Chapter 3 / Episode 77 – A Good Rest
Date: Planting 4 - Planting 5, 576 CY - Beneath The Temple of Highport
Weather: Subterranean; air cool and heavy with moisture. Faint southern drafts carry the scent of mold, rust, and decay.
Players:
Irving the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert (with familiar, Harvey the Hare)
TerryOr, Cleric of St. Cuthbert
Dixon the Dwarf
Silversun, Magic-User of Greyhawk
Narrative Recap
The companions had seen enough blood and darkness to numb even the bravest hearts, but the fetid underhalls of Highport were another matter entirely. Their firelight flickered along rusted bars and cracked stone, and the smell of damp rot clung to their armor. Somewhere in the maze of tunnels, orcs still lingered—soldiers of the slaver priests.
Before bedding down, the party debated how to survive a night in such a place. “Web spell won’t hold long enough,” Silversun muttered, tapping his temple. “One hour and forty, maybe. Less, if the air’s too damp.”
Dog fed the firepits their improvised camp, filling the chamber with light against the oppressive dark. “Monsters don’t cross fire,” he said, “least not the kind with sense.” Dixon grunted in approval and unbuckled his armor.
Their rest was short-lived.
A heavy shuffling echoed down the hall. From the gloom, an ogre—huge, unarmed, and half-mad—stumbled into view, blinking against the light. “By Moradin’s beard,” Dixon whispered. “He’s not even got a club.”
Before the brute could roar, Dog’s arrow flew true, burying itself in the creature’s head, as Dixon threw his magical hammer. It staggered once, then collapsed in a heap with a wet thud. Irving lowered his mace. “Mercy comes in many forms,” he said quietly. The only reply was the fading drip of water somewhere deeper in the dungeon.
The next day brought no reprieve. Deeper in the sewers, a pair of ogres blocked their path—hulking shapes backlit by the dim glow of some unseen fire. “Hold,” TerryOr called, voice echoing off the slime-coated walls. “Lay down your arms, and we’ll spare you.”
One ogre laughed, the sound like grinding stones.
Terry’s eyes flashed. “Then by Cuthbert’s will—strip!”
The divine command struck true. The ogre blinked dumbly, then began tearing off his filthy hide shorts, dropping it in a confused heap. “By the gods,” Dixon laughed, charging in. “You’ll regret that fashion choice!” His hammer crushed bone; Irving’s mace followed to meet the other ogre, pulverizing muscle and sinew.
The battle ended, and silence once again filled the tunnels. Dixon kicked at the bodies. “Fried Orc,” he said flatly. “And breakfast’s ruined.”
“Not orcs,” Dog corrected, sheathing his blade. “But close enough.”
They searched the chambers and soon found a false ceiling concealing a narrow alcove. Inside: a pouch heavy with 360 gold pieces, two fine gems worth 500 gold each, and a magical dagger, its blade glowing faintly. When Silversun touched it, the weapon vibrated softly, resonating with unseen power.
“Neutral enchantment,” Dixon muttered after a moment. “But not friendly.”
They pressed onward through the half-flooded corridors, sewers, and old storage halls. The torchlight glinted off piles of rusted armor and broken tools, and once, a cloud of noxious gas forced them to retreat coughing into the corridor. In one chamber, the ceiling yawned open above a grid of trapdoors that dropped into dark pits below. “A game of balance,” Irving said grimly. “And one misstep means the end.”
They secured ropes, checked the beams, and prepared for what lay beyond. The air smelled of rot and carried with it the unmistakable promise of more corruption ahead.
XP Earned: 572 XP each
Treasure:
- 360 GP
- Two gems (500 GP each)
- Magical dagger (alignment neutral; further identification required)
- Enemies Defeated: Three ogres
- Injuries: None serious; minor bruising and smoke inhalation
Next Episode: The party prepares to cross the perilous trapdoor walkway and descend into the deeper slave pits of Highport—where whispers speak of a chained beast and a black altar still devoted to the Elemental Eye.
