Episode 2 / Session 39 – When an Ogre Asks for a Sign, You Give Him One!

Coldeven 4, 576 CY – Early Morning

Weather Conditions:

• Description: Freezing
• Temperature: 14.8°F to 32.2°F
• Wind: Gentle breeze, southwest, 8-12 mph
• Precipitation: None
• Clouds: A few scattered

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Players:

• Dog the Ranger
• Irving the Paladin
• TerryOr the Cleric
• Dixon the Dwarf

NPCs:

• Zert the Fighter
• Spugnior the Conjuror

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The frigid air seeped through the cracked stone walls of the moathouse as the weary adventurers prepared for their next challenge. Their rest had been fitful, plagued by distant creaks and soft shuffles—signs of unseen movements deeper in the fortress.

Dog tightened the straps on his armor, his face drawn but resolute. “We don’t have time to waste. If Lareth’s down there, we finish this now.” His voice carried the weight of conviction, his gaze sharp as he scanned his companions.

TerryOr adjusted his helmet, an uncharacteristic flicker of nervous energy in his movements. “Down there, huh? Into the dungeon where the light of day dares not tread? Sounds delightful,” he quipped, though his knuckles whitened around the haft of his mace.

“I’ll guard your back,” Irving said firmly, placing a reassuring hand on TerryOr’s shoulder. Despite his obvious exhaustion, the paladin stood tall, his voice unwavering. “Lareth will answer for his crimes. But we must stay vigilant. The darkness below will test us.”

Dixon hefted his axe with a snort. “Bah, enough talking. Let’s get on with it. If there’s more filth down there, I’ll split it in two. Preferably with its own bones.”

With Spugnior and Zert taking up the rear, the party descended into the dungeon. Their torchlight flickered against damp stone walls, casting long, wavering shadows. The air grew heavier, colder, carrying the faint stench of decay.

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A Curious Find

At the bottom of the staircase, TerryOr took the lead, his holy symbol glowing faintly as he cast a spell to detect traps. The oppressive dark pressed against them as he scanned the surroundings. “No traps nearby,” he said, though his voice was tight.

The group exchanged wary glances before he opened the north door. The hinges, slick with freshly applied grease, glided silently—a peculiar detail amid the surrounding disrepair. Inside, the room was a chaos of filth: broken tables, shattered crockery, and an assortment of discarded junk.

Dog’s sharp eyes narrowed. “Someone’s been here recently,” he muttered, crouching to inspect the debris.

Carefully navigating the litter, the party crossed to another door on the far side of the room. Dixon’s gaze darted to the shadows, his dwarven instincts tingling. “Something doesn’t feel right,” he growled.

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The Ogre's Sign

As TerryOr opened the door, he froze. A towering ogre stood before him, its bulk nearly filling the frame. The creature’s beady eyes gleamed with menace as it growled, “The sign. Show me the sign.” It jabbed a massive finger toward the cleric.

TerryOr blinked, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly. “Uh… sign? What sign?”

The ogre’s patience snapped. With a roar, it grabbed its bardiche and swung. TerryOr ducked just in time, the blade slamming into the stone with a deafening clang.

“Justice demands your end!” Irving shouted, charging forward. His blade glowed faintly as he struck a powerful blow, but the ogre barely flinched. Dog loosed an arrow, but it ricocheted harmlessly off the wall.

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Dixon’s Predicament

As the battle raged, Dixon stood guard in the hallway. His grumbling about “glory-stealing humans” was cut short when icy, skeletal hands clamped around his neck. He gasped, his axe clattering to the ground as paralysis overtook him. His stout form crumpled silently to the floor.

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The Fall of the Ogre

Inside the room, chaos reigned. Zert darted in, slashing at the ogre’s legs. TerryOr swung his mace, landing a glancing blow before retreating.

Irving pressed on despite a deep gash on his side. His strikes slowed, his movements faltering as blood seeped from his wounds. With a final roar, the ogre collapsed under TerryOr’s crushing blow, its massive form crumpling with a resounding thud.

Zert glanced at the cleric. “Well, you finally found your courage.”

TerryOr, panting, managed a weak grin before sinking to his knees.

---

The Ghoul's Ambush

Dog’s eyes darted to the hallway. “Where’s Dixon?” he barked, his voice sharp with concern.

A faint noise—a low snarl, the scrape of something heavy—drew their attention. Torchlight revealed Dixon’s limp form being dragged by a hunched, ghoulish figure.

“Release him, foul thing!” TerryOr commanded, raising his holy symbol. His voice faltered, his turning attempt failing as the ghoul lunged, its claws raking across him. The cleric dropped, unconscious and bleeding.

Dog nocked one of the magical arrows and let it fly. The glowing shaft struck true, embedding itself in the ghoul’s shoulder. The creature shrieked and fled into a secret passage hidden within a column.

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A Desperate Retreat

Spugnior peered into the passage, shaking his head. “It’s gone for now, but it’ll be back.”

Dog knelt by TerryOr and Irving, checking their wounds. Both were alive but unconscious, their breathing shallow. “We need to retreat,” he said grimly.

Zert grunted as he hoisted Dixon over his shoulder. The dwarf groaned faintly as the last vestiges of paralysis left him. “What... hit me?” Dixon managed, his voice a weak grumble.

“Later,” Dog snapped. “Move.”

The group struggled back to the surface, dragging their wounded companions behind them. At the top of the stairs, Dixon finally regained his strength, though he still leaned heavily on Zert.

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Back in the Moathouse

The adventurers barricaded the stairwell with broken furniture and loose stones, their nerves frayed and bodies battered. The main hall’s frigid air was a stark reminder of the dangers below.

Dog stood watch near the barricade, his bow ready. “We’re running out of time,” he muttered, his eyes scanning the shadows.

Dixon stretched, his muscles still aching. “We’ll see this through, but not without some planning. I’m not getting dragged off again.”

Zert leaned against the wall, wiping his blade. “We rest for now. When those two wake, we decide our next move.”

The torchlight flickered weakly as the group settled in, their breaths visible in the freezing air. Below them, the darkness of the dungeon still loomed, filled with horrors waiting to strike.

Monsters:
Ogre: AC 5; HD 5 + 1; hp 21; MV 9 "; #AT 1; D 7-13 (2d4 + 5, bardiche); XP 195

Ghoul (1): AC 6; HD 2; hp 7; #AT 3; D1-4/1-4/1-8; SA paralysis (save negates, elves immune; DR 3-12 turns); XP 79

Treasure:

823 cp, 46 sp, and 3 gp

10 +1 Arrows (in a quiver)

Once Peace is restored and the Temple of Elemental Evil is sealed again. I will recommend

Once Peace is restored and the Temple of Elemental Evil is sealed again.  I will recommend to the Lords & Ladies of Verbobonc and the Lords & Ladies of the Elves & Dwarves that the Moat House of Hommlet be rebuilt and put back to service.  In addition, a tower should be built on top of the Old Quarry / Mines to better watch over the land.  A garrison of dwarves should occupy the quarry / mines.  

I'm hopeful that catching the Outlaw Larenth the Beautiful will be enough to end this Evil Plague.  The Temple hopefully can be resealed away.  My comrades have spoken of us taking the old Tower and being baron lords of the land.  

That leaves the Abby.  Once it has been purged hopefully the Lords & Ladies of Verbobonc can install a new order of monks.  Ones more peaceful and lawful than the last group.  

Dixon the Dwarf 

Where is Larenth Hiding? We have now cleared out the entire 1st floor!

Where is Larenth Hiding?  We have now cleared out the entire 1st floor!  Every way up to the top level has been blocked with tons of rubble.  I dread going back Down D. Stairs.  We just may have to deal with that particular dangerous villain.  We must save Hommlet and bring Larenth to justice!

Dixon the Dwarf 

Episode 2 / Session 38 - Corridors of Venom and Despair

Coldeven 3, 576 CY – Just Before Midnight

Frigid temperatures under a mostly clear sky.
14°F
Light SW breeze (4-7 MPH)
Interior Moathouse

The weight of exhaustion hung heavy over the party, but they knew they couldn’t rest yet. Somewhere below lurked Lareth, the prize they’d come to capture—and the longer they delayed, the greater the chance he would slip away. The right wing of the moathouse, ominously silent, lay waiting to be cleared.

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Oleg the Half-Elf, Slash the Bard, Dog the Ranger, Irving the Reluctant (Paladin), TerryOr the Cleric, Dixon the Dwarf, and the NPCs Zert the Fighter and Spugnior the Magic-User steeled themselves as they moved down the hallway, each door a new unknown in the decaying darkness.

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The Stairway Up
A few tentative steps upward revealed a collapsed and impassable second floor—mounds of rubble and scorched remnants blocked any hope of ascent. With a shared look, they moved to the first door in the corridor.

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A Grotesque Surprise
After careful inspection, TerryOr cracked open the door, only to recoil as a grotesque figure emerged—a ghoulish creature, like a zombie yet faster, its eyes gleaming with malice. TerryOr raised his holy symbol, voice trembling as he attempted to turn the beast, but it remained, immune to his call. Dixon took a swing, but it darted back with unnatural speed, vanishing into a crack in the ceiling. The room, once a conference chamber, was empty save for a few scurrying rats. As they searched, Irving sensed a powerful Chaos radiating from a fine broadsword wedged in a splintered wall case. Oleg quickly secured it for later examination.

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The Poisoned Trap
At the next door, TerryOr opened it only to yelp in pain as a poisoned dart struck him. His face flushed as the venom coursed through him, but he managed to gulp down a potion from the church, its neutralizing effects working quickly. Inside lay the wreckage of an empty bedchamber, once home to a troop leader, but now no more than a hollow shell.

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A Salon of Shadows
The group pushed into a salon, once opulent but now in ruins. As they examined the remains, scores of bats erupted, swirling around in an angry flurry. The group pressed on, brushing off the bats, anxious to clear this wing.

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The Corner Room
At the end of the hall, an opening led to the final room, avoided by brigands for good reason. Here, coiled amid rubble and refuse, was a massive adder, its scales gleaming with deadly intent. With a hiss, it struck, sinking its fangs into flesh. TerryOr, already weakened, dropped under the relentless assault. Finally, after a desperate fight, the snake lay dead. Searching its lair, Slash uncovered a glittering dagger, jeweled and worth a small fortune—but it felt like a hollow victory.

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After Midnight
As midnight passed, the party, battered and spent, withdrew to a small back room. Dog took the time to cook the adder’s meat over a small fire, and they divided the watch. Throughout the night, faint footsteps echoed from above, shadows shifting and slipping through the broken ceiling. The half-rotted creature from before, some of them whispered, still lurked, watching and stalking.

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Dawn on Coldeven 4
With the dawn, TerryOr awoke and began his prayers, invoking St. Cuthbert’s strength to heal their wounds. Each adventurer readied their weapon, eyes dark with determination. Time was slipping through their fingers—Lareth, the object of their hunt, awaited somewhere below. If he was still here.

Episode 2 / Session 38 - Echoes of the Damned

Coldeven 3, 576 CY – After Sunset

Frigid temperatures under a mostly clear sky.
14°F to 34°F.
Light SW breeze (4-7 MPH).
Sunset: 6:12 p.m.

The air in the moathouse seemed to chill further as the party ventured deeper into the left wing, shadows clinging to every corner. Wearied from the prior battle, they debated on the best course of action and resolved that to find a place of rest, they’d need to clear every room. 

The left corridor held four doors: two along the left, one on the right, and a final set of double doors ahead, each closed door felt like a portal to lurking death.

Dog the ranger and Oleg the half-elf led the way, tension evident in every movement. Behind them, the bard, cleric, and Dixon the dwarf followed closely, weapons ready, while Spugnior’s torch cast trembling light down the corridor. At the rear, Zert kept a wary eye on the shifting shadows.

The first door yielded only the stale remains of a trophy room—broken antlers, faded pelts, and musty air. But Dog, determined to take something, pulled a tattered brown bear pelt from the wall. “Could make a good blanket,” he muttered, stuffing it into his pack as they pressed onward.

The next room across the hall, though desolate, held a treacherous surprise. The decayed kitchen looked as if it hadn’t been used in years, but as Dog stepped inside, a giant tick sprang from a shadowed corner, clamping onto his neck. He staggered, his vision swimming with blood loss as the insect drained him, nearly to unconsciousness. TerryOr tried to intervene but fumbled, his mace slipping from his hand in the chaos. With a mighty swing, Dixon cleaved the monstrous tick, and it fell, twitching and spurting, to the floor.

A third room, an empty chamber of ruined furnishings, offered only a small treasure in the form of a silver sconce that Spugnior spotted. Though valuable, its meager worth felt insignificant in the oppressive darkness of the moathouse.

At last, they reached a set of heavy double doors. With a feeling of invincibility, Dog pushed them open, but as he stepped inside, he felt an unnatural cold seep into his bones, and an invisible force began pulling him further into the shadows. His steps faltered, his expression vacant as he stumbled forward into the half-collapsed room. His companions called out, but he seemed entranced, as though something dark had sunk its claws into his mind.

Without warning, a hand—pale and withered—reached from the shadows and latched onto Dog’s arm. He gasped as an icy force drained the very vitality from his body, weakening him. TerryOr raised his holy symbol, voice shaking, “By the strength of St. Cuthbert, begone!” But the creature—powerful and undead—remained, unfazed. The battle erupted, fierce and grim, and Dog found himself helpless, compelled to lie motionless on a broken table as the wight tore into Dixon and Slash, siphoning their life force with each icy strike. They could feel themselves fading with each touch, their strength, their memories dimming.

Dixon, teeth clenched, stabbed at the wight with his silver dagger, his face pale. Beside him, TerryOr swung his blessed mace with desperate force. Finally, with a blow that echoed like a cracking bone, they destroyed the creature, sending it back into the abyss from which it had crawled.

In the wreckage, Dixon uncovered a shield that shimmered faintly with magic—a +1 shield—a small but sorely needed boon after such a costly victory. His hands shook slightly as he held it, knowing how close they had come to ruin.

With the left wing cleared, a silent understanding passed between them: the fight for Lareth’s capture would be harder still. And though they had survived another trial, they knew that the moathouse held more dangers waiting in the darkness, eager to drain the life from any who dared enter.

Treasure:

Metal Shield +1

Silver Sconce worth 30 gold pieces