The Crypt

Quick Links

The Chamber of the Dead

The Darkness Speaks

The Alhoon of the Pit

Break the Chains

Player Replies

The Chamber of the Dead

The chamber beyond is lined with alcoves, each containing skeletal remains slumped in eternal vigil. Black, vein-like growths creep along the arches and walls, glowing faintly with a reddish corruption that gives the place a sickly, unnatural aura.

The silence here is thick, broken only by the occasional creak of shifting bone.

At the far end of the hall stands a massive, double-doored gate of aged, rotting wood reinforced with crossed beams of iron. Faint red light leaks through cracks in the doors, casting an eerie glow on the stone floor. The floor itself is worn and scarred, as though dragged by countless bodies or weapons.

The hall stretches long between you and that gate, flanked by row after row of alcoves. The air tastes of iron and dust. Somewhere in the stillness, you think you hear the faint scrape of bone against stone.

"Oh my, oh my, oh my..." Fizz whispers softly as the Hall, and the alcoves of the dead open up before them. Stepping back toward the now closed door, Fizz puts his shoulder near Uptharr's plated hip, and looks up in concern. "If you would willing to stay in front of me on this one Mr. Uptharr, I'll watch you back ok?"

he says in a quiet undertone. A small glow emerges from Fizz's hand as he casts Guidance on Uptharr.

The faint glow of Guidance curls harmlessly around Uptharr’s arm; the chamber doesn’t stir, its silence unbroken.

As you study the black-veined growths, you see they’re nothing like the anti-magic wards above — they pulse faintly, more akin to the parasitic fungus you once found in the Duergar lab, feeding on stray threads of magic rather than suppressing them.

You strain to catch the scrape of bone, but the sound bounces strangely off the stone walls — you can’t pin it to any one alcove, only that it came from somewhere ahead in the darkness.

Mutt steps cautiously into the room, coming to a stop as soon as he sees the row of alcoves with skeletons in wait. His ears perk up at the sound of bone on stone and he shakes his head. "Nope, nope, nope. Absolutely not. Mutt Bromwell does not fuck with the undead." Mutt reaches into his bag of holding and swaps the potion of stone to flesh and the dust of resistance with two flasks of holy water.

"I need you all to promise me something. If I ever die, promise me you'll make sure I don't come back as an undead. I can't stand the idea of being locked up or captured in life. Being bound eternally in death with no hope of escape, that's infinitely worse."

Mutt's hands close around the holy water, the flasks clinking faintly in the silence. Nothing stirs in the alcoves, but his sharp eyes notice the dust lies strangely across the floor — thick around the coffins, yet brushed clean along a narrow strip of dark inlay running straight down the center of the hall. No skeletons move, but you feel certain the scraping you heard wasn’t imagined… only biding.

Uptharr glances sidelong at your grim request, jaw tightening. “You won’t walk that road, Mutt,” he says, voice low but steady. “Not while I draw breath.”

Whimsyweft hums faintly against your back, her voice lilting like a plucked string in your mind.

“Oh, sweet minstrel, death is only a doorway — the trick is choosing who holds the key. Don’t fret, I’d make sure you came back prettier.”

Orin lingers near Fizz, stomach turning at the scrape of bone on stone. He uncorks a small vial and downs it in one swallow; '

The warmth of the vial spreads through Orin's chest, dulling the Pit’s gnawing sickness for now. Light blossoms along his wand, spilling across the nearest alcoves — skeletal forms slumped in ancient armor, eye sockets staring blankly ahead, dust heavy across their frames. Nothing stirs, but the glow makes the silence feel sharper, as if every hollow skull is waiting for your next step.

 In his mind he ticks through the his prepared spells, readying for quick action.

 “Stay tight,” he murmurs, voice barely above the hush.

“Mutt, you don’t worry. I’ll be sure to run you through, if you turn into anything, dead. You can count on me.” She smiles and her tone may be a little to happy to help.

Azalie steps with the upmost caution. Her elven eyes scan the darkness. The alcoves hiding dozens of fallen…soldiers? What exactly are they?

She places each footstep as to not stir the ground or create sound. She has a feeling that there’s a trigger, just waiting to let these baddies flake them.

“I think we need to keep distance from each other. It could help us from being surprised or getting flanked.” She stares at the bones, just waiting for one to move.

Azalie raises Mellon with her hand. “Go see what you can.” She wishes she could see through his eyes. Her restrictions hinder her ability to truly bond with her pet.

Azalie keeps her eyelids peeled for any traps on the floor.

Her cautious steps serve her well. The alcoves aren’t random graves — the skeletons within bear the remains of uniform armor, each etched with a faint closed-eye insignia.

These aren’t prisoners at all, but the Pit’s original wardens, sealed in their stations to guard against intrusion.

Her eyes drift lower, and the truth of the trap becomes plain: faint seams and pressure plates lie hidden beneath the dust at the thresholds of the alcoves. The floor’s central inlay, however, is clear of both dust and disturbance, a deliberate path meant to be walked while the wardens sleep.

Azalie gestures and Mellon flutters forward into the hall. The hawk’s wings beat once, twice — then he circles back, refusing to perch near the alcoves, feathers ruffling as he keeps to the center line. His unease echoes your own, a wordless warning in the silence.

Dorf moves to the front to protect his friends, willing to suffer any surprises so they don’t have to. He glances at Hruna with a look of concern. He knows she is not used to this as tough as she is, she is not an adventurer. He resolutely steps forwards shaking off his sense of dread emanating from the alcoves full of bones. He can feel his skin crawling as he tries to look everywhere at once his muscles twitching as he readies himself for whatever may happen.

His boots scrape against the central inlay as he steps forward, every muscle taut with the need to spring. The skulls in the nearest alcoves seem to follow your movement, though they don’t stir — not yet. The corruption gnaws at your gut, but you press it down, a wall between the fear and your friends.

Hruna catches your look and gives you a small, grim nod. Her Sword shifts in her grip, knuckles white.

The silence stretches as Dorf takes his place at the front.

The hall stretches nearly 80 feet from where you stand to the far double-doors, the vaulted ceiling lost in shadow some 30 feet overhead.

On either side, twelve alcoves line the walls — six per side — each set about 10 feet apart. Every alcove is deep enough to hold a single skeleton seated against stone benches, most still clutching rusted weapons or collapsed armor. The alcoves nearest you are clearer in detail under Orin’s light, but those farther away vanish into gloom unless you push forward.

The center inlay — a strip of darker stone about 5 feet wide — runs the length of the hall like a deliberate walkway. Dust and debris gather heavily outside it, while the strip itself is curiously bare, as though time and passage never touched it. The inlay stops just short of the far gate, its last foot smeared with that dark residue seeping from the door.

The air is heavy with dust and a faint metallic tang. The silence is deceptive — broken only by the occasional groan of settling stone, or the echo of that faint scrape of bone you heard earlier. From alcove to alcove, the wardens seem identical, yet their armor is marked with the faint insignia of the closed eye — each seated sentinel staring blankly into the dark.

The way forward is long but clear: the untouched inlay path stretches ahead, flanked by rows of ancient wardens sitting in silent vigil. The alcoves show faint pressure plates beneath the dust — a trap waiting to be stirred.

The silence presses close, as though the dead are listening for your next step. And beneath it all, you feel the Pit’s sickness clawing deeper — time is not your ally here.

How do you proceed?

Current Time: 9:40 PM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 61°

Current Phase: Exploration

Corruption Level: Level 1 - Orin, Mutt, Dorf, Uptharr.

The Darkness Speaks

The line presses forward, each step echoing along the stone. Dust rises and swirls, disturbed for the first time in centuries, yet the alcoves remain still — no skeletal hand lifts, no blade stirs. You’ve crossed halfway now, the oppressive silence clutching tighter.

Then it comes again — the scrape of bone on stone. Louder this time. Rhythmic. Not from one alcove, but from all of them, a shiver of sound rippling outward as though the dead breathe in unison. The flames in Azalie’s blade flicker, casting long shadows across empty sockets that seem to lean forward.

And then, a voice. Not aloud, but in your minds — dry, rasping, a whisper that digs into the marrow.

“Living flesh… after so long. How curious. Tell me… which of you holds the key to my freedom?”

The skeletons do not rise. The alcoves remain full of stillness. Yet the presence is undeniable, pressing against your thoughts, probing at the edges of your will. Somewhere ahead, past the endless rows of dead, you feel the weight of eyes upon you — eyes that do not belong to bone.

The far gate bleeds its crimson light, and the voice coils through the chamber again, stronger now, almost amused.

“Step carefully, little intruders. These halls are mine until I am freed… and you are mine if you falter.”

The chamber holds its breath. The skeletons remain slumped, yet their stillness feels too deliberate, as though waiting for a single misstep to awaken them. The voice coils in your mind, patient, probing, hungry.

Do you answer it, try to press forward in silence, or attempt to root out its source? You could test the inlay further, approach the far gate, or prepare yourselves for a fight? . Every step carries risk — and the voice seems content to let you choose which risk it will savor first.

What do you do?

Current Time: 9:43 PM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 61°

Current Phase: Exploration

Corruption Level: Level 1 - Orin, Mutt, Dorf, Uptharr.

The Alhoon of the Pit

Azalie isn’t a fan of Whimsywift, but she agrees it’s enjoyable to tease Mutt.

“Whoa there, fellas. Let’s spread out a little—just in case they all come at us at once.” Azalie shifts her eyes between the obvious traps and Mellon circling above.

She calls back the distressed bird. “What is it?” The hair on her arms stands on end. Knowing something is coming doesn’t settle her nerves.

Pairing with Fizz, she glances down at him and chuckles. “It would be an honor to die beside you… just not today.”

Azalie steps forward into the hallway, drawing her flame blade to cast light. “Let’s go, Howlbears. Our hearts are as one, let’s hope our bodies follow. This is going to be spectacular.”

Her skin tingles as she feels her darker nature rising. She knows she will need to be brutal if they are going to survive.

“Fizz, what do you mean, feed on magic?” She’s worried without Orin and Mutt, they said little chance against what’s behind the next gate.

Fizz swallows hard, whispering back to Azalie.

“Feed, yes — they drink the magic right out of the air. Like mushrooms taking root in rot. Careful what you give them, or you’ll find yourself hollowed out.”

Azalie gasps silently, “…another beholder…no.” The words escaping her mouth, carried on her breath.

Your instincts flare as the probing voice brushes against your mind. It is not a Beholder’s alien dominance, but something adjacent—an echo warped by undeath and forbidden craft. The cadence, the hunger, the texture of its thoughts… you know this is an Alhoon, a Mind Flayer lich, and its presence feels horribly familiar to the corrupt magics you’ve already faced.

She stops moving and focusing on her mind. Is she in check and can it sense her moment of terror?

Mutt's head perks up as the voice suddenly coils through his mind. He shakes his head, almost as if trying to dislodge the voices from his head.

"Gods, I hate it when they do that." He glances over and sees Azalie paralyzed in fear and whispers towards the ranger. "A beholder? What makes you think we're dealing with another beholder?"

Mutt checks his feet to make sure he's still well within the corridor's inlay and sighs heavily. "Whatever it is, we're not going to bloody its lip standing around here. It's standing between us and a way out, so that's where we should head."

Uptharr shifts forward, shield raised, his jaw tightening as he looks upon the creature.

“Stand your ground, Howlbears. Whatever this thing thinks we are, we are not prey.” His words are steady, but the strain in his grip shows he feels the same crushing weight pressing on you all.

The line presses forward, each step careful on the untouched inlay. Dust stirs around your boots, but the path remains strangely bare, guiding you through the gauntlet of silent wardens. The alcoves never stir, though the weight of their hollow stares follows you like a tide. Above, the seams in the ceiling yawn faintly in Orin’s light — a reminder that this place was meant to bury intruders whole.

The crimson glow ahead grows stronger, bleeding through cracks in the massive gate. It paints the stone in a sickly light, every inch closer tightening the pressure in your skull. The voice follows with you, scraping against your thoughts with patient curiosity.

And then — movement. Shadows ripple just ahead of the gate. A coil of dark mist swirls into being, threads of arcane power knotting and pulling inward until a form steps forth.

Tall, robed in tatters of black and violet, its withered flesh stretched taut across an elongated skull. The faint glisten of illithid tentacles curl from its mouth, twitching with hunger. Its eyes burn with pale light, fixed on you with contemptuous interest.

The Alhoon.

It stands no more than fifteen feet from you, its posture relaxed, as though you were little more than curiosities.

“Flesh and will, walking in halls that have forgotten both…” the voice rasps, no longer just in your head but vibrating through the chamber itself. “Centuries of silence, broken at last. You wear your fear well — but fear is not enough.”

It tilts its head, studying each of you in turn.

“I am bound here by locks older than your bloodlines. You have come to open them. Whether by choice… or by death… matters little to me.”

The wardens in their alcoves remain still, but their presence feels coiled, waiting. The air itself grows heavy with the weight of the Alhoon’s confidence, as though he does not see you as enemies — only as tools, or prey.

The crimson light of the far gate pulses once, twice, as if echoing his words.

The Alhoon does not advance, does not lash out. It simply waits, patient and cold, as though the next move must be yours.

It remains stands barring your way, confident and unshaken. What do you do?

Current Time: 9:46 PM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 61°

Current Phase: Exploration

Corruption Level: Level 1 - Orin, Mutt, Dorf, Uptharr.

Break the Chains

The chamber seems to constrict as the Alhoon’s presence spreads, every flicker of the crimson gate pulsing in rhythm with your heartbeats. The air hums with restrained power, vibrating against your skin like a living pulse beneath the stone.

Dorf stiffens, his grip flexing on the hilt of his weapon as alien whispers claw at the edge of his mind. His instinct screams to charge, to drown thought in rage — yet the thing’s presence coils too deep for that.

“What do we do?” he mutters, voice rough with the effort of staying still.

Uptharr’s gauntleted hand lands on his shoulder.

“We stand. And we think. Don’t listen to its words, lad. Evil always sounds polite before it strikes.” His eyes never leave the Alhoon.

The creature tilts its head, tentacles curling with idle amusement.

“Evil,” it repeats softly, the word rolling through your thoughts like distant thunder. “Ah, the language of the fearful. I was called worse before the world forgot my name.”

Its gaze slides to Mutt, and you feel the air thin — the pressure shifting, as if the Alhoon is tasting his thoughts.

Mutt forces his face to remain neutral as the Alhoon appears before them,

and slowly and carefully puts his crossbow away. He forces a smile at the Alhoon and gently removes Whimsyweft from his back, strumming the strings lightly in what he hopes is a calming gesture.

"Well met, Vhal'Zoruun. We're the Howlbears, but since you've been in Orin's head just now, presumably you knew that already. Is it safe to assume then, that you also know why we're down here? We were sent by the beholder, Xal'Zyress, to retrieve some kind of artifact from these halls. I presume you know which one."

Mutt decides to take a chance. "You may have also learned while in Orin's head that we're no friends of Xal'Zyress. He's already taken and killed several of our friends. Truth be told, I'd like to punt him right in his floating eyebags.", he adds, scowling. Mutt looks about the chamber, scanning for signs of chains, sigils or locks Vhal'Zoruun mentioned that may be containing the flayer. "You mentioned you were trapped down here by ancient locks and that we had a choice on whether to free you. What choice would that be?"

A low vibration ripples through the hall, not laughter but something colder.

“Xal’Zyress. The carrion tyrant who calls himself master of this place.” Vhal’Zoruun’s eyes burn brighter, his voice resonating like a dirge. “He feeds upon the corpse of the one who bound me — the ancient mind called Malefax. Once, we shared purpose, until his hubris turned his spell against us both. His husk festers beyond the crimson door, and I remain the ward above it.”

Mutt’s stomach turns as the pieces click — the name Vhal’Zoruun whispered in half-burned Illithid texts, a lich-kin who bound his essence to the corpse of his Beholder master. If this creature still endures, it has survived through centuries of madness, hunger, and hate.

“The gate before you,” the Alhoon continues, gesturing with one desiccated hand, “is sealed by mind and will, not metal and key. Lend me a fragment of your thought, and the lock will open. Deny me, and when the heart below stirs again, you will die with the rest.”

Azalie’s flame blade wavers as the light bends unnaturally around her. Her primal awareness burns in her gut — something vast and hollow watches from beyond the crimson gate. Not a mind… but an eye. Cold, eternal, and faintly stirring.

Her gaze lifts to Mellon circling above. The hawk cries out — a sharp, warbling note that echoes across the vaulted chamber. In answer, the skeletons lining the alcoves twitch, faint bone-scrapes rising like dry applause.

The Alhoon’s voice slides through the noise, silken and cruel. “You feel it, don’t you, huntress? The sleeper beyond the door. The last echo of your Beholder’s master.”

He turns back to the group, studying each of you as though reading the pulse in your veins. “So choose, Howlbears. Break my chains and claim your way forward… or stand against me, and feed the bones that line my hall.”

His clawed hand gestures toward the crimson gate, the runes across its surface flaring in response. “Touch the sigils, and pour a fragment of yourselves into them — thought, will, faith, or blood. The lock is bound to intention. Let me ride your minds through the seal, and the gate will open. Do this, and the path to the heart below will be yours… as will my gratitude.”

A faint, serpentine smile crosses what remains of his lips. “Refuse, and I will unmake you until one of you breaks enough to beg me for release.”

As he speaks, the sigils around the gate pulse brighter — each heartbeat of red light stealing warmth from the air. The prison itself seems to listen, anticipating your choice.

The Alhoon waits, patient and unblinking. You feel his thoughts brushing against your own, whispering promises and threats in equal measure.

The wardens stir in their alcoves, weapons rattling faintly against stone.

The skeletons, bone against stone is unmistakable. you are sure you see movement coming from each of the 12 alcoves.

What do you do? How do you answer?

Current Time: 9:50 PM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 61°

Current Phase: Exploration

Corruption Level: Level 1 - Orin, Mutt, Dorf, Uptharr.

Player Replies