Players:
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
Crush the 1/2 Orc Fighter - absent this session
NPCs:
Zert the Hero
Spugnior the Theurgist
Lita of the Fjord (Slash's Groupie)
Coldeven 15 - Early day
Chapter 2 / Episode 53 - Chaining the First Portal
Coldeven 15, 576 CY – Early Morning
The stale air of the temple's second level hung thick with the remnants of past atrocities, as if the very walls had absorbed the screams of the condemned. The adventurers roused themselves from uneasy rest within the barricaded chamber. The stone floors had offered little comfort, but sleep—however restless—was a necessity. Their torches flickered against damp, soot-streaked walls, casting shadows that seemed to shift of their own accord.
Weapons were checked, prayers muttered, spells recalled. The day ahead promised more horror, more defilement to be uncovered in the name of stamping it out.
The Scorched Hall (Room 211)
Oleg led the way through a narrow passage, ever cautious, his keen half-elven senses wary for hidden threats. The group entered a long hall lined with intricate carvings, their details lost beneath centuries of filth and tarnish. A sudden surge of heat pulsed through the chamber—a trap! Flames erupted from concealed vents, licking hungrily toward them.
Oleg barely had time to react before the flames engulfed him, his quick reflexes saving him from being charred outright. The fire licked at his cloak, singing the edges before he stumbled back, cursing. The group took one look at the treacherous passage and made the grim decision to retreat. The temple had already claimed enough of their strength.
The First Portal Shackled (Room 210)
A door unlike the others—inscribed with symbols of warding, thick iron reinforcements laced with a foul, abyssal presence—stood before them. The air around it crackled with an unseen tension, the weight of something imprisoned beyond.
Irving and Terry’Or wasted no time. They produced the blessed shackles, relics meant to reinforce the arcane barriers that kept a demoness bound. The metal gleamed faintly as they clasped them in place.
The moment the shackles locked shut, the room darkened unnaturally. A presence emerged from the gloom, swirling into shape—an entity of shadow and malice, a Guardian Drelb. Its form wavered, incorporeal, save for the deep-set voids where eyes should have been.
Terry’Or raised his holy symbol, invoking St. Cuthbert’s wrath. Yet the turning had no effect—the creature was beyond such simple banishments. It did not attack outright but hovered, its form twisting unnervingly. The battle was brief, a clash of steel and magic, before the Drelb retreated into the darkness. It would wait for another opportunity.
The group stood in silence, their breath misting in the cold, damp air. The demoness remained sealed… for now.
Further Delving
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Room 207, 227, 235 – Hallways thick with dust and the remnants of past sacrilege. The weight of evil never lifted, even in the emptier spaces. Oleg scouted ahead where possible, ever cautious, but something in the temple always seemed to be watching.
-
Room 234 – The Su-Monster’s Lair
The chamber was a lair of filth, scattered with old bones and half-eaten carcasses. A shrill, unnatural chittering heralded the attack of a su-monster, a thing of psychic malice. It leaped from the rafters, its gangly limbs striking out, but the adventurers responded in kind.
The battle was swift—swords flashing, arrows striking true, a final, piercing shriek as the beast fell. Its presence was yet another reminder that this temple drew all manner of monstrosities to its depths.
-
Room 230 – The Otyugh’s Den
A stench worse than death itself filled this cavernous chamber. The filth was ankle-deep, a quagmire of waste and rotting flesh. The otyugh that lurked within reared up at their approach, its maw a mass of writhing tendrils and diseased flesh.
The fight was brutal, quick, and filthy. Terry’Or took a savage blow in the melee, and almost immediately, a feverish pallor overtook him. Infection—typhoid. The filth had done its work.
With a grimace, he steeled himself. The power of St. Cuthbert surged through him as he cast Cure Disease, and the sickness recoiled, driven from his body before it could take hold. A close call.
The party regrouped, weary but alive. The temple’s horrors had chipped away at them, but they endured. The barrier had been strengthened, the demoness further bound. Yet their work was not finished. The temple’s evil was far from spent, and the deeper they went, the more it seeped into their bones.
As they took a moment to catch their breath, the thought loomed: what awaited them in the darkness ahead?
Midday approached. They would press on.
Holy Bleep! We might actually complete this task of finding and chaining the doors,
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