Dedicated to Ernie Gygax (1959–2025)
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)
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.
That was some tricky stuff going on with those gargoyles!
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