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/Thief
Slash the Bard
NPCs:
Zert the Hero
Spugnior the Theurgist
Wind: Gentle breeze (S)(8-12 MPH | 7-10 KN)
Precipitation: None
Clouds: Mostly cloudy
A Bitter Retreat
Wounded, weary, and barely standing, the adventurers made their way out of the Temple of Elemental Evil. The cold air of Coldeven bit through their armor as they stepped beyond the defiled stones and into the overcast sky of the ruined courtyard. Every breath came in ragged gasps, vapor curling from their lips as they braced against the evening wind. Blood, both their own and that of their fallen foes, stained their garments, seeping into the fabric and hardening like dark crust.
Dog walked ahead, his keen senses guiding them through the treacherous landscape. Irving leaned on TerryOr for support, still weakened from his near-death experience against the temple guards. Oleg carried himself with a tired but satisfied air, his well-placed sleep spell having turned the tide of battle. Zert scowled at their withdrawal, muttering under his breath about unfinished business.
Nulb’s distant lights flickered like phantoms against the horizon. It was a den of treachery, but for now, it was the closest thing to sanctuary.
Resupply in Nulb
Before heading to the Waterside Hostel, the party took time to replenish their supplies.
At the general store, the shelves were half-stocked with goods of questionable origin—rations, torches, rope, and weapons that looked as if they'd been stripped from fallen warriors. Dixon grumbled about the outrageous prices, but in the end, coin changed hands, and the group restocked on essentials.
Their next stop was Mother Screng’s Herb Shop—a squat, crooked building that smelled of dried flowers and bitter roots. The old crone watched them with beady eyes, her gnarled hands moving deftly as she measured out vials of healing potions and medicinal salves.
"These will help, aye," she muttered as she handed them over, her voice like dry leaves rustling. "But beware—no potion can mend a broken soul."
Her words lingered as they stepped back into the chill of the evening.
Return to the Temple
With dawn’s first light, they set off once more. The temple loomed in the distance, its wicked spires stabbing into the gray sky. Snow crunched beneath their boots as they retraced their steps, the air thick with the scent of death and ancient corruption.
This time, they chose a different path, veering into the left wing of the dungeon’s first level. The air grew colder, heavier with a presence unseen. The deeper they ventured, the more the walls seemed to pulse with an eerie malignance.
Then they found it.
A great bronze gate blocked the northern passage, its surface writhing with faces of leering demons. The metal felt warm to the touch despite the dungeon’s chill, as if something on the other side pulsed with vile life. The gate was immovable—too heavy even for Dixon’s mighty arms. Corridors stretched east and west, their depths lost in gloom.
A decision was made. Eastward.
The Domed Chamber & The Hydra’s Keeper
The air grew foul, thick with the stench of decay and waste. A great domed chamber sprawled before them, its polished stones marred by years of neglect. A mound of bones and dung lay at the chamber’s edge, the remnants of past victims. At the room’s heart, a thick iron chain extended from a metal ring cemented into the floor.
Then the beast stirred.
A hydra.
The massive, scaled horror reared its many heads, each one twisting and writhing, hissing with hunger. Thick ropes of drool pooled at its feet, sizzling where they touched stone. Its serpentine necks flexed, straining against the chain that kept it bound.
And then—the keeper emerged.
A troll, its flesh thick with scars, its guttural growl filled with malice. It clutched a rusted glaive, its wicked eyes gleaming in the dim light.
"You not s’posed to be here," it snarled. "You meat for hydra. Hydra eat. Me watch."
With a roar, the battle began.
The Battle Against the Hydra and Troll
Dog was the first to strike. With a practiced motion, he loosed an enchanted arrow, its tip glowing faintly with arcane power. The missile sank deep into one of the hydra’s thick necks, forcing the beast to recoil with a furious hiss.
Beside him, Lita plucked the strings of her instrument, her melody weaving through the chamber, bolstering her allies with an almost supernatural rhythm. Her tune was neither triumphant nor joyous—it was a dirge, a song fit for battle against a monster of nightmares.
The hydra lunged, its multiple heads snapping at the nearest target—Irving. The paladin raised his shield, bracing for impact as one set of fangs scraped against his armor, leaving deep gouges but failing to pierce through. Another head came from the side, striking low, but TerryOr swung his mace, slamming it into the beast’s jaw, knocking it aside with a sickening crunch.
From the rear, Oleg extended his hand, muttering words of power. Two crackling missiles of pure force erupted from his fingertips, each streaking through the air like spectral darts. They struck the hydra’s body with pinpoint accuracy, sending tremors through the beast’s massive form.
Dixon and Zert rushed the troll before it could flank their allies. Dixon swung his warhammer low, aiming for the kneecaps, and was rewarded with a wet crunch as bone shattered beneath the blow. Zert followed up, slashing with his longsword, cutting deep into the troll’s side. The creature howled, its guttural voice filled with fury.
Then Slash joined the fray. With a quick, precise strike, he drove his longsword into the troll’s ribs, forcing the beast back toward the wall. The troll retaliated, lashing out with its claws, but Slash twisted away, barely avoiding the strike.
The hydra, now enraged, lunged forward again, aiming for Spugnior, but the theurgist dodged nimbly, moving just in time to avoid its fangs.
Dog fired again, another enchanted arrow piercing the beast’s hide. Irving, recovering from the earlier attack, saw his chance. With a bellowed prayer to St. Cuthbert, he charged forward, sword gleaming in the dim light, and drove it deep into the hydra’s exposed side.
The creature let out one final, shuddering cry before it collapsed in a heap, its massive body twitching as death overtook it.
Across the chamber, the troll, bleeding and battered, swung wildly, but Dixon and Zert gave it no quarter. Dixon’s warhammer came down once more, this time against its skull, caving it in with a sickening crack. The creature slumped to the ground, twitching as its life force drained away.
The battle was over.
The adventurers stood amidst the carnage, catching their breath, their bodies aching from the brutal fight. The chamber fell silent, save for the faint, lingering echoes of Lita’s final notes.
They had won—but the temple’s horrors were far from over.
Monsters:
Experience:
175XP each
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