“Some doors should never be opened — but some fools can’t resist the key.”
Coldeven 16, 576 CY — Morning
Freezing, 15.8°F to 33.6°F | Gray, Slightly Overcast | Gentle Breeze South (8-12 MPH)
Players:
Irving the Reluctant (Paladin of St. Cuthbert)
TerryOr the Cleric of St. Cuthbert - absent this session
Dixon the Dwarven Fighter
Oleg the Half-Elf Magic-User/Cleric of St. Cuthbert - absent this session
Slash the Bard
Muspell Heavyhand, Deep Gnome Illusionist
Tiger Wong, Kung-Fu Monk of the Eastern lands
Crush the 1/2 Orc fighter was abscent this session.
NPCs:
Spugnior the Theurgist
Lita of the Fjord (Slash's Groupie and companion / Level 2 Bard)
The cold wind knifed across the trail as the battered company rode once more toward the Temple of Elemental Evil. A heavy silence settled over the group — broken only when Dixon, with a grin beneath his beard, gave TerryOr a hard clap on the back.
"Maybe next time we’re dealing with ancient scrolls and holy relics," he chuckled, "yeh'll grace us with yer holy presence instead of nappin’ by the fire, aye?"
"Mother Scareg drove a hard bargain," Dog added dryly, "and you missed every silver word of it."
TerryOr, unflustered, simply smirked and adjusted his pack. “The faith of St. Cuthbert doesn't require bartering. Only results.”
Amid the laughter, Oleg spoke, his voice oddly hollow. He described the dream that haunted him through the night: a vision of Prince Thrommel, pale but alive, entombed deep within the dungeon's third level. A sign, he insisted, granted by St. Cuthbert himself. It changed the feel of the journey — urgency woven now with destiny.
At the Temple’s crumbling eastern gate, they stabled their horses within the broken tower and moved swiftly inside. Cold stone closed around them. Shadows clung to the twisted frescoes as they crossed the Vestry and made for the main altar.
The ancient well at the altar's heart awaited. One by one, the party descended into the dark, the shaft slick and narrow. Dog led the way with a torch. Oleg nearly fell, slipping halfway down, but Muspell caught him with surprising strength.
When they reached the base, Dixon peered into the dim stonework and grunted. “Second level. Temple's bones run deep.”
A secret door revealed a hidden stair spiraling downward. Dog and Irving led, torches sputtering against the gloom.
The Troll Rooms
The first chamber — wide and littered with debris — housed many doors. As TerryOr’s ongoing blessing of Find Traps revealed nothing, he confidently approached a glinting key suspended from a chain in the northwest door.
The ambush was immediate.
A massive troll, reeking of blood and damp, lunged from the shadows, smashing TerryOr aside with a single brutal blow. He crumpled like a rag doll, unconscious before he hit the ground.
The room exploded into violence. Two more trolls burst through side doors, and another crashed from behind.
Irving, roaring in the name of St. Cuthbert, swung his holy mace—only to fumble spectacularly, sending it clanging across the room. Undeterred, he wrenched his mace free from the floor where it had clattered, raised it high, and charged back into the fray.
Dog darted forward, stabbing with his spear, then igniting a flask of oil and hurling it with deadly precision, setting one troll ablaze. Dixon hurled his war hammer with devastating force, cracking skulls and splintering bones.
Slash the Bard fought viciously, though at one point his sword flew from his grasp. Nearby, Lita’s ballad of defiance filled the air, spurring the wounded to stand and fight.
Muspell Heavyhand unleashed a spell of blindness to no effect, and moments later a troll’s savage strike sent him sprawling, bleeding heavily. Spugnior rushed to him, desperately staunching the wound as best he could.
Tiger Wong, silent as a stalking panther, struck with fists and feet, delivering crippling blows against the towering brutes.
And Zert—faithful, battered Zert—stood alone against one of the trolls. His blade found its mark again and again, but strength alone could not carry the day. He fell in the final moments, a grim testament to the Temple’s cruelty.
Aftermath
Victory came at a staggering cost.
The last troll collapsed with a howl that shook the stones, flames devouring its body.
Dog rushed to revive TerryOr, who, dazed but breathing, set about healing the survivors with trembling hands. Blood smeared the stones. The stink of troll flesh and burning oil choked the chamber.
Silently, TerryOr collected the four keys, reverently bundling them in a strip of cloth. Each felt heavy with unseen purpose.
Around them, the Temple waited, vast and patient.
Their numbers were fewer now. Their wounds deeper. But still they pressed forward.
The quest was not finished. Not yet.
XP Awarded:
451 each
R.I.P. Zert the NPC. Glad the Gnome and the Cleric were saved. Current xp 19199 - HP 34 of 34
ReplyDeleteGood session - those trolls are not easy!
ReplyDelete