Beyond the Orb of Echoes

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Beyond the Orb of Echoes

Scorched Men

Flamebound Revenants

The Flames of the Revenants - Pre-Combat

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Beyond the Orb of Echoes

Mutt listens in respectful silence as each of his companions speaks their truth to the orb. He hasn’t known them long—not truly—but something in his carefully bricked heart aches to hear their stories. Shared suffering builds strange bridges, and one by one, those bridges form beneath him, linking his soul to each of theirs.

He watches Azalie last. Hears the tremble in her voice. Sees the pain in her eyes.

He’s seen that look before. Too many times in too many mirrors.

When she glances toward him, eyes shining with unshed tears, Mutt offers a faint, reassuring smile. The kind meant to hold someone else together—when he’s barely holding himself.

And then it happens.

As the last of the party falls silent, Mutt’s eyes flick to the orb—and the spectral shade beside it. He watches closely, waiting for something to go wrong. Some sign of attack, or betrayal, or trap.

He’s so focused on danger that he almost doesn’t hear it when Zerathis says the words:

“…and so a memory is taken.”

His breath catches. His heart skips. The blood in his veins turns cold.

Mutt forces himself to reach back, to grasp something he’s sure of. A memory. A night under a rain-slicked awning. The gentle burn of ale. A kiss that felt like a miracle.

But he can’t see her face.

He can’t remember her name.

Panic stirs in his chest like a rising tide. He stumbles back a half-step, then lowers himself to the ground, arms resting on his knees.

"I can't..." he whispers. "I can't see her face. I, I can't remember her name. They took it from me. They took... a part of me."

Silence answers him. Even the orb is still now—dark, inert, emotionless.

Azalie finds herself still on the floor. Her shoulders slump, her face streaked with clean tear lines. Her arms lie limp at her sides, wrists dragging.

She looks up at Mutt as he reacts to the loss of his memory. A memory of his first kiss? Azalie tries to hide her curiosity but fails to suppress her knee-jerk reactions.

She leans slightly toward Fizz, voice low. “I’m surprised he remembered any of their names.”

A startled laugh escapes her lips—too loud, too sudden—and she catches herself at once. Her back straightens. Her face falls.

“I’m sorry, Mutt,” she says quickly. “Please forgive my outburst. That was in bad taste.”

Azalie’s gaze locks onto Hruna the moment Zerathis speaks about her father. Her heart plunges into a spiral of grief.

The only memory she had left was the sound of their voices. To take that—there’s nothing more cruel.

She wishes vengeance for Hruna. First, they must press on. Further into danger and closer to death.

Short Rest Begins

The party wordlessly begins setting up a makeshift camp in the Chamber of Echoes, each of them shaken in a different way. Wounds are bound, armor adjusted. Some sit in thought. Others simply stare into the shifting runes on the walls.

Fizz flicks a glowing mushroom cap into the firepit near the orb and sits cross-legged beside it.

“Best to let the orb digest,” he mumbles. “Can’t go stirring magic with a full belly.”

Orin paces once around the perimeter of the chamber, hands behind his back, then settles into silent meditation. His fingertips twitch every so often—his mind still searching for something he’s lost.

Hruna sharpens her blade in slow, careful strokes, but her eyes are unfocused. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t cry. Just sharpens.

Uptharr places his holy symbol across his lap, head bowed, murmuring a prayer under his breath. His voice is steady, but his knuckles are white.

Mellon perches beside Azalie, feathers puffed as if unsettled by something none of them can name.

Somewhere deep in the tunnels, a sound stirs.

A whisper. A laugh. The faint scrape of something metal.

No one moves toward it.

One hour passes. Short rest completed. Mutt’s plays Song of Rest and grants an additional 1d6 HP.

The Passage Ahead

Once they rise and prepare themselves, the party advances down the corridor revealed behind the orb. The tunnel bends once, then twice. Faint claw marks and patches of dried rot speckle the walls.

Then it opens into another chamber.

• MAP UPDATED *

  
  

The Forgotten Camp

The new chamber is wide, with tall ceilings and worn sconces lining the walls. The air is colder here, touched by something old.

In the center of the room is a ruined camp. Bedrolls. Empty mugs. A crumbled firepit surrounded by four silent figures.

They sit as though frozen mid-motion—one polishing a blade, another stirring a pot. A third writes in a book. The fourth stares at the wall like he’s waiting for it to blink.

Their armor is scorched, cracked. Their skin dry and gray. Their eyes… vacant.

And yet, they breathe.

On the far wall looms a heavy, circular door. Closed tight.

To reach it, the party must walk past the camp.

No one speaks.

What do you do?

Current Time: 9:33AM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Encounter

Corruption Level: Rising slowly.

Scorched Men

Fizz observes the figures for a minute curious about their condition and the fact that they are still breathing. After a moments reflection Fizz makes up his mind, stepping a to the left side of the figures Fizz's voice bounces cheerily through the chamber:

“Hey fellas! What’s cookin’?”

The four figures seated around the blackened firepit do not respond. They sit slumped, their scorched forms wrapped in brittle, half-melted armor, faces shadowed beneath soot-streaked helms. Not one turns to meet the party's gaze, but all four... are breathing.

Completely unaware of how inappropriate his comment is to the poor scorched characters, Fizz begins to inspect the walls to the side of the chamber, and the high ceiling for any ports, cracks, or pipes that would be the cause of the burning effect on them.

"We're just passing through, don't mind us! If you need anything to add to the cooking pot, I may have a mushroom or 2 left over. I like mushrooms! You can boil em, fry em, bake em, eat them raw, put them in a sammich, mix them with eggs..."

(Fizz continues to list all the ways to prepare mushrooms as he inspects the chamber)

The chamber is silent save for Fizz's mushroom monologue and the gentle drip of moisture from the high, smoke-stained ceiling. The fire itself is wrong—an image without heat, flickering without smoke, illusion cloaked in false comfort.

Fizz’s sharp eyes track the chamber’s edges, catching faint seams in the ceiling and walls. Thin slits—nearly invisible ports—form a circle around the room, spaced evenly like the petals of a deadly bloom. If the flames came from anywhere... it would be there.

To the left, Orin peers at the figures, the “camp”, the room around them, trying to detect any illusory components or sign of the weave.

Orin mutters under his breath, eyes narrowing as he tries to sense the weave. But the strands elude him—no clear signs of illusion or enchantment, no necromantic pulse. The figures are simply... wrong.

He touches the edge of his grimoire and for the briefest moment, searches for a thought that isn’t there. His brow furrows as he stands ready to react as Fizz investigates the room ahead.

Azalie passes through the door. Mellon uncomfortably shifts his weight back and forth, his talons gripping her shoulder tightly.

“What is it, Mellon…?”

Azalie locks onto the charred group. A group? This is for sure the work of evil. She knows this isn’t safe—and they aren’t here to feed them food. They’re more likely to feed them steel.

She checks them out as Fizz attempts communication, studying their armor, their weapons, and their body language. She wants to identify who they may be—wary travelers caught by Xal’Zyress, or something much worse.

Azalie reaches for her jade dagger and catches nothing but air.

“Damnit,” she exclaims, realizing she could have just come clean about her feelings—and still had her weapon.

But the thoughts in the back of her mind remind her of the freedom that comes with forgiveness. She shifts her weapon hand and palms her bronze dagger.

Her eyes sweep over the figures’ charred gear. The armor is piecemeal—cobbled from various origins—but the style is familiar. Adventuring kits, perhaps 20 years old, consistent with the kind worn by mercenaries or explorers. If they were once like your party, that time is long past.

Mellon screeches sharply from her shoulder, wings flexing in agitation. The hawk senses what words do not: this is no camp. This is a warning.

Mutt steps carefully into the chamber beyond the orb, slowing his steps as he sees the ashen figures gathered around their "campfire". Mutt peers in cautious curiosity at the group, his mind trying to make sense of the scene before him. Who were they? Were they dead? Alive? Undead? Mutt didn't think they were undead, since they were still breathing. He had yet to see the dead draw breath. He examines the ghostly campfire, trying to determine its purpose. It wasn't putting out any heat, and it didn't look like they needed to eat, so why were they still gathered around it? Were they trapped here?

Mutt's mind continues to try and unravel the puzzle as Fizz steps forward and greets the figures. Mutt's attention immediately darts to the tiny druid, a word of warning on his lips before he stops himself. As Fizz attempts to make contact with the figure, Mutt begins to examine the dark areas, corners and ceiling of this room. This scene maybe some kind of distraction. Some way of pulling their attention away from the true danger lurking nearby. He focuses his attention on the rest of the room and keeps a ready hand on the hilt of his crossbow. His gut tells him the danger isn’t in the shadows—it’s sitting right in front of them. But what kind of trap needs bait that breathes?

Uptharr tightens his grip on his shield and steps slightly in front of Hruna.

“Dead men don’t breathe,” he murmurs grimly. “Not for long.”

Hruna spits to the side, the sound sharp in the silence.

“They’re breathin’, aye. But they ain’t alive.”

As Fizz finishes listing mushroom preparations, the figure closest to the party stirs.

Its head turns—just slightly—and the voice that emerges is dry as burning parchment.

“…You smell fresh.”

The figure slowly rises to its feet, the motion jerky, as though unused to moving. The other three begin to rise in turn, silent and unblinking.

From behind the scorched helm, that same voice rasps again.

“Are you… replacements?”

The figures make no move to attack—yet. But the faintest red glow begins to pulse behind their eye sockets… and smoke trickles faintly from the flame ports near the ceiling.

What do you do?

Current Time: 9:37AM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Encounter

Corruption Level: Rising slowly.

Flamebound Revenants

The chamber crackles with stillness.

Mutt’s voice is low, but the warning in it resonates clearly.

"They're Flamebound Revenants. These undead were once brave souls who died horrifically in magical fire traps, their bodies bound by residual enchantment and their spirits cursed to guard the place of their death. Though they retain flickers of memory and will, their minds are warped by pain and duty, and they are known to speak in half-truths, often confusing visitors for replacements, intruders, or even comrades. We would be wise to approach them with care. Any perceived deception or sudden aggression is likely to reignite the curse that fuels them."

Fizz seems unfazed. “Well, that’s just lovely,” he chirps, waving his hand with a grin. “Hey fellas! What’s cookin’?”

Glancing back at the party, he says softly as he points to the vents on the ceiling,

"I think we should avoid the middle of the room as much as possible. I don't like the look of those vents in the side walls." Looking back to the figures, Fizz smiles. "You are doing such a good job holding down that spot, I think we'll let you continue and be on our way! Thank you for thinking of us though!" Taking a moment to think about how to appease the scorched men, Fizz has a thought. Water...maybe water would appease these poor souls! Fizz fishes in his pack and pulls out a waterskin. "I suppose it's been a long time... but it's an old tradition in my hometown to share water and shade with strangers. It's a symbol of safety and friendship! Would you share my water?"

Dorf looks at the figures and just isn’t sure what to make of them. He stares at their bbq’d faces and decides he doesn’t want anything to do with them. He looks to his friends for guidance, “Uptharr?”

The paladin steps forward, his voice firm. “Hold steady. They have not struck—but nor are they at peace.”

Azalie watches as Orin steps forward to deny them a replacement. She hopes it’s the right move. There’s no going back now—only forward.

The four figures sit still as stone, their flesh cracked and blackened like ancient lava. But they breathe. Azalie stares harder. Their armor, scorched but familiar. Bits of badgework, scraps of sigils—these weren’t monsters. They were people. Adventurers.

She gestures to Dorf and Uptharr.

“We should get Fancy Fingers and Mutt behind us.” It’s the first time she’s tried a nickname. “Orin, I hope you have a plan.”

Azalie steps in front of her friends. She’s been wanting to try a new spell. She marks friend and foe, whispering an incantation in Elven.

“Sîr phîlindi,” her voice calm and steady.

She draws a handful of arrows, ready to strike down any who breach her barrier.

Mellon and Azalie move as one now. His talons click softly against her armor as he shifts.

“Move above, my friend.”

She just hopes her Blood hawk makes it through this one.

She glances back at Mutt with a wink that’s both playful and serious.

“Mutt, this may be a good time for you to start growing your hut.”

Her focus shifts quickly to Orin. He’s not like the wizard she once knew—the one who kept her caged in spell-bound silence. Orin’s power isn’t about control; it’s about calculation. Risk. Precision. He doesn’t rattle easily, and that alone gives her reason to follow his lead.

“These vents,” Orin says, “they’re part of the trap. Whatever did this to them didn’t kill them outright—it scorched their bodies and left them aware.” He glances toward the Revenants. “I think it wants to do the same to us.”

As the last of Fizz’s words fade into the stagnant air, the four scorched figures shift. A low groan rolls through the chamber like wind through a crypt. One by one, their heads lift—eyes flaring to life with twin points of crimson flame.

Three of the figures rise, pulling charred helms over their burned scalps with slow, deliberate motion. The fourth, the tallest, lifts a tattered cloak over his head, shadows crawling beneath the folds. His withered hand tightens around a scorched tome, which bursts alight with ghostly fire.

A hiss of unnatural flame follows as weapons are drawn—two rusted swords erupting into spectral blaze, and a warped crossbow igniting with glowing red runes along the stock. The Revenants’ mouths part, not to breathe, but to speak—each voice a rasp like smoke scraping through old lungs.

“You are late.”

Another lifts its head, twin wisps of emberlight burning in the hollows of its skull, as it raises its crossbow, that ignites with flame

“We waited. You did not come.”

The third’s voice is wet, rattling, impossibly soft.

“Do you know what it is… to burn… for days…?”

Then the last figure rises.

He is different. Where the others bear broken weapons, melted armor—he carries a blackened tome clutched tightly to his chest. The remains of a wizard, scorched beyond recognition, but his lips move with terrible precision.

He is chanting.

Fire creeps along the edges of the book.

The false fire in the camp vanishes with a hiss.

And real fire answers.

From the high walls and ceiling, the flame vents begin to shimmer with latent heat.

What do you do?

Current Time: 9:40AM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Encounter

Corruption Level: Rising slowly.

The Flames of the Reventants - Pre Combat

The tension snaps.

“Hey Orin, I could use some magic over here.” Azalie motions at herself.

One of the melee revenants steps forward with halting, embered steps, drawing a blade that erupts in ghostly red flame. Another raises a warped crossbow, now dripping molten heat from its limbs.

The cloaked figure—the one with the blackened tome—continues to chant in a deep, unnatural rhythm. The flames licking the edges of the book now crawl up his arms.

Orin’s eyes narrow as he watches the casting. His hand rises behind his back, fingers poised for Counterspell.

Azalie commands Mellon toward Fizz. Mellon slams into him, pulling him back, just far enough for her to grab his collar—dragging him away from the center of the room.

“Go! Go!” she shouts. “Everyone, get out of here!” Her bronze dagger gleams in her grip.

Dorf drinks down a potion and snarls. “Let’s do this!” His rage blooms just as the Revenants ignite.

Uptharr steps forward, shield raised. “By Tyr, they’re still bound to duty! We break that bond, or we burn with them!”

Azalie throws down the blessed arrows and murmurs the Elven words of her spell—“Sîr phîlindi…”—a ripple of magic flashes across the chamber.

At the same time, Fizzbum sprinkles soil across his hands with a cheerful hum, casting his usual Guidance—but here, even this gentle weave is too much.

The moment the magic settles, the chamber screams.

A sudden roar of pressurized flame erupts from the hidden vents Fizz spotted—lining the ceiling and walls. Thin slits that once looked harmless now blaze open, belching sheets of searing fire in all directions.

The illusionary campfire in the center explodes with a final hiss before vanishing entirely.

The room is instantly engulfed.

Walls bloom with fire. The temperature spikes in seconds. The light is blinding.

Everyone required to make a DC 15 DEX Save Throw.

Log into the site, and save is automatically queued

The Flamebound Revenants do not flinch. Their cloaks billow, their eyes glow hotter, and their burned mouths part with something between a gasp and a grin.

And then, with a sickening crack of bone and flame—

The Flamebound Revenants roar as they attack.

Roll for Initiative.

Current Time: 9:41AM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Encounter

Corruption Level: Rising slowly.

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