Parallels - Chapter 1 – The Incursion, Part 1

Parallels - Chapter 1 – The Incursion, Part 1

Michael S. Webster 

Chapter 2 / Episode 50 - St. Cuthbert Speaks
(https://blog.hommlet-dark.com/2025/02/chapter-2-episode-50-st-cuthbert-speaks.html)

Coldeven 14

The party descended deeper beneath the Temple of Elemental Evil. The air grew humid yet cold,  thick with the scent of decay. The corridor the party followed opened onto a grotesque fungal garden.

The fungal garden was illuminated by the bioluminescence of massive Mycena and Panellus. The eerie, pulsing-green glow revealed numerous species of fungus. Spores drifted in the air around giant examples of common fungi—brown, rubbery wood ear; bird’s nest fungus and honeycombed morels.

But it was the other fungi that had drawn the party’s attention. Humanoid fungi stalked between large, purplish, bulbous fungi that suddenly emitted a scream. A floating orb—an eye with stalks sprouting from its top—stared balefully at the party.

Then they saw her.

A beautiful woman, naked from the waist up and clad in what appeared to be a gown crafted from living fungi, stalked forward out of the shadows. She silenced the shrieking mushroom with a caress from her delicate, white hand.

The bioluminescent pulse sped up and brightened.  The spores in the air swirled around her as she glided to the center of the chamber. A coy smile crept across her face as she gracefully reached out a hand, pointing at Crush, the Half-Orc fighter.

Crush’s eyes glazed over briefly, then he lifted a massive arm barring the other party members from entering. The party came to the same conclusion.

This was not a fight they could win.

With that assessment settled, the party turned and fled. A chilling, tittering laughter followed them as they retreated from the chamber.

ù

“This is a good place to stop for tonight,” declared DM Angelo. “Great game, everyone!”

The other faces showing on the screen nodded or expressed their agreement.

“I’ll post the XP later, and I’ll see you next time!” With that, DM Angelo concluded the video conference.

Michael removed his headphones and began shutting down his computer. Once finished, he stood, stretched, and went to his bedroom to read a couple chapters before sleeping.

ù

Two floors below, in the basement laundry room, a faint, eerie, pulsing green glow grew slowly stronger. Around—and on—the leaking hot-water heater, mushrooms had been growing. Mostly rubbery, brownish wood ear fungus… until small, glowing, purplish fungi began to sprout rapidly.

It was from these fungi a malicious, feminine voice emanated.

“Sssoooooonnnnn!”

To be continued…

Parallels - Chapter 2 – The Incursion Part 2

Chapter 3 / Episode 80 – St. Cuthbert's Quest

Chapter 3 / Episode 80 – St. Cuthbert's Quest

Planting 5, 576 CY – Temple of Highport & The Western Gate

Nighttime

Weather: Gloom giving way to Highport’s acrid coastal air.

Temperature and wind: Cool ocean breeze.

Sky: Smothered by gray clouds.

Players:

Dog the Ranger of the Gnarley Forest
Irving the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert (with Harvey the Hare)
TerryOr, Cleric of St. Cuthbert
Dixon the Dwarf
Silversun, Magic-User of Greyhawk
Slash the Bard

The Gold and the Way Out

The session opened with a practical but dangerous problem:

how to get several thousand coins out of a ruined temple crawling with orcs.

The group opted for a cart, knowing that moving the hoard by hand would slow them to a crawl. The double doors leading out of the temple were checked—Slash gave his trademark:

“I’m about 20% sure this isn’t trapped.”

Despite the bard’s “confidence,” no traps were sprung, and the group prepared to push into the battlements beneath Highport itself.

First Blood – The Orc Halberdiers

The corridor opened into a dim guardroom where six orcs waited, halberds gleaming in the guttering torchlight. Crossbows were leveled before the party could fully enter.

Dixon stormed forward—and was nearly cut down for it.

Three bolts slammed into him, followed by a halberd blow that dropped him to 1 HP.

Irving’s floating disk hovered behind, loaded with gold and banging into the doorframe like a stubborn mule.

Dog put an arrow into the throat of an advancing orc, dropping it instantly.

Terry’s Hold Person locked three crossbowmen stiff as statues, turning the tide.

In the aftermath, a captured bodyguard revealed scraps of information: the Slave Lord they had encountered earlier had already escaped. His remaining guards were bound and gagged—Dixon growling Goblin at them to “lay down or get laid out.”

The group destroyed the evil symbols inside the temple, sparing only those to good-aligned deities.

TerryOr applied healing from scrolls and prayer, bringing Dixon and others back into fighting shape. The cart was loaded, and the march continued.

The Warning Shout – Silenced

A lone man attempted to sprint ahead to warn others on horseback out of the front gate.

Dog’s arrow caught him sprint, a critical shot that snapped him back while Slash halted the horse with an entangle spell.

Their brief celebration was cut short when ten orcs emerged from a barred courtyard, firing a volley of bolts.

Silversun nearly took the worst of it—12 damage—but lived.

The orcs reloaded. The party braced.

Terry called down Flame Strike, scorching the gate and scorching the orcs. The group cheered as the orcs turned into a bonfire.

A battered cart sat forgotten in the courtyard—the group immediately claimed it for their gold-hauling operation.

The Quest

On the road toward Highport, Silversun was healed with herbs and beads.

TerryOr’s started the ritual of calling his god with the prayer beads, St. Cuthbert manifested once more—a stern wind and glowing presence bestowing a new quest:

Recover the Book of Common Sense from the Temple in Highport.

Do not let it remain in the hands of the orcs.

The cursed dagger’s maker—Jhael Tluth Lualyrr—was discussed as well. Dixon relayed a rumor:

The Lady of the Celadon Forest would pay richly for the half-drow’s death.

But the party agreed: the signs will determine that path.

Planting 5

Highport – The Western Gate

At last, they stood at the outskirts of Highport, the infamous city of orcs, goblins, cutthroats, and slavers.

Plan?

Disguise themselves as slavers. Pose Dixon as a captive. Pay the toll. Keep their heads down.

At the western gate, a pack of orcs demanded 500 gold per person.

TerryOr’s smooth tongue—and a very fortunate charisma roll—cut the price in half.

“Two hundred and fifty each, and not a copper less,” grunted the orc sergeant.

Terry smiled. “Done.”

The gates creaked open.

Smoke. Noise. Stench.

Welcome to Highport.

Session ended with 1,000 XP awarded to every player and preparations for next week’s infiltration.

Gnarley Rangers: Lore of the Shadow Bough

The Shadow-Bough Tradition: Hidden Lore of the Gnarley Rangers

By L. Arven, Chronicler of the Old Road

Few groups in the Flanaess command as much respect—and as much quiet speculation—as the Gnarley Rangers. These wardens of the tangled woodlands east of the Kron Hills are already known for their alliances with druids, their unusual tolerance for lycanthropes, and their almost preternatural ability to appear where danger is greatest.

But ask any veteran ranger of the Gnarley about the real heart of their craft, and you’ll hear a whispered phrase:

“The Shadow-Bough takes only the willing.”

Today, we’re going to talk about what that actually means.

Origins of the Shadow-Bough

Gnarley Rangers have always stood at the crossroads between nature, druidic tradition, and the peculiar mysteries of the forest’s more ancient inhabitants. The earliest stories tell of rangers who walked with werebears, learned from old druids, and took oaths beneath the first trees of the forest.

Among these stories is the tale of Druin Leafcloak, a half-elf scout who vanished during the Greyhawk Wars and returned months later with the power to melt into shadows as though they were water. He claimed that the secret had been taught to him by the Dusk Speaker, an ancient treant who dwelled so deep in the forest that even the druids feared to tread.

This ability—part blessing, part burden—became the foundation of what is now known as the: Ritual of the Shadow-Bough. It is not widely discussed. Many rangers complete their entire lives without ever seeing it performed.

But for those who pursue the deeper ways of the Gnarley… the option is always there, waiting in the roots.

Why the Ritual Exists

The Gnarley Rangers have always been understaffed, overworked, and aware that the forest they protect is simply too vast for traditional scouting methods alone. The druids recognized that shadow and stillness were as much tools of nature as tooth and claw.

Thus, they began teaching a select few rangers how to: hide without breaking the forest’s trust evade foes with silence instead of blood become watchers, not just warriors.

The ritual is not meant to mimic a thief’s training. It is meant to elevate the ranger’s communion with the wild.

The Ritual Among the Gnarley

The ceremony is performed only at the Fane of the Midnight Oak, a clearing that appears only under specific lunar conditions and is said to be guarded by werebears of an unusually contemplative disposition.

Within the Gnarley Ranger lodges, the ritual serves three purposes:

1. A Test of Humility

No ranger is allowed to attempt the Shadow-Bough until they prove they can act with restraint. The Gnarley Rangers believe that only those who can control themselves should be granted the ability to vanish from sight.

2. A Bonding Rite with the Forest

During the ceremony, rangers must stand unmoving within shifting forest shadows. Many describe subtle visions—whispers of leaves, memories of ancient trees, or vague presences watching them with approval.

3. The Acceptance of the Wood

The final mark of success is a moment where one's presence simply… lightens. Veterans describe it as “being forgotten by the light.”

 The Werebear Connection

Of all the odd alliances in the Gnarley Woods, the friendship between the rangers and local werebear clans is one of the most respected.

Werebears value:

virtue

courage

stewardship of the wild

These are traits the Gnarley Rangers prize as well.

While they do not conduct the ritual themselves, many werebears act as:

protectors during the rite

guides for candidates traveling to the Midnight Oak

spiritual witnesses, ensuring the ranger’s intentions are pure

It is said that if a candidate approaches the ritual with arrogance, a werebear guardian will simply refuse to let the rite continue—no fight, no lecture, just a firm shake of the head.

And yes, rare stories exist of a Gnarley Ranger being chosen by a werebear spirit and undergoing a voluntary bond of lycanthropy afterward. These individuals become living legends, but the Gnarley keep their names quiet.

What the Ability Actually Grants

After completing the ritual, rangers gain the ability known as Shadow-Melding, allowing them to hide in natural shadow with a reliability similar to a novice thief’s Hide in Shadows skill.

Unlike thieves, however, the ranger’s power is:

rooted in nature

enhanced by level

lost if the forest is angered (a druidic judgment)

The ability is a privilege, not property.

The Shadow-Bough’s Place in Modern Gnarley Lore

Among the Gnarley Rangers today, the ritual remains:

rare

respected

never demanded

It is typically offered to rangers around 6th level, when they have demonstrated not only skill but wisdom.

A ranger who completes the Shadow-Bough is considered a Dusk Warden, a title that holds quiet authority. They are the ones sent to:

track necromancers through bramble-choked ruins

watch the borders of fell domains

gather intelligence on threats too great for open confrontation

To enemies of the forest, they are ghosts.

To allies, they are the whisper before dawn.

✨ Final Thoughts

The Ritual of the Shadow-Bough isn’t simply a magical trick—it’s a spiritual pact rooted in the Gnarley’s oldest traditions. It gives rangers a power similar to thief skills, but in a uniquely druidic, nature-bound way that fits the tone and culture of AD&D 1st Edition

Chapter 3 / Episode 79 – The Slave Lord

 Chapter 3 / Episode 79 – The Slave Lord

Date: Planting 5, 576 CY — Beneath the Temple of Highport

Weather: Subterranean; cold, wet air, thick with mold, rust, and decay. Dim southern drafts carry the scent of something long-dead.

Players Present:

 Dog the Ranger of the Gnarley Forest
 Irving the Reluctant, Paladin of St. Cuthbert (with Harvey the Hare)
 TerryOr, Cleric of St. Cuthbert
 Dixon the Dwarf
 Silversun, Magic-User of Greyhawk
 Slash the Bard

Interrogation in the Dark

The episode opened deep beneath the Temple of Highport where the party, still slick with blood from their battle with the slavers’ guard, dragged their remaining captive—a female mercenary—into the torchlight. She played dumb, insisting she had joined the merchants only weeks before and had never been to Highport’s stockade.

Silversun, never subtle, pressed the point by producing a magically vibrating dagger, letting the blade hum inches from her cheek. Her story crumbled, but it became clear she had little true intelligence to offer.

Before the group could decide her fate, the rescued barbarian shoved past them, seized her by the hair, and with a single roaring curse—“Enough lies!”—he cut her head clean off. The body slumped, and the captive’s blood pooled across the stone floor. No one argued.

Dog spat. Slash muttered, “Well… that’s one way to end questioning.”

The barbarian left them soon after, saying only that he would lead the freed slaves to safety—and that he “owed the Slave Lords a blood debt.”

No one doubted he meant to collect.

Dog's Prayer

 My Goddess,     

Fill me with your wisdom so that I may see the path

Fill me with your hunter's prowess so my bow is fast

Fill me with your light so the dark never lasts

Fill me with your love so I don't succumb to wrath

"In the Shadows of Leaves, We Stand Watch"

          

Interlude – Chapter 3: The Tower in the Storm – Part 02

by Michael S. Webster

Celene Border near the Kron Hills
Snowflowers 29, 5038 OC (Coldeven 29, 576 CY)

 Ridorr examined everything but touched nothing. Bookshelves lined the outer wall, crammed with tomes of every size and scattered decorations. 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 bulged and the mouth opened in a silent scream. Ridorr stumbled back in shock, unable to look away from the spectacle.

The face withdrew into the painting. Ridorr noticed his rapid breathing and heartbeat. He steadied himself with slow, deep breaths. He glanced around; his companions were still asleep, unaware of the spectral visitation.

Ridorr closely examined the portrait. It looked perfectly normal to him. The frame was made from ordinary wood, and the canvas and pigments weren’t anything out of the ordinary.

Ridorr lifted the portrait to look behind it, but a heavy thump made him jump. He turned, hand on his falchion—it was only the wood in the fireplace settling. 

“I must be exhausted,” thought Ridorr. “I’m seeing things and I’m jumping at sounds.”

The chill deepened, but he blamed it on the dying fire and the age of the stone tower.

Turning around, his gaze passed over the curving stairs leading to the upper floors. His subconscious registered the sight first. A dark shadow peered down with blazing white eyes from atop the stairs. He turned back quickly for a better look, but it was gone.

Rubbing his sleep-deprived eyes, Ridorr tried to convince himself he was just exhausted when he turned around and looked directly into the eyes of a grey, translucent older man in wizard’s robes.

His heart stopped cold as the apparition’s jaw stretched horribly in a silent scream. The eyes bulged and became holes of pitch-black darkness. The figure reached out a hand, passing it through the half-elf’s head.

Ridorr slumped to the ground, unconscious.

Ridorr’s awareness surfaced. The distant humming resolved into words. He opened his eyes to the concerned looks of his companions.

“We found you collapsed on the floor,” stated Tyroc. “We’ve been trying to rouse you for the better part of an hour.”

The cleric helped him sit up and offered his waterskin. Ridorr drank as he struggled to make sense of what he saw.  He drew a deep breath. “I think this place is haunted.”

Tyroc and Qucalion listened carefully to Ridorr as he explained what he experienced. The twins merely looked bored as they argued about how to hit a ghost with an arrow. Arty’ll mentioned needing a “ghost arrow” then he and his sister sat hypothesizing about how to make one.

A door could opened upstairs. Hinges creaking from disuse echoed down the stone steps. Qucalion looked up the steps that climbed the tower’s perimeter and saw nothing. As he began to turn away, the sound of heavy footfalls rushed down the stairs. He jumped back in alarm—but when he looked again, the steps were empty.

Turning away again, he almost missed spotting a head peeking around the upper floor. The eyes—dark, hollow pits—above a ghastly, unnatural toothy grin peered at him from the floor above. Qucalion's gaze snapped back but it was gone.  A trick of the light?

"What is it?" asked one of his companions. "What are you looking at?"

The grey elf turned to his companions. “I… I don't know... I heard someone charging down..." He turned and the dark, hollow pits of eyes and the unnaturally wide smile on a face attached to a gangly, emaciated form in almost right proportion charged towards him.

Falling back and tripping over his own feet, an arm raised to block an attack, that never came. Once again, the stairs were empty.

The twins were giggling. Whether it was because of Qucalion's fright or their own joke, it was hard to tell.

Tyroc offered Qucalion a hand. “We should probably leave. This structure may be, at best, haunted. At worst…” The elven cleric shuddered. “At worst, we couldn’t stand against whatever is here.”

Qucalion stood up and tentatively looked back up the stairs. “I think you’re right. Maybe we could come back and…”

*KNOCK*

*KNOCK*

As one, the companions quickly turned toward the heavy door leading outside.

*KNOCK*

“Maybe it’s the owners?” asked L’ree.

"Knocking to come in their own home?” retorted Arty’ll.

Ridorr sighed, “I have a bad feeling about this.”

Qucalion took a step toward the door, but Tyroc grabbed his arm. “I don’t think we should open the door.”

“We’ll have to open it sometime, if we wish to leave, Tyroc,” said Qucalion.

*KNOCK*

The companions jumped at the first knock and stared at the door.

*KNOCK*

*KNOCK*

“Please, let me in.” The voice sounded very young—too young. “It’s so very cold. I’m scared. Please… let me in.”

Qucalion noted the voice was pleading for help, but the timbre of the voice suggested otherwise. It was too calm and even.

Qucalion stepped up to the door and turned slightly back towards Tyroc. The cleric lifted up the holy symbol of Corellon Larethian; the mithril crescent moon shining in the firelight. Tyroc nodded his readiness to Qucalion, who turned and put his hand on the bolt.

The wind and snow immediately pushed into the slowly opening doorway. Qucalion stepped out, eyes squinting against the cold wind.

“Hello?” he called out as he shielded his eyes against the snow and wind.  Looking about, he could see no one.  Looking down, he could see clear footprints in the snow. Small, child-sized footprints—but very odd ones.

For one thing, they were barefoot. Who—or what—left those footprints wasn’t wearing any shoes. There was something else about them.

He looked again.

The prints were wrong.

Left and right reversed—backwards.

“Hey, twins! Can you track this?” Qucalion called back to the rangers who skipped up to the door.

“We can track anything!” they said nearly in unison.

“Track where these prints came from and went.” He pointed at the footprints on the ground beginning to fill with blown snow.

Arty’ll and L’ree looked down at the prints. “Huh. You don’t see prints like these often,” informed L’ree.

“They look humanoid except the differences,” suggested Arty’ll.

“You mean how the feet are switched?” asked Qucalion.

“Well, that too,” replied Arty’ll. “What I mean is that if you look at them, they are perfectly straight into the snow. No indication of stepping there or stepping away.”

“Almost like they just appeared or landed there.” L’ree finished the thought.  Turning to his brother, she suggested, “You go widdershins and I’ll go deasil.”

“How about I go deasil and you go widdershins?”

L’ree let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. You always get your way.”

“No, I don’t! You…” the rest of Arty’ll’s comments were lost to the wind as the two rangers began the labor of tracking the owner of those footprints.

Qucalion shut the door, but left it unlatched. Turning to Tyroc and Ridorr, he shook his head. “The storm seems to have gotten worse. I don’t know if trying to leave is any safer than staying.”

Ridorr took a step toward the door but halted mid-stride, his attention snagged by the bookcase. His trembling fingers—whether from chill, fear, or both—glided along the edge and the dust-coated shelves.

“What is it, Ridorr?” asked Tyroc as he stepped up next to the half-elf.

“I’m not sure, but I think there’s a…” He forced his trembling fingers to obey and found a latch hidden in the shelf. Triggering it with a click, the bookcase slowly swung open. “…secret door.”

A flight of stairs led down into darkness heavy with cold and damp. 

“Do we go down?” asked Tyroc.

“I’ll stay up here and wait for those maniacs to return.”

Tyroc and Ridorr chuckled as they prepared to go down. “Do we have torches?” asked Ridorr.

“We do, but…” began Tyroc. The cleric gestured in the air as he chanted. His holy symbol gradually began to glow, giving off a light that reached into the darkness. “Shall we?”

Ridorr nodded, hand on the hilt of his falchion, and started down the stairs, Tyroc close behind.

To Be Continued…

 

 

Dramatis Personae:

Arty'll Bhrygaid
Sylvan Elven Ranger/Assassin (lvl 2/2)
Arty'll Bhrygaid created by Michael S. Webster

L’ree Bhrygaid
Sylvan Elven Ranger/Assassin (lvl 2/2)
L’ree Bhrygaid created by Mark F. Anderson

Qucalion of Celene
Grey Elven Fighter/Magic-User (lvl 1/1)
Qucalion of Celene created by Michael S. Webster

Ridorr Fenbalar of Gomel
Half-Elven Duelist – Fencer (lvl 3)
Ridorr Fenbalar of Gomel created by Fredrick J. Rourk

Tyroc of Tilac
Grey Elven Cleric of Corellon Larethian (lvl 1)
Tyroc of Tilac created by Michael S. Webster

What Dixon Found Out About The Assassin’s Dagger

  What Dixon Found Out About The Assassin’s Dagger

I went to Elgronde the Dreamer, a renown seer who lives in the Silverwood. He is an old family friend. After formalities of greeting I showed him the dagger. To my surprise he opened a box and took out its brother. Elgronde said these are becoming all too common these days.

The Lady of the Celadon Forest is offering a large reward for the death of the maker of one of these daggers. More than a few murders have occurred with this maker’s mark. He showed me the maker’s mark. Your party is very lucky to have survived such an encounter. From my inquiries these are made by a Half Drow calling himself Jhael Tluth Lualyrr. This Half Drow is an exceptional weapon smith and very knowledgeable about curses and poisons.

Jhael moves around much like yourself. I have visions of him in Veluna, The Shield Lands, Sterich, and lastly the Bright Desert. I saw him dining with the Bandit Lord Nine Lives Cullen the Jester at his camp in the Bright Desert. In Sterich he stayed at the Broken Back Mule Inn. Good luck and keep your Shield and Hammer always ready.  

Before leaving I took both daggers and wrapped them in a piece of cloth and carefully placed them in my pack.  I plan on sticking both of them into the Half Drow.  

Chapter 3 / Episode 78 – The Slave Pits of The Undercity

Chapter 3 / Episode 78 – The Slave Pits of the Undercity

Date: 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 Present:

• Dog the Ranger of the Gnarley Forest

• 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

---

The Trapdoors and the Pits

The stench of gutted ogre still hung in the air, as did the cloying taint of blood and sweat. Winded, but recovering, the would-be rescuers pushed on into the confusing maze of passageways, now fairly certain that this was indeed the abode of slavers. With a modicum of luck, these slave dens might hold prisoner the nobleman they sought.

A light at the end of the passage indicated the outline of a door, that Dixon the dwarf quickly opened. The room that lay beyond left no doubt. These were indeed the warrens of slavers.

The chamber beyond the door was filled with trapdoors that formed the tops of barred cages that were obviously intended for slaves The tops of these cages formed narrow beams stretching above the pits below. Undaunted by this gymnastic challenge, Dixon grunted but once before tying a hundred-foot rope about his waist and beginning the perilous crossing. Each step required precise placement as the avenues formed by the tops of the cages were disturbingly narrow. The dwarf had just killed a number of enemies that were the ancient foes of his race, however, and he would brook no further delay. Every step tested his balance, but Dixon proceeded rapidly, as though unaware of the fifteen foot drop that lay on either side of the narrow cage tops. “Holy crap,” muttered Silversun the magic-user to the cleric, Terry Or. Terry watched the dwarf’s progress in stunned silence, awe and admiration writ large upon his normally sardonic visage.

“Look at him go!”, finished Silversun, also astonished at the dwarf’s skill. Still stunned, the cleric only nodded. Two large pillars, obvious supports for the ceiling some fifteen feet above, demarked the center of the room. As the dwarf rapidly approached, two shadows stirred from behind these columns; Aspis drones, giant insect horrors that balanced upon their back legs and strode forward as humanoids. Walking forward in this fashion their additional limbs bore both broadsword and shield. Even Dixon paused for a splintered moment as he faced these seven-foot-tall monstrosities. Quickly recovering, he swung his mighty hammer with all of the pent-up rage of a people persecuted by giant-kind and their ilk. “Come and test my hammer, bug-boy,” he roared through gritted teeth, “I think not that you’ll enjoy the taste.”

Steel met chitin with a resounding crack that broke the reverie of those watching. Dixon’s hammer struck to great effect, but the drones’ counter-blows landed with brutal precision. Silversun, the first to respond, yelled, “Eat these, abominations!” as three magic missiles streaked through the dark, bursting against the creatures for a searing 14 points of damage. Dog loosed an arrow that clattered against stone, while Terry and Irving threaded a precarious path across the beams to join the fray. The clash of battle echoed through the chamber as the cleric and paladin did their best to reach their outnumbered comrade before he could be further injured. A second volley of magic missiles from Silversun perforated one Aspis that fell soundlessly into a cage below, while Terry managed to close the range with the last. The sound of a strange metallic clang reverberated through the room, but the embattled warriors were too occupied to note its source. Not expecting an attack from the direction of the cleric’ approach, the Apsis drone fell as, with a satisfying ‘Crack’, Terry’s mace penetrated his tough insect-like outer shell. Soon the panting of exertion was the only sound present within the room. At least until Irving the paladin made himself heard. Terry quickly began to help Dixon with his wounds, while Silversun tried to locate the origin of Irving’s voice. The paladin was nowhere to be seen.

“If you’re not too busy,” the voice rang out once again, “I’m down here!”

Irving had lost his footing and fallen into one of the holding cells. The clang of armor and his muffled curse rang out below. “Got a rope?” he called from below.

Dixon chuckled aloud as he tightened the last bandage that Terry had applied to his wounds. “Be with you in a second,” he answered in a cheery voice, “I always have rope.”

The paladin retrieved from his erstwhile prison, the group made their way cautiously across the room filled with slave cages.

---

Hallway Battle and Healing

The passage on the far side of the cage room held an abandoned chair, a sign that immediately alerted Dog, the ranger. He motioned silently for the others to hang back as he stealthily crept down the hall. As if to certify his skill at sensing enemies, an Aspis drone emerged from the shadows of a slight bend on the hallway and swung twin blades at the fearless ranger. Dog responded with an arrow of his own. The other adventurers rushed forward, quickly engaging the giant humanoid insect. A quick thrust of the insect’s first sword connected with Silversun, a telling blow, but the mage bravely refused to back down. Its second blade blocked by the cleric’s mace, the creature was quickly dispatched by blows from the ranger and the dwarf. Dog, disugusted by these creatures, quickly dragged the body to the entrance of the cage room and dropped it into one of the cells below while Terry tended to the wounds of both the dwarf and the mage.

Silversun was in fairly rough shape. “I know I shouldn’t charge in,” he replied to the cleric’s concerned but retributive glare, “but these creatures are just vile.” Dog, his hearing amazingly acute, replied from the far end of the passage where he had disposed of the body. “Yes brother,” he agreed with a nod.

Investigating the now-Apsis-free hallway, the characters discovered three possibilities for their ongoing search. To the north, the wall was absent, and a second sunken room, fully ten feet lower than the floor of the hallway, presented itself. It closely resembled the room that had been filled with barred prisoner cells, but the cages were absent. That room appeared to continue onward to the south, passing under the hallway currently occupied by the party. To the east, the hallway continued for more then eighty feet and appeared to end with a stout, iron-band-reinforced wooden door. To the south, a similar door beckoned from a spot only twenty feet from the room of the cages. Unable to quench his zeal, Dixon quickly opened the door to the south.

Beyond the door a small chamber, perhaps ten to twelve feet by fifteen feet, lay empty, with a staircase that led downwards taking the place of its southern wall. Several experiments with these levers confirmed that they operated the doors covering the cells in the room of cages. Discovering this, even Irving, usually the most level-headed member of the group admitted, “Yes! This is definitely the abode of some vile traffickers in flesh. By the will of Cuthbert, they must be made to pay for their crimes.”

---

The Slave Cells

Beyond the control room, the adventurers cautiously descended the steps to the south. The landing was indeed a mere continuation of the sunken chamber to the north that they had seen from the hallway before entering the room of levers. Dog quickly signed for the others to remain quiet and still, while he and the dwarf moved forward stealthily to investigate, creeping down the stairs.

Human and orcish captives huddled within, eyes hollow with despair. Thirteen in total—one defiant barbarian among them—guarded by five orcs and three human overseers.

Dixon whispered in Dwarvish to relay his plan; Terry prepared his hold person spell. Irving stepped forward, calling out a false challenge to draw the guards closer. In a moment of perfect timing, the cleric’s spell froze three men and one orc in place while Dog’s arrow struck true. The melee was brutal but efficient. Within moments, the slavers lay defeated and the keys to the cages were theirs.

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The Magic-User and His Fall

The only opponent left was cloaked in crimson robes, a Magic-User. His first act was a slow spell, warping time for Irving, Dixon, and Dog. Terry and Silversun surged forward. The wizard began a burning hands incantation, but Silversun’s thrown dagger struck him mid-gesture, shattering his concentration. The explosion of sparks backfired—engulfing the slaver mage in his own flames and Terry'Or finished him with the mace. When the smoke cleared, his spellbook lay charred but intact. Silversun claimed it, eyes gleaming in the dim light.

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Aftermath: Rescue and Revelation

The group tended to the freed slaves and searched the bodies of the fallen. The Aspis bore only crude weapons, but among the slavers’ loot they discovered 3 500gp gems, a ring, and a map showing a route from Highport to the Slaver’s Stockade. One surviving female fighter, captured among the slavers, was bound and interrogated; she denied knowledge of any “noble prisoner” but offered her blade in service—for a price. The adventurers locked here in a cell.

After feeding and arming the eleven surviving prisoners, the party prepared to guide them toward safety before pressing deeper into the undercity.

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Outcome

• XP Awarded: 6,000 each

• Treasure Found: 3 500 Gold Piece Gems, bracers of defense AC 6, clerical ring of spell storing, spellbook, map to Slaver’s Stockade

• Prisoners Freed: 13 humans

• Next Objective: Track the slavers’ route to the Stockade and visit the master of the Slave pits

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Closing Scene

As the last of the rescued captives disappeared into the torchlit corridor, Dog turned back toward the darkness. “Slavers don’t work alone,” he muttered.
Irving tightened his grip on his mace, Harvey perched silently beside him. “Then we end the chain at its source,” he said.

The echo of their footsteps faded into the dripping dark—the road to the Slaver’s Stockade awaiting. First, they need to confront the master.