Free at Last

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The Escape

The Ascent to Brynstroth

Downtime at last

A Caravan of sorts

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The Escape

Dorf watches his friends as they try to recover from the fight, he knows they are hurting just as much as he is from losing Uptharr. He steels himself against the pain pushing it down deep inside where it will fuel his rage in the future. He will deal with the grief someday, but today he needs to see his remaining friends safely out of this dungeon. Guilt weighs heavily on him as he realizes Uptharr would still be alive if he hadn’t dragged them all down here to save Hruna. Dorf paces the hallway looking for anything hidden or out of place, trying to distract his mind from the terror of his friend disintegrating in front of his eyes. Frustrated at finding nothing he prowls the hallway keeping an eye open for any dangers.

As the Tiny Hut spell takes hold for the first time since they've been down here, Mutt allows himself to relax a degree. Removing the bedroll from his pack, he leaves it rolled up and places it under Azalie's head while Fizz finishes casting Lesser Restoration on Azalie. Her breathing seems to steady and the greying rot that was spreading throughout her arms has stopped progressing but doesn't go away. Mutt frowns inwardly as her color remains pallid and her breathing weak. Mutt looks down and sees the look of concern still on the gnome healer's face as Azalie doesn't fully recover. Forcing a smile for the sake of the rest of the group, he places a hand on Fizz's shoulder.

"Thank you, Fizz. You may have saved her life just now. We'll find a cure for Azalie, don't you worry. If anyone can do it, I know you can."

Mutt takes a few steps away from the group and sits cross-legged, closing his eyes and just breathing for several moments. He idly fingers Uptharr's holy symbol around his neck and tries to process everything that just transpired. The hole left by Uptharr's missing presence feels like a physical, tangible thing. It feels like Mutt can almost reach out and touch where the paladin is supposed to be. Mutt shakes his head and forces down the emotions that threaten to push their way up from his gut. Removing the flask of spirits from his pack, he takes a long pull and coughs as the fiery liquid makes its way down his throat. Mutt continues to trace the counters of the holy symbol and curses himself. This was why he refused to get attached to anyone. This was why he kept everyone at arms' length. If you don't get close to anyone, they can't let you down. They can't betray you. They can't make you hurt like this when they're gone. Mutt looks to the rest of the group. Azalie's shallow, restless breathing and the surviving Howlbears working through their own individual grief and his heart breaks a second time. He pushes the negative thoughts and poisonous feelings from his mind and stands before the group. Clearing his throat, he waits until he has their attention before proceeding.

"Uptharr was the first person I noticed when I joined that caravan that brought us all together." Mutt chuckles. "I mean, how could you not? The man was huge, and I can't remember the last time I saw hair that fiery red."

He pauses for a moment, then continues.

"It wasn't the height or the hair that made him stand out to me though. It was his presence. The way he stood tall and just brought a sense of protection and comfort to everyone around him. Caravan roads are always dangerous, but people just seemed to feel safer and less worried with him around. It wasn't anything physical about the man that brought that sense of calm, peace, and comfort. It was his spirit. His energy."

Mutt toys with the holy symbol around his neck. "His physical presence may be gone, but his spirit and energy have not left. They're here with us. In all of us. Uptharr lives on in each and every person here. As long as a Howlbear draws breath, Uptharr lives." Mutt smiles at Hruna. "That includes you too, Hruna." Mutt smiles at everyone in the group. "Does anyone else want to say a few words?"

Azalie listens to Mutt talk about Uptharr, but his voice feels far away, like he's speaking from behind a closed door. She doesn’t know what she’s going to do. The loss of Uptharr tears through her chest, sharper and deeper than anything she’s ever felt. Tears run in thin streams through the blood on her face, carving painful paths down her cheeks. How is she supposed to survive losing another friend? Another piece of her?

She tries to explain how she and Uptharr met, how they bonded so quickly, how he had become someone she trusted without even realizing it was happening. But the words won’t form. They fall out in broken shapes, heavy with grief.

“I am really going to miss him,” she whispers. “He was… very important to me.”

The ache is too much. Azalie folds inward, covering her face with her hands as she curls into a ball. She wants the day to end, wants the world to stop pushing her so far past her limits. “I will follow you guys,” she manages through a sniffle. “Let’s just get out of here.” Her voice is barely more than a breath. Her body feels like it’s shutting down. She closes her eyes.

Fizz listens to Mutt's words with tears still glistening in his eyes.

"He sure was big Mr. Mutt! Big and strong as an old oak tree."

 "I would give anything just to feel a fresh breeze on my face again! I'm sorry to leave our things behind my friends, but I think we should take the chance to escape now. Without Uptharr... (Fizz pauses to collect himself), we don't stand a chance against an army of Drow."

Mutt continues to smile widely at everyone.

"Rest now. We need to turn our focus to getting out of here. Azalie still needs help and we're not out of the woods yet."

Mutt eats several bunches of grapes and washes it down with the last of his water. His stomach still growled, but it would have to wait. He walks over to Orin and looks warily at the orb. He looks from the swirling darkness to the wizard and realizes just how glad he is Orin is here with them. Mutt gestures to the orb shaped opening and looks at Orin. "It sure looks like that's where the orb would fit, but any idea what happens when we put the orb in there? Will it just open the door or what else could happen?"

Inside the sheltering shimmer of Mutt’s Tiny Hut, Orin sits quietly while the Howlbears grieve, recover, and take stock of what’s left of them. A few berries offer some relief from his growing hunger as he watches Mutt speak of Uptharr with reserved softness, watches Fizz cling to Azalie, watches Hruna’s stern face crack under the weight of loss. No words he could offer would lessen what has happened, but as Mutt addresses him, he stands and speaks.

“The Oculus is dangerous. Touching it directly risks letting fragments of Malefax’s mind reach out. Maybe not enough to control you, but enough to wound the spirit, for sure.”

He looks to Azalie. “It's not what is causing the rot in her, but it resonates with it. The closer she is to the orb, the more strain it puts on her body. Until she’s healed, we keep her as far from it as we can. I will carry it when we leave, but we should take precautions when handling it."

 “The Oculus is the key for this door, and I agree that we should return to the surface. Get help for Azalie. Warn the folk of this place. Recover. Maybe learn more of this... thing," as he eyes the Oculus.

He turns to Mutt. “When we’re ready, use Mage Hand. Keep it between us and the orb. Once we've unlocked this door, we can stow it - wrap it in a blanket and drop it in a satchel. I will maintain my wards and let you know if there is any danger."

“Let us return to town,” he says quietly. “For Azalie’s cure. Then perhaps we can return here... for Uptharr."

Mutt nods, "I agree, lets Rest now. We need to turn our focus to getting out of here. Azalie still needs help and we're not out of the woods yet."

One by one, the Howlbears fall asleep inside the safety of the Tiny Hut. For once, they actally feel safe.

The silence that follows is thick enough to smother.

Azalie jerks awake, disoriented for a moment. The tiny hut Mutt conjured glows softly around her, warm and protective. Everyone inside is sleeping, finally safe for the moment. She lets herself breathe.

She needs to go to the bathroom.

She moves to wake Hruna. She touches her arm, then gives her a gentle shake, then says her name softly. Hruna doesn’t move. “She must be exhausted,” Azalie thinks. The others are worn thin too, especially the boys. She decides not to disturb any of them.

She steps out carefully. Halfway through the opening she freezes, listening. Nothing. Not a single drop of water, not even the scrape of stone shifting. The air feels heavy, pressed tight around her.

Then Mellon bursts out of the hut in a sudden rush of feathers. Azalie jumps so hard she draws her flameblade out of instinct. “Mellon,” she hisses, gripping her sword, “you scared the shit out of me.”

The bird flutters to her shoulder, but her focus is already on something else.

A faint glow shines from the exact spot where Uptharr fell. Soft and familiar. It looks almost like the shimmer of his shield.

She steps toward it, slow and careful.

Azalie kneels at the place of his last stand. Her hand finds her moon petal necklace, her fingers brushing it in a slow, trembling rhythm. Her eyes close. Her head dips, shoulders sagging under the weight of everything she’s carrying. She wonders—again and again—if she could have done something differently.

Her breath slows. Her mind blurs at the edges.

Then she feels something shift.

Her eyes open.

Uptharr stands in front of her.

She can’t stop the tears. They spill instantly.

“Oh Azalie,” he says, his voice warm and steady, “don’t cry for me. I am with Tyr, and He is with me.”

She knows it must be a dream, yet everything feels real enough to hurt. Her hand stays on her pendant, stroking it gently as if grounding herself.

“Why did you have to die?” she asks. “I was just getting to really know you. It feels like we’ve known each other forever.” She lowers her head. “You were the only father I had. I know that sounds strange, but I’ll miss you like I lost a father.”

Uptharr laughs—bright, full, and so unmistakably him. His eyes shine with tears of joy. “I will be watching from above,” he says. He places a hand on her head and pulls her into a hug. His warmth washes over her, and she knows in her heart he is safe.

“Now go tell the others,” he says, turning to leave.

“Tell them what?”, she asks

He stops. Closing the distance in a flash. His hand clamps around her arms. His expression shifts. His face tensed and serious.

“Tell them they are coming,” he says. His breath chills her skin. “He knows.”

The world shatters—

She jolts upright inside the hut—breath ragged, skin slick with sweat,

Azalie gasps awake, heart hammering. This time she knows she is awake.”

Her heart slams against her ribs as she spins, searching the darkness, every sense alert.

Mellon screeching above her.

“Everybody wake up!” she gasps. “We have to MOVE!”

The others stir immediately, without hesitation, as if they have practiced this before.

Fizz trips over his own feet. Dorf’s axe is already out. Orin’s runes light. Mutt turns, instinctively shielding Azalie with an arm.

Before anyone can speak—

they all feel it.

A psychic tremor. A cold, slick pressure brushing at the edges of their minds.

Then—a sound like wet stone being pried apart.

Boom…Boom…BOOM.

The great stone gate they passed through—the one sealed by Malefax’s wards—is being forced open.

And now, with the god of rot dead, its protections are gone.

Low chanting echoes beyond the cracks. Multiple voices. Drow. Mind flayers.

They have been working at the gate for hours while the Howlbears slept.

And now—

“—the wards are failing,” Orin breathes. “They’re opening it.”

Mutt dispels the Tiny Hut instantly.

The psychic pressure intensifies. Someone on the other side is probing. Searching.

For them.

You have seconds—not minutes.

Orin shoves the wrapped Oculus into Mutt’s hands. “Mage Hand. Now.”

Mutt summons it with a flicker of arcane force. The spectral hand lifts the orb.

The runed door at the far end of the chamber flares to life—crimson sigils spiraling, awakening.

POWER HONORED, POWER FREED.PROVE YOUR CLAIM AND THE WAY SHALL OPEN.

Mutt presses the Oculus into the recess using the Mage Hand.

The stone convulses—the runes blaze—and a vertical seam splits through the door.

The ground rumbles.

Behind you, the main gate shrieks as something wedges fingers—or tentacles—into the widening crack.

A voice whispers inside your skulls.

“They are inside.”

Azalie pales. “It wasn’t just a dream,” she whispers. “Uptharr was warning me.”

The runed door grinds open, revealing a narrow tunnel sloping upward into darkness. Cold, fresh air drifts down from somewhere far above.

“Go!” Dorf snarls. “Everyone MOVE!”

Fizz grabs Azalie’s arm.Mutt ushers Hruna forward.Orin backs into the tunnel last, wand raised.

The moment Mutt’s Mage Hand withdraws the Oculus—the door slams shut behind you with the sound of a mountain collapsing.

Something hits the far side with tremendous force. Dust sifts through the cracks. A chorus of furious, alien minds batter at the runes.

The door holds.

For now.

Orin exhales shakily. “It will not last forever. We need to keep moving.”

The Ascent:

The escape tunnel is narrow—barely wide enough for one at a time—and spirals upward like a vein cut through the mountain. The air grows colder. Cleaner. Alive.

Your footsteps echo as you climb. The ground trembles once—maybe a distant explosion, or the runed door taking another hit.

After several minutes, light appears ahead—faint, gray, and real.

The passage ends at a jagged opening, half hidden by snow-laden boulders.

Dorf squeezes through first, pushing aside ice and rubble.

And then—you step out into daylight.

The wind hits like a blessing. Cold. Sharp. Free.

Above you stretch the great white peaks of the Spine of the World—towering, ancient, untouched. The sky is pale winter blue. The sun hangs low, glinting off the snowfields below. It's cold, but you barely notice.

For the first time in days, the air tastes clean.

For the first time in days, you breathe fully.

Behind you, deep within the mountain, you still hear echoes and rumbles, you cannot tell if the Runed door is still holding them back, or if they are in the tunnel.

Not yet.

You are outside. You are alive.

Azalie leans into Mutt’s shoulder, exhausted. Fizz clutches her hand. Dorf scans for threats. Hruna sobs quietly into her palm. Orin stands with the Oculus held carefully at his side, face unreadable.

The world is wide open.

You have escaped the Pit of Maleficence.

Azalie is dying.

Uptharr is gone.

The Oculus is yours.

Xal’Zyress knows.

What do the Howlbears do next?

XP Awarded

Current Time: 6:25 AM

Date: Tenthday, 30, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 21°

Current Phase: Exploration

The Ascent to Brynstroth

Azalie trembles in the cold.

“We need to run.”

A faint psychic thrum still vibrates through the stone tunnel behind you—like something testing the runed door—so you don’t linger.

You all collectively decide to put as much distance as they can between them and any Drow that may be pursuing them, so they head into deep snow, and don't stop.

Snow bites at your cheeks as the Howlbears stagger out of the jagged opening on the northern face of Kelvin’s Cairn. The wind howls across the ridgeline, scouring away the taste of rot and dust from the Pit behind you. For a moment—for the first time in days—the sky is open. Pale blue. Cold. Real.

Orin lifts his hood against the icy wind, studying the mountainside…

The cold sun shining on his face, noting what little forage might still be found this far into winter.

“We can manage until Brynstroth,” he says. “It’s near enough, and safer than sitting out here exposed.”

With the Oculus weighing unnaturally in the sack hanging from his pack, he takes care to keep yards of distance between himself and Azalie. “Once we’re behind dwarven walls, I’ll cast Identify. Hopefully we'll get some more answers... before Xal’Zyress sends anything else crawling after us."

Hruna wipes her eyes with a dirty sleeve and points south along the slope.

“There… the Spinewalk Trail. Two hours if the weather holds.”

No one argues. No one wants to look back.

The first twenty minutes are silent but for the crunch of snow and the distant groaning of ice shifting under its own weight. Every so often, the wind carries an echo from somewhere below—dull, rhythmic, like fists hammering stone. You wonder if the Runed door is still holding or if the Drow are pursuing you. You keep focused on getting to the safety of Brynstroth.

The trail winds along narrow ledges and snow-dusted boulders. Fizz’s boots slip more than once, and Mutt wordlessly steadies him. Azalie moves slower than usual, leaning against Mellon’s steady flutter. Dorf keeps checking behind the group, jaw tight, eyes hard. Orin walks carefully, keeping the wrapped Oculus far from Azalie’s side.

And yet—through grief, exhaustion, and bitter cold—the thought is the same for all of you:

We made it out.

Return to Brynstroth

The stone gates of Brynstroth rise from the mountainside like the mouth of a fortress carved straight from the Spine itself.

Two dwarven sentries spot Hruna first.

“By the stones—HRUNA!” one cries, rushing forward.

She stumbles into their arms, relief breaking through her stoic exterior. Whispers ripple across the courtyard as miners and smiths gather, confusion turning to wide-eyed horror as they see the state of the Howlbears.

“We need to speak to Thrain. Immediately.” Hruna’s voice cracks. “We have news to report.”

You are escorted immediately to the Great Hall where Ironbraid is waiting.

Thrain Ironbraid stands waiting—broad-shouldered, iron-bearded, and grim. At the sight of his sister, relief floods his features… followed by sorrow as he looks at the rest of you.

“Tell me everything.”

He listens in heavy silence as Hruna recounts the collapse, the river, the Drow, the mind flayers, the Beholder, the Pit… and Uptharr.

When she finishes, the Hall is so quiet you can hear the braziers crackle.

Thrain exhales slowly, shoulders sinking.

“So… that’s what’s been rumblin’ under our feet.” He closes his eyes. “Then the miners we lost are truly gone.”

A long pause.

“No more search parties. No more explorin’. Deepfrost Hollow is sealed—permanently. I’ll not throw good dwarves to a beholder and its thralls.”

He looks to each of you in turn.

“You saved my sister-kin. You brought back the truth. And you survived what no one should’ve. Brynstroth owes you more than a word of thanks.”

He signals an attendant, who returns with a heavy iron coffer. Inside—pouches of gold (A sizeable sum of gold is apportioned among you.)

“Your reward. And my gratitude.”

Thrain’s expression softens when he looks at Azalie’s condition.

“Take her to the temple. The clerics here may not be fancy, but they know their craft. If this rot can be cured—it’ll be here.”

He rests a hand on Hruna’s shoulder as dwarven healers move to assist Azalie.

“And stay as long as ye need. Rest. Eat. Recover.” His voice lowers. “And if you hear odd talk among the folk—about giants, or strange raids—take heed. The Dale’s changin’. The wind’s carryin’ trouble from every direction.”

He straightens again, all business.

“Should the Howlbears wish to tell me more—about any artifact or relic ye found below—ye may speak o’ it now or later. I won’t pry. Not unless ye choose it.”

Downtime in Brynstroth

Warm light fills the hall. The smell of hearth-smoke, fresh bread, and stone polish replaces the cold terror of the Pit. Brynstroth bustles around you—alive, vibrant, guarded but welcoming.

You have beds. Food. Shops fully stocked from recent traders. A temple that can heal Azalie. And no immediate threat clawing at your heels.

For the first time since being captured by Xal’Zyress…

the walls around you aren’t closing in.

You can breathe.

DM NOTES FOR NEXT POST:

Feel free to post any retro actions or dialogue you wish to discuss with Thrain.

This is officially some down time - you can decide collectively as a party how long you wish to stay in Brynstroth. Keep in mind, your Chwinga quest is due in Bryn Shander by Ches, 6. (6 days from now). It's a 2 day hike to Bryn Shander from here.

Recap of Travel Distances From Brynstroth

Bryn Shander• 2 days by foot• 12 hours by axe beak or dog sled

Caer-Konig• 4–6 hours by foot• 2–3 hours by axe beak or dog sled

Caer-Dineval• 6–8 hours by foot• 3–4 hours by axe beak or dog sled

Easthaven• 2 days by foot• 10 hours by axe beak or dog sled

Termalaine• 12 hours by foot• 4–5 hours by axe beak or dog sled

Targos• 2 days by foot• 12 hours by axe beak or dog sled

Bremen• 2 days by foot• 13–15 hours by axe beak or dog sled

Your Axe Beaks and Dogs are here in Brynstroth, you have access to them again.

Treasure (Gold) Awarded

XP Awarded

Shops are open in Brynstroth and have been stocked. We will determine free time awards based on how long you plan to stay in Brynstroth.

Current Time: 9:00 AM

Date: Tenthday, 30, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 21°

Current Phase: Exploration

Downtime at Last

As the Howlbears pass through the giant doors of Brynstroth, Mutt finally allows himself to relax and breathes deep. The sights and sounds of the great hall are a balm to Mutt's wounded soul. He hadn't realized how long it had been since he heard the sounds of laughter and voices raised in merriment, and how much he needed it in his life.

He beams at the Howlbears and claps Dorf on the shoulder.

"We made it! I told you we'd make it." Mutt whispers so only he can hear and touches the outline of the holy symbol under his cloak. "Well, most of us anyway."

Azalie takes a small breath of relief once she sees the doors ahead of her. It’s not comfort she seeks for herself but safety for her friends. Her pain is too much to bear.

She walks through the great doors, impressed once more by their sheer size and imposing might. Doors beaten into submission, iron taking a pounding, the design appearing delicate though no one is getting through them. She feels safe for the first time in a while.

As the great stone gates of Brynstroth close behind them, Orin feels something he hasn’t felt since the Duergar fortress: the absence of pursuit.

Warmth returns slowly.

For the first time in what feels like months—though it has been only a handful of harrowing days—the Howlbears sleep without fear of Drow blades or psionic whispers crawling along their spines. Dwarven braziers burn hot. Cookfires send the scent of spiced meat and barley through the stone halls. The oppressive weight of the Underdark is finally gone.

But the weight of loss... remains.

Thrain Ironbraid

Mutt’s retelling of the Pit—woven through shimmering minor illusions—draws half the settlement to Thrain Ironbraid’s great hall. Images of drow, psionic horrors, the Medusa, and Malefax himself flicker across the stone walls.

Some dwarves gasp. Some swear. Some whisper prayers.

When Uptharr’s fall is illustrated, the hall falls silent but for the crackle of the braziers.

Orin's breath fogs the air as Thrain listens to Hruna’s account, and Mutt’s illusions paint horrors across the far wall. When Uptharr’s fall flickers into view, Orin looks down, the weight of the Oculus suddenly cold against his side, almost pulling him down.

What else could I have done? thinks orin.

After listening to everything—Hruna’s testimony, your account, Mutt’s illusions—Thrain comfirms,

“Deepfrost Hollow is to be sealed.”

When Thrain orders Deepfrost Hollow to be shut, Mutt nods in agreement.

"With all due respect, I recommend posting a guard on those tunnels. Through all the stories I've heard, I've never known mind flayers to work for anyone other than an elder brain. The fact that this beholder has managed to thrall not just mind flayers, but the Drow as well is concerning. They were also trying to construct monsters to act as their front-line soldiers in some upcoming conflict. I can't say if Brynstroth is their target, but I would encourage caution and start thinking about defenses."

“They tried to kill us. They tried…” Her voice begins thunderous, then falls meek. “Xal’Zyress will pay. He will pay for what he has done. I will not falter, sway, or tire. I will return to him, his little slave. I will return to him. Take count of what I say.”

Her voice shifts, her eyes glaring into nothing, daggers of hate spewing from her lips, spit dripping down her chin. Her body clenches, all her strength keeping her from running straight to him and slicing off his puny eye stalks.

”A god he calls himself. He’s nothing but the dirt in my toenails, lower than a single hair fallen off the balls of an Otyugh. I swear on my life that I will feed him his own excrement as his eye watches.” She can barely catch her breath. The outburst has taken everything from her. Azalie holds back her tears. For now, he doesn’t get to make her feel anything. She doesn’t feel anything. There is only physical pain, and she is accustomed to it.

She doesn’t care that everyone is looking at her, their eyes sympathetic and slightly afraid of the anger burning in hers. She hopes they don’t fear her, not them, not the ones she cares for.

Thrain orders that Dwarven stonecasters begin working immediately, collapsing the tunnel, sealing the entrance with reinforced steel braces, and placing guards on rotating shifts.

Thrain is not told about the Oculus. Not yet.

But his eyes linger on each of you with a mix of gratitude and concern.

The Clerics & Healing of Azalie

The clerics of Moradin are summoned to treat Azalie, Her skin still bears faint grey filaments from the necrotic rot; her breath, uneven and shallow. The dwarven healers say little, but their hands are steady as they work. A low, resonant chant fills the chamber.

A gold-etched hammer sigil glows above her chest.

The rot recoils, shreds, and dissolves.

Strength returns—but not peace.

Azalie’s body recovers. Her heart… not yet.

The priests give her a fur cloak, warm broth, and quiet words:

“You’re safe now, lass. Rest.”

As the clerics come to heal Azalie, Orin steps aside, relief softening something tight in his chest. With each breath the rot leaves her skin, he sees the color return. The Howlbears breathe easier. For now.

As dwarven attendants lead them to rooms and food, Orin excuses himself. He moves through Brynstroth with deliberate purpose... refilling waterskins, bartering for a couple healing draughts, securing reagents for a potion of skill enhancement. Simple tasks grounding him.

Mutt looks on in relief as the dwarven healers come to Azalie's aid. He nods to Thrain and half bows in respect.

"Thank you, Thrain. Your hospitality is welcomed."

After seeing Azalie's color return and that her healing is complete,

he beams and claps a hand on Azalie's arm.

"You're looking much better! Now let's finally see you get that bath you keep going on about."

Realizing how that might have been misconstrued, Mutt's face flushes red for a moment. "Eh, what I meant was...that is... ahem. Go get cleaned up. We will meet up later in the great hall. Don't forget the first two rounds are on me." Mutt starts to leave before looking back at the ranger and smiling. "I'm glad you're not going anywhere, Az."

Azalie hears the offer. Her pointed ears would never miss a comment from him.

Oh, how she wishes a bath would help. It may clean her skin, warm her aching muscles, and take her cares away for a fleeting moment. How she wishes the scene were different, intimate, intentional, not a necessary action to rid her of her odor. She can’t think like that. She has to keep them far away. She cannot endure another loss, especially not the loss of someone she loves.

Her instincts snap into place to protect her. Her heart isn’t strong like she hoped. It is weak and controllable. So it hardens a little more.

She starts thinking of Dorf and their friendship, two clowns making light of important things. Her memory drifts to a day searching for chwingas, fishing beside him as he sat stocky and quiet, pondering whatever Dorf ponders. His lack of communication is greatly made up for by his deep compassion. Dorf shows his feelings through actions, not words. She can’t imagine not being around him, but could she bear watching him fall to a blade?

“Mutt,” she whispers, her voice trembling, “thank you.”

That is all she can manage. There is so much she wants to say, so much she wants to release, but she doesn’t.

She almost walks into the door once they reach her room. She pauses, then turns to face Mutt. Warmth floods her entire body. Her eyes drift to his hand, and her fingers interlock with his. She leans in and kisses his cheek.

“Uptharr is so proud of you, and so am I.”

Her hand slips away, and she retreats into her room, closing the door and breaking eye contact as her head falls downward.

Azalie attempts to relax. She takes a bath, but it doesn’t calm her. Her bed is comfortable, the bear fur blanket perfectly soft and warm, yet she can’t relax. Her thoughts dwell only on the last battle, not on the fallen but on what the beholder left behind. His thoughts still permeate her mind.

She jumps out of bed and digs through her pack.

“It has to be in here. What would a beholder want with my frosty Toby?”

At last she finds the small pouch with just enough sticky herb to roll a toke. A smile crosses her face, then she forces it back. There is no happiness without sadness.

She covers up and heads outside, rushing past the men singing, drinking, and decompressing. She stops only long enough to grab some leftovers from the tables. Snacks will be needed. She finds a quiet spot outside the iron gate and strikes her flint.

She draws the largest puff an elf could manage, holding it until she can’t any longer. Relief comes out as coughing and hacking. She feels alone. Her only companion is the ash drifting from her vice.

She stands for nearly an hour, her footprints forming a tight circular pattern in the snow. She heads back to her room, passing Fizz and Mutt in a handstand battle, Orin drunk and showing off magic to the dwarves, and Dorf and Hruna cuddled together, absorbing each other’s warmth. She passes the bartender, who watches her closely.

“Can I get you a drink, lass?” he calls.

She stops and considers the offer. She hasn’t drunk in decades. She and mead do not mix well. She becomes a different kind of elf. She turns and walks toward the bar, temptation circling her thoughts.

“Take it,” she hears faintly.

“Drink it,” the voice grows louder.

“Why hold back, little spark?”

He, her old master, is in her mind, trapped there by death, but still whispering.

“Drink it.”

Her hand starts reaching for the cup.

“Yes, give in.”

She doesn’t stop. She doesn’t fight the control. Her hand closes around the liquid that could ruin her forever. She won’t be able to go back.

“Yes, little spark, fall back into hell.”

Azalie raises the cup to her mouth, her other hand drifting toward her memory charm.

“No. I’m good, thank you.”

She slams the cup down, the drink splashing across the counter and onto the bartender. Her heart steadies as a memory of Uptharr rushes in, a time when they talked about her drinking and how she let it control her.

“Control only comes from you. You must be willing to set aside your wisdom, compassion, and understanding to ever be controlled again.” Wise words from her friend. She will never desecrate his memory for a moment of relief.

Azalie retreats to her room and heads to bed.

Mutt

Seeing Azalie out of danger, Mutt's first stop is to Gemfire's vault. After some bartering, Mutt walks away with a handful of glittering diamonds. Turning the shining gems over in his hand, he sighs heavily. Odd how easily a worth could be placed on someone's life. 300 gold worth of shiny rocks and death can be overcome. He tucks the gems away to a safe place and absentmindedly touches the holy symbol. He wasn't going to lose another friend if there was anything he could do about it.

He spends the rest of his time in the great hall, needing to be around others and feel the warmth of the hearth. He spends the first night trading tales with anyone that will listen and getting shitfaced drunk. Thrain's mention of gossip regarding giants was not lost on him.

While chatting up the great hall's patrons, he makes an effort to glean whatever information about giants or raids people are willing to share When the Howlbears and/or Hruna finally arrive, he makes sure to pay for the first two rounds for anyone that wants one.

(Bill due in Player Tabs)

Gossip, Rumors and Warnings

• Giant sightings on Kelvin’s Cairn and the northern valleys

• Supply raids increasing

• Livestock disappearing from hamlets

• Lights on distant hills at night

• A rumor of a massive shape moving through a blizzard on the Tundra, near Easthaven

  
  

Nothing immediate. Nothing that requires you NOW.

But the north is stirring.

Mutt wakes up the next day, nursing a wicked hangover but smiles despite it. They were safe. They were still underground, which Mutt wasn't a huge fan of, but at least their lives weren't in immediate danger. He takes a quick, greasy breakfast a bit of the hair of the dog before he goes and checks on his actual dogs at the boarding stables. As he approaches the stables, he spots Uptharr's axebeak waiting patiently for his master's return. As Ipa and Stout see Mutt approach and start wagging happily, their tongues lolling out of their mouths, Mutt makes a decision. He can't subject them to the dangers and harsh climes the Howlbears were likely to encounter. They deserved to lay next to a warm hearth and get all the belly scratches they desired. He makes an arrangement with the stablemaster to pay off the boarding cost of his dogs and Uptharr's mount. Mutt will never be able to fill Uptharr's shoes, but he could probably fit in his saddle.

Mutt Gains Uptharr's Axe Beak - Ipa, Stout and his sled remain in Brynstroth with Hruna.

Orin

Back in the hall, During the first evening while mutt is buying drinks for everyone, Orin corners Mutt and gestures toward a cleared table.

“If I may, I'd like to learn your method for detecting magic,” Orin says. “Your ritual casting. It’s… intuitive. Not something my academy taught.”

Mutt, not yet drunk but charmingly on his way, explains with sweeping hand motions and poetic nonsense. Orin listens carefully, translating chaos into structure in real time

• You can copy spells into your spellbook - using the website - go to page 3 of your character sheet, click "copy Spells" on the right. You will need free time and high quality ink and paper to copy the spells into your book. A couple of the spells cannot be copied, as they are not for the Wizard class, so they are not listed in your spells to copy list.

Scroll of Elemental Weapon

—determining it is not compatible with his training without extensive research. He stores it for later consideration.

Scroll of Summon Greater Demon

—Another spell not within Orin'ps ability to scribe, however he could cast it from the scroll if things got dire.

The Oculus

with Mutt’s Mage Hand hovering it perfectly still.

The Weave ripples wrong as the ritual finishes.

• It contains a fragment of Malefax’s psionic essence.

• It resonates with undeath but lies dormant.

• It is safe to carry when wrapped.

• Touching it directly risks psychic backlash.

• And it is only dormant because Malefax is dead.

He says nothing at first—only wraps it tighter and keeps it well stowed in his pack.

Treasure Map Fragments (Mutt & Orin)

Late afternoon, on the second day, on a shared drink to settle the nerves, Mutt pulls Orin aside with a conspiratorial grin and an overstuffed pouch. He dumps a collection of torn parchment scraps onto a dwarven stone table—some water-damaged, some burned, some written in a hand neither of them recognizes.

“Remember these?” Mutt says, tapping the pile. “Treasure map fragments. I’ve been collecting them since Ten-Towns. Figured it’s time we actually… y’know… studied the damn things.”

Orin raises a brow, intrigued despite himself. Together the two begin the painstaking work of arranging each fragment, rotating slivers of coastline, broken lines of dwarvish script, and faint compass markings while dwarven lanternlight flickers over the table. At first, nothing fits. Then—slowly—the outline forms: a distorted map of Icewind Dale’s eastern lakes.

Orin’s eyes narrow. “Here,” he says, pointing to a symbol repeated across two separate fragments—a stylized crescent over rippling lines. “This is old Reghed glyphwork. It marks a site of sinking—a place where something of value was lost beneath water.”

Mutt squints. “So… which lake?”

Orin aligns the final scrap, and the rough shape clicks into place.

“Lac Dinneshere,” he says at last. “Not a precise location—but the fragments strongly point there. If we want the next piece of this puzzle, we’ll need to search its shores. From there… I suspect another clue awaits.”

Nothing urgent. Nothing pressing. Just a whisper of adventure calling from the ice.

Dorf

Once everyone has settled after their arrival Dorf guides the emotional Hruna back to her room, tucks her into her bed, then stokes the fire and pulls a chair between her and the door. No one will bother her while she sleeps. He feels the weariness of the last few days wash over him and he falls asleep despite his best intentions.

When he wakes up he quickly glances over but sees Hruna peacefully sleeping. He can’t shake the restlessness he is feeling and after pacing awhile he leaves most of his gear with a note for her letting her know where he is going. He takes a quick shopping trip for provisions, but leaves all his weapons behind. He is going yeti hunting. He knows he can’t go back underground just yet especially alone since his friends would follow again and he can’t bear the guilt of another friend dying because of his actions, maybe it would be better if he severed ties now?

After getting provisions Dorf heads out the main gate letting Fizz know what he is up to so no one will worry about him for a couple days. Dorf slips out after asking the guards if they have any news of yetis terrorizing any specific parts of the mountain. If there is no specific areas of concern he will just start a sweep of the mountain looking for signs of yetis. He will be fighting barehanded taking out his rage on these evil beings. He needs to attack something evil that doesn’t require deep thought, just rage and blood! He knows deep in the back of his head this really won’t solve his problems, but it could save innocent travelers in the future.

Yeti Hunt

Dorf disappears into the white wilderness for two days.When he returns, his knuckles are split, his cloak is stiff with frozen blood—mostly not his—and his eyes hold a quieter kind of fury.

In the high snows of Kelvin’s Cairn, he hunted alone.

Four yetis answered his challenge. Four yetis fell beneath his bare hands.

Their claws raked him—deep, painful cuts—but none slowed him. His greaves burned with fey brilliance as he struck, each blow cracking bone and bursting frost. By the fourth kill, he was fighting out of exhaustion rather than rage.

He returns to Brynstroth exhausted, bruised, and breathing hard—but stronger in spirit than when he left.

Sometimes grief needs something to break.

And Dorf broke four yetis.

Dorf ended up with 4 Yeti Pelts and 8 Yeti Fangs after his ordeal, while he did take damage, he was able to fully recover each night.

Dorf returns late on the last evening, just in time to join the others before they begin discussing their departure.

After Three Days

By morning of Ches 4, Azalie is fully healed, though quiet. The Howlbears have resupplied. Your axe-beaks and dog sled are packed.

And your Chwinga quest in Bryn Shander is due in Two days, on Ches 6

Thrain meets you at the gate before dawn.

“May the stones shield ye. If trouble finds ye… send word.”

Hruna hugs each of you, lingering longest with Dorf.

You step into the frigid wind.

The Road to Bryn Shander

Visibility is good. The sky is an endless sheet of winter-blue. Snow crunches under sled runners and clawed axebeak feet.

For hours, the journey is uneventful—cold, quiet, peaceful.

Halfway through the day, the unnatural twilight still plagues the region, only giving you a few hours of light before the darkness falls again, you catch motion ahead.

A figure—no, a small caravan—moving slowly through the snow-covered pass.

Three people, bundled heavily in furs. A sled pulled by a tired-looking reindeer. A large, tarped-over crate in the back.

They stop the moment they see you.

The leader—a stocky woman with a blue-lacquered spear—raises a hand.

Not threatening. Wary.

Her voice cracks in the cold air:

“Travelers! Are you bound for Bryn Shander? We… we could use help.”

The others with her look exhausted. Worried. And the tarped crate on the sled shifts with a dull thump, as if something inside just moved.

What do you do?

Current Time: 10:00 AM

Date: Fourthday 4, Ches, 1742

Temperature: 21°

Current Phase: Exploration

A Caravan of Sorts

Mutt motions for the rest of the Howlbears to spread out and keep a good distance before approaching the caravan. Mutt pulls his axebeak up towards the front of the group a safe distance from the caravan. Close enough to be heard, but far enough to maneuver if needed. He keeps his snow goggles down to hide his eyes and scans the trio, assessing them for threats and mentally calculating escape routes in case he needs one. He scans each member, looking for weapons or indications of what they’re capable of (component pouches, bows, worn weapons, etc.) He looks at the blue spear and tries to determine if it’s magical, ceremonial, or what.

Distracted by the beautiful landscape, and the fresh mountain air, Fizz doesn't catch Mutt's direction to spread out and accidently passes him as he stops. When he starts to speak, Fizz jumps in surprise, and pulls Peck back to just behind Mutt.

"Sorry Mr. Mutt!" Fizz whispers after Mutt addresses the travelers on the sled.

Azalie hides

Azalie notices the caravan sooner than the others.  She’s settled into reading Mellon’s signals and recognizes the bird chirps and clicks.

Still riding her axe beak, Azalie steps out of line and melts into the landscape, hoping she wasn’t noticed. Azalie steadies herself, just in case one of these travelers makes a move.

She watches as Mutt motions for the others to spread out and giggles, knowing she’s a few steps ahead of him.

Her attention snaps into place. These travelers seem far too chunky to cause much strife. Still, her frame is small, yet she can scale the back of a giant and flail it with a perfect landing.

• Azalie (Stealth vs their passive): You melt into the snowline and rock shadows like you were born there. None of the travelers seem to notice you. Their attention stays on the the group with trained mounts and weapons.

Mutt and Fizz start the conversation, and Azalie keeps quiet, tiptoeing closer to listen. She’s ready for whatever comes her way.

The wind cuts clean across the pass, pushing powdery snow in thin sheets that skitter over stone like whispers. The small caravan halts fully when they see you fan out.

The stocky woman with the blue-lacquered spear keeps the butt of it planted in the snow, her posture cautious but not aggressive. Two others remain near the sled, shoulders hunched, eyes red from cold and sleeplessness.

Behind them, under a heavy tarp, the crate shifts again.

Thunk.

Looking back at the sled, Fizz notices the movement under the tarp, and speaks up.

"Oooo whatcha got under the blanket!! is it a Snowy Leopard? That's one I don't have in my journal yet!"

Fizz pulls out his Journal now decorated with bits of pine needles and leaves that he's found on his travels, ready to make notes about the new creature.

The reaction is immediate.

The woman with the spear stiffens. One of the companions lets out a sharp, involuntary breath. Mave’s face drains of color as she takes half a step toward the sled, then stops herself.

Under the tarp, something moves.

Not the shifting weight of an animal settling.

A slow, deliberate scrape from inside the crate, followed by a faint, uneven breath.

The reindeer snorts and tosses its head, tugging nervously at the traces.

The woman raises one gloved hand, palm out. Not angry. Not threatening.

Just… firm.

“Easy,” she says. “It’s not an animal.”

Her eyes flick to the journal in Fizz’s hands, then back to his face.

“And it’s not something you want to sketch.”

A muffled scrape follows, like nails on wood.

The woman watches your spacing and reads it instantly.

“Good,” she says, voice hoarse. “You lot know how to stay alive.”

What you see

• Mutt (Passive Perception 17): The spear is well-made and lacquered against ice, but it does not give off the telltale glint of enchantment. Her gear is practical: fur armor, knife, a small handaxe. The others have a shortbow between them and a battered mace. No obvious spell foci, no holy symbols, no component pouches. They look like travelers, not killers.

  
  

• Fizz (Investigation for nature): The pass is barren. Too high, too cold. You do spot hardy lichen clinging to stone and a few frost-cured sprigs of something that might be useful as a bitter stabilizer in basic poultices, but no fresh animal sign close by. Whatever moved through here last, the wind erased it.

Mutt calls out, friendly and sharp, and the woman nods as if grateful he’s not playing hero in a blizzard.

“Well met, travelers. With all the raids we’ve been hearing about out here, I’m surprised to see you traveling with so few in number. From the looks on your faces, you look like you’ve seen some things out in these sunforsaken lands to boot. What kind of help is it you need?”

“Well met,” she replies, then rubs her gloved hands together like the cold is biting down to bone. “We are bound for Bryn Shander. Name’s Shensu Kaltroth. These two are Jory and Mave.”

The smaller of the two companions, Mave, keeps glancing at the tarped crate like she’s expecting it to explode.

Shensu continues, measured and direct:

“We need escort. Or muscle. Or both.” She gestures to the sled. “Raids have been getting worse in these parts. Folks vanish. Supplies go missing. Things that travel alone don’t always arrive.”

Dorf glances at the travelers and then pointedly ignores them scanning the surrounding area for anything out of place or an ambush.

• Dorf (Perception 13): You scan the ridgeline and the narrow choke points. No boot prints veering off-trail. No fresh disturbed snow where someone would be lying prone. No unnatural silence either. Just wind, distant crows, and your own breath. If this is an ambush, it is the most patient one in history.

Her eyes flick to your mounts, your spacing, your weapons.

“You lot look like you actually make it to where you’re going.”

Another dull thump comes from under the tarp. This time it’s softer, like a knee shifting against wood.

Shensu flinches, then forces herself still.

“We found someone out on the tundra. Not a monster. A person. A woman. Barely alive.” Her voice tightens. “No caravan, no tracks we could trust, no fire, no shelter. Just… her. Half-buried in drift, skin like ice, breathing like she was arguing with death over every breath.”

Jory, the taller companion, swallows hard. “She should’ve been dead.”

Shensu nods once, grim.

“We bundled her up and put her in the crate to keep the wind off her. It wasn’t meant as a cage.” She taps the side of it with two knuckles. “There’s supplies in there too. Spare furs, dried rations, a couple trinkets we picked up along the road. We weren’t going to leave her exposed.”

Under the tarp, something shifts again, slower this time.

Shensu lowers her voice.

“She doesn’t speak right. Doesn’t look at you like a person. Her eyes…” She pauses, searching for words that don’t make her sound insane. “…like she’s staring through a lantern, not at it.”

Jory clears his throat. “She kept whispering things when she thought we weren’t listening. Same line over and over. Like a prayer. Like a warning.”

Shensu’s jaw tightens.

“Since we took her in, she… reacts. Violently. When the wind changes. When we pass certain stones. When…” she looks at Orin’s pack without understanding why, then looks away, like her instincts told her to stop staring.

Mave speaks suddenly, words tumbling out:

“We tried wards. Salt. Iron nails. A charm from a priest in Easthaven.” She gestures at the crate like it’s the problem and the solution at the same time. “It helped. For a while.”

Under the tarp, something shifts again.

Then you hear it.

A voice, muffled and hoarse from inside the crate.

Not screaming. Not pleading.

Just… reciting.

“...the eye that does not blink… the rot that walks… the king beneath…”

The sentence breaks into coughing, then silence.

A faint pressure crawls at the edge of your thoughts, like someone brushing a thumb over the surface of your mind to see if it flinches.

Not a spell. Not exactly.

Something else.

Orin feels the Oculus vibrate.

Shensu sees your faces and makes a simple offer, no drama, no pleading:

“Get us to Bryn Shander safe, and I’ll pay you one hundred gold. Plus some of our supplies, for your trouble.” She spreads her hands. “It’s not a fortune, but it’s honest. And if we don’t make it… someone will find this crate on the trail and open it like an idiot.”

She lifts her spear slightly, not threatening. More like a vow.

“I would rather that idiot not be… anyone.”

Current Time: 10:07 AM

Date: Fourthday 4, Ches, 1742

Temperature: 21°

Current Phase: Exploration

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