27th of Eleasis of the year 1492
Triage and Tough Decisions
The group huddled together in the dim ruin, every surface cracked and blackened with age, the oppressive heat pressing in from vents of molten rock nearby. The chest before them was no ordinary container—it shimmered faintly with an illusory veil; its iron fittings warped with ancient fire. They had already seen it’s like once before, a similar coffer hidden on an upper floor, and they knew this one would be as treacherous. Angelica leaned on her great axe, her sapphire-hued scales dulled by ash, while Seraphina adjusted her cloak with trembling hands as if warding off the exhaustion tugging at her. Ace tried to summon his usual levity but admitted defeat with a weary shake of his head, saying he was “plum out” of inspiration.
The discussion quickly turned to how much strength remained between them. Angelica’s voice carried through the chamber, sharp with fatigue: “I’m pretty hurt.” ISAC replied that he still had the means to heal but warned it would cost them dearly: “I can heal people, I can do at least three rounds of the big major healing that I can do… but you might not want to use all of them.” He explained that survival might require holding back something for later, a sentiment echoed by the grim nods around her. ISAC’s steel frame groaned as he shifted, the warforged reminding them that a collapsed tunnel now blocked their retreat and that they would need an elemental to clear it again—something Seraphina confessed she could no longer summon without time to rest. The choices narrowed further, hemming them in.
The talk circled around the same hard truth: they had strength for only one more push. Kliedd, perched like a shadow in the rubble, admitted he could do little to aid beyond what was left of his tricks and a pair of blades. Ace tallied the remnants of his magic, counting on his fingers until even he grimaced at the meager list. Yllanys, with his pale duplicate “Skinny” flickering beside him, reminded them that every spell burned now was one they would not have in the face of another colossus or worse. The argument over whether to push onward or retreat swirled until Angelica cut it short, reminding them all, “Once we open this chest, things might start happening.” Her warning hung in the heated air like a drawn blade, and all eyes returned to the box.
The Chest That Hated Everyone
Kliedd edged forward cautiously, extending his mage hand toward the blackened coffer. The air seemed to tighten as the invisible grasp probed the shimmering wards. For a heartbeat nothing happened, then the chest pulsed with sudden light and detonated in a violent burst of force. The sound cracked through the chamber like a thunderclap, shaking dust loose from the ceiling and throwing rubble across the floor. ISAC was flung backward with a resounding crash of metal against stone, his frame sparking as he collapsed. Angelica staggered, her sapphire scales scorched anew, while the rest of the group reeled from the shockwave, their bodies battered by invisible fire. Smoke curled from the chest, still sealed, as the group blinked through the haze of pain.
Angelica’s glare fixed on Kliedd, her great axe clutched so tightly her claws trembled on the haft. “He opened it!” she snapped, the accusation sharp as a blade. Kliedd raised both hands in quick protest, his small form half-hidden behind the broken stones. “No, he didn’t. It’s not open!” he insisted, eyes darting toward the still-shut chest as though it might speak on his behalf. The rest of the company exchanged looks of disbelief, their bodies aching from wounds they had not needed to take. Smoke drifted from Angelica’s shoulders as she refused to look away from him, the heat of her gaze as fierce as the magma vents around them.
Ace moved next, his boots crunching over loose rock as he strode toward ISAC’s fallen form. Where others hesitated at the glowing edges of the lava channel, he pressed on without breaking stride, humming a jaunty, absurd little tune under his breath as though mocking the danger. The air shimmered with heat beneath him, but he did not falter, kneeling beside the warforged to place a steadying hand on the battered frame. With a murmured word and a pulse of magic, he poured life back into ISAC, coaxing the faint glow of power to return behind his eyes. The rest of the party watched in silence, some with relief, others with disbelief at the recklessness of both gnome and man—one for springing the trap, the other for striding so casually through molten peril.
When ISAC’s optics flickered and steadied again, the group pulled him upright, their relief muted by the smoking reminder of the unopened chest. Angelica, still smoldering, did not ease her glare. Kliedd shifted uneasily, muttering that he had only been “looking.” No one spoke in his defense. The air between them remained taut, filled with the acrid sting of burnt flesh and the heavy silence of near disaster.
Unlocking Trouble
ISAC stepped forward with deliberate weight, his metal frame still battered from the earlier blast. He raised his broken sword, the jagged weapon gleaming faintly as he extended it toward the chest. The air shimmered as the fractured blade lengthened into a phantom extension, sliding with uncanny precision into the chest’s hidden lock. A deep, resonant clang rang through the cavern as the lock yielded, the sound like a great bell tolling across the ruins. The noise reverberated through the stone cavern, a reminder that their attempt at subtlety had been abandoned. Every companion stiffened at the echo, listening to the fading ring with unease.
The chest groaned as the internal wards shuddered. A faint buzz crackled along its edges; a hiss of lingering magic warned that the danger had not fully passed. Angelica urged ISAC to step back, but he pressed forward, calling forth a massive phantom hand of shimmering force. The conjured hand reached out and curled its enormous fingers along the scorched iron lid. The chest resisted, releasing a surge of blistering heat that seared even the spectral construct, the shock of it reverberating back into ISAC’s frame. Sparks scattered across the stone floor, and the acrid stench of burned air filled the chamber as the phantom hand trembled but held its grip.
Seraphina and Ace shielded their faces as the chest flared once more, the glow casting warped shadows that danced on the cavern walls. Yllanys muttered that the wards seemed to be reforming even as they watched, his tone edged with unease. Kliedd ducked behind a broken pillar, wary of another eruption. ISAC’s conjured hand strained again, gripping tighter despite the burning lash of magic. The heavy lid groaned and ground against its hinges, resisting until, with a final wrench, it yielded. The lid tore free with a sharp clang, and a rush of hot air burst forth, whipping cloaks and sending dust spiraling into the heated currents.
Inside, two metal containers gleamed in stark contrast to their surroundings. Both were seamless and alien in design, their surfaces a silvery-gray unfamiliar even to Seraphina’s practiced eye. One was small and thick, no larger than a strongbox, while the other was broader and flatter, its proportions suggesting it had been built to contain something delicate. Strangely, though the outer chest radiated dangerous heat, these inner boxes were cool to the touch. Kliedd reached forward and brushed his fingers across their surface, his brows furrowed as he noted their chill in the midst of the forge’s suffocating warmth. The companions stared into the dark cavity, their bodies still aching, but the chest—at last—was open.
A Chronicle and a Head
Kliedd pried open the smaller of the two containers first, his fingers running over its cool metallic surface before lifting the lid. Inside rested a heavy tome, its cover blackened and scorched by fire long ago. The edges were curled, the iron clasps bent and broken, unable to keep the book closed. When he pulled it free, the smell of smoke and stone clung to the pages, as though it had been pulled directly from a forge. The dwarven script was etched in a style both archaic and precise, the runes cracked but still legible. Across the front, in faded and uneven strokes, were the words: “Forged in truth, even if the hammers fail.” Kliedd squinted and whispered the name inscribed beneath, “Marnak Steelshroud, Clan of the Emberdeep.”
Yllanys leaned closer as Kliedd opened the book, light from the magma’s glow flickering across the Dwarvish letters. Though many of the passages were damaged, enough survived to convey their weight. The writing spoke of Tyar-Besil’s final days, the dwarves’ desperation as they constructed guardians to hold back the dark. It described the forging of the colossal sentinels, wrought to stand as both weapons and monuments. These were not simple machines of war, but desperate prayers hammered into iron, designed to defend their forges even as their world crumbled. The date scrawled on the entries marked the effort at over six and a half millennia past, an age so distant that even Seraphina’s deep knowledge could only guess at the scale of their despair.
The second container was larger, flatter, and heavier. When ISAC lifted it free, the weight pulled at his arms, and he set it carefully onto the stone floor before unlatching it. As the lid came away, the group froze. Inside lay a severed head, not of flesh and bone, but of metal and carved crystal. Its design bore a haunting familiarity—it resembled ISAC’s own features, though imperfectly shaped and eerily lifeless. The faceplate was split along one side, part of the jaw broken, and one of the eye sockets gaped hollow, the crystal lens gone. Strands of disconnected cabling dangled like torn sinew from the neck’s base, swaying slightly as the box settled.
Angelica narrowed her eyes and leaned in, her voice tight. “What is that?” Kliedd whispered back before ISAC could speak, “Looks like his head.” Yllanys studied it in silence, his gaze darting between the warforged and the shattered visage in the box. The resemblance was too sharp to be dismissed, yet too crude to be considered a perfect twin. Seraphina speculated aloud if it might have been a duplicate, a spare shell, or perhaps the remnant of a failed experiment left abandoned. Ace frowned and muttered that he did not like the way its empty eye stared at them, even in deathless silence.
ISAC alone seemed unmoved. His glowing eye dimmed briefly as he studied the head, then he bent, lifted the box with steady hands, and slid it into the depths of his bag of holding. His voice was flat, without inflection, when he answered the others. “A spare, I think so.” The words hung in the heated chamber, drawing unease from the others as they exchanged glances but did not press further.
Reading in the Barracks
The companions withdrew deeper into the vast cavern and returned to the barracks they had stayed in before. Built from the salvaged stone of long-collapsed structures, the walls stood firm, patched together but strong enough to offer security against the chaos outside. A roof of heavy timbers and stone slabs sealed it overhead, keeping the worst of the cavern’s heat and dust at bay. The heavy door at its front could be secured, giving the group a defensible position and a rare sense of control. Inside, the furnishings were simple but serviceable—bunks, tables, and benches cobbled together by the fire cultists who had claimed this place as their quarters. Though rough and spare, the barracks remained intact and usable, a stark contrast to the ruins scattered across the rest of the cavern. The group settled in with a weary familiarity, grateful for the shelter. Ace seated himself cross-legged on the floor, raising his harmonica to his lips, and a light, almost playful tune drifted through the chamber, carrying a thin thread of comfort into the weary silence.
Kliedd settled himself against one of the bunks, the scorched tome of Marnak Steelshroud open across his lap. He squinted at the archaic dwarven script, muttering the syllables until the words fell into rhythm and meaning. Reading aloud, his voice carried fragments of the chronicle into the dim chamber. The entries spoke of years spent crafting and failing, of countless prototypes that collapsed under their own weight or cracked under strain. There were mentions of bitter arguments between priests and smiths, each accusing the other of abandoning tradition in favor of desperation. The name Master Tholgrun appeared again and again, cast as a tireless artificer whose obsession drove the Emberdeep clan to labor far beyond reason.
The passages painted a vivid image: dwarves hunched over anvils until their hands bled, the ringing of hammers echoing ceaselessly through halls that were already beginning to crumble. Tholgrun believed that to preserve their forge was to preserve their soul, and so he drove his kin to attempt the impossible—machines of stone and iron that could withstand the weight of time and enemy alike. The text described the Forgewrought Colossus not only as a guardian, but as a prayer cast in metal, a final defiance against the dying of their halls. As Kliedd’s voice carried these words, the group listened in varying degrees of interest, their expressions shifting in the dim glow of Seraphina’s conjured light.
Angelica leaned back against a bunk, her scales scraped and bruised, barely keeping her eyes open. She listened only half-heartedly, more focused on keeping her breathing steady than on tales of dwarven strife. Beside her, Rayek sat hunched with his arms draped across his knees, staring at the floor with the faint scowl of a man who found no nourishment in the reading. Both of them sought only the strength to rise again, their bodies aching from blows and burns. The tome’s revelations about dwarves fighting time itself seemed far away, the words almost drifting past them like smoke. For them, the act of simply remaining upright without swaying was battle enough.
The Choice of Paths
The group gathered inside the barracks, their bodies still sore and their nerves frayed. The flickering light from Seraphina’s conjured glowstones cast long shadows across the makeshift walls as they began to argue their options. One choice lay before them: press deeper into the cavern’s twisting tunnels, places unknown and possibly filled with worse dangers than they had already faced. The other was to attempt the main exit—the route they had used to arrive—though all agreed that enemies would likely be waiting there. Angelica leaned against her axe, her voice firm that she preferred a known fight to wandering blindly into the dark. Rayek countered that they were already too depleted to charge headlong into waiting foes.
Ace unrolled the curled parchment only after Seraphina pressed it into his hands, explaining that he should be the one to send the message since he alone had spoken with the contact above—the one who had given them their chance to slip into the underground. He nodded, settling the scroll across his knee and speaking the words inscribed there with practiced care. The air shimmered faintly as his voice carried upward through the magic, his message sharp and deliberate: “Hello, this is Ace. We have closed the portal. Full party survived. We are planning on leaving. What is the condition above? Any suggested strategy?”
The others sat in tense silence, watching Ace as the spell carried his words into the distance. For a long moment there was nothing, then his expression shifted as the reply settled into his mind. He relayed it carefully, his tone clipped: their allies had withdrawn after completing the distraction, but they had witnessed the portal’s closure when the ritual above erupted in a violent explosion. The tower was reduced to ruins. Survivors still moved across the surface, though enemies lingered among them, their strength unclear. The message ended with a final note—someone was heading down into the depths, though it was uncertain who. The party quickly agreed it was most likely the fire cultists, descending to discover what had happened to their failed portal.
The party fell into disagreement at once. Seraphina suggested they should take the unexplored passage, gambling that they might find another way out or at least avoid the expected ambush. Yllanys agreed, noting that the element of surprise might favor them more than facing enemies head-on. Kliedd muttered that he had no wish to march blindly into places where maps failed and their strength would dwindle even further. Angelica insisted again that the straightest path was through the known exit, no matter the opposition. ISAC, steady and calm, reminded them all that their magical resources were nearly spent, and they would have little defense left against unexpected threats in the uncharted passages.
The discussion dragged, tension rising with each point and counterpoint. Exhaustion showed in their eyes as much as in their bodies, and even Ace’s attempts to lighten the mood were met with little more than strained glances. Eventually, the weight of fatigue, the sting of their wounds, and the scarcity of their spells and strength decided the matter for them. They would leave the way they knew, even if enemies barred the path. The decision was not made with satisfaction but with resignation, each member knowing that the safer path was not truly safe at all.
At the Spiked Door
The climb back toward the spiked iron door was slow and tense, the stone passages stretching upward in uneven steps. The deeper heat of the cavern began to fade, replaced by a cooler draft that whispered down from the higher levels. The sound of boots scraping stone echoed in the confined space until new voices broke through—hurried, frightened, and close on the other side of the barred door. The party froze, listening. The voices were sharp with panic, men shouting back and forth in Common, their tone betraying urgency.
Ace stepped forward, raising his voice just enough to carry. He called out under the name he had given before: “Atticus.” The voices quieted for a heartbeat, then one of the smiths they had aided earlier replied in a rush, recognizing the name. A chorus of footsteps followed, the smiths gathering near the inside of the barricade. Their words tumbled over one another, frantic and clipped. They were preparing to flee, ropes already knotted, and gear hastily gathered, their eyes set on the fortress further across the cavern.
The group pressed closer as the smiths relayed the warning that froze them in place: “The cultists are almost here!” The number sent a ripple of unease among the party—twenty fire cultists, with a leader at their head, moving quickly in their direction. Angelica’s grip tightened on her axe, while Kliedd glanced back down the passage as if expecting to already see the flicker of torchlight. Seraphina’s face went pale, knowing how little magic she had left to answer such a force.
Ace, never one to resist an opportunity, asked, “Were they on fire?” His attempt at levity drew only a quick and anxious answer from one of the smiths, “…Toasty, maybe, but not literally on fire.” The reply carried no humor, only the quaver of fear. Behind the words, the scrape of wood and iron was heard as the smiths made their final preparations to depart.
Working together, the party heaved against the spiked door, the old hinges shrieking as it gave way. The heavy iron shifted slowly until there was just enough space to slip through. On the other side, the smiths were already in motion, scrambling toward their escape route, their eyes wide with urgency. They clutched their ropes and packs, moving with the speed of men who knew they were only a step ahead of death. The heroes stepped into the chamber as the last of the smiths fled into the darkness beyond, leaving them to face whatever approached from below.
Toward the Exit
The smiths trailed the party at a cautious distance, a hundred or more feet back, unwilling to risk being caught in a fight should the cultists appear. The companions advanced along the broken cavern road, every step toward the fortress heavy with tension. Ahead, the ruined walls loomed larger, and the outlines of figures could be seen shifting atop the ramparts. Shadows moved between crenellations, ducking in and out as weapons were braced into position.
The group crouched low, pressing themselves against the jagged stone and broken foundations of long-collapsed buildings. Seraphina whispered that the smiths had been right—someone was waiting for them. Yllanys narrowed his eyes and muttered that the figures were pacing like sentries, not statues, every motion deliberate. The fortress was braced for their arrival.
They debated their next steps, voices hushed. Kliedd suggested creeping closer, but Yllanys shook his head—the distance was too far, and stealth was nearly impossible with so many eyes watching from above. Skinny was dispatched forward, the spectral double slipping into the open to catch glimpses of what lay along the wall. The others spread apart, avoiding the danger of presenting a single clustered target.
The silence was unbearable, the oppressive stillness broken only by the crackle of torches on the wall. Ace shifted, his hand tightening on the scimitar at his belt. Finally, he straightened to his full height, ignoring Angelica’s hissed warning, and called out across the cavern in a clear, carrying voice:
“Identify yourselves! We are not with the Fire Cult!”
Over the Wall
For a heartbeat the cavern held its silence. Then the defenders answered. A ballista bolt ripped from the parapet, exploding against Yllanys’s duplicate and showering the street in glowing shrapnel. Skinny disintegrated with a pop of ectoplasm, leaving the real Yllanys coughing on the spray. The message was clear: the way forward would be bought in blood.
The companions scattered and advanced. Angelica pressed forward with a defiant snarl, Rayek kept low and let his echo scout ahead, and Seraphina sprinted under her cloak’s hood. ISAC produced a small vial, drank deeply, and shrank himself to half-size, his armor creaking and voice suddenly squeaky in pitch. “This is optimal for portability,” he declared. Seraphina shot him a flat look, but scooped him up anyway, the half-sized warforged clinging to her back like a metal toddler while she scrambled for footing.
Ace climbed hard and fast, dodging bolts and ignoring the vines that scraped across the lower wall. By the time he threw himself onto the parapet, the defenders had no choice but to abandon the ballista. With their loading crew broken, the massive weapon lay dormant while two cultists swapped to heavy crossbows and leaned over the crenellations to fire down at him. Bolts cracked stone and cut cloth, but Ace pressed on, his laughter and jeers rising louder than the thunder of their shots. When he closed the distance, they dropped the bows for blades, steel clashing in the smoky air.
Fire Cultists
Kliedd, meanwhile, had taken the wrong path entirely. In his haste he had scrambled up the wrong wall, finding himself clinging to stone that offered no direct access to the roof. Cursing in gnomish, he was forced to edge along the outside lip like a tightrope walker while above him crossbow bolts thudded against the battlements. “Don’t look down, don’t look down,” he muttered, inching one step at a time toward the action. His eventual arrival atop the parapet was more accident than triumph, but the timing was perfect—just as Ace engaged the swordsmen.
Angelica fared no better in grace. Each time she hurled her weight against the stone she slid back, claws screeching as sparks lit the wall. She managed only a few feet at a time before her arms burned with the effort. Snarling, she dangled at one point by her fingertips, glaring up at the fight overhead. “If anyone mentions this later, I’ll split them in half,” she growled, her pride more battered than her body.
The melee on the roof grew brutal. Ace cut a path with his scimitar, forcing one cultist back against the crenellations, while Rayek hurled his echo onto the battlements and swapped places in a shimmer of light. Together they pressed the defenders hard, blades flashing in the firelit haze. Kliedd, finally clambering over the edge, buried a short sword into a distracted foe’s side, turning the tide further. Seraphina crested the wall still hauling pint-sized ISAC, who calmly instructed her between gasps of effort: “Lean left. That stone has better grip. You may adjust your pace by 12 percent.”
By the time Angelica hauled herself over the wall with a furious roar, the fight was nearly finished. The last cultist was shoved screaming from the rampart by Rayek, vanishing into the dark below. The fortress wall, scarred by fire and littered with bodies, belonged now to the companions. Smoke drifted upward from the ballista they had silenced. The defenders lay dead or broken, their blades clattering to rest against the stone.
They had taken the roof. Battered, scraped, and in some cases humiliated by masonry, but victorious all the same.
And this is where the session ended.
Maps
