Chapter 3 / Episode 88 – At the Stronghold

Chapter 3 / Episode 88 – At the Stronghold

Date: Planting 11–13, 576 CY — Afternoon into Night
Region: Drachensgrab Hills, south of Highport — broken ruins along the slave road
Weather: Cold drizzle. Low clouds. Mud and mist clung to stone and bone alike.

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Players

• Dog the Ranger

• Irving the Reluctant (with Harvey the Hare)

• TerryOr the Cleric

• Silversun Ubermage the Magic-User

• Slash the Bard

• Tiger Wong

• Lady Morwen Ellisar (NPC)

• Kern Blackshield of Safeton

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Planting 11 — The Sword That Chose

The throne room still reeked of old magic and older death when Slash knelt beside the fallen blade.

The crown lay nearby, dull gold and red-stoned, whispering without sound. But it was the sword that drew him.

Ancient etchings ran its fuller—pre-Temple, pre-Stockade, older than the ruin itself. Slash lifted it carefully.

Steel touched steel.

His own weapon shattered instantly. Not chipped. Not cracked. Shattered.

Silence followed.

“Well,” Slash muttered, staring at the broken hilt in his hand, “that answers that.”

Irving said nothing. Harvey shifted on his shoulder, ears flat.

The debate that followed was not about loot. It was about direction. Return to the surface? Press deeper below?

Terry’s answer was simple.
“We don’t leave rot half-cut.”

They went further.

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The Ruby Faces

A chamber—twenty feet square—centered by a dry well. Five pillars ringed the space, each carved with a grimacing stone face. In every eye socket: a ruby.

Silversun stepped forward first.

He removed one gem cleanly.

No trap triggered. No curse screamed. Just the faint scrape of stone and the quiet weight of a prize pocketed.

Irving drank healing draughts slowly, age heavy on his shoulders but resolve unbroken. Terry searched for hidden seams and found none.

They withdrew.

Above ground, the world had not improved.

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Lady Morwen and the Cart of Dead

They found her at the edge of the ruin—Lady Morwen Ellisar, rain darkening her cloak, standing beside a cart filled with corpses. Hobgoblins. Slaves. Hard to tell in the drizzle.

“This place breeds death,” she said flatly.

They agreed to rest. No one had the spells—or the patience—for another descent.

Dog ranged outward to find shelter off the slave road. Slash lingered behind.

“You trust her?” Slash asked quietly.

Dog didn’t look back.
“I trust what she’s done.”

That was answer enough.

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Planting 12 — Vultures and the Limping Man

The land shifted as they moved south—rockier ground, scrub brush clinging to stubborn soil. Vultures circled ahead.

“Fresh,” Dog whispered.

Then he saw him.

Six foot four. Plate armor. Longbow. Limping slightly. Alone.

They waited.

Irving offered to close the distance under divine sight, checking for chaos before steel. The stranger approached cautiously, but not like a slaver.

His name was Kern Blackshield of Safeton.

His wife had been taken by hobgoblins.

“I tracked them this far,” he said, voice tight. “Then I lost them near the old road.”

Silversun’s reply was cold but practical.
“If she lives, she’ll be at the stockade.”

Kern did not flinch.

“Then I’m going there.”

So be it.

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Camp and the Crown

Dog brought down an antelope before dusk. Clean kill. Clean cut. Meat roasting over low coals as rain eased to mist.

Watches were set.

First: Kern and Terry.
Second: Tiger and Slash.
Third: Irving and Silversun.
Last: Dog and Silversun.

It was the third watch that broke the night.

Irving held the chaotic crown in both hands, staring at it like a problem that needed ending.

Silversun stood opposite him.

“Destroy it,” Silversun said.

“No,” Irving answered.

The word hung heavy.

Steel wasn’t drawn—but voices rose. Others stirred. Slash rolled to his side, blinking through sleep. Tiger rose silently.

Irving’s position was clear: the crown would not be destroyed blindly. It would be examined. Judged. Returned, perhaps, to the Church of St. Cuthbert in Hommlet—who had funded their war against this rot in the first place.

Terry supported caution.

Silversun wanted certainty.

In the end, no one acted rashly.

The crown remained intact.

But something else cracked that night.

Trust, perhaps.

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Planting 13 — The Stronghold Revealed

By midmorning, the hills gave way to sightlines.

And there it was.

The slavers’ stockade.

High walls. Reinforced gates. Patrols in steady rotation. Towers with archers. Smoke from within. Organized. Alert.

“Front gate’s suicide,” Dog said flatly.

They pulled back.

Horses and cart were hidden under entangling brush and canvas. Tracks masked. Animals released quietly to range.

From a higher ridge, they watched.

Patrol timing. Guard shifts. Blind angles.

There were rumors of a haunted section the guards avoided. If true, that was an opening.

Invisibility was discussed. Illusion. Bluff. Fire. Faith.

No decision yet.

Only reconnaissance.

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Outcome Notes

• XP Awarded: 1,000 XP each

• Items of Note:

  • Ancient sword (superior enchantment; shattered Slash’s former blade on contact)

  • One ruby gem recovered from skull pillar

  • Chaotic crown retained (undestroyed)

• New Ally:

  • Kern Blackshield of Safeton — man-at-arms searching for abducted wife

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Current Status

• Party low on spells but rested

• Crown under guard (Irving, Dog, Silversun aware of risk)

• Stronghold identified and observed

• Infiltration plan pending

• Emotional tension rising between divine caution and arcane pragmatism

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The stockade waits.

Behind those walls are slaves. Slavers. And possibly Kern’s wife.

And somewhere inside, the chain that binds this whole rotten network together.

Next move decides everything.