The Crypt

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The Chamber of the Dead

The Darkness Speaks

The Alhoon of the Pit

Break the Chains

Malefax, the Infinite

Combat with Malefax - Round 1

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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.\

Malefax the Infinite

Fizz is stunned when Mutt starts casually chatting with the mind flayer.

"How does he do that!?" He thinks to himself. Such a casual conversationalist! Must come from being a Bard. "Or drunk I suppose", Fizz says out loud. Clapping a hand over his mouth, Fizz looks up at the Mind Flayer in a panic to see if he heard him.

As Mutt's comments come to a close Fizz speaks quietly, "If you could get us out of this awful dark cave after we do it Mr. Vhal, it would sure convince me to help break your locks... chains.. things?" Fizz meekly steps back after his comment and peers around Vhal to the Crimson light behind him. This looks way more powerful than anything they've dealt with so far, and Fizz is nervous about trying anything. Screwing up his courage, "I suppose i could do the "Will" on Mr. Mutt." Fizz whispers loudly. "Kinda what makes me a Druid after all"

Azalie knows what lies beyond them. The only path to freedom from this dreadful place. Surely, by now, Vhal’Zoruun has followed through on what his forked tongue promised. But she’s no fool.

She believes the Alhoon, he has not a reason to lie. The malice he speaks of Xal’Zyress, matches her very own.

Her eyes flick toward Mutt. This could be his greatest performance yet. She swallows the sharp retort that rises in her throat, choosing instead to trust her friend’s judgment.

“I will follow your lead,” she says, her voice steady even as a tingle races across her skin, like lightning beneath her flesh.

The Howlbears have never named a leader, not officially. Each of them carries their own purpose, their own ghosts. Yet there’s something in Mutt, an old weight behind his eyes, a story he hasn’t told, that makes following him feel less like a choice and more like fate.

Mutt glances at Uptharr, looking for the paladin's wisdom and judgement on whether the Alhoon speaks true. Seeing Uptharr's slight nod at his belief in the Alhoon's words, Mutt closes his eyes and sighs heavily. What was the expression? "The enemy of my enemy...is still my enemy but we're in a pretty fucked situation, so do what you have to do to survive?" Something like that.

Mutt locks eyes with the Alhoon and slowly approaches one of the sigils. He whispers a silent prayer to any gods that are listening and a wordless apology to his mother for breaking his promise about making stupid decisions (although if he's honest, Mutt's broken that promise multiple times before now). He removes a small knife from his pack and cuts a quick slice across his palm. He places his bloodied hand upon the sigil and braces himself for whatever comes next.

Orin glides up beside Mutt, wand low, light pooling over the crimson sigils and the faint seams spidering the vault above.

“Easy,” he murmurs, not to Mutt but to the Weave itself. “If the wardens step out, the ceiling comes with them. Hold the center line.”

He angles his body to keep Vhal’Zoruun and the gate in the same sightline, palm open, abjurations coiled tight. He is mindful of the psychic nature of the sigils, and the mind flayer, but the first flare that appears to be arcane gets cut or dispelled..

Mutt’s blood touches the rune. Orin’s free hand hovers an inch from the stone, ready to offer not blood but will, should the need appear.

Dorf is frustrated by all these mind games, he just wants to pummel something. He watches as Mutt cuts himself and places his hand on a sigil, so he moves up beside Mutt and bites his tongue and spits blood on a sigil and then places his hand on it.

“Let’s get this over with!”

The Breaking of the Chains

The sigils blaze to life, crimson light bleeding across the black stone like veins through a dying heart. Mutt’s blood sizzles as it’s drawn into the rune, steam rising between his fingers. Dorf grits his teeth as his own lifeblood follows, the floor pulsing beneath his feet.

Fizz flinches as the vibrations crawl up his staff — the vines on the walls are feeding, drinking deep from the magic. Their glow intensifies, racing toward the crimson gate as Vhal’Zoruun’s robes whip in a wind that doesn’t exist. His hands rise high, skeletal fingers trembling with anticipation.

“Yes… yes! Do you feel it, Howlbears? The locks crumble, the prison trembles!”

Orin’s runes flare, abjurations struggling to contain the energy surging through the Weave. “It’s splitting!” he shouts, his voice drowned beneath the roar of building power.

Uptharr focuses on his holy symbol as it sears against his palm, glowing white-hot.

“Two evils!” he cries. “They’re bound together! If one rises—”

He never finishes.

The crimson gate erupts with light, flooding the chamber in red brilliance. The temperature plummets; every breath crystallizes in the air. The Alhoon staggers forward, eyes wide with triumph—and then horror—as the power begins to flow past him, into the rift splitting open before the gate.

“No! The core! He draws from my chains!”

A deafening crack echoes as the gate’s beams snap, molten iron splattering across the floor. The double doors are wrenched inward by invisible force, revealing a vast chamber beyond—one drenched in pulsing crimson haze.

At its center hangs a colossal form, suspended in a web of glowing sigils and chains of black chardalyn. Its massive, rotted body drips with decay; flesh sloughs from its orb-like frame. It's eyestalks twitch, leaking pale ichor that burns where it falls.

And there it hangs — a god of death remade, a horror beyond reason.

Malefax the Infinite.

The corpse of a Beholder — no, something worse. Undeath has reshaped it into a mockery of its former power. The central eye, clouded white, rolls open… and the entire hall quakes.

A wave of necrotic energy surges outward. The wardens in their alcoves snap upright, skeletons jerking to life as their eyes blaze crimson. Weapons scrape against stone as they begin to march forward in perfect, unified rhythm.

The Alhoon screams — not in rage, but in terror. “Fools! You’ve undone it all! His will still binds this place!” He staggers backward, psionic energy flickering wildly around him.

The voice that follows drowns all others. It rolls through your minds like thunder, deep and ancient, full of malice and hunger.

“Vhal’Zoruun… little thief. You drank of my power for centuries… now choke upon it.”

Chains snap. The Beholder’s bulk lurches downward, dragging half the ceiling with it. The red light intensifies until every shadow vanishes, and you can feel the pull — like gravity inverted — as Malefax’s gaze drags your minds toward him.

The Alhoon staggers, clutching his skull. “No! He cannot—he cannot take me!” His tentacles curl inward as his form fractures, splitting between flesh and phantasm.

Uptharr’s voice cuts through the chaos: “Howlbears! Fall back—now!”

The Crimson Gate is gone. In its place yawns the Crypt of Malefax, flooded with red mist and the groans of the waking dead.

Vhal’Zoruun’s voice tears through your minds one last time — desperate, broken, and fading into static in your skulls:

“Sever the chains—or we all die again!”

And as the Beholder’s corpse twitches and the wardens march forward, you realize too late — the choice was never between good and evil. It was between which evil would awaken first.

The encounter begins. Malefax’s chains are breaking. The Alhoon is unraveling. The undead army rises.

The Howlbears stand between them all.

Pre Initiative action allowed: As the crimson light explodes and the wardens rise, each of you has a heartbeat to act — a single reflex, instinct, or spell before chaos takes hold. Anything readied or instantaneous can go off now before we roll initiative, including a single skill check to accomplish something before the Initiative takes hold.

The chains scream. The air splits.

Roll for Initiative.

Current Time: 9:55 PM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 61°

Current Phase: Exploration

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

Combat with Malefax - Round 1

Fizzbum opens the round with a snap of thorns—the Thorn Whip lashes out but cracks against stone, scattering brittle bones as the nearest skeleton’s hollow gaze mocks the miss. He immediately taps his Vanishing Charm and vanishes, slipping 15 feet to a safer alcove as he repositions in the crimson haze.

Vhal’Zoruun shrouds himself in a humming Psionic Ward, violet force rippling around his form, then rips a tether of thought at Malefax:

“You’ve unleashed a god of rot! Sever his chains—now!” 

His Mind Rift detonates in the beholder’s skull for 26 psychic damage; Malefax’s runes shudder and pale ichor leaks from ruined sockets. The Alhoon glides 30 feet away, fear overriding pride.

The chamber itself answers Malefax. The lair’s Chardalyn Corruption Pulse throbs outward from the chains—sickly, green-black life-leech. Mutt feels life siphoned (4 HP drained to Malefax)

Azalie staggers as 7 HP are stolen to feed the tyrant.

Three eyestalks flare. First, a lance of unmaking screams toward Uptharr—Disintegration Ray—

and though the paladin braces behind his shield, it punches through with searing force for 27 damage.

Another stalk vomits a Telekinesis Ray that seizes Vhal’Zoruun:

“Come back to me, little thief,”

Malefax snarls as the Alhoon is yanked 30 feet across stone in a shower of sparks.

Then the sockets blacken and spill a curtain of decay—Rotting Ray scythes through the Howlbears in a wide line:

Mutt grits through a glancing hit for 10 necrotic,

Dorf snarls and shrugs off most of it (10 → 5 with rage),

Uptharr resists the infection and takes 10,

Hruna endures 10, Orin is struck full on for 20, and

Azalie suffers the worst—20 necrotic and an Infection: Rot 

(take 1 cumulative damage at the start of her turns).

Malefax’s central eye then yawns open, and the world goes gray: the Anti-Magic Ray washes over the hall, snuffing spells and enchantments across nearly the whole battlefield—everything dies to a dull hush… except Fizz, whose invisibility holds at the cone’s ragged edge.

Mutt dives 20 feet out of the cone, throws a Healing Word over himself for 10 HP, and—voice tight—

“We have to spread out! Surround the bastard but keep near each other!” 

He lifts Whimsyweft, the Lute of the Gilded Glade, pleading, “If you have any good tricks, now would be a great time.” The lute scoffs, “I do hate a party full of corpses. Let’s remind them what life sounds like.”

Mutt plays—and a new power blossoms: Ballad of the Last Light. Radiant music floods the hall. Malefax reels for 20 radiant, holy resonance burning through eyestalk sockets. Four wardens in range crumple under the hymn: one detonates to dust (20 radiant on a fail), the next two buckle even on success (10 radiant each), collapsing into piles of shattered bone, and the last—in a final, perfect chord—takes 20 radiant and falls. (Several wardens within the anti-magic cone are spared—for now—by the dead light of Malefax’s gaze.)

Dorf, magic snuffed but raging, wades into the skeleton ranks with Precious. He smashes one warden for 11, shattering it; carves through a second with 14 more, and then steps to a third and, even with his snuffed Flameblade as plain steel, hews for 9—three piles of bone explode across the floor as he advances.

Hruna sprints and finishes another warden, her drow short sword biting for 4—just enough to drop it in a spray of splinters.

Azalie rushes up near Mutt, pops a healing potion for 10 HP, then whirls on the writhing Chardalyn chains binding Malefax. Fear nips at her heels as she chops—first with her bronze dagger, then twisting into another stroke with the Flameblade +2—but the links hum and shift, dispersing both blows with mocking resonance.

“That’s his first attack?” 

she mutters, bewildered at the scale of the threat, eyes already hunting a high vantage. At her command, Mellon wheels along the ceiling and scouts a precarious perch—a fractured arch-beam slick with ichor and trembling with the fight’s reverberations.

Malefax closes his central eye—the anti-magic field collapses—and the Weave rushes back in like a gasp. Crimson sigils ignite as he spends legendary power:

“You think bones tire? You think death obeys you?” All the fallen Skeleton Wardens rise at once, sockets blazing, weapons scraping stone as they lurch back into the fray.

The twelve wardens surge: blades clang and stab in a rattling storm.

One stabs Orin for 6, another misses Uptharr, two carve into Dorf for 10 and 10 (each halved to 5 by rage), while others miss or strike harmlessly off Vhal’Zoruun’s resistances. Hruna is hammered—8 damage, then a vicious critical for 16—but keeps her footing.

Orin is briefly swarmed, then breaks away on his turn, casting Mirror Image—three shimmering doubles spin into being—and moves to safety as the wardens’ parting slashes swish through illusions instead of flesh.

Uptharr seizes the moment. He thrusts his holy symbol forward—“In the name of the Light Above, begone!”

—and unleashes Turn the Unholy. Dawn-bright radiance floods the hall. Wardens clutch skulls and screech as holy power sears their animus: nine buckle and turn, quailing from the paladin’s light, while one defies the glare, crimson eyes burning hotter as it hisses defiance. Even Vhal’Zoruun reels under the glare but steadies, the Alhoon’s mind ward holding. Uptharr then slams a glowing palm to his own chest,

Lay on Hands mending flesh and bruise for 10 HP as he bellows, “Let the dead scatter, Howlbears! Their souls are dust—strike at the source! Bring down Malefax!”

Current Time: 9:56 PM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 61°

Current Phase: Exploration

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

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