Fungal Door

Quick Links

The riddle and the Door

Door and Chest unlocked

Orb of Echoes

Zerathis Responds

The Trial of Echoes

Memories Given and Memories Taken

Player Replies

Fungal Door

As Uptharr withdraws his sword from the now-motionless fungal abomination, the chamber falls eerily still, filled only with the heavy breathing of the Howlbears and the soft dripping sounds of decaying fungus. The air remains thick with spores, a choking reminder of their recent struggle.

"Awwww... where'd Big Lumpy and Big Hopper go!" Fizz exclaims, watching the Giant Toads vanish like swamp bubbles in the summer. "Oh! Right! Be right there, Ms. Azzy!" He dashes forward, quickly handing his signature Fizzy Antitoxin to Azalie and Hruna. "Now made with Zero Sugar!"

he says brightly, helping Hruna drink it down as he watches their reactions closely, prepared with a healing spell if needed.

She feels the fungal mass wrapping around her entire body. With a sickening, wet crack, the ooze collapses to the floor—dead, and already decaying. Azalie pushes off the wall, gasping for air, flailing her arms in an effort to tear the melted fungus from her body.

“Holy hell!” she yells, throwing her head back. “I NEED A BATH!”

“YUCK! YUCK! YUCK!” She freezes, feeling a warmth spread through her thigh. She knows that sensation. Looking down, she sees Fizzbum healing her. His antidotes work fast, and relief washes over her.

“Thanks, guys. I did not want to go down that way. Not a death I ever imagined.” She goes still for a moment, her thoughts turning to what kind of death might actually suit her—then she shakes it off.

Orin gently steadies Azalie with a hand on her shoulder. "Easy. You're still here," he murmurs comfortingly, then nods to Dorf and Hruna reassuringly. Muttering under his breath with mild frustration, he adds, "This would’ve gone faster if I’d ever bothered to learn fire magic. Too wild, I thought. Too messy. Maybe I was wrong."

Orin then raises his wand, whispering the Light cantrip. A gentle glow illuminates the chamber, casting pale, stark shadows along its fungal-encrusted walls. He sweeps the illumination methodically around, helping the others search for exits. Noticing Fizz nearby, he offers a respectful nod. "Your toads were well-timed. Good call." Then, quieter to himself, he adds, "Let’s not linger. This place feels like it wants a second round."

Mutt keeps his crossbow trained until satisfied the danger has truly passed, breathing a quiet sigh of relief as he sees Fizz and Dorf tending to Hruna and Azalie. He moves to assist Orin, scanning the illuminated walls with a sharp eye, careful not to disturb the still-active spores.

“Dorf,” Azalie calls softly, pointing toward Hruna, “there’s a lesser potion in her pocket.” Then she gestures to Orin, Mutt, and Fizz, "Can you check those runes? Uptharr, help me look for another way out?"

“Hey, did anyone see where I threw my dagger? I wasn’t even sure what I was stabbing.” She begins wading through the muck, searching for her weapon. When she looks up, she sees Dorf and Hruna.

Uptharr nods firmly, raising his lantern high as he moves carefully through the shadows, searching for any hidden exits. His boot catches momentarily on something submerged in fungal muck. Kneeling cautiously, he retrieves Azalie's slimy Jade dagger, holding it out to her with a slight smile.

"Azalie—your dagger, I believe. Let's be mindful of our gear; we'll need every advantage here."

"Thanks, Uptharr," Azalie breathes, wiping her dagger clean as she scans for Mellon. Seeing him safe, she murmurs quietly, "Any chance you know how to get out of here?"

She pauses, directing clearly, "Orin, Mutt, Fizz—can you check those runes? Uptharr, help me look for another way out?" She tries to communicate briefly with Mellon, "Any chance you know how to get out of here?" The bird merely tilts its head, chirping uncertainly—clearly without a useful answer.

Uptharr lifts his lantern, sweeping light methodically along the walls, alert and cautious. "If there's another way forward, we'd best find it quickly. This place will offer no quarter if we're caught unprepared."

Fizzbum, with Orin and Mutt's assistance, makes careful progress along the chamber walls. His sharp eyes quickly notice an unusual formation beneath thick fungal growth.

"Over here!" he calls excitedly, carefully clearing debris away. Beneath layers of moldy filth, the outline of a hidden wooden door emerges. Mold, slime, and twisted fungal growth cover the ancient wooden frame.

Embedded in the door is a circular opening—mold-covered and oozing, a sickly green slime spilling slowly from within. The hole is just large enough to reach inside, though the interior remains obscured. Strange fungal protrusions line the frame, and an unsettling human skull protrudes grotesquely from the mold-covered center.

"What do you suppose the hole is for?" Fizz asks nervously, carefully avoiding the drips of moldy slime.

Orin crouches beside another mass of fungal growth, clearing away debris with Mutt's assistance.

"Wait—there's something else." Beneath the decay and growth, he finds an ancient chest, covered in mold. Its lid sealed and locked with a rusted iron latch and marked with faded runes. A tarnished brass plaque bears an engraving that Orin carefully wipes clean enough to read:

"Only when you feed me that which I devour, Will I grant you that which you desire. Sharp as daggers, yet without any teeth, Feed me correctly, to see what's beneath."

Mutt leans closer, staring at the cryptic words. "Great. A creepy riddle chest," he mutters. "Just what we needed."

Door Description :

An old, mold-encrusted door, set deeply within the fungal mass, oozing green slime from a circular hole at its center. The hole is just large enough for someone to carefully insert their hand.

Mold-Encrusted Chest

Partially obscured beneath thick layers of rotting fungus and matted, slimy growth, an old chest sits silently in the corner of the room. Its once-polished surface is now warped by time, covered with blotchy patches of mold and strange symbols.

At the center of the latch, there is a small slot, no bigger than a finger, instead of a keyhole.

What do you do?

Current Time: 6:58AM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Encounter

Corruption Level: Increasing rapidly

The Riddle and the Door

Azalie crouches beside the mold-covered chest, flipping open her thieves’ tools with a soft click.

“Glad I still have these,” she says, holding them up with a small smile. “So… who’s feeling lucky?” Leaning closer, her smile fades as she eyes the small, finger-sized hole in the latch suspiciously.

“I hate riddles,” she mutters softly. “And there’s no way I’m sticking my finger in that. What if it’s a mimic? Or some kind of trap?”

Dorf, standing protectively near Hruna, crosses his arms with a skeptical grunt.

“Sounds like bait to me. Only a fool sticks a finger into somethin' like that.”

Azalie nods firmly. “Exactly. Which is why we test it first.” She carefully twirls a small piece of her hair, gently inserting it into the hole. The mold around the opening shifts subtly, then puffs harmlessly, rejecting the strand.

Fizzbum briefly eyes the chest, bouncing a flame in his palm. “Only thing I can think of that a chest would eat would be rust! Or maybe disease. That devours, right?” With a shrug, he turns his attention decisively toward the slimy door. “I'll let you figger that out, friends! I’m gonna work on this door.”

Cautiously approaching the slime-covered hole, Fizz blows the flame gently inside, illuminating its slimy tunnel. The glow reveals a small lever deep inside, obscured beneath thick fungal growth. "Hey! There's a slimy lever in here!" he announces cheerfully, watching as the slime extinguishes his flame moments later.

Mutt, arms folded thoughtfully, places a steadying hand on Azalie’s shoulder. “Before we do anything hasty, let’s get some more information. I'd like to know what kind of magic we're dealing with here.”

Stepping back, he patiently begins a quiet ritual, carefully weaving arcane symbols in the air.

As Mutt chants softly, Orin turns toward the chest’s brass plaque, murmuring thoughtfully.

“‘That which I devour…’ Perhaps knowledge. A scroll? Mold certainly devours parchment—and I suppose that's sharp, in its own way.” He frowns slightly, unsure. “We also have the shards of Chardalyn—sharp but no teeth. If it feeds on corruption, perhaps that's what it desires.”

Mutt’s ritual finishes, his eyes shimmering briefly with blue magic. Scanning the room carefully, he reveals what he sees clearly to the group: “The chest radiates transmutation magic—specifically from that lock mechanism. The door has faint abjuration magic around the opening. No illusions or signs of a mimic, thankfully.”

Azalie watches Mutt, momentarily mesmerized by the soft glow around his eyes, then suddenly speaks up, thoughtful. “Don’t chests eat treasure? They hoard gold, keeping it all to themselves.” She pats her pockets lightly, then gestures toward the door. “What if someone has to stick a hand in that slimy hole, while someone else interacts with this chest?”

She frowns at the thought but still feels oddly drawn to the chest’s mysterious puzzle.

Uptharr, quiet but vigilant, raises his lantern high, carefully observing the mold and fungus-covered walls around them. “Careful, everyone. Let’s not trigger anything recklessly. These traps will offer no second chances.”

Mutt nods cautiously, summoning his translucent mage hand with a gesture. He turns to Orin and motions towards the faint runes around the door’s hole. “Orin—do you recognize any of these runes? Perhaps that could help.”

Hruna steadies herself, nodding supportively toward Azalie and Mutt. “Yer bein’ wise tae move slowly. We've seen enough surprises already.”

The Howlbears find themselves clearly facing two intertwined puzzles:

• Chest Puzzle: Something specific must go into the hole, something meaningful—likely involving treasure, a personal sacrifice, or something else they have yet to determine clearly.

• Door Puzzle: Someone must reach inside the slimy hole and pull the clearly visible lever. Abjuration magic suggests a protective mechanism—perhaps safe enough, but certainly unpleasant.

The choice is theirs, but caution hangs heavy in the air.

Decision Points Clearly Outlined for Players:

• What do you feed the chest’s puzzle?

• Who will risk reaching inside the slimy door hole to activate the hidden lever, or will you use a spell?

Current Time: 7:18AM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Encounter

Corruption Level: Increasing rapidly

Door and Chest unlocked

Mutt finishes his incantation and scans the room.

"Abjuration magic protects the door. That hole on the chest is radiating Transmutation magic," he announces, folding his arms warily. He turns to Orin, gesturing towards the opening in the door. "Do you recognize any of these runes?"

As Orin inspects them, his mind reaches for knowledge, but the runes feel strangely obscure, ancient and purposefully vague. He can discern only basic elements—they seem protective, placed there to ward against corruption or unwanted entry—but their exact intent eludes him.

Azalie's brow furrows, eyeing the chest suspiciously. "Glad I still have these," she says, flipping open her thieves’ tools with a soft click. She leans in closely, studying the small hole. Her expression darkens. "I hate riddles, and there’s no way I’m sticking my finger in that."

Azalie, still fixated on the chest, mutters aloud, "What if one of us has to stick a hand in that," she points at the dripping door, "while the other sticks a finger in here?" Her voice betrays both curiosity and apprehension.

Dorf crosses his arms, looking grim. "Sounds like bait to me. Only a fool sticks a finger into something like that."

Azalie nods in agreement, then mutters thoughtfully, "Exactly. Which is why we test it first." She carefully plucks a strand of hair and places it into the hole—nothing happens.

Fizzbum strokes his beard thoughtfully, turning his attention to the strange door. "Only thing I can think of that a chest would eat would be rust! Or maybe a disease," he suggests. "I'll let you figger that out, friends! I'm gonna work on this door!"

Fizz strokes his mustache and beard to clear the spores as he studies the hole in the door, trying to memorize exactly where the lever was inside. Coming up with an idea, Fizz fishes the thorny vine out of pocket and begins to talk to it. "I think we might just be able to do this Spike! You think maybe you can get a grip on that lever and give it a tug for me?" Quietly gazing at the vine for a minute, Fizz finally seems to get the answer he likes, and with a fierce nod of determination. "All right Spike! Let's do this!"

Fizz hums a gentle tune to the vine, and it quickly becomes a ropy tendril that creeps into the hole in the door. Setting down the now heavy end of the vine, Fizz peers after it, guides it to the lever, and once it wraps it securely, commands the vine to give it a gentle tug.

(Cantrip Thorn Whip)

Spike, the thorny vine, slithers expertly into the slimy opening, guided by Fizz’s encouragement. It grips the lever firmly, coils around it, and tugs sharply. A satisfying click echoes from inside the door, followed by a heavy groan of ancient stone and wood. Slowly, the door swings inward, slime dripping from its edges as it reveals the darkness of a hallway beyond. As you peer through the hallway, you can see that it appears to open into a larger chamber beyond. (Map Updated).

Mutt shakes his head vigorously, protesting, "Gods, I hate riddles. Just tell us what you want, you dumb chest!" He instinctively summons his mage hand, letting it float nearby, prepared for trouble.

Orin kneels beside the chest, contemplating aloud, "‘That which I devour…’ could mean knowledge. A scroll, maybe? This mold would devour parchment. Perhaps a shard of Chardalyn—but that might corrupt it further." His eyes flicker with uncertainty as he opens his spellbook, thumbing gently through its worn pages.

Suddenly, with a look of determination, Azalie breathes deeply, raising her left pinky finger. Before anyone can object, she boldly inserts her finger into the small, worn hole in the chest.

A tense, breathless silence grips the room. Immediately, she feels a cool pressure tighten gently around her finger, followed by a quick, sharp prick. Startled, she pulls her hand back expecting blood—but finds only a tiny, neat puncture, already fading.

A deep hum resonates within the chest, and the runes glow faintly green. With a creaking sound, the chest slowly opens.

Inside, the Howlbears see a softly glowing gemstone etched with intricate runes, pulsing rhythmically. Beside it lies a small pouch with a skull emblem, filled containing 5 rusty coins and two intact vials containing softly bubbling, faintly luminescent liquid. (TREASURE ADDED)

Azalie exhales sharply, relieved to find herself unharmed. It seems the chest only required a tiny offering—a drop of blood—to grant them its treasures.

Dorf lets out a relieved grunt, nudging Hruna gently. She nods back, impressed by Azalie’s bravery. Uptharr quietly steps forward, peering into the chest cautiously, lantern casting long, flickering shadows around the room.

Bravely done, Azalie. Let’s collect these items carefully."

Fizzbum beams proudly at Spike, gently coiling the loyal vine back into his pocket. Mutt, visibly relieved, dismisses his mage hand, giving Azalie an appreciative nod.

The way forward lies open through the slime-covered doorway, a short hallway beckoning toward a larger chamber beyond. The lingering spores and foul odor remind the group not to linger.

Decision Point:

• Who takes the items from the chest?

  • Green Gemstone

  • Skull pouch with 5 rusty coins

  • 2 potions (greater healing)

• How does the party proceed down the newly opened hallway?

• What precautions do they take before moving into the next chamber?

Current Time: 7:28AM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Encounter

Corruption Level: Increasing rapidly

Orb of Echoes

She withdraws her finger and turns to Fizz, holding it up with mock solemnity. A tiny dot of blood marks the pad.

“Think it poisoned me again, Fizz?” she asks, half-joking, half-serious. She never thought such a small wound could make her stomach twist.

“Great job, team,” she says with a satisfied nod, already rummaging through the newly revealed loot. She starts tossing the items casually into the air with a grin.

“One potion for Dorf. One for Orin. And this super shiny stone…” She holds it up, inspecting the glittering surface before tossing it Fizz’s way. “That’s definitely a Fizz thing.”

She flicks a bag of coins toward Mutt. “Here, you hold onto these. Never know when we’ll find a coin-shaped slot,” she adds with a chuckle.

Then, her tone shifts—more focused, more certain. “I think we should press forward. Going back’s not an option. Who’s going first?” She narrows her eyes, already scanning the path ahead. “Let me check for traps.”

Fizz claps his hands excitedly as Azalie safely opens the chest.

"Well done Miss Azzy! Way to use your Pinky and the Brain!" he cheers, scooping up a potion to replenish his supplies.

With a cheerful hum, he cautiously makes his way toward the now-opened doorway, peeking carefully into the dimly glowing chamber ahead.

As Fizz approaches the entry,

Uptharr swiftly moves to join him, sword drawn and lantern held high.

"Careful now, my friend," he warns softly, eyes scanning the shadows with practiced vigilance. "We've seen enough nasty surprises in this cursed place already."

Fizz peers carefully into the room beyond, eyes adjusting to the faint, violet luminescence cast by the familiar runes. At the room’s center stands an ornate stone pedestal, waist-high and intricately carved with abstract, swirling designs reminiscent of countless staring eyes—a haunting tribute to the ancient Beholder who created this place. Resting atop the pedestal, a smooth, polished crystal orb reflects the soft, pulsating glow of the runes, its surface gently rippling as though touched by unseen fingers. Four shadowy pillars occupy each corner, silent sentinels guarding whatever secrets this chamber holds.

Mutt watches Azalie with quiet apprehension as she confidently distributes the treasure, catching the small pouch of coins she tosses his way. Still stunned by her successful—if impulsive—solution, he shakes his head with disbelief.

"I cannot believe that worked," he mutters, shooting her a wary but relieved glance. "Uh, nicely done, Az. Best we keep moving. I'll scout ahead."

Stepping lightly, Mutt follows closely behind Fizz, his eyes darting along the walls and floors, searching for hidden dangers. Despite his careful inspection, nothing emerges as threatening.

Azalie gestures confidently, ushering Orin, Dorf, and Hruna to follow. "I'll cover the rear,"

she says quietly, twin daggers poised and ready, her eyes trained not only on the passage ahead but above, below, and behind—alert for anything unnatural.

Dorf stays close to Hruna, nodding appreciatively as Azalie passes him the potion, tucking it carefully into his belt. Hruna, gripping her shortsword tightly, murmurs quietly,

"Just stay close, Dorf. I dinnae like the feel o' this place... these walls whisper."

Orin pauses briefly beside the chest, his spellbook still clutched tightly. He quickly pockets the offered potion, casting a final, thoughtful glance at the magical chest.

"Well played, Azalie. Bold moves sometimes pay off," he remarks with a cautious smile, before falling into step with the others.

As the entire party enters the chamber, an unsettling hush descends. Their footsteps echo unnaturally, the sound bouncing softly back at them in distorted, fragmented whispers—as if someone else is walking beside them, unseen and barely audible. The orb atop the pedestal pulses gently, as though inviting them closer.

Uptharr lifts his lantern higher, casting dim, shifting shadows across the smooth, black stone walls. He frowns deeply, his voice calm yet wary, breaking the eerie silence, "Be wary, my friends. This room holds secrets—ancient and likely dangerous. That orb… it feels like it's waiting for us."

Suddenly, the air around the pedestal shimmers faintly, coalescing into the translucent figure of an elderly Githzerai—his body robed in worn, spectral garments, his eyes calm yet piercing with otherworldly wisdom. His voice drifts softly through the chamber, gentle but firm.

"Greetings, travelers. Long have I guarded this Orb of Echoes. I am Zerathis, bound here by the will of Malefex the Infinite. Do not fear—I mean you no harm. Only those who pass the Orb's test may continue deeper into this place. Approach, if you wish to know more."

He gestures slowly toward the softly pulsing crystal orb, stepping back slightly, his ghostly form patiently awaiting the party’s response.

What do you do?

Current Time: 7:38AM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Encounter

Corruption Level: Increasing rapidly

Zerathis Responds

As the Howlbears enter the chamber, the silence deepens unnaturally. Their footsteps echo faintly off the polished stone, but the sounds come back fractured, delayed—like someone else walks beside them in perfect mimicry, always a half-step behind.

At the center of the room, the Orb of Echoes pulses gently atop its pedestal, casting ripples of violet light across the walls. The ghostly figure of Zerathis waits in stillness, his form wavering like a candle flame in shadow.

Azalie halts mid-step, eyes narrowing. “A spirit?” she murmurs, uncertain. Mellon lands quietly on her shoulder, feathers ruffled, his small form tense.

“No dagger can pierce an apparition,” she mutters, and slides her blade back into its sheath. Her gaze sharpens with curiosity as she steps closer, keeping just behind Mutt and Orin.

“I have some questions,” she says, rocking her head side to side. “You said you’re bound here—was that by choice, or by force? How long have you been guarding the orb? Who—what—is Malefax, really? What makes him infinite? Does he still hold power?”

The questions come in a quick flurry, each word brushing against the stale air of the chamber. She pauses, catches herself, and chuckles softly. “Oops. Got a little excited.”

She glances at the orb, then toward the others. “What can you tell us about this Orb of… uh—what did you call it again?” She nods at Mutt. “He’s the guy you want to talk to. I’m just here for the snacks.”

Zerathis tilts his head toward her, unmoved by the barrage. When he speaks, his voice slides beneath the surface of the silence, not louder than a whisper, but carrying with it a weight of centuries.

“I am what remains of a Githzerai—once a seeker of the mind, now a shade bound by thought. I was a scholar—one who sought the inner layers of the mind. When Malefax died, I was made into memory, bound not by choice, but by his design. I do not pass. I persist.”

He gestures toward the orb, his translucent hand never quite touching it.

“Malefax was once a Beholder, yes—but also a tyrant of will. He fragmented his consciousness, seeded echoes of himself across time and thought. To be infinite, he believed, was to never end… to be remembered in function, even if destroyed in form. The Orb of Echoes is one such echo.”

Zerathis turns back to Azalie and nods faintly. “You ask if he holds power still. That is not the question to fear. The true question is whether his power holds you.”

A silence follows. Then—

“Hey,” Dorf speaks up, stepping forward beside Hruna. He crosses his arms, his eyes wary but steady. “What happens if we fail the test?”

Zerathis turns toward him slowly. “The orb tests not your strength, but your truth. If you fail…” his voice dims, “…you lose what matters. Your name. Your purpose. A bond. A memory. The test does not kill—but it may take something you cannot reclaim.”

A faint breeze curls through the chamber though no wind should exist. The orb pulses again—faintly brighter.

Uptharr steps beside Fizz, still holding his lantern high. His expression is grim, his voice low and steady.

“I do not like riddles woven in fate,” he says. “But I do know this: we are stronger as one than as any lone piece of memory. If this test is to be faced, then we do it together.”

Behind him, Orin studies the orb and the ghost with a frown. He racks his mind for anything about the name Malefax or Zerathis, or the Orb of Echoes itself—but nothing concrete surfaces. The names feel unfamiliar. Ancient. Whatever knowledge of them may have existed has long since been devoured by time. (History check: 9)

The room stills. The orb waits.

What do the Howlbears do next?

Current Time: 7:43AM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Encounter

Corruption Level: Holding Steady

The Trial of Echoes

Behind them, Mutt stiffens. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest, as if holding himself together.

“Everyone’s okay with just talking to the dead guy here?” he mutters. “This is something we do now?”

His voice echoes faintly in the chamber—too loud for how softly he spoke. A half-second later, it returns to him again, warped and distant. We do now... now... now...

Zerathis does not take offense. His spectral form drifts to one side, gesturing toward the orb with a translucent hand.

“I am not the one you must address,” he says. “The answers you seek… are not mine to give.”

The orb pulses.

A hum begins to rise from its core. Not loud, but layered—whispers upon whispers. The voices are indistinct, overlapping. Familiar. Not in content, but in tone. A mother’s voice. A lost friend. An argument long past. The sound stirs something in the air.

Fizzbum’s eyes sparkle. “Amazing…!” he breathes, stepping closer, then blinking at Mutt’s discomfort. “We used to have spirits wander the swamp now and then,” he says, softly. “But nothing like this.” He clutches his staff and glances toward Uptharr for reassurance.

Uptharr nods faintly. He’s studying the orb, his expression unreadable. “I’ve seen temples echo with prayer,” he says. “But this... this is like it’s praying back.” His voice drops. “I don’t like it. But I think it’s listening.”

Azalie exhales and eases back from the front. “I second Fizz taking the lead,” she says, stepping aside. “I’ve been doing a lot of talking. You’re up, swamp wizard.”

Fizz grins and sprinkles a bit more swamp dirt into his hair, casting Guidance on himself as he approaches. The moment his hand draws near the orb, the hum sharpens. The whispers shift—no longer random. Each party member now hears something different. A name. A moment. A sound from their past.

Hruna goes still beside Dorf. “I hear... I hear my father’s voice,” she whispers. “He’s been dead for years.”

Even Uptharr pales slightly. “That’s… not possible.”

Zerathis turns his gaze toward the group once more. “This is the Trial of the Echoes,” he says. “You must speak. Not lies. Not bravado. A memory. A truth. Share something real, and the orb will know you.”

Mutt shifts uncomfortably, but after a long moment, his voice breaks the silence again.

“What does this orb do?” he asks. “Who or what are you protecting it from? And how exactly did you get involved with Malefax in the first place?”

Zerathis’s gaze lingers on him.

“Ask again—when the orb accepts your presence,” he says. “It does not reveal truth to those who hide from their own. You must all speak a memory and offer a single tribute.”

The whispers continue.

The runes along the walls pulse softly.

The orb awaits.

The Trial of the Echoes has begun. The orb must be heard—by more than one voice.

Each party member may:

• Speak a brief memory or moment of emotional truth aloud

• Offer a symbolic gesture or item as tribute

• Or attempt to resist the orb’s call (Those that refuse to speak, will be given a save throw to make)

  
  

Once all Howlbears have responded, the orb will act.

What do you do?

Current Time: 7:53AM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Encounter

Corruption Level: Holding Steady

Memories Given and Memories Taken

A heavy silence settles over the Chamber of Echoes. The light from the orb pulses softly atop its pedestal, casting rippling glows across the polished black stone walls. No one speaks at first. The Howlbears exchange uncertain glances—each weighing the cost of what they are being asked.

Zerathis floats beside the orb in silent vigil, his translucent form flickering like a candle in windless air. “Speak your truth,” he repeats calmly. “Offer freely, or it will take.”

It is Dorf who breaks the silence. The halfling steps forward with surprising boldness. He turns to face Hruna, meeting her eyes.

“I love you,” he says simply.

Hruna’s breath catches. The faintest gasp escapes her lips, but she doesn’t look away.

Zerathis floats forward slowly, head slightly bowed, as a low hum begins to resonate from the orb.

“Love, voiced for the first time, is a dangerous and noble truth. The orb hears the purity of your vow… and honors the risk you took in sharing it aloud. Your heart beats louder now than the silence of your fear.”

Mutt stands silently by, waiting to see how his friends approach the orb. Mutt smiles at Dorf and nods at the halfling, after a pause, He shakes his head sadly and addresses the orb.

"I...I don't think I've ever known love like that, but I have known kindness, however infrequently. The first act of kindness I can remember was from an old halfling tavernkeeper we stayed with for a while."

Mutt eyes crinkle into a smile. "Felix Goodbrew," Mutt chuckles. "He was true to his name too. He was known for his tasty, and cheap, ales. He was the first one I can remember that treated me kindly. He would let me sample his brews as they were being made. Gave me my first drink...I was probably a bit young for it, in hindsight. But I'm not entirely sure he knew how quickly elves mature." Mutt smiles. "Got my first hangover as a result of his kindness too." Mutt chuckles again. He quickly clamps his mouth shut and smiles sheepishly at the rest of the group.

A soft shimmer of green ripples across the orb’s surface as Mutt finishes his story.

“A memory of kindness, small and unexpected, carries weight beyond its moment. The name Felix Goodbrew echoes within the orb’s song. The innocence of your first sip remains unclouded, even now.”

Orin listens in silence, then clears his throat softly and steps just close enough that the orb’s glow dances along the edges of his cloak.

“There was a girl I studied with. Letha. She’d been told she wasn’t talented enough for evocation, but she kept pushing. Wanted to show she belonged.”

He pauses. The orb continues humming.

“She asked for my help one evening. Said she wanted to try something beyond the curriculum. Controlled flame, shaped with intent.”

His eyes drop sadly.

“I knew it was unstable. I felt it in the weave as soon as she began. I was right there. I could have countered it. Shut it down before it bloomed.”

He looks up again, staring through the orb.

“But I hesitated. I thought she deserved the chance.”

Orin’s jaw tightens..

“The weave was strong, and her control was better than I expected… but the flame still turned wild. It leapt. Caught the edge of a tapestry. Then the shelves. Dry parchment, scrolls… centuries of knowledge fed the blaze like it had been waiting.”

His voice lowers, almost lost in the hum of the orb.

“We barely made it out. I dragged Letha through the smoke while the ceiling gave way behind us. The entire east wing of the library collapsed. They say the fire was arcane in origin—but no one ever pressed for more.”

Orin looks down, eyes shadowed.

“I’ve studied fire magic. I understand it. But I don’t trust it. Not anymore.”

He lets the words settle like ash.

The glow deepens to a quiet red as Orin's voice trails off. A subtle crackle runs across the orb’s surface like fire fading into embers.

“Regret is the mark of conscience. The flame did not burn you, yet its shadow clings to your soul. The orb sees the silence you carry—and the lesson forged in fire.”

Fizz stares at the orb in fascination as the party's memories and gifts roll in. After moments of silence following Orin's shared memory, Fizz suddenly speaks.

"I know you are looking for truth Mr. Orb, and most of what I've been through my friends already know. But my truth is... Well, I was lonely. I know it's not seemly for a Druid to need more than his natural, comfortable, well-mushroomed home, but after a few years of that, even the most sober of Druids would want a friend right!? When I set out from home, I told myself that I was looking for that rare Snow Weasel I'd read about, but really, I was looking for companionship, friendship, maybe even Love! Who knows...." Fizz pauses for a minute, "Either way, I was so happy when I bumped into Mr. Mutt in that tavern. Who knew at that time, that the Howlbears would be the best friends I'd ever met!"

Fizz smiles at his friends, and then turns his gaze back to the orb for his answer.

Fizz Lifts up a potion and holds it out toward the orb.

The orb pulses once with a flicker of gentle blue as Fizz finishes. The potion glimmers faintly in his hand as the orb absorbs the offered gift.

“Loneliness shared is no longer alone. The joy you found in companionship is its own magic. The potion is accepted… and the bond it represents honored.”

the potion is consumed with a quiet hiss of vapor

Azalie listens as each of her friends bare their souls.

A thin sheen of sweat forms on her upper lip. She looks almost sick.

She wipes her palms, as they sweat.

Her gaze flicks between everyone...except Mutt. She takes a deep, forced breath, then starts speaking

“Uh… I, uh…” she stammers, twisting her hair around her fingers. “I don’t have many secrets. And… I’m not sure anything from my past matters anymore.”

Her chest tightens. Breath catches. She clenches her fists, as her body trembles slightly

“I haven’t enjoyed much of life before… them.” She nods to her companions. Her voice cracking slightly. “They helped me remember who I was. A year ago, I wasn’t this version of me. I was… lost. Bitter. Letting hatred steer me.”

A tear slips free.

“I’ve lived through so much… and yet I’ve experienced so little of what life offers—real things. Choices.” She hesitates, “or love.”

Her eyes finally find Mutt’s. The only sound is the hum of the orb.

“Sometimes,” she murmurs, “we have to deny ourselves what we want most. That’s the true challenge—resisting your heart’s desire.”

She takes A breath. And blinks. She drops to one knee, bowing her head as she slides the jade dagger free from its hidden sheath.

“I offer up my forgiveness,” she says softly. “To the man I once called Master… and the jade dagger I once swore would end him.”

The blade catches the light as tears fall freely now.

A deep purple rune flares and slowly fades as Azalie’s dagger glints in the orb’s glow. Her confession lingers in the air even after she kneels.

“Forgiveness, freely given, is a rarer truth than vengeance. You have set down your blade, not to forget—but to transcend. The dagger is received… but its weight is lessened now.”

the jade dagger vanishes in a curl of violet flame

Uptharr steps forward into the pulsing violet light, his armor clinking softly in the silence. For a long moment, he says nothing—his eyes fixed on the orb. Then he exhales, the breath measured, and speaks.

“There was a child,” he begins, voice steady. “A boy no older than ten. Caught in a raid. He ran when he should have hidden, and I… I wasn’t fast enough.”

His hand flexes slightly at his side.

“I held him while he bled. Prayed to Tyr to spare him, to trade his life for mine. But the boy didn’t cry. He only said—‘I knew someone would come for me.’ And then he was gone.”

He lowers his gaze.

“I never learned his name. I’ve carried his last words every day since.”

Uptharr reaches to his chest and unclasps the chain around his neck, drawing forth his iron holy symbol. He holds it reverently in both hands.

“This has guided me through fire and darkness. If truth is the price, then let it shine.”

He kneels, placing his Holy symbol gently before the orb. As he rises, he bows his head—not in defeat, but in solemn offering.

A bold golden light swirls outward from the orb as Uptharr kneels and offers his holy symbol. The air tightens for a moment, then relaxes.

“The gods do not yield their emblems lightly… and neither does the orb take what is divinely protected. Your truth was enough. The sacrifice lies not in the offering—but in carrying it forward.”

The holy symbol floats gently above the orb, held in place—but not taken. Zerathis bows his head and the holy symbol returns to Uptharr.

Hruna clears her throat, folding her arms tight across her chest. Her voice, when it comes, is rough—but steady.

“When I was just a lass, maybe twelve winters old, I snuck inta the forge while Da was workin’. Thought I’d make meself a blade—prove I was strong enough to be a proper smith.”

She looks down, jaw tight.

“Melted the mold wrong. Near burned the whole place down. Pa caught me cryin’ in the corner… thought he’d lash me for sure.”

A beat.

“But he didn’t. Just sat beside me, soot an’ all, and said, ‘Better to fail honest than succeed a liar.’ That’s stuck with me.”

She says nothing more

A quiet, pale glow—a dwarven silver—shines from the orb as Hruna speaks. The forge heat of her memory seems to warm the room.

“Failure tempered by honesty is the first fire of wisdom. The lesson forged in your father’s compassion endures still. The truth is accepted.”

The taking of memories:

Then Zerathis turns to those who gave no item.

A red rune burns for Dorf.

Zerathis speaks, and his voice carries a weight that silences all else.

“From you, Dorf Thimblerigger… the orb takes a thread woven through pain and pride. You were six—but that day… that day, you finished your first real piece: a soft, green patch sewn onto Mr. Wiggles’s belly, to cover where the stuffing leaked out.

It was uneven. Crooked. But it held. And for the first time, someone called it ‘good work.’

That memory… of making something that didn’t fall apart… is gone now.”

A pale orange rune for Mutt.

“From you, it takes the name of your first kiss—under the rain, behind the tavern’s awning. The girl’s laughter. Her hand in yours. You remember the hangover, but not the joy that led to it.”

A deep blue rune flares for Orin.

“Orin… from you, the orb takes the moment you first believed you belonged.

You were young—uncertain, walking the library’s endless corridors with borrowed robes and borrowed time. One evening, after hours of study, your mentor placed a hand on your shoulder. Not as teacher to student… but as peer to peer.

She said, ‘You see the weave, Orin—not just the threads, but the shape of it. You will go far, farther than I.’

You never told anyone. You kept it close. Safe.

Now… you no longer remember she ever said it.”

A faint silver rune glows for Hruna.

“Hruna…From you, it takes the sound of your father’s voice.

The rough, steady warmth that soothed your nightmares. The way he’d hum when words failed him, low and off-key, but always safe.

You will remember his face, the strength of his arms, the soot on his apron…

But never again the way he spoke your name.

That comfort is now silence.”

Each of them feels the absence—not pain, but a hollow they cannot place. A space once filled, now curiously vacant.

Finally, the orb emits a low chime—resonant and soothing.

At the base of the pedestal, a gemstone of glowing crystal begins to rise. it floats in the air.

“This is the Memory Shard,” Zerathis says. “Take this with you. You will need it. Decide who will carry it.”

His form is dimming now, fading into the surrounding glow.

“The orb is satisfied. You have shown strength not in arms, but in honesty.”

At the far wall, stone shifts. An arched door—once perfectly hidden—rises into view, glowing runes fading as it completes its ascent.

Zerathis hovers for a final moment, gaze drifting across them.

“Hold fast to what remains—what has not yet been taken.”

He bows, then dissolves into a soft mist of light.

The orb dims. The echoes fall still.

Decide who takes the Memory Shard.

The map has been updated, there is a new exit to this chamber.

Options: A passage opens behind the Orb of Echoes, leading out of this chamber, you can take this new passage or exit back the way you came. You must also decide if you want to search this room any further.

Current Time: 8:13AM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 49°

Current Phase: Encounter

Corruption Level: Holding Steady

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