The first sight of the vampire was death made manifest.
Dixon the Dwarf lay crumpled at the foot of the coffin, his beard matted black and stiff with blood, his skin drawn tight and corpse-pale—drained dry and discarded like refuse. The stone floor beneath him was slick, the stink of iron and rot heavy in the air. Whatever courage Dixon had died with him in that crypt.
Above, unaware of the fresh horror below, Silversun and Tiger Wong tore through the body of the fallen drow priestess. They stripped her without ceremony—blackened chainmail peeled from cooling flesh, fingers pried open for spider-marked trinkets, poison-laced weapons claimed for later judgment. Hidden cleverly beneath her armor, a true prize was uncovered: a Rod of Absorption, its power humming softly, as if alive. Its power was entrusted to the Magic User—a silent vow against the sorcery that hunted them.
Only then did the Party notice Irving was gone.
No warning. No word.
The Paladin, Lion of Cuthbert, had slipped back into the depths alone.
Moments later, he returned—dragging Dixon’s body behind him. The dwarf’s head lolled unnaturally, eyes sunken, lips pulled back in a frozen rictus of agony. Irving’s face was grim, his armor streaked with ash and blood.
“I made a bargain,” he said flatly.
A book torn from the vampire’s hoard—knowledge meant for Hommlet. And a promise extracted from undead lips: never return.
The Party answered with scorn.
“We are not beholden to evil undead!” someone spat.
“There are prisoners down there!” another roared. “Slaves—or cattle for that bastard!”
The decision was immediate. The plan, reckless.
They would go back down.
Fire would be their weapon.
The vampire knew the instant Irving crossed the threshold again. Words were exchanged—cold, venomous, mocking promises as Terry Or poured oil on the vampire’s open sarcophagus, struck flame & kept a sharp eye for the undead fiend. Fire bloomed hungrily, racing along beams and tapestries blackened by heresy.
Irving ran for the cells as Terry fed the inferno, reaching for his holy symbol. Slash called upon the wild, vines tearing through the crypt floor, ensnaring bone and coffin alike. Dog knocked his arrow, breathing slow as smoke clawed at his lungs.
The vampire erupted from the shadows, rage incarnate. It hurled itself at Irving, shrieking blasphemies at the servant of Cuthbert who dared defy it. Yet Terry Or was ready raising his holy symbol as the mad Vampire shattered it easily under claw and force. Its gaze burned like a brand—but steel, spell, and flame answered in kind.
The vampire lunged for the Paladin, who dared ignore him, with exposed blood stained fangs. Yet there was an answer from the heroes. An immediate destructive answer as acid scorched undead flesh & fire consumed ancient robes.
Then Irving raised his mighty weapon & struck true—his mace bludgeoning deep & deadly, nearly ending the creature outright. Slash, Terry & Dog ensured their final blows took the blood fiend down before it could strike again.
But the building was dying now & the prisoners still in their cages.
Smoke poured through the halls. Beams cracked and fell. In their desperation to free all the captives, Terry, Slash, and Irving were forced back—choking, blinded, skin blistering from heat. Dog alone pushed on, holding his breath, eyes burning as he tried to get the last cell open.
He was determined. He would save the last person! He was unsuccessful, the lock to strong to break, the smoke to dangerous to stay…he had to flee to save himself.
Her screams followed him as he fled—raw, haunting in brutality, human—cut short by fire and a falling upper level. A sound that would never leave him.
Above, Silversun and Tiger Wong finished their work. Scrolls and tomes were seized, knowledge ripped from desecrated shelves. Oil was poured with ruthless efficiency, furniture kicked over, the upstairs sanctum condemned to flame. Then they ran.
Windows shattered as the Party and the freed prisoners leapt into the open, scattering into alleys and shadow before the rest of the town could take notice. Smoke billowed from the roof as the Party nonchalantly headed to the outskirt of town.
Victory had teeth.
The defiled church was destroyed.
The vampire was ash.
Irving’s strength returned—hard-won and blood-paid.
With the book secured for Hommlet and suspicion thick in the air, the Party vanished into the wilds to camp beyond the town’s reach. Ash drifted on the wind behind them, and ahead—only the long, dark road.
This was no detour.
Destroying undead. Burning corrupted temples of Cuthbert. Hunting slavers in the dark.
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