Session 102 - Torches, Teeth and Terrible Omens
In-game timeline: Start of session: 1490DR Mirtul 17. End of session: 1490DR Mirtul 17
Our "Heroes"—a term continued to be used loosely—ready themselves for what lies ahead. A screech echoes from the darkness beyond, courtesy of Derrick’s noble act of torch-lobbing, which lights up precisely nothing useful before being extinguished by something unseen. The only reward? Growing, scraping noises in the pitch black ahead. Comforting.
Then, chaos.
From above, below, and all directions that heroes generally dislike, lurch forward a pack of malformed horrors—arms like sticky tree branches and teeth like barbed wire. They descend from walls and ceilings with the grace of Karoshi dancing and with a very basic dental plan.
Derrick, undeterred and still quite attached to fire as a problem-solving method, hurls another torch. This time it works—sort of—and the room is momentarily illuminated, revealing their attackers: gangly, sharp-limbed nightmares mid-bite. The group rallies. Jaxii is quickly entangled in a flurry of claws and bad breath, but shrugs it off with barbarian bravado. Karoshi, less used to being wounded, registers actual damage with a surprised air.
The tide turns, blades swing, spells boom (thanks to Iwee’s *Shatter* rattling the dungeon’s nearby walls and everyone's eardrums), and in a flurry of violence, the creatures fall.
With adrenaline still fizzing and only mild trauma to show for it, the group presses north. A large, sloping chamber awaits—floor slicked with some kind of oozing fluid that glistens ominously in the torchlight. Jaxii, ever the quick thinker, spots the hazard before it can claim Derrick. They, perhaps wisely, choose not to find out what happens if you slide into the ominous hole at the centre of the room. Eastward it is.
Further in, they find a den of sorts: makeshift bedding, a few crude shelters, and a human leg roasting slowly over a low fire. Whether it's lunch or a warning, no one asks. The tent-dwellers are nowhere to be seen—either gone or digesting elsewhere. Or perhaps all dead? It’s a dead end, and it smells like one.
Backtracking, they push into a new area—a room with rusted grates in the floor. Below them, cells. Beside them, growing unease. From the northern corridor, the sound of heavy thumping. Armour? Heavy boots? A meat cleaver? Whoever is nearby isn’t subtle. Confidence? Arrogance? Unlikely - that is the domain of our "Heroes".
Scorch marks and graffiti mar the walls. Not the fun kind of graffiti—more the desperate ramblings of someone clearly losing a battle with reality. It's less “art” and more “impending doom,” but it sets the tone. Derrick, ever the scholar of ominous vibes, spots a faded draconic rune etched into one wall: *Secret.* Jaxii takes this as a challenge.
She scans the area and finds a faint chalk outline—an old hidden doorway. With her portable hole (and impeccable but familiar recklessness), she peeks through. The coast looks clear—or at least not *actively* on fire—so she opens the door from within.
Inside is a secret chamber—silent and sealed for who-knows-how-long. At its heart, a long-dead dragonborn cleric clutches a brittle journal. An altar looms beside him. The air feels heavy, as if the room itself is holding its breath. Iwee retrieves the journal and reads a few fragile pages.
It tells of a god, or something, named The Watcher, once worshipped here. But something changed. The entries speak of paranoia, betrayal, and blood. The Watcher, once protector, seemingly turned on their own followers in a spiral of madness.
And with that, our "Heroes" are left in the flickering torchlight of this forgotten sanctum. Karoshi prays to his God, Moradin. Derrick prays to his God, himself. Iwee shivers, a journal of madness in hand. Whispers to the north. The threat of something ancient, powerful, and utterly unhinged possibly lurking nearby.
Still alive? Probably. Probably watching.