside, haunted not by wind, but by memory. The death of Zert the Hero weighed heavy, and the silence among the group was thick with mourning, broken only by the scrape of boots on ancient stone.

Behind a secret door in the northwest troll chamber (Room 302), Muspell, the deep gnome, crawled ahead into a torchlit crawlspace. The glare of light beyond the second door stung his eyes. Anchored by rope, the party pulled him back just as muffled shouts echoed from the chamber ahead (Room 315). Dog stepped forward, eyes narrowed, and loosed an arrow into the dark. A bugbear fell. Slash followed, unleashing a flurry of sparks that ignited armor and flesh alike. Heat shimmered in the air—but the tight quarters left little room to maneuver. The group withdrew and turned deeper into the dungeon’s heart.

Through the twin iron doors of the domed hexagonal hall (Room 301), they entered a chamber of rust and fire (Room 306). Heavy chains swayed gently from the black ceiling. A fire pit sat cold, but not empty—an ettin stirred. Dog was first to meet its gaze and the blow that followed. Irving called on St. Cuthbert and charged, mace raised. Dixon’s hammer rang like a bell across the chamber. Fairy fire from Slash lit the giant’s form in cold violet glow. The battle raged across the floor until, with a roar and a quake, the beast fell dead.

Through a battered iron door, the group passed into a long hall and emerged into a grim feast hall (Room 321), lined with cracked tables and tarnished plates. The remnants of twisted rituals clung to every surface. Among the rot and dust, Dixon uncovered golden platters and chalices—loot worth thousands, wrapped quickly in a filthy weasel pelt and tucked away for the long journey home.

They turned back from a corridor clogged with black ooze and wandered through passages riddled with illusion and sorcery. In a chamber with a beckoning mace, Irving paused—temptation washed over him like a wave—but his resolve held. He turned away from the cursed weapon, heart steady with divine strength.

In the shadows of Room 333, a shrine mocked St. Cuthbert’s name. “Blasphemy,” TerryOr growled, before smashing the false altar with righteous fury. Behind the shattered wall lay another deception—a vampire’s lair (Room 332), coffin and all. The air turned chill. Muspell saw through the illusion, shattering the image with a whispered spell.

Then, in Room 334, time seemed to stop.

Within a stasis field atop a bier lay a man, noble and pale. His golden hair framed a youthful face. A sword, still sheathed, rested across his chest, untouched by time. TerryOr and Irving exchanged a glance—there was no doubt.

Prince Thrommel.

The spell was broken, and life returned to the heir of Furyondy. Eyes fluttered open. “The rod... they seek it,” he murmured. “The temple must fall.”

They wrapped him in furs, secured his shield and blade, and began the long ascent. Somewhere above, cold daylight waited. But the shadows still watched from the cracks in the stone, and the temple had not finished with them yet.

XP 1505 Each

Chapter 2 / Episode 57: The Troll Rooms and the Death of Zert

 

“Some doors should never be opened — but some fools can’t resist the key.”

---

Coldeven 16, 576 CY — Morning
Freezing, 15.8°F to 33.6°F | Gray, Slightly Overcast | Gentle Breeze South (8-12 MPH)

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
Muspell Heavyhand, Deep Gnome Illusionist
Tiger Wong, Kung-Fu Monk of the Eastern lands
Crush the 1/2 Orc fighter

NPCs: 

Zert the Hero
Spugnior the Theurgist
Lita of the Fjord (Slash's Groupie and companion / Level 2 Bard)

---

The cold wind knifed across the trail as the battered company rode once more toward the Temple of Elemental Evil. A heavy silence settled over the group — broken only when Dixon, with a grin beneath his beard, gave TerryOr a hard clap on the back.

"Maybe next time we’re dealing with ancient scrolls and holy relics," he chuckled, "yeh'll grace us with yer holy presence instead of nappin’ by the fire, aye?"

"Mother Scareg drove a hard bargain," Dog added dryly, "and you missed every silver word of it."

TerryOr, unflustered, simply smirked and adjusted his pack. “The faith of St. Cuthbert doesn't require bartering. Only results.”

Amid the laughter, Oleg spoke, his voice oddly hollow. He described the dream that haunted him through the night: a vision of Prince Thrommel, pale but alive, entombed deep within the dungeon's third level. A sign, he insisted, granted by St. Cuthbert himself. It changed the feel of the journey — urgency woven now with destiny.

---

At the Temple’s crumbling eastern gate, they stabled their horses within the broken tower and moved swiftly inside. Cold stone closed around them. Shadows clung to the twisted frescoes as they crossed the Vestry and made for the main altar.

The ancient well at the altar's heart awaited. One by one, the party descended into the dark, the shaft slick and narrow. Dog led the way with a torch. Oleg nearly fell, slipping halfway down, but Muspell caught him with surprising strength.

When they reached the base, Dixon peered into the dim stonework and grunted. “Second level. Temple's bones run deep.”

A secret door revealed a hidden stair spiraling downward. Dog and Irving led, torches sputtering against the gloom.

---

The Troll Rooms

The first chamber — wide and littered with debris — housed many doors. As TerryOr’s ongoing blessing of Find Traps revealed nothing, he confidently approached a glinting key suspended from a chain in the northwest door.

The ambush was immediate.

A massive troll, reeking of blood and damp, lunged from the shadows, smashing TerryOr aside with a single brutal blow. He crumpled like a rag doll, unconscious before he hit the ground.

The room exploded into violence. Two more trolls burst through side doors, and another crashed from behind.

Irving, roaring in the name of St. Cuthbert, swung his holy mace—only to fumble spectacularly, sending it clanging across the room.  Undeterred, he wrenched his mace free from the floor where it had clattered, raised it high, and charged back into the fray.

Dog darted forward, stabbing with his spear, then igniting a flask of oil and hurling it with deadly precision, setting one troll ablaze. Dixon hurled his war hammer with devastating force, cracking skulls and splintering bones.

Slash the Bard fought viciously, though at one point his sword flew from his grasp. Nearby, Lita’s ballad of defiance filled the air, spurring the wounded to stand and fight.

Muspell Heavyhand unleashed a spell of blindness to no effect, and moments later a troll’s savage strike sent him sprawling, bleeding heavily. Spugnior rushed to him, desperately staunching the wound as best he could.

Tiger Wong, silent as a stalking panther, struck with fists and feet, delivering crippling blows against the towering brutes.

And Zert—faithful, battered Zert—stood alone against one of the trolls. His blade found its mark again and again, but strength alone could not carry the day. He fell in the final moments, a grim testament to the Temple’s cruelty.

---

Aftermath

Victory came at a staggering cost.

The last troll collapsed with a howl that shook the stones, flames devouring its body.

Dog rushed to revive TerryOr, who, dazed but breathing, set about healing the survivors with trembling hands. Blood smeared the stones. The stink of troll flesh and burning oil choked the chamber.

Silently, TerryOr collected the four keys, reverently bundling them in a strip of cloth. Each felt heavy with unseen purpose.

Around them, the Temple waited, vast and patient.

Their numbers were fewer now. Their wounds deeper. But still they pressed forward.

The quest was not finished. Not yet.

XP Awarded:

451 each

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