Chapter 2 / Episode 58 - The Prince Beneath the Temple

 Coldeven 16, 576 CY — Noon 

Dungeon Level 3 – Temple of Elemental Evil

Players: 

Dog the Ranger of the Gnarley (Forest)
Irving the Reluctant (Paladin of St. Cuthbert)
TerryOr the Cleric of St. Cuthbert
Dixon the Dwarven Fighter
Slash the Bard
Muspell Heavyhand, Deep Gnome Illusionist

NPCs: 

Spugnior the Theurgist
Lita of the Fjord (Slash's Groupie and companion / Level 2 Bard)

The corridors ran colder than the air outside, haunted not by wind, but by memory. The death of Zert the Hero weighed heavy, and the silence among the group was thick with mourning, broken only by the scrape of boots on ancient stone.

Behind a secret door in the northwest troll chamber (Room 302), Muspell, the deep gnome, crawled ahead into a torchlit crawlspace. The glare of light beyond the second door stung his eyes. Anchored by rope, the party pulled him back just as muffled shouts echoed from the chamber ahead (Room 315). Dog stepped forward, eyes narrowed, and loosed an arrow into the dark. A bugbear fell. Slash followed, unleashing a flurry of sparks that ignited armor and flesh alike. Heat shimmered in the air—but the tight quarters left little room to maneuver. The group withdrew and turned deeper into the dungeon’s heart.

Through the twin iron doors of the domed hexagonal hall (Room 301), they entered a chamber of rust and fire (Room 306). Heavy chains swayed gently from the black ceiling. A fire pit sat cold, but not empty—an ettin stirred. Dog was first to meet its gaze and the blow that followed. Irving called on St. Cuthbert and charged, mace raised. Dixon’s hammer rang like a bell across the chamber. Fairy fire from Slash lit the giant’s form in cold violet glow. The battle raged across the floor until, with a roar and a quake, the beast fell dead.

Through a battered iron door, the group passed into a long hall and emerged into a grim feast hall (Room 321), lined with cracked tables and tarnished plates. The remnants of twisted rituals clung to every surface. Among the rot and dust, Dixon uncovered golden platters and chalices—loot worth thousands, wrapped quickly in a filthy weasel pelt and tucked away for the long journey home.

They turned back from a corridor clogged with black ooze and wandered through passages riddled with illusion and sorcery. In a chamber with a beckoning mace, Irving paused—temptation washed over him like a wave—but his resolve held. He turned away from the cursed weapon, heart steady with divine strength.

In the shadows of Room 333, a shrine mocked St. Cuthbert’s name. “Blasphemy,” TerryOr growled, before smashing the false altar with righteous fury. Behind the shattered wall lay another deception—a vampire’s lair (Room 332), coffin and all. The air turned chill. Muspell saw through the illusion, shattering the image with a whispered spell.

Then, in Room 334, time seemed to stop.

Within a stasis field atop a bier lay a man, noble and pale. His golden hair framed a youthful face. A sword, still sheathed, rested across his chest, untouched by time. TerryOr and Irving exchanged a glance—there was no doubt.

Prince Thrommel.

The spell was broken, and life returned to the heir of Furyondy. Eyes fluttered open. “The rod... they seek it,” he murmured. “The temple must fall.”

They wrapped him in furs, secured his shield and blade, and began the long ascent. Somewhere above, cold daylight waited. But the shadows still watched from the cracks in the stone, and the temple had not finished with them yet.

XP 1505 Each