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

Revenant Combat - Round 1

Revenant Combat - Round 2

Revenant Combat - Round 3

Revenant Combat - Round 4

Revenant Combat - Round 5

Player Replies

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.

Revenant Combat - Round 1

A burst of molten flame erupts from hidden runes in the chamber, engulfing everyone in searing heat. Some cry out as the trap’s fire lashes at them:

• Several blasts strike true, each victim taking 14 fire damage, though some manage to resist or halve the blow for 7 points thanks to quick reflexes or raging resilience.

• Azalie braces against the inferno and succeeds in her save, shrugging off the worst of the flames.

Shaking off the heat, Fizzbum desperately casts Entangle, his voice trembling:

“Ummmm…you guys hang out for a minute! I need to be somewhere…away from here!”Ghostly green vines erupt around the Flamebound Revenants, twisting up their legs and pinning them in place. Fizzbum then moves to a safer spot and murmurs a calming spell,“You be ok Mr. Orin! I’ve got some salve in my pocket for ya!”sending a Healing Word that restores 10 HP to Orin Kalladris.

The Flamebound Revenant Warrior strains against the grasping vines but fails his save, remaining entangled, while a second warrior barely frees himself. The Rogue and Sorcerer Revenants both struggle and are also ensnared. Meanwhile, the trap’s flames flare again, forcing fresh saves—some cut the damage in half, others are singed for the full 9 fire damage, though Dorf only suffers 3 thanks to blessings and raging endurance.

Seizing the moment to strike back, the Flamebound Revenant Sorcerer begins to weave a massive Fireball, chanting with malefic power. Across the room, Orin’s eyes flash with arcane focus: he utters the words of Counterspell, and the sorcerer’s fiery explosion fizzles out in a brilliant flash of light.

Recovering from the magical onslaught, Orin opts for a simpler weapon.

“I don’t want to endanger us further with my magic…” he says, loosing a sling stone at the Revenant Sorcerer—which clangs harmlessly off its unholy form. He then shifts closer to his friends to stand ready.

Hruna, seeing the carnage, staggers back and flees the chamber to escape further danger. Azalie, seizing a clear shot, shouts,

“No spells in this room—fall back!”She lets fly a blessed arrow that pierces the Revenant Sorcerer, dealing 7 radiant damage, doubled to 14 by its vulnerability to Radiant damage. Mellon, Azalie’s blood hawk, cries its war-cry and darts forward but holds its attack until commanded.

Fizzbum steadies himself amid the chaos, maintaining concentration on Entangle. Dorf moves his allies to safety, then plants his feet and readies a brutal riposte against any foe that dares approach.

From the tangled ranks of undead, one Flamebound Revenant Warrior advances toward Dorf. But the barbarian meets him head-on: with a roar of rage, Dorf’s Frostclaw Gauntlet rakes across the revenant’s fiery flesh for 18 cold damage, then lashes out again with his off-hand for 14 cold damage, and finally drives home a third crushing blow for 22 cold damage—the revenant shudders under the onslaught.

Enraged, the Warrior swings its flaming blade. Mutt intercedes with a cutting word, and the revenant’s first strike misses wildly. Undeterred, it follows up, slashing Dorf for 14 fire damage, halved to 7 by his raging resilience.

Mutt himself, sweat beading on his brow, quietly disengages—“Too hot!” he mutters—and slips away to a safer position.

At the end of the fray, Uptharr steps into the breach. With grim determination and no words wasted, he lashes out twice with his enchanted shortsword: first landing a precise strike for 8 damage, then cutting again for 11 more. The revenant staggers but remains unbowed, its flaming form flickering in the torchlight as the next wave of battle readies to crash over the heroes once more.

Round one ends

Current Time: 9:41AM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Encounter

Corruption Level: Rising slowly.

Revenant Combat - Round 2

Fizzbum  peeks around the corner and grins,

“Hey boys! Wanna play ball?” 

With that, he hurls his Blizzard Bomb into the tangled group of Flamebound Revenants. A whirlwind of ice and frost engulfs them, each revenant shuddering under the massive cold damage of the freezing blast.

No sooner has the ice settled than the Flamebound Revenant Sorcerer raises his tome and unleashes a roaring Fireball down the hallway. The chamber erupts in flame: Uptharr is seared for 24 fire damage, roaring in pain; Hruna staggers back, downs a healing potion—“That last blast hurt!”—recovering 10 HP even as he still suffers 12 fire damage; and Orin, Fizzbum, and the Sorcerer himself each grit their teeth through 12 fiery points.

From the shadows, the Flamebound Revenant Rogue fires a flaming crossbow bolt into Dorf Thimblerigger, who snarls but shrugs off the blow—6 piercing damage after his raging resilience.

Stepping into the doorway, Orin Kalladris announces,

“I’ve got your back—covering our retreat!” He shifts his position, eyes blazing with arcane readiness.

Azalie, ever graceful, nocks an arrow and lets fly.

"I hope you find peace."

Azalie fires her blessed arrow right into the face of the closest enemy, Her first shot whistles past; undeterred, she whispers, “Just let it happen,” and looses a second bolt that strikes true. It’s a critical hit—9 radiant damage, doubled to 18, then doubled again to 36 by the revenant’s vulnerability—releasing one tortured soul in a shower of ash and soft release.

High above, Mellon circles in silent vigil, talons glinting but waiting for the signal.

Dorf plants his feet in the doorway.

“Everyone out of this room—I’ll cover you!” he bellows, frost crackling around his gauntlets. Bound by vines, the remaining Flamebound Revenant Warrior strains and fails to break free.

In the hallway, Mutt Bromwell slips into position and pops out to fire his crossbow at the Sorcerer—the bolt thunks home, but the undead mage doesn’t even flinch. Mutt murmurs a soft chant, sending a Healing Word toward Fizzbum; warm energy washes over the druid, easing the sting of battle restoring 12 HP.

At the rear, Uptharr strides forward, torch held high. He presses both hands to his wounds and calls upon his divine gift—15 HP flood back into his form. With his voice booming like distant thunder, he calls down the hall:

“This way! Follow me out—keep moving!”

And with that, the party begins their tactical retreat, leaving the flame-scarred chamber behind and pressing into the safety of the corridor beyond.

Round 2 ends

Current Time: 9:41AM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Encounter

Corruption Level: Rising slowly.

Revenant Combat - Round 3

Fizzbum Lilypad is shaken but determined. With a nervous whisper—

“Thank you, Mr. Dorf, for your protection! Now don’t DIE!”—he channels a swift Healing Word into Dorf Thimblerigger, restoring 15 HP. No sooner does the warmth spread than the chamber’s flame vents burst again.

Azalie, Dorf, and Orin scramble to dodge the scalding jets:

• Azalie succeeds on her save but still suffers 7 fire damage as flames lick her flank.

• Dorf shrugs off the blast thanks to his rage, taking 4 fire damage after halving.

• Orin fails his reflex and takes 7 fire damage.

Fizzbum then turns to Hruna, concern creasing his brow: “Hang in there, Ms. Hruna! We’ll be OK!” He utters another Healing Word, and Hruna breathes easier as 10 HP flood back into his body.

Shaking himself free of the last ember’s glow, Fizzbum moves 20 feet to a safer spot, leaving a patch of the chamber glowing behind him.

From across the hall, the Flamebound Revenant Sorcerer sneers and begins weaving a trio of fiery rays. Each finger sparks with molten fury as he casts Scorching Ray at Orin Kalladris—

but Orin’s eyes blaze with arcane focus. In a crackling surge, he unleashes Counterspell, causing the sorcerer’s conjured flames to fizzle in a flash of white. As he completes the incantation, a flicker of shimmering wards appears around Orin, granting him 6 temporary HP.

Before the revenant can recover, the Flamebound Revenant Rogue raises his crossbow and looses a searing bolt. The missile slams into Orin for 12 fire damage. Staggering under the blow, Orin grasps his focus to stand firm.

Meanwhile, Hruna sets his jaw and strides across the chamber, moving first 25 feet, then another 5, until she plants herself in position. She hefts her weapon, ready to strike down any revenant who dares advance.

Orin, still bristling from the rogue’s bolt, dashes 15 feet, then moves another 25 feet to a sturdier vantage in the hallway, determined to keep the corridor clear.

Stepping into the breach, Azalie nocks a blessed arrow and takes careful aim at the nearest revenant warrior. With resolve in her voice—

“Hold on there, Orin.”—she looses the shaft. The arrow burrows into the revenant’s chest, dealing a brutal 12 radiant damage, doubled to 24 because of the undead’s vulnerability. Searing light courses through its form, but the creature still stands, its eyes burning with hatred.

With his task done, Azalie retreats 10 feet into the hallway, ducking into the corner where she can still see the revenants and prepare to cover Dorf’s next move.

“Everyone, stay close!” Dorf snarls as he shifts 10 feet to intercept the warrior who has just broken free of the entangling vines. The revenant’s smoky form flickers as it shakes free—its save succeeds, and it advances fiercely toward the hall. It charges 25 feet, then another 5 feet, closing rapidly on the doorway.

Dorf braces himself and swings his Frostclaw Gauntlet in a wide arc—but overcommits and misses his first strike. Undeterred, he follows through with a lucky second swing: the gauntlet bites deep for 7 cold damage + 2 rage = 9, then doubles to 18 from the revenant’s weakness, shredding the undead to ash. The warrior crumbles in a cascade of glowing embers, its tortured existence ended.

Amid the fading flames and rising steam, Mutt Bromwell moves 25 feet down the corridor to stand between his allies and any remaining threat. With a calm voice, he intones,

“That doesn’t look so bad. Let’s patch you up.” He casts a hearty Healing Word into Orin, and Orin’s cheeks flush as 15 HP return to his weary form.

Mutt then glances at Azalie and offers a boon of confidence, granting her a Bardic Inspiration die (d8) as he murmur’s, “You’ve got this.”

Finally, Uptharr steps forward, laying hands on Fizzbum and channeling divine grace. The paladin’s touch glows with healing light, mending wounds and restoring 14 HP to the druid. With a firm nod, Uptharr readies himself for whatever comes next, his armor gleaming in the corridor’s flickering torchlight.

Round 3 ends

Current Time: 9:41AM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Encounter

Corruption Level: Rising slowly.

Revenant Combat - Round 4

Fizzbum hurries forward, voice trembling with concern:

“Hang in there, Mr. Uptharr! Those scorch marks won’t last too long!” He lays a gentle hand on the paladin and casts Cure Wounds, restoring 19 HP to Uptharr. Turning to Mellon, he adds, “Poor little guy! I’ll fix ya up!” and sings a quick Healing Word that mends 12 HP for Mellon. With a quick shuffle, Fizzbum moves 15 feet to a safer corner of the hallway.

Seeing his chance, the Flamebound Revenant Sorcerer hurls a glowing mote of flame at Azalie, but the Fire Bolt misses its mark. Seizing the moment, the Flamebound Revenant Rogue levels his Flameburst Crossbow and fires; the bolt crashes into Azalie, dealing 10 damage.

Hruna charges forward, moving 25 feet further away, safely away from the battle. Orin Kalladris dashes 25 feet down the corridor to cover Azalie’s flank.

Azalie grits her teeth, draws her bow, and fires at the Sorcerer—her first shot sails wide. Shaking off her frustration, she murmurs,

“This fight is going better than expected. Keep it up, Howlbears! We can free them from their damned eternity.” 

She looses a second arrow that strikes true, dealing 11 radiant damage, doubled to 22 against the revenant’s weakness. The Sorcerer reels but remains standing.

Across the chamber, Dorf charges in two strides—first 25 feet, then another 10 feet—closing the distance. He brings his Frostclaw Gauntlet around, driving a burst of cold into the Sorcerer: 7 base damage + 2 rage = 9, doubled for vulnerability to cold makes 18 damage. The Sorcerer staggers under the frost-chill, but is not yet undone.

Back in the hallway, Mutt readies a vicious mockery, intent on punishing any revenant who emerges. He then steps 10 feet closer, and in a quiet tone grants Orin a Bardic Inspiration die, bolstering his friend’s resolve.

Meanwhile, Uptharr charges into the fray, dashing 20 feet and then another 15 feet to bring himself alongside Dorf, completing the flank. With his Shortsword +2, he strikes at the weakened Sorcerer: the blade tears through undead flesh for 13 damage, and with a final nod, the Sorcerer’s form collapses into ash, released from its tortured existence.

Round 4 ends

Current Time: 9:41AM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Encounter

Corruption Level: Rising slowly.

Revenant Combat - Round 5

The Flamebound Rogue lunges at Dorf with a wicked flame dagger—his first strike whiffs in the air (Miss!), but his follow-up critical hit scythes into Dorf for 5 fire damage (halved to 5 by raging resilience).

Azalie steps up to the doorway and draws a steady breath. Her first blessed arrow finds its mark, burning the revenant with 11 radiant damage, doubled to 22 by its vulnerability. Encouraged, she readies a second shot—

“May you find peace at last,” she murmurs—and the arrow looses, striking true for 9 radiant, doubled to 18 as the undead recoils.

With a roar of righteous fury, Dorf and Uptharr press the flank. Dorf’s Frostclaw Gauntlet slams into the reeling revenant: 11 cold damage + 2 rage = 13, then doubled to 26 by its weakness to cold. The tortured soul crumbles into glowing ash, its torment finally ended.

Panting and blood-smeared, the party steps back through the corridor and into the scorched chamber where the revenants fell. They collapse onto the charred stone floor, settling into a rough circle amid the embers of the fire trap. Exhausted but victorious, they sit together in the flickering torchlight—catching their breath, tending minor wounds, and sharing a quiet moment of hard-earned respite before pressing onward.

As the final echo of battle fades, the room falls into an eerie silence. Smoke coils lazily across the scorched stone, and the only movement is the soft settling of ash. The Flamebound Revenants lie no more—their bodies have crumbled into heaps of fine, gray soot, scattered across the chamber floor like funeral dust.

Where once cursed warriors stood, only remnants remain.

Among the ruins, several objects endure the flame: a flaming crossbow, its limbs still glowing faintly with internal heat; a charred, iron-bound spellbook, its pages blackened but intact, the rune on its cover pulsing softly; and two flame-forged blades, their edges flickering with dormant magical fire—each requiring attunement to awaken their dormant power.

The chamber itself is ruined but still. The illusionary campfire is long extinguished, leaving only a blackened circle scorched into the stone. The flame vents remain quiet—though none in the party dare to trust their silence.

On the far wall, a stone door stands shut, sealed and unmoving. Its frame is ringed with soot, but no lock or handle is visible—just a faint seam in the dark stone, leading south. Beyond it lies the next path forward.

The party has earned a moment of rest… if they dare to take it.

Treasure Added

XP Awarded

What do you do?

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