Chapter 3 / Episode 4 – Beneath the Broken Altar

 Chapter 3 / Episode 4 – Beneath the Broken Altar

Players:

Dog, Ranger of the Gnarley Forest

Irving, the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert

Dixon, Dwarven Fighter

Muspell Heavyhand, Gnome Illusionist

Slash the Bard

Oleg the half elven Cleric/Magic-User/Thief of St. Cuthbert

Tiger Wong, Kung-Fu Monk of the Eastern lands

Coldeven 21, 576 CY - Dusk

Weather:
Cold, clear skies. Temperature: 18.7°F to 47.6°F. Light breeze from the north.

The cold morning broke over frost-laced ruins, but the sun could not reach into the shadow-choked halls of the ancient abbey. Beneath its long-rotted timbers and weed-cracked stone, something vile still lingered.

Cartography by Greyhawk Grognard This map comes from his T0 module available his site.

Dog, the Ranger of the Gnarley, moved like a whisper through the shattered cloisters. Beside him walked Irving the Reluctant, plate armor gleaming faintly under his winter cloak, ever watching. The rest followed close: Dixon’s dwarven breath fogged the air before him like smoke from a forge; Tiger Wong’s feet never made a sound; Muspell Heavyhand grumbled quietly under his fur-lined disguise; Slash, bard of uncertain loyalties, scribbled in a leather book; and Oleg, half-elf of two paths, whispered minor protections into his hands.

Inside the bathhouse, a silence lingered too long to be natural. The first strike came not from man or beast, but from stone itself—a gray ooze sliding silently from a cracked pipe, its surface shimmering like thick mercury. Dixon’s hammer struck with a loud crack; stone sizzled and smoked as the ooze hissed in agony. Irving ended the thing with a righteous blow, and the slick puddle collapsed into lifeless paste.

Beyond that ruined chamber, in a mold-choked building, they found another scene—tables hastily abandoned, meat half-eaten, mugs still frosted with ale. "They left in a hurry," Dog muttered, kneeling to study the bootprints. A second story tower loomed above, its roof caved in like a broken jaw. They climbed, despite warnings. In the dust they found little—until Dixon’s torch poked a dark wet patch. It sizzled.

A shadow lunged from the beams.

The giant spider struck fast. Fangs found flesh. Muspell screamed as venom coursed through his arm. TerryOr stepped forward to help—only to be bitten. He fell to his knees, eyes wide with fear, clutching at his throat as poison seized him. “He’s choking—gods—he’s choking!” Slash shouted.

Irving, silent, raised his blade. One swing. The spider split in two with a wet crack. Dixon fumbled for the antidote—Terry’s breath returned in ragged bursts. Alive. Barely.

They pressed on, shaken.

In the darkness of a shattered chapel, beneath a defaced statue of Ehlonna—goddess of woodland peace—they found it: a low hum thrummed beneath the altar. Dog approached, the fractured rod in his hand pulling toward the stone like iron to lodestone.

“No,” Dog whispered. “It’s here.”

They moved the altar, muscles straining. Beneath, wrapped in torn velvet, lay the second piece of the Rod of Chaos—cold to the touch, but pulsing with ancient purpose.

“The Water Temple was here,” Dixon said grimly, eyeing the signs. “This was their place.”

The rooms beyond confirmed it: secret stores, hastily abandoned treasures, and a scroll with forgotten magic. The group divided the coin, shoulders sagging under its weight. They would ride soon—north, perhaps—but tonight they camped in the ruins, watched by old shadows and quiet gods.

Outside, the cold deepened. The rod hummed quietly, as though aware of its nearing unity.

1800 XP each