Chapter 3 / Episode 74 - The Sewers

Chapter 3 / Episode 74 – The Sewers I

Coldeven 21, 576 CY – Nightfall

Weather: Cold and clear. Temperature: 19°F to 46°F. A faint northern breeze carried the scent of frost over the ruined Temple. Underground

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Players

• Dog the Ranger of the Gnarley Forest

• Irving the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert

• Dixon the Dwarven Fighter

• Slash the Bard

• Oleg Greenleaf, Half-Elf Magic-User/Cleric of St. Cuthbert

• TerryOr, Cleric of St. Cuthbert

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The torchlight flickered against the dripping stone as the adventurers pressed deeper into the Temples sewers. The air grew humid, fetid, and alive with the echo of unseen currents. Oleg led the way, his half-elven eyes cutting through the gloom. Behind him, Dog kept the lantern shaded, scanning each shadow with a hunter’s caution. “Ware and were, friend,” he muttered, repeating the old Gnarley greeting—but his voice betrayed unease.

A narrow shaft sloped into black water. The stench was like a sewer, stagnant and foul. Oleg volunteered to test the way. Sliding along a slick ledge, he lost footing and plunged up to his neck. Something brushed his leg. The others shouted, weapons ready. Irving leapt into the pool, mace raised, while TerryOr whispered a prayer and cast Purify Water.

The fight was desperate in close quarters. Oleg slashed with short sword, Irving crushed glowing forms beneath his mace, and Dog held his bow taut, waiting for clear shots. Slash raised his hands to cast Faerie Fire, bathing the creatures in ghostly outline. “Burn, you crawling bastards!” he spat, lunging with steel when one clung to Oleg’s boot. 

Holy power surged outward, and the murky pool shimmered, revealing a writhing mass of pale larva. The things hissed as the sanctified water seared them. They floated to the surface, helpless -  Coup de grace.

But respite was short. From the darkness ahead came a low hiss, followed by the ripple of heavy bodies in the water. Crocodiles—three of them, each twelve feet long—surged forward. Their jaws snapped like traps. TerryOr and Irving waded into the fray, striking with maces that cracked scale and bone. Dog’s arrows struck true, each shaft finding gaps in the beasts’ hides. “Over here, swamp-spawn!” Slash shouted, casting Audible Glamour to echo a cacophony of battle down the tunnels, drawing the reptiles attention. One by one, the creatures fell, until only still water and blood remained.

When silence returned, Oleg dove beneath the surface to retrieve his lost dagger. Instead, he surfaced clutching treasure—a sodden pouch of gold and a gleaming ring. Slash inspected it, his eyes widening. “By Cuthbert’s chains… a Ring of Protection. Stronger than any I’ve seen.” Its magic radiated power well beyond mortal craft. The find was almost too perfect, too tempting. The Rod of Six Parts whispered in Dog’s pack, its runes faintly glowing as if mocking the prize. Oleg, pragmatic as ever, claimed the greater ring but offered his lesser to Dog, muttering, “Better you wear it. We’ll need you alive in the days to come.”

The lantern sputtered low. Drips echoed from unseen chambers, each sound stretching the companions’ nerves taut. Somewhere beyond the flooded tunnels, deeper evils stirred.

---

Outcome Notes

• XP Earned: 8,500 total (1,700 each)

  • Aspis larvae destroyed

  • Three crocodiles slain

  • Treasure recovered

• Treasure Found:

  • +6 Ring of Protection (claimed by Oleg)

  • 2,500 gp in coin

• Injuries: Oleg bloodied but recovered; no deaths.

• Cliffhanger: The tunnels run deeper, their whispers carrying both the promise of treasure and the taint of the Elder Elemental Eye. The Rod pulses in warning—the Temples heart is not yet revealed.

Chapter 3 / Episode 73 – Gruumsh Toppled

Chapter 3 / Episode 73 – Gruumsh Toppled

Date: Planting 4, 576 CY
Weather: Steady winds from the west; salt spray on the air. Night falls clear beneath a full, watchful moon.

Players

• Dog, Ranger of the Gnarley Forest

• Irving, the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert

• Slash the Bard

• Oleg, Half-Elven Cleric/Magic-User/Thief of St. Cuthbert

• TerryOr, Cleric of St. Cuthbert

• Tiger Wong, Monk of the Eastern Lands

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Narrative Recap

The torchlight flickered across the massive idol of Gruumsh, the one-eyed god of orcs. Its baleful gaze seemed to follow the adventurers as they circled the dais, debating how best to bring it down. “Ropes and pulleys,” Oleg suggested, his half-elven hands sketching patterns in the air. Irving, white-knuckled on the haft of his mace, growled, “Better to break it at the knees and let St. Cuthbert judge the fall.”

The plan became a mixture of both—Dog bracing the ropes, Tiger tightening knots with precision, while Irving and TerryOr hammered at the statue’s legs with righteous fury. With a groan of stone, the idol of Gruumsh toppled forward, crashing upon the temple floor. The echo was like thunder, a sound that seemed to ripple into the very bones of the place. As dust settled, a fiery gleam caught their eyes: a massive fire opal, pried from the god’s single eye, pulsed with inner heat. Oleg studied it, his thief’s fingers turning reverent. “It resists flame,” he whispered. “An eye that protects against fire itself.”

In that moment, Oleg felt the weight of St. Cuthbert’s unseen gaze. The god’s displeasure, long pressing upon his soul, seemed to ease. A chain broken, a judgment lifted. He was still bound to the work of thieves—but only for the good of the fellowship. His companions saw the relief in his eyes, though he masked it quickly.

With the idol sundered, the party pressed deeper into the dark. Oleg led the way with infravision, guiding them down a foul-smelling corridor that sloped into blackness. The stench of wet stone and mold heralded a hidden sewer, where trickling water whispered of unseen things. At a crossroads, faint scraping echoed from the left. “Ants,” Oleg hissed, hand to the wall. They moved cautiously, lanterns hooded, Slash murmuring cantrips to keep the light at bay. TerryOr reminded them of his remaining divinations: “Two spells to find traps yet, and I’ll need both before long.”

The first skirmish came swiftly. Worker ants lunged from the dark, chittering mandibles gleaming. Tiger struck with a flying kick, crushing one instantly. Dog and Irving pressed forward, steel and mace meeting shell. Slash’s voice carried over the clash, defiant even as poison-laced mandibles snapped near his arm. The soldiers followed—towering brutes with armored carapaces. One fell to Dog’s critical strike, a sword through its heart, while Irving and TerryOr battered down the other with holy wrath. In the aftermath, Oleg staggered, a red line marking where venom had grazed him. He lived, but the poison’s burn lingered.

---

The Insectoid Cavern Battle

The sewer tunnel widened into a cavern alive with the sound of chittering mandibles. Torches hissed in the damp air, their glow falling upon four insectoid horrors — each with four arms, two broadswords flashing, shields raised like a wall of chitin. Worker ants scurried at their feet, the ground a shifting carpet of legs.

Above, a weighted rope net dropped from the ceiling — but Oleg, ever watchful, loosed his dagger in a snap throw, cutting the rope and sending the trap crashing harmlessly to the ground. “Not today,” he muttered, retrieving the blade with a grim smile.

Slash lifted his hand, chanting. “By thorn and root—be bound!” Roots burst from the earth, twisting around insectoid legs. Worker ants squealed as they were snared, and even the hulking drones staggered, slowed by the spell.

“Now!” Irving roared, charging with mace raised. TerryOr surged beside him, holy light gleaming at his brow. Their weapons struck in unison—Irving’s blow caving in a mandible, TerryOr’s smash ringing against carapace with bone-shaking force.

Tiger Wong was a blur of motion, fists and feet striking in deadly rhythm. “Four arms, four blades?” he taunted as his heel crashed into a drone’s chest. “You’ll need eight to keep up!” His elbow followed, shattering another’s guard.

Slash drew his sword, shouting, “Time for the bard to play loud!” His blade cut deep into a rooted foe, green ichor splashing across the cavern floor.

Dog planted his feet, bowstring taut. “Smile for me, ugly,” he growled. The arrow flew true, piercing through a drone’s eye and pinning it against the cavern wall. It writhed once, then fell limp, roots tightening around its corpse.

The insectoids shrieked and thrashed, but they could not break free. Slowed by Slash’s spell, surrounded on all sides, they fell one by one beneath steel, mace, fist, and arrow. As the last drone collapsed, Tiger spat on its twitching form. “Four arms, four swords—and still not enough.”

The cavern grew silent but for the drip of ichor pooling at their feet. Lanternlight flickered over the broken bodies, their forms twisted among Slash’s roots.

---

Outcome Notes

• XP Earned:

  • Believers of St. Cuthbert (Irving, TerryOr, Oleg): 2,000 XP each (for toppling Gruumsh’s idol).

  • Non-believers (Dog, Slash, Tiger Wong): 1,000 XP each.

  • Additional 550 XP each for battles against the ants and insectoid drones.

• Treasure/Artifacts Found:

  • Fire opal from Gruumsh’s eye (enchanted, grants resistance to fire).

  • Net trap disarmed, no further loot recovered.

• Deaths/Injuries:

  • Oleg poisoned but survived.

  • TerryOr and Irving both wounded in combat but healed by clerical prayers.

• Narrative Cliffhanger:
  The idol of Gruumsh lies in ruins, its fire-opal eye now claimed. Yet deeper in the sewers, the air grows hotter, rank with unseen life. The Rod of Six Parts whispers faintly, warning that chaos is near.

• Monsters:

• Giant worker ants (AC 3, MV 18" ( HD 2, hp 9 each, *AT 1, D 1-6) 
• Giant soldier ants [AC 3. MV 18", HD 3, hp 14 each, *AT 1 and 1. D 2-8 and poison sting if the first attack hits — D 3-12, or save vs. poison for 14)
• The drones (AC 2, MV 15", HD 6, hp 44.36,20,34. * AT 2, D by weapon type) will each attack with two broadswords (D 2-8) and defend with two shields.

Interlude – Chapter 2: The Tower in the Storm, Part 01

 

by Michael S. Webster

Celene Border near the Kron Hills
Snowflowers 28, 5038 OC (Coldeven 28, 576 CY)

 The blizzard struck without warning. Fierce icy-cold winds pierced layers of clothing as if they were not there. Swirling snow dropped visibility to the point where riders could barely see the heads of their mounts. Dismounting, they huddled together so they could hear each other over the raging wind.

 “We need to find shelter!” shouted Qucalion. “No telling how long this storm will last.”

 “This wind will spoil my aim,” grumbled Arty’ll.

 “Your aim spoils your aim,” quipped L’ree.

 Ridorr interrupted any retort Arty’ll might have made. “Right before the visibility dropped to nil, I saw a structure; maybe a tower just to the west, where the Kron Hills start.”

 Qucalion turned to the twins. “Can you find this tower?”

 L’ree chuckled. “Easy Peasy!” She turned around and raised an arm and pointed. “This way is…”

 Arty’ll tapped his sister on the shoulder and jabbed his finger repeatedly in the opposite direction.

 “…is East, which makes West this way.” L’ree turned and pointed west.

 Arty’ll pulled a rope coil from his saddlebags. “We’ll use this to keep us together. Loop it into a belt or whatever,” instructed the suddenly lucid elf. “If you have a problem tug on the rope.”

 Taking the end of the rope, Tyroc noticed something on the rope and peered closer at it. “Is this blood?” asked the cleric.

“Do you really want to know?” Arty’ll’s grin made the cleric wish he hadn’t asked.

 Tyroc looked at the rope and back again at Arty’ll. “No. No I do not.” He shuddered, either from the frigid wind or Arty’ll’s smile. Tyroc couldn’t tell.

 A shrill giggle from L’ree caused the rest of the party to turn and look at her.

 “What?” she asked with an innocent look on her face.

 Arty’ll started laughing, which broke L’ree’s composure, and she laughed with him.

 They bowed their heads against the wind, and slowly trudged through the blowing snow. Fortunately, snow couldn’t accumulate in the high winds. Waves of drifting snow surged around their feet.

 “Are we there yet?” asked Arty’ll.

 “No,” replied L’ree.

 “Are we there yet?”

 “No”

 “Are we there yet?”

 “No!” shouted the rest of the party.

 “Actually,” corrected L’ree. “We are here.”

 The party was grateful for the slight respite from the storm when they stepped into the wind shadow the tower offered. They gathered closer and were surprised to see they arrived at a door.

 A pair of steps led up to the door and around it tiles that were part of a floor. Forty-five degrees to either side of the door were portions of a wall jutting out from the tower itself.

 “It looks like it was part of a larger structure,” suggested Ridorr.

 Qucalion returned to the door. “Let’s knock and hope someone…” Qucalion cut off his suggestion as Arty’ll opened the door and walked in as if it was his residence. “That is certainly one option.”

 “We need to bring the horses in as well,” advised Ridorr. “They could perish in the storm before it lets up.”

 Qucalion nodded his agreement and led his horse through the door, followed by the others. As they were bringing their steeds out of the blizzard, Qucalion mentioned to Ridorr, “I’ve been in this area many times. I don’t remember a tower ever being here.”

 “Nor I. This tower itself is old, but the parts of walls attached to it, they look newer.” Ridorr shrugged. “However it got here, I’m glad it was here, or we’d still be stuck in that blizzard. Probably lost and freezing to death.”

 The chamber they entered was cold, but not as cold as outside, nor did it have the wind blowing about. The chamber was furnished with chairs, a sofa, and lounges arrayed around a central fireplace.

 “Hello?” Qucalion called out loudly, then paused to listen. He called out again, “Hello? Is anyone here?” 

“Hello. We’re all here.”

 Everyone turned to glare at Arty’ll. L’ree smacked him on the back of the head. “Get a fire going, bugbear brains.”

 Arty’ll placed wood into the fireplace and attempted to light it on fire. After the third strike on his flint and steel, the kindling took light and slowly but steadily grew into a warm and friendly fire.

 With the door shut, the others set about taking care of the horses. They removed the saddles and fitted feedbags. The horses huddled together for warmth.

 “We might have a mess to clean up in the morning,” Tyroc said to Qucalion.

 “Better to clean up some manure from five horses than clean up five dead horses.”

 “I don’t mind,” shrugged the cleric. “Growing up, I would spend summers with my brother and sister at our grandparents’ ranch. They worked us hard. It was good for us, I suppose.”

 Qucalion nodded his assent and joined the rest around the fire, feeling its warmth seeping into his half-frozen body. “We might as well get some rest, too.” Qucalion pointed to the twins in a pile, softly snoring.

 “I’ll take the first watch,” Ridorr volunteered. Qucalion and Tyroc agreed wearily and settled in a couple lounges and joined the twins in slumber.

 Ridorr walked around the room examining everything but touching nothing. Bookshelves lined the outer wall, crammed with tomes of every size along with other decorations.

 A vast selection of the books had titles on their spines, but they were unreadable by the duelist. Some were written in languages he had never seen. Those he could read seemed very innocuous. Titles such as The Wind through the Leaves: The Poetry of the Suel, Flora and Fauna of the Vale, and A Concise History of Nyrond­—ironically, one of the largest tomes.

 Likewise, the other decorations were mundane. Vases, small busts, and other such items were simple decorations. The portraits on the wall were of people Ridorr did not recognize, nor were there tags to identify the subjects. The largest portrait was of a man and woman; husband and wife, holding each other and smiling warmly. The smiles didn’t reach their eyes, which appeared too real.

“Seems like a nice couple. I wonder wh…” Ridorr stopped in mid-thought as the face of the man in the portrait seemed to push out from the back of the painting. The eyes bulging and the mouth open in a silent scream.

 To Be Continued…

Dramatis Personae:

Arty'll Bhrygaid
Sylvan Elven Ranger/?
Arty'll Bhrygaid created by Michael S. Webster

L’ree Bhrygaid
Sylvan Elven Ranger/?
L’ree Bhrygaid created by Mark F. Anderson

Qucalion of Celene
Grey Elven Fighter/Magic-User
Qucalion of Celene created by Michael S. Webster

Ridorr Fenbalar of Gomel
Half-Elven Duelist – Fencer
Ridorr Fenbalar of Gomel created by Fredrick J. Rourk

Tyroc of Tilac
Grey Elven Cleric of Corellon Larethian
Tyroc of Tilac created by Michael S. Webster

 

Chapter 3 / Episode 72 - The Evil Cleric of Gruumsh

Chapter 3 / Episode 72 – The Evil Cleric of Gruumsh

Date: Planting 4, 576 CY
Weather: Steady winds from the west; salt spray on the air. Night falls clear beneath a full, watchful moon.

Players

• Dog, Ranger of the Gnarley Forest

• Irving, the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert

• Slash the Bard

• Oleg, Half-Elven Cleric/Magic-User/Thief of St. Cuthbert

• TerryOr, Cleric of St. Cuthbert

---

Narrative Recap

The companions pressed deeper into the temple’s darkened halls, their boots echoing across stone corridors thick with incense and the stench of blood. They debated their path carefully, wary of patrols. Two slain bodies were locked away in an office, and Dog finally forced open the great double doors, the party slipping through just as a band of sentries marched past in the gloom.

Time was slipping rapidly away from the companions, its flow carrying with it the chance that their presence within the temple would remain unnoticed. Wary of the regular patrols that kept a vigilant eye on the temple courtyards and grounds, Dog the Ranger, and Oleg, the reformed thief knew that even a casual inspection of the courtyard that had played host to their most recent battle would raise an alarm. Working as a team, the companions quickly tied the body of the half-orc that had greeted them upon their arrival to a chair, establishing as natural a pose as was possible with his mangled corpse, and then stashed the other corpses in a small office adjacent to the courtyard, locking its door to prevent casual inspection. This hasty effort at continued stealth complete, they pressed deeper into the temple’s darkened halls.

Dog managed to force the door open the great double doors at the southern end of the courtyard just as a band of sentries, and his companions quickly slipped inside the hallway beyond. As the double doors swung silently shut, a band of sentries, regular as the workings of a clock, passed on the battlements above. The party held their breath as the echoing booted steps above slowly passed beyond hearing. Their ruse held… for now.

The hallway they had entered was nearly pitch black, and Dog called forth some light from his enchanted bow to aid the vision of those unable to see outside of the normal spectrum. The corridor proceeded for a much greater distance than the light was able to illuminate, its soot-covered stone floor leading onwards into continued gloom. Alcoves penetrated the walls every ten feet, each holding the hideous but well-sculpted effigy of a fearsome Orc warrior. Frustrated by the delay a careful inspection might cause, and knowing that knowledge of their presence was an eventuality if given time, Terry Or cast a Find Traps spell, While Oleg sent a mystical set of lights dancing down the corridor to illuminate its entire length. The corridor extended for another one hundred feet before ending in a large bronze door.

Hurrying forward as rapidly as stealth would allow, the party scrutinized the door. While Terry assured them that no traps were present, Slash, unsure that Cuthbert was truly watching over the rash cleric, checked for himself. While the bard agreed that no traps were present, his inspection revealed a glyph that translated into common read, ‘Evil Servant’.

As the party approached to open the portal, the glyph flared with malignant power. Irving the Paladin, his finely tuned senses honed still further by the stress of their current situation, divined that the level of chaos behind the door was, at best, profound. Terry tried to dispel whatever malignant magic was present within the glyph upon the door, but failed, its power too malevolent to be simply dismissed. Their time slipping away, Slash the Bard, frustrated by the delays caused by these cautionary procedures, strode boldly to the door and effortlessly swung it open.

Beyond the bronze door lay a temple-like room. Thirty feet from the entrance, a towering statue of Gruumsh, the one-eyed god of orcs, sat atop a three-tiered dais that formed a thirty-foot diameter half-circle at the rear of the chamber. The dais was flanked by flaming braziers, the light from these sending shadows dancing about the room like the evil servants of a powerful demon. A coffle of slaves huddled in terror against one wall, their chains and manacles clinking sullenly in the flickering light as the cackling laughter of a woman in black vestments the idol’s base, her presence commanding, her eyes alight with fanatical devotion, accompanied the crackling of the brazier fires. This laughter was quickly drowned by the metallic clanking of plate mail as three armored half-orcs wielding halberds rushed forward to greet the newcomers.

The battle was sudden and brutal. Irving’s mace rang against steel while TerryOr shouldered through the mailed guards to reach the dais. Dog cut down those who threatened the spellcasters, his blade flashing in the firelight. Slash’s conjured lights filled the chamber—and nearly cost him his life as an assassin’s poisoned blade struck from the shadows. Oleg hurled his dagger across the room, burying it in the flesh of a foe before pressing forward with his prayers and arcane gestures.

The evil cleric raised her voice in curses, calling down silence and dark blessings upon her followers. But faith held stronger. TerryOr’s mace cracked her defenses, and with the companions pressing in from all sides, she fell—her lifeblood staining the stone at Gruumsh’s feet.

When the fighting ended, silence fell heavy in the chamber. Ten captives were discovered chained in the shadows, their hollow eyes widening with disbelief at freedom. At the idol’s base, Oleg retrieved his dagger from where it had fallen. The statue itself loomed untouched—but a hidden trap door beneath it revealed three bags of treasure: coins, a gem of remarkable value, and further spoils of the slain. Among the spoils was a strange vial, which TerryOr tested himself—discovering it to be a potion of speed, potent and dangerous if used unwisely.

---

Closing Scene

The torchlight flickered across Gruumsh’s one-eyed visage, casting a baleful gaze upon the weary adventurers. Irving wiped blood from his mace and looked up at the idol, his voice low, heavy with unease.

“Gruumsh… here?” he muttered, shaking his head. “This is no shrine of orcs. This is the Temple of Elemental Evil. What dark hand twists these cults together? Chaos upon chaos, and still it spreads.”

No one answered. The full moon outside lent no comfort, its pale glow slanting through a crack in the stonework. The sense of victory was hollow, and the deeper dread remained: if Gruumsh was worshipped here, what other gods of ruin might already have found foothold in these walls?

The prisoners trembled, the treasure bags sat heavy at their feet, and the shadows of the north wing waited in silence.

---

Outcomes

• XP Earned: 800 each for the session.

• Treasure Found:

  • Magical mace +1 (reserved for Oleg)

  • Oleg’s dagger recovered after being thrown in combat

  • 3 bags of treasure from the trap door beneath Gruumsh’s statue (300 gp each, plus a gem worth 2000 gp)

  • 550 gp from slain foes, plus assorted jewelry and coins

  • Potion of Speed (tested by TerryOr)

  • Bundle of unreadable papers for later study

• Rescued: 10 enslaved prisoners, freed from the cleric’s hold.

• Condition of Party:

  • Irving gravely wounded, restored through Dog’s ministrations and TerryOr’s spells.

  • Slash survived the assassin’s strike but carries the scar of poison.

• Narrative Arc: A powerful female cleric of Gruumsh has fallen, her prisoners freed and her hidden hoard uncovered. Yet the idol of the orc-god still looms, and the temple’s northern passages remain heavy with threat.

• Monsters: 

• 6th level evil cleric (AC 1 due to dexterity, MV 6 \ Level 6, hp 30, *AT 1 D by weapon type)
• 3rd level fighters (AC 3, MV6". Level 3. hp 20, # AT 1. D by weapon type)
• 4th level assassin (AC 7, MV 12", hp 12, # AT 1. Dby weapon type, backstab for double damage)

Writing credits include:

Christopher Clark

Angelo Chiriaco

Excerpt from Slash the Bard:

Slash sighed and moved towards the door. Both Terry, the party’s cleric, and Dog the ranger had been unable to budge the stubborn portal, but Slash was certain they just didn’t have the necessary beef. Grabbing the door handle he pulled against the obstinate barrier and was gratified as it opened with the sound of begrudged grating.

The scene before him was both intoxicating and surprising. Ten manacled slaves cowered against the left-hand wall, a glimmer of hope shining in their eyes at his entry. But it was not the hope of these unfortunates that surprised Slash. He’d rescued victims many times before, and had, in fact, already rescued several similarly bound slaves this very day. To his right, three armored orcs, larger than the standard villains he was used to encountering, rushed towards him, gleaming halberds at the ready. This also came as no surprise to the skilled bard. These three would fall just like all the others. Directly in front of him, a giant statue of a humanoid with a great and terrible blade poised above its head, ready to strike, loomed atop a three-tiered dais that rose some five feet from the floor of the chamber. This too caused Slash little concern. He’d seen far more obscene statues in the Temple of Elemental Evil. The creature that stood beneath this statue, however, gained his full attention, distracting him ever-so-briefly from the task at hand.

A priestess, clothed in close fitting dark robes, beckoned from atop the dais. Her stance was aggressive and hate-filled, and her very countenance communicated evil… but she was gorgeous. “I wonder why the best-looking ones always wind up being evil?” Slash wondered as a sharp pain in his back redirected his attention to the fight at hand. An assassin, originally hidden behind the opening door, had stabbed him with his deadly blade. Slash returned the thrust, skewering the would-be killer and knocking him to his knees. Unfortunately, the assassin retained his grip on what could only be a poisoned blade. Flash mentally registered the presence of Terry, the party’s cleric, to his rear as he avoided another thrust from the dagger of his wily foe. Slash chopped downwards, his longer blade finishing his hapless opponent. He then turned to meet the charge of the orcs he had seen upon entering… and was shocked that the cleric was no longer to his rear; was not preparing to neutralize any toxin the assassin may have administered during his attack!

Terry, the party’s main source of healing and well-known neutralizer of poisons (especially the kind gained from an assassin’s blade), had run forward to the dais to engage the stunningly provocative evil priestess. Slash felt he knew what the crafty cleric would do next… as he always did when faced with a potentially party-endangering foe. Still, would the prudish cleric attempt his almost-trademarked ‘disrobe’ command on a member of the opposite sex? Slash turned half an exceedingly hopeful eye in that direction, as he blocked the first blow from the nearest orc.

The cleric began praying aloud and making passes in the air. Slash almost stopped fighting as Terry attempted to command the priestess. He couldn't believe it! Terry Or, always politically correct and prudish, was going to command this tremendously evil but oh-so sultry priestess to disrobe! Slash returned his attention to the opposing orcs as a near miss with a rather sharp halberd alerted him to the need for concentration.

Over the din of the battle, Slash could swear he heard Terry’s voice rise more than a few octaves as he gave the command, “Disrobe!” Risking a quick glance, he saw the evil priestess making passes in the air and knew that she had turned the tables on the party’s redoubtable healer. She was trying to command Terry to disrobe!

Distracted by this turn of events, one of the orcish blades penetrated his defense, nicking his left arm. Slash returned his attention to the orcs, where, with the help of Irving, the paladin, they rapidly dispatched two of the three orcs. Given the moment’s respite, Slash again glanced towards the priestess. She and Terry were still locked in their “adults only” duel… although one of them was bound to run out of prayers for nudity before the other. Slash felt confident enough that the battle now favored the party of companions that he hollered what he hoped would be both encouraging support his clerical friend, and a distraction for the evil but alluring priestess.

“Is someone going to get naked here or what?”

An arrow from Dog the Ranger and a powerful slash from the paladin’s mace put an end to the last orc as the cleric, Terry, red-faced with embarrassment, gave up trying to pray for the demise of the priestess and resorted to his mace, dropping the woman with a few well-placed blows. “Still fully clothed…” muttered Slash in utter disappointment as he moved to help the rest of his companions free the slaves.

“I was rooting for you Terry! Sorry your command didn’t work.” Slash paused, an inquisitive look from the cleric alerting him that the cleric might understand why the bard was truly disappointed.

Although he knew he shouldn’t, Slash simply could not resist finishing his thought aloud. “Maybe we’ll have better luck next time.”

As the rest of the party (even the paladin!) replied with a hearty ‘Hear! Hear!’ Slash smiled and started to loot the dead orcs.

Writing credit:

Christopher Clark

Chapter 3 / Episode 71 - The Temple of Highport

Chapter 3 / Episode 71 – The Temple of Highport

Date: Planting 4, 576 CY
Weather: Steady winds from the west; salt spray on the air. Night falls clear beneath a full, watchful moon.

Players

• Dog, Ranger of the Gnarley Forest

• Irving, the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert

• Slash the Bard

• Oleg, Half-Elven Cleric/Magic-User/Thief of St. Cuthbert

• Tiger Wong, Monk of the Eastern Lands

• TerryOr, Cleric of St. Cuthbert

---

Recap

The sea lay restless beneath the moonlight as the companions descended from the cliffside, cloaks drawn tight against the wind. Below, the ruins of the Temple of Highport crouched like a carcass picked clean, its shattered walls lit with the guttering glow of orcish torches. Patrols moved with cruel regularity, their snarls drifting faintly upward. The adventurers had studied their rhythm well—forty-five minutes of vigilance, then twenty minutes of neglect.

Dog’s voice was a low growl. “We move when their eyes turn elsewhere. No second chances.” Slash smirked, tugging at his slave-trader’s disguise. “And here I thought I was done with performing. Turns out I just needed a bigger stage.” The plan was laid bare: Dog and Slash would pass the front gates as false slavers, while the others—bound in false manacles and sacks—would slip free once inside.

The gatehouse loomed, its guards demanding tribute with guttural jeers. When challenged, Dog spat the orcish phrase whispered to them in town: “Slimy humans.” The guards roared with laughter and waved them through, dragging the “captives” deeper into the courtyard. Rank weeds clawed at the bare earth, and a half-orc official barked orders, pointing them toward a processing hall.

But before the charade could hold, fate struck. Chains shattered, TerryOr’s mace was in hand, and the courtyard erupted into violence. Lightning bolts arced from Slash’s lute-born chant, searing through the night. Oleg’s voice carried over the din, his spell casting half the orcish throng into sudden slumber. Irving, even bound, swung a crude weapon with holy fury, while Tiger Wong’s manacled fists struck with the force of iron.

The clash was brutal, desperate, and swift. Blood darkened the dirt. When silence returned, the companions stood amid the bodies of their foes, breathing hard, the rescued slaves clinging to them with wide eyes. The Rod’s whisper pulsed faintly in Dog's satchel, as if urging him deeper into shadow.

TerryOr’s eyes met the others as he wiped blood from his mace. “We’ve cut off one head,” he murmured grimly, “but the body still writhes.”

---

Notes

• XP Earned: 500 each

• Treasure: 1,000 GP gem in loot; +2 Ring of Protection and rescued three slaves

• Injuries: Dog and Irving sustained wounds but no deaths

• Artifacts: The Rod of Six Parts stirred faintly, its whispers growing bolder

• Cliffhanger: The courtyard is theirs, but the temple’s deeper chambers remain unexplored. Patrols will soon notice the silence. The true power within has not yet revealed itself.

• Monsters: 

Half-orc fighter (AC 3 MV 9" Lvl 4 hp 32 #AT 1, D by weapon type)

 5 Orcs (AC 6 MV 9" HD 1 hp 4 each #AT 1, D by weapon type)