25th of Eleasis of the year 1492
The morning haze of half-remembered dreams hung heavy over the party as they stirred to consciousness in the dwarven barracks. Each of them awoke with the weight of visions too intense to be ignored. These weren’t ordinary dreams; they were vivid, terrifying, and suspiciously interconnected. The one exception was Ace, who rose refreshed and unnervingly cheerful thanks to his enchanted pillow. The rest of the group, however, appeared shaken—unspoken dread etched in their expressions. As coffee brewed and questions were exchanged, a reluctant honesty began to emerge. One by one, they began sharing what they had seen in the night.
Angelica was the first to speak, her words halting but clear. She dreamed of fire—warmth turned to suffocation, her sleeping bag transformed into an oven. Around her, her companions lay wrapped in flames but remained unharmed, sleeping peacefully. She tried to scream but her voice became a jet of fire, her greataxe glowing white-hot. When she swung it, the world tore apart, revealing a child made of fire, a cathedral of warriors praying to a pyre, and a throne of ash. At the end stood a towering figure cloaked in fire, faceless, wrapped in chains that pulsed like roots through the burning earth. She charged. Then the world flashed, and she awoke. Her bedroll was cool, but the scent of smoke lingered—and the trees around camp were blackened more than before.
Ace recounted his dream with a forced levity that fooled no one. He described roasting marshmallows around the campfire, his companions laughing and singing as the fire grew, slow and silent, until it consumed everything. Their faces burned but their smiles didn’t fade. Then the flames split open like a curtain, revealing a mirrored hall of versions of himself, each distorted and burning. One stepped forward, whispering, “You never left the stage. The audience just forgot they were watching.” Ace awoke grinning, oddly well-rested—but his boots were warm, the pillow was no longer cool, and the air around him smelled faintly of scorched sugar.
ISAC’s voice grew quieter as he told his tale. He dreamt of standing in a cathedral of burning glass above a lake of boiling fire. Murals made of flame shifted around him—some familiar, others not. A presence stirred below. It didn’t speak in words but in essence. “You were never finished,” it whispered. “You were woken… not born.” A being of glyphs and fractured thoughts emerged beneath him, crawling into his limbs. A second pair of eyes opened on his chest. “You are not the dreamer,” the voice hissed. “You are the dream.” He woke with heat beneath his body, trembling, a face momentarily flickering in the campfire.
Kliedd had perhaps the most disquieting dream. He awoke in a cave of fire where gold dripped from the ceiling and each coin burned him as he reached for it. Yet he couldn’t stop. Laughter echoed from deeper within—his own voice. Following it, he found another version of himself crouched over a scorched corpse curled in a sleeping bag. “Didn’t check the trap,” the doppelgänger muttered. As Kliedd turned to flee, the walls collapsed into tongues of flame, whispering his secrets—his plans, lies, and unspoken betrayals—burning them into the stone. He woke coughing. One gold coin from his pack was gone.
Rayek described a battlefield of sleeping bags. Each one contained another version of himself, burned and swordless. As he tried to save them, each woke only to die screaming. “You should have guarded their dreams,” said a voice. His echo appeared—gleaming gold and aflame—and attacked. Every time Rayek struck him down, another fiery version took its place. In the sky above, a hand of smoke descended, closing slowly. He screamed and woke with one sword already half-drawn, soot on the soil around his allies.
Seraphina fell through constellations that burst into flame. She landed inside a burning tower that once was hers. Books screamed as they combusted, spell notes crawled across the walls whispering truths she no longer understood. Her ink boiled in her hands. A mirror at the center bore a child’s drawing of her, pinned with melted wax. “You chased knowledge,” a voice rasped, “but you never asked who lit the way.” A claw of fire and shadow reached from the mirror. She awoke screaming. Her fingers blistered. Her spellbook was sealed shut. A page was missing.
Yllanys, ever the scholar, described a dream where he was trapped inside a scroll. His skin became parchment, fire-scribed with words he couldn’t read fast enough. Books circled him, ash-winged and brass-beaked. His reflection appeared, bound and writing in the sky, saying, “You thought you wrote the spells, but you only copied them from deeper flame.” He tried to cast—but his hands had become tongues of fire. He woke thrashing, smoke rising from his sleeves. Under the campfire’s ashes, a rune glowed—one he had not drawn.
As they finished sharing, a realization settled on them all. These weren’t just nightmares. They were crafted, personal, and prophetic. “We must be near the portal,” someone muttered. Another replied bitterly, “That, or it’s trying to get inside our heads.”One thing was certain: the dreams weren’t over. And whatever was waiting below the fortress, it knew their names.
Time Running Out
With the weight of their dreams still lingering and the druid’s warning hanging heavy—ten days until total devastation—the group knew the clock had begun ticking. But even that grim deadline might be generous; no one truly trusted the estimate. The portal’s location seemed clear—it was somewhere beneath the ancient dwarven fortress ahead—but the path to it remained uncertain. They had tried once before and been driven back by an onslaught of cursed dwarven spirits. Now they stood once more at the brink, knowing they had to try again. Whether they found a new entrance or stormed the same battlements, it had to be soon. “If we don’t get it done by the fifth,” Ace had been told, “everyone here is dead.”
They gathered in the barracks to finalize their plan. Kliedd calmly retrieved his silk rope, noting its lighter weight for magical handling. Others checked their gear—Angelica tested the edge of her axe, Ace tightened the grip on his scimitar, ISAC tapped his smooth metallic fingers together as he calculated spells. Several discussed magical options: Seraphina and Yllanys could each teleport with a companion using Dimension Door, though doing so blindly was a gamble. ISAC, ever the strategist, suggested ways to use Mage Hand with rope. Rayek had his own solution—his ghostly echo could be projected up the wall, and once it reached the top, he could switch places with it instantly. “It’s about timing,” he muttered. “We all need to hit that wall together.”
The group debated how best to avoid being picked off one by one during the climb. Yllanys’ previous attempt had triggered an immediate response from the cursed dwarves, suggesting any breach would be answered with violence. Angelica volunteered to go up first, pointing out that she was best suited to hold the line while the others scrambled to join. ISAC questioned whether they had overlooked another entrance entirely—maybe something hidden beneath the rubble or carved into the cliff face. But as Kliedd pointed out, they hadn’t done a thorough perimeter sweep the first time. They’d barely inspected the outer walls. Still, the overwhelming consensus was that they lacked the time for a slow scout. It had to be fast, direct, and preferably devastating.
As they gathered ropes and reviewed magical distances, the logistics of the climb came into sharp focus. The arrow slits in the wall were about forty-five feet up. Using Mage Hand with silk rope would just barely reach. The hand couldn’t carry more than ten pounds, limiting how much line could be hauled up. Someone suggested tying knots for handholds, but that reduced length further. Yllanys mentioned teleporting directly to the rooftop by estimating the angle and distance—though he’d need to guess, having only seen the top once, briefly. “Too risky,” Seraphina muttered, eyeing the wall. But even risk had a price they might have to pay. Kliedd made one final check of the base, looking for seams or hidden joins between stone and rubble. “Never found a secret door by skipping the wall,” he said.
As they finally formed up, they set the marching order. Rayek would send his echo first. Once it reached the top, he would swap places, and Seraphina or Yllanys would teleport another person to support him. Angelica would fly up using her gem flight if necessary. Ace offered to be lifted by teleport. Kliedd, cautious as ever, prepared to climb. With Isaac covering the rear and the party coordinating every movement, they made their way toward the wall—ropes in hand, spells ready. The decision had been made. They would assault the fortress directly. Again. And this time, they would not retreat.
Assault on the Rooftop
The moment Rayek exchanged places with his ghostly echo and appeared atop the fortress wall, violence exploded from the stone. Spectral dwarves, armored in death and surrounded by a faint purple glow, materialized instantly. Their commander—a withered husk of fury and hatred—was already waiting. Rayek was alone for precious seconds, blades flashing in defiance as the phantoms converged on him. His shouts of pain and warning echoed down the wall as he fended off blow after blow. The rest of the group reacted fast, but getting to him was another matter entirely. One after another, teleportation efforts failed. Both ISAC and Yllanys misjudged their jumps, materializing into the same space as Rayek’s ancestor or each other. The collision threw them violently back, both of them hitting the ground hard and limping away with scorched limbs and ringing ears.
Dwarven Wraiths
ISAC was the first to act, attempting to bring Kliedd to the rooftop with him in a calculated teleport. But the chosen destination was already occupied—by Rayek’s summoned ancestor—and both ISAC and Kliedd were violently rejected, reappearing back on the ground with aching joints and bruised pride. Yllanys made his own attempt to bring Ace, estimating the arc and distance from his memory of the rooftop. His calculation was equally flawed, and the two of them rematerialized with a painful jolt, visibly shaken. On the second wave of attempts, the plan finally gained traction. Seraphina grabbed Ace and redirected their trajectory upward and outward; they landed roughly but successfully on the rooftop. Meanwhile, ISAC tried again, this time targeting a different spot and successfully bringing Kliedd with him. Yllanys, opting not to risk another shared jump, teleported solo and arrived intact. One by one, bruised and disoriented, the team began to gather atop the wall.
By the time the majority of the group had scrambled to the top, Rayek was already bleeding heavily. The dwarven spirits proved to be merciless opponents. Intangible and immune to many weapons, they glided silently across the stone and struck with eerie precision. Their touch drained vitality itself. Each time they hit, life force ebbed, and maximum endurance was whittled away. The spectral commander was the worst of them all. His strikes were infused with dark energy that burned deeper than flesh. In the opening exchange, he dropped Rayek once, and then again almost immediately after. Only the ancient enchantment hidden within Rayek’s amulet prevented him from dying outright. “I’m going to throw my sword,” Rayek muttered between gasps, fumbling for a javelin. “What, like a javelin?” someone asked. “No,” he replied grimly, “like a last stand.”
ISAC fell next, surrounded and hammered by strikes that bypassed even his durable, warforged body. Angelica was forced to anchor the western flank, her axe sweeping in arcs of radiant defiance. Ace dueled with one of the ghosts near the southern edge, throwing flourishes and parries as if performing for a half-dead audience. Seraphina backed away from the cluster and began hurling radiant attacks—acid spells converted into beams of white-hot searing light, and eventually a devastating breath of arctic fury. Yllanys unleashed spell after spell, converting arcane power into radiant energy to counter the spirits’ unnatural form. ISAC brought spiritual guardians, summoned ravens of radiance, and radiant daggers spiraled through the air. Still, the commander refused to fall. Again and again, he carved into the party. His axes licked with necrotic fire. His voice never rose in anger—only grew colder.
Then, finally, something struck true. Yllanys, after exhausting many of his most powerful spells, loosed a barrage of magic missiles. The bolts, annoyingly precise and always on target, hammered into the spectral commander. The ghost twisted, turned—and then screamed. Not in pain, but in rage. “He screamed at Yllanys,” someone whispered. And then he was gone. No weapon fell. No armor clattered. No body remained. Just an empty rooftop and the faint scent of scorched metal. Before anyone could breathe a sigh of relief, Yllanys spoke. “Guys… he said more were coming.” The warning came too late to savor the victory. The group immediately regrouped, breathless, bruised, and on edge. They had won the rooftop—for now. But the fortress was far from finished with them.
Rushing Against the Clock
With the rooftop secured—at least for the moment—the party wasted no time. There was no rest, no regrouping. Rayek had already warned them what the spectral commander muttered before vanishing: others were coming. Reinforcements. Spirits. Whatever curse animated the dwarves was not finished. The group immediately spread out across the rooftop, scanning the wreckage left behind by the long-dead defenders. It wasn’t just stone and ash. There were relics buried beneath the rubble—badges bearing old dwarven crests, shattered weaponry, and the warped remnants of armor long melted or torn apart. These weren’t ceremonial items; they had been used, and violently so. Their placement suggested this rooftop had seen countless battles even before the current curse had taken hold.
Among the wreckage, Kliedd and Ace uncovered a half-buried chest, twisted and nearly fused shut by age and pressure. Digging it out required ten precious minutes, a gamble under the threat of imminent attack. But it paid off. Inside was a trove of dwarven wealth—three heavy gold ingots stamped with ancient runes, a flawless sapphire gleaming in the light, and a dwarven shortsword inlaid with rubies, humming with subtle arcane energy. It was unmistakably magical, and Kliedd, with dirt still under his nails, eyed it with cautious appreciation. “We’ll identify this later,” he muttered, slipping it into the bag of holding with practiced discretion. The others didn’t object. Every second mattered now.
A brief glance at the sky confirmed what none of them wanted to hear—it was nearly midday. “He said ‘after lunch,’” someone whispered, their voice low but urgent. “It’s lunchtime,” came the grim reply. The warning from the spectral commander hadn’t been idle; it had been a schedule. Whatever was coming was likely already in motion. The group didn’t hesitate. Kliedd scooped up a few relics—one badge still intact, worth something more than just gold—and nodded toward the stairwell. “We’re out of time,”Seraphina said flatly. No one disagreed. They moved with renewed urgency.
They descended the stairwell in formation, the sound of boots on stone echoing through the empty hallways. There was no chatter, only focus. The mission remained the same: destroy the elemental stone, shut down the portal, and stop whatever force was poised to annihilate the valley. Every movement was made with speed. The healing they had administered above was barely enough to patch wounds and restore breath, and no one knew how long they would have before another wave arrived. The rooftop was no longer a battlefield—it was now behind them, a place they hoped never to see again.
The dwarven halls below waited. Cold, dark, and carved with the precision of long-dead artisans. No signs of life. No light. Just silence, and the sense of something watching. The rooftop battle had been a warning. The next one, they feared, would be the true defense. And the portal—the thing they had been chasing since Red Larch—was close now. Somewhere beneath their feet. They had minutes, not hours. And lunch was over.
Into the Fortress Below
The descent from the rooftop led the party into a hallway that felt like a boundary between the living world and something older, colder, and much less welcoming. The stone was dwarven through and through—flawless, angular, and entirely utilitarian. No embellishments marked the walls; no inscriptions decorated the archways. The silence was nearly total, broken only by the echo of their footsteps and the occasional rustle of gear. They moved quickly but carefully, the urgency of the rooftop still driving them forward. Torches were unnecessary; ISAC’s internal glow and the party’s darkvision lit the way. The dust was thick but undisturbed—centuries of stillness untouched by anything living.
Kliedd led the group with ISAC just behind, their combined awareness sweeping through the gloom ahead. As they reached a junction where the main corridor split, Kliedd slowed and pointed to a wide stairwell leading down. “The stone’s down there,” he said with quiet certainty, eyes fixed on the shadowed descent. His voice carried no doubt—only focus. Angelica followed his gaze, visibly uneasy. “I don’t like it,” she said flatly. “But I believe him.” The others gathered near the top of the steps, instincts at war with strategy. Every footstep seemed too loud, as if the fortress below might wake.
But it was Yllanys who stepped back from the edge, arms folded, his voice cutting through the tension. “I have a bad feeling about going deeper before we’ve searched this floor,” he said, not as a suggestion but a warning. His eyes scanned the hall behind them, lingering on doorways and unsearched corners. “This place was built to protect something, and dwarves don’t waste stone. If there’s a trap, or something watching, we need to find it before we’re trapped between it and the stone.” The group hesitated, caught between urgency and caution. Slowly, reluctantly, the decision was made to search the upper level before heading into the depths.
They moved down the central corridor in a steady formation, wasting no time on careful inspection. Kliedd and Skinny ranged about thirty feet ahead of the group, silently scouting as they advanced. As they reached each set of doors along the hallway, someone from the main group would briefly peel off to glance inside the adjoining room—just a quick check to confirm the elemental stone wasn’t hiding in plain sight. There was no thorough search, no digging through rubble or prying open crates. The rooms were glanced over and dismissed, their uniform layouts offering little variation: simple dwarven bunks, old weapon racks, and the dust of centuries. No one lingered long. The group pressed on, letting the pace—and the pressure of time—dictate their actions.
As the group advanced down the final southern hallway, their pace cautious but steady, Kliedd and Skinny remained ahead of the others, quietly navigating the dim corridor. They passed another set of empty bunks and turned the final corner—and froze. Thirty feet ahead, the hallway opened into a dark, vaulted chamber carved directly from the surrounding cavern rock. Unlike the rest of the fortress, this room had no ceiling. Instead, it gave way to the black expanse of the larger cavern, disappearing upward into shadow. The walls were jagged and raw, not shaped by chisels but broken free, almost as if the room had been torn open by some vast force. The air inside hung heavier than before, and even Kliedd could feel it—the sense of something waiting, hidden just outside his vision.
The ground was treacherous, uneven with rubble and broken stone, as though once-proud architecture had long since collapsed and been abandoned. At the heart of the space stood a massive stone altar, cracked and worn but still whole. Its surface was layered in dust, but nestled in the center was a strange violet stone—irregular in shape, glowing faintly with a pulsing inner light. That dim glow didn’t illuminate the space so much as stain it. It was unnatural, silent, steady—like the heartbeat of something that should no longer be alive. A low hum filled the room, not loud enough to be heard outright, but felt deep in the spine. It grew stronger the closer Kliedd and Skinny stepped to the altar, like a pressure building under the surface.
Before Kliedd could signal back to the others, shapes shifted in the gloom. From the shadows behind the altar, three dwarven figures emerged. Or what had once been dwarves. Their forms shimmered with spectral energy, cloaked in decay and hatred, their armor rusted to ruin and faces lost beneath hollow helms. Wraiths. Their eyes glowed faintly, echoing the same pulsing red light as the stone. They didn’t speak, but their presence pressed against the mind like a scream held behind glass. Kliedd’s hand went to his weapon. Skinny recoiled slightly, though its eyeless face betrayed nothing.
The others, catching the change in Kliedd’s posture and the sudden tension in the air, rounded the corner and took in the sight. Angelica drew her axe without a word. Rayek’s grip tightened on his swords. Seraphina and Yllanys held back, calculating the risks as the hum of the altar deepened, almost imperceptibly. ISAC scanned the wraiths, searching for weakness, even as the ground beneath his feet seemed to thrum in warning. There was no question—the elemental stone had been found. But so had its guardians. And whatever else this chamber once was—shrine, vault, or battlefield—it was now a tomb waiting to be defended.
And this is where the session ended.
Maps
