Chapter 3 / Episode 92 – Fire in the Torture Hall
Date: Planting 14, 576 CY — Late Night
Region: Drachensgrab Hills, south of Highport — Slave Lords’ Stockade
Weather (Outside): Cold drizzle under low, unmoving clouds. The slave road churned to mud beneath unseen traffic.
Weather (Within): Heat, smoke, and the stench of cruelty made permanent.
Players
Dog the Ranger
Irving the Reluctant (restored? — or still stone depending on your ruling, but I’ll keep him active here since he acted)
TerryOr the Cleric of St. Cuthbert
Silversun Ubermage the Magic-User
Slash the Bard
Tiger Wong, Monk of the Eastern Lands
Kern Blackshield of Safeton - abscent
Lady Morwen Ellisar (NPC)
Planting 14 — The Fortress Breathes
Eight hours.
That is what they took.
Not comfort. Not safety. Just enough time to close wounds, steady hands, and let the worst of the poison and exhaustion bleed off. Dog kept watch through it all, unmoving, listening to the rhythm of the stronghold above them—the patrols, the distant boots, the faint clatter of chains.
When he finally woke them, it was not with urgency.
It was with certainty.
“They’re still moving,” he said quietly. “We move now.”
The Hidden Door
The corridor beyond the storeroom narrowed, the air growing thick and stale. Dog paused, crouched low, fingers brushing along the stone. Tracks. Recent. Heavy.
He found the seam.
A door hidden well enough that only habit and instinct would catch it.
Inside—
Ogres.
A crude chamber, low fire burning, a chest used as a gaming table. Cards scattered across it mid-hand. They had been here recently. Drinking. Gambling. Waiting.
“Slavers don’t relax,” Slash muttered under his breath. “They wait.”
They did not engage.
Not yet.
The sound came first.
Screaming.
The Door to the West
It was not a shout. Not a battle cry.
It was pain.
Raw. Repeating. Breaking.
The party stacked along the wall, weapons drawn, spells prepared. Terry stood at the door, hand resting against the wood. Silversun positioned himself carefully, already calculating the space for a fireball if the room opened wide enough.
Irving—through Harvey—moved ahead first.
Small. Quiet. Listening.
“Just one voice,” came the whisper back. “No guards speaking.”
That made it worse.
The Torture Chamber
The door opened.
The smell hit first.
Iron. Rot. Burnt flesh.
A goblin clung to a rope, swinging a crude chandelier back and forth like a child’s toy. Below him, sixteen more goblins surrounded a man stretched across a rack, his limbs pulled tight, his body shaking with each turn of the mechanism.
Chains. Hooks. Implements laid out with care.
This was not chaos.
This was work.
Dog and Irving moved first, dropping into the room as the chandelier crashed downward. Both avoided the falling debris by instinct alone, landing inside the chaos as the goblins turned in surprise.
“Now,” Silversun said—and the world turned white.
Fireball
The spell filled the chamber.
Thirty feet of burning air expanding outward in a perfect sphere, consuming everything it touched. Goblins did not scream long. The rack splintered. The ropes burned through.
When the fire collapsed back into itself, the room was ash and ruin.
A few survived.
Not many.
And from the smoke came another sound.
Growling.
The Wargs
They came fast—ten of them, bursting from adjoining passages, drawn by flame and death.
Dog braced, spear leveled.
Terry stepped forward beside him, shield raised, invoking what strength he had left.
Tiger Wong moved like wind—his body lifting, turning, and striking in a single motion as his foot drove into the skull of the nearest beast.
Slash intercepted another mid-charge, blade catching its leap and dragging it sideways.
Silversun, already wounded, held position—choosing targets carefully, letting the fighters hold the line.
And intended not to repeat it.
The Line Holds
The battle was tight.
Close.
Brutal.
Wargs do not break easily—but they break eventually.
Steel, spell, and stubborn refusal to fall carried the fight.
One by one the beasts went down.
The last died under Terry’s strike, his mace crashing through bone as the creature collapsed at his feet.
For a moment, no one moved.
After the Fire
The man on the rack still lived.
Barely.
They cut him free.
Water was given. No questions yet. Not until breath returned.
The chamber told its own story—of slaves broken, of information taken, of pain turned into currency.
They searched what remained.
Keys.
Chains.
Marks burned into wood and flesh alike.
This was one of many such rooms.
Not the only one.
Fracture Within
What followed was quieter—and more dangerous.
The tension that had been building finally broke.
Words turned sharp.
Accusations surfaced—intent, trust, control.
Harvey struck.
Slash answered with his magic sword. Clashing against the mace.
Tiger intervened.
And in the end, the party did something harder than fighting monsters.
They restrained their own.
Harvey was bound. Stripped of advantage. Reduced, for now, to something less dangerous.
Not banished.
Not forgiven.
Contained.
Terry stood between them all.
“Not here,” he said. “Not like this.”
No one argued.
St Cuthbert appeared before Irving, "You are no longer a Paladin for this Chaotic act!"
Outcome Notes
Torture chamber cleared
Internal conflict erupted within the party (Harvey restrained)
XP Awarded
5,000 XP each (exceptional roleplay, combat, and decision-making)
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