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