The Descent into the Infinite

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Paying the Toll

The Gate Waits

Corruption taking hold

The Gate trembles

Deeper into the pit

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Paying the Toll

At the Altar Room – Summary

The Howlbears braved the toll of the altar, each offering hard-won fragments from their journey through the Pit. The spirit demanded a price, and one by one the sacrifices were laid: Memory Shard, Fungalite Gem, Stone Dagger, Chardalyn, Glimmerstone, Charcoal, and the Frostbite Fungus. Not all offerings were accepted kindly—Mutt and Azalie felt the torment of the damned lash their minds, suffering visions and pain when the altar rejected hollow tributes. Yet the true toll was slowly paid, the iron door’s chains breaking one by one until, at last, the final spores dissolved into light. With a thunderous crack, the gatekeeper spirit declared the debt fulfilled, its form fading into silence as the iron door swung wide. Before them lay a spiraling stairway vanishing into blackness—an invitation, or a warning—leading deeper into the Pit of Maleficence, and closer to the truth of the Infinite.

Descent

The spiral stair carries you down and down, twisting endlessly into shadow. At first you count the steps, measuring the distance in your mind. But soon the rhythm falters. Hours seem to pass, though you cannot say how many. The air grows heavier, each breath thick with dust and the faint taste of copper. The walls flicker with sigils that fade and flare again, their glow pulsing like the heartbeat of something buried far below. Somewhere along the descent, time itself begins to feel uncertain—too fast, too slow, slipping through your grasp like water through your fingers.

At last, the stair spills you onto a broad landing of black stone. Before you looms a gate, hewn from a single slab of seamless rock, towering twenty feet high. Faint veins of blue-white energy crawl through etched runes along its surface, sluggish and dim, as though the ward has not stirred in centuries. The silence here is profound, broken only by the fading echo of your own footsteps.

On either side of the gate stand colossal figures of stone—two fifteen foot golems, carved in the shape of armored sentinels. Their eyes are dark, their hands resting upon massive stone hammers, their forms crusted with dust and cobwebs. They stand as statues now, but the air around them carries a tension, a sense that they are more than what they appear.

The chamber is wide enough for you all to spread out, its walls slanting upward into shadow. The gate and its silent guardians wait, patient and unmoving, as if they have stood for countless ages simply to greet you here.

The gate towers above you, its runes pulsing faintly, the two stone wardens standing silent in their eternal vigil. The air hums with restrained power, and every detail of this place feels deliberate—built to hold, built to guard. You sense the Gate is not merely a door, but a lock bound to the sentinels themselves. Perhaps there are secrets to glean from the runes, or from the guardians’ silent watch… or perhaps the only path forward is to test their purpose directly. How do you proceed?

Current Time: 9:00 PM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 61°

Current Phase: Exploration

Corruption Level: High, rising fast.

The Gate Waits

Before you looms a colossal gate, hewn from a single slab of seamless black stone, Twenty feet high. Veins of faint blue-white light crawl sluggishly across its etched runes, pulsing like a heartbeat slowed almost to stillness. Flanking it, two towering stone sentinels stand in eternal vigil, each gripping a massive greatsword, their features weathered but unbroken. Cobwebs cling to their armor, dust lies thick at their feet, yet every line of their stance speaks of a purpose unfinished.

Your attempts to probe the chamber draw faint responses.

Mutt’s Hut blossoms and collapses within a minute, the runes flaring as the spell unravels, strands of magic pulled apart as though devoured by the very walls. A whisper touched his mind alone: You cannot shelter from what waits. 

Dorf inspects a sentinel close, finding cracks at its joints and worn grooves on its blade—marks not of battle, but of repetition. Beneath the dust, two narrow floor slots lie before the gate, sized precisely to receive the sword points. Thin veins of light run from those recesses into the runes, flickering faintly. Azalie crouches low, eyes sweeping the chamber, Mellon restless in her grip.

The dust at the wardens’ feet is uneven—grooves cut into the stone lead toward the gate, faint tracks of movement from ages past. Fizz’s weary words echo through the chamber; the gate does not answer his plea, but his keen eyes catch the truth: each disturbance—the unraveling of Mutt’s spell, the touch of hands against the stone—sends a ripple through the runes, a pulse that travels faintly down the sentinels’ blades before fading again.

Uptharr steps forward, gauntlet over his chest, eyes narrowed.

“These are no decorations. They are wardens, bound to their post until judgment is met. This is a trial of worth—or of will.”

Hruna crouches near Dorf, brushing dust from the floor slots with a calloused hand.

“See here? That’s wear, not age. Thase swords huv' been set ento place more times than I cun count, feeding the gate. An’ that slab—” she jerks her chin at the gate, “—that’s nary stone from thes mountain. Someone had tu huv hauled it here, sealed it in on purpose. Took more than hands to bind somethin’ like that.”

Orin lingers a few paces back, eyes on the runes, voice low but steady.

“The sigils are faltering, but not dead. They’re woven to a matrix… a circuit. Power flows between the guardians and the seal. Whether they yield it willingly or by force, the gate will answer.”

The chamber holds its silence, but the air thrums faintly with restrained power. The sentinels remain statues for now, yet every detail—the grooves in the floor, the shimmer in the runes, the unease gnawing at your nerves—speaks to their place in the lock.

The gate waits.

The sentinels stand motionless, the gate before you a puzzle of stone and silence. You may examine the runes further, test the floor slots, attempt to force the greatswords into place—or take the direct approach and see if the guardians will wake. What do you do?

You are beginning to feel the effects of the corruption of this place - as part of your next post, I need a CON check from each player (in addition to any skill rolls you want to use in your next action post)

Current Time: 9:09 PM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 61°

Current Phase: Exploration

Corruption Level: High, rising fast.

Corruption Taking Hold

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Fizzbum:

Fizz's sees the Hut fade into dust motes and sighs in disappointment.

"Stink rot blossoms" he curses. "Not this nonsense again.... Well, I guess we'll have to do it the hard way."

Fizz brushes off his mossy armor and hops to his feet. With a ponderous smirk on his face, he approaches the guardians slowly and begins to study the joints and angles of the stone. Now that they know that the swords are the key to the slots, Fizz will attempt to determine if they can be moved by the party's muscle, or by a mechanism. Fizz will get within 5 feet of the statues on his inspection. If the statues come to life, he will quickly retreat back with the party. If there is no response from the statues, he will gently reach out and attempt to move the arm of one of the statues, to see if the great sword can be rotated into position above the slot. Fizz will quietly speak to the statues like he would speak to a wild horse, or crocodile that he is attempting to soothe and befriend.

DM REPLY:

As you step close, the sentinel looms silent, its stone surface rough beneath your fingers. The sword is massive, its weight far beyond what you could easily shift by hand, and the purpose behind its design remains frustratingly unclear. At your touch, though, the guardian responds. A low groan rumbles through the chamber as both statues stir, dust spilling from their joints. Their greatswords tilt just slightly toward the waiting floor slots, while their heads grind down to face the landing. The runes across the gate flare, light running down the etched veins into the blades before fading again. Startled, you retreat a step back toward the others. The sentinels do not advance. They remain poised and unmoving, swords angled as though caught mid-motion, the silence heavy and sharp around them. The impression is unmistakable—the guardians are awake now, their purpose tied to the gate, but they wait for more.

ORIN:

Orin rubs at his temples, the oppressive weight of corruption gnawing at his thoughts. His gaze lingers on the guardians’ blades, tilted toward the waiting slots. When Mutt’s spell unravels, Orin follows its flow intently, the flicker of strands drawn into the runes, feeding along the blades of the sentinels before fading.

DM REPLY:

The runes are faint and sluggish, their light crawling across the gate in tired pulses. To your eyes, they look unstable—like a circuit that’s fraying rather than channeling strength. You sense the guardians are connected to the seal, but whether their movement would close the circuit or unravel it entirely is unclear. The more you study, the more the sigils slip away from your grasp, refusing to resolve into a pattern you can trust.

MUTT:

Mutt's head throbs as the weight of their situation seems to press in on them from all sides. The pressure in his head increases as the oppressive weight and darkness of the chamber feel like it's closing in on him. He rubs his temples trying to ease the discomfort. He never felt suited for situations like this. He was just clever enough to come up with a clever story or line to get out of a tough spot, but this... how do you talk your way out of a door protected by two giant stone statues? As Fizz places his hands on the statues and they start to move, Mutt starts in surprise.

"Fizz, you may be a genius."

Mutt walks over to where Fizz was standing, and with a nervous glance back at the party, places his hand on one of the statues. He needed to get out of here.

DM REPLY:

As your hand presses against the cold stone, you feel the same low hum that Fizz stirred a moment ago. The guardian shifts slightly, dust spilling from its joints as the sword tilts another inch toward the floor slot, then halts. The runes across the gate flare in response, a pulse of blue light running down the blade before fading again. The sentinel remains still, awake but unmoving, the chamber heavy with silence.

The landing is heavy with silence, but the air has changed.

Fizz’s hand against the sentinel drew the first groan, dust spilling as the greatswords tilted toward the waiting floor slots. Startled, he retreated, yet the guardians remained poised, heads bowed, swords angled as if caught in mid-motion. The runes across the gate pulsed, a ripple of light that faded back to stillness.

Orin’s gaze lingered on the blades, tracing the flicker of fading strands as Mutt’s magic was devoured. He studied the runes, but their pattern slipped from his grasp, a fraying circuit that refused to resolve. They were tied to the guardians, that much was certain, but how remained hidden.

Mutt’s hand on the second statue brought another groan. The blade dipped lower, another shiver of blue light racing into the runes. The guardian froze, awake but unmoving, silence pressing in all around.

Azalie’s hand tightened on her bow, Mellon’s feathers puffing as the bird shifted uneasily. “They’re not ornaments,” she murmured. “They’re waiting.”

Uptharr’s gauntleted hand pressed against his chest as he glared up at the sentinels. “Judges,” he said flatly. “They won’t yield to words alone. Either we prove our strength… or we prove our will.”

Hruna crouched by the grooves in the stone, brushing away dust with a calloused hand. “See here—these blades have been dropped into those slots more times than you’d think. This isn’t just a door. It’s a lock. A prison lock.”

From where it hangs at Mutt’s side, Whimsyweft hums a soft, discordant chord on its own, the strings trembling faintly. A lilting voice follows, sly and sing-song:

“Two blades, two mouths, waiting to drink. Feed them together, and the door will think.”

Then it falls quiet, the strings buzzing once like laughter before settling into silence.

Then, without warning, the chamber itself seems to press in. The veins on the walls flicker faintly, the hum under the stone rising until it throbs in your skulls. All of you feet it—the Pit’s corruption gnawing deeper.

• Dorf, Orin, Mutt, and Uptharr: the sickness hits hard. Your stomachs twist, your limbs feel clumsy, and the weight of the Pit drags at you. From this point forward, you suffer disadvantage on Dexterity saving throws.

• Azalie, Fizz, and Hruna: you weather the wave, though the pressure lingers like a storm waiting to break.

The guardians remain half-poised, awake but unmoving, their blades angled toward the sockets as though waiting for the order—or the force—to finish what they started.

The Corruption of this place has started to become real - several of you feel extremely nauseous, as you start to stagger and feel ill. (Corruption added to your character effects, this corruption cannot be cured by a save throw)

Affected Characters: (Dex Save Disadvantage)

Orin

Mutt

Dorf

Uptharr

The rest of you: The corruption of this place has not yet caused you any ill effects, except the feeling of gloom.

Azalie

Fizzbum

Hruna

Current Time: 9:15 PM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 61°

Current Phase: Exploration

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

The Gate Trembles

Dorf steadies himself, wobbling as the corruption gnaws deeper into his bones.

“Maybe we need to all touch them at the same time?” he mutters, reaching up toward one of the sentinels. He glances over his shoulder at Hruna with a wink. “I just want to get us all out of here, let’s figure this out and finish this up. This place is starting to get to me.”

Fizz is quick to answer, springing forward with a grin.

“Together! Absolutely, Mr. Dorf! Magic doesn’t seem to work! Let’s connect them with the power of friendship!” He extends a small hand, beckoning the rest of you closer.

Azalie shakes off the clawing weight of the Pit, her bow hand trembling before she forces it still.

“How are you holding up, Howlbears?” she asks softly, eyes scanning each of you. She steps to Fizz, taking his hand, surprised by the warmth of his skin—and the faint moss clinging there. “I hope you’re not transdermal,” she mutters with a crooked smile, brushing her palm against her trousers. “Alright, who’s grabbing me so I can grab him?”

Mutt swallows the nausea rolling in his stomach, pushing forward with a grimace. He lays a hand on Azalie’s shoulder, forcing a smile.

“Right here, Az.” His gaze flicks to the statues, then back to the party. “All together then?” He nods toward Fizz with a softer smile. “On your word, Fizz.”

Hruna exhales through her nose, grumbling but stepping into line, her calloused hand wrapping firmly around Dorf’s. “Stone’s meant to move when enough hands push it. I’ll not be the weak link.”

Uptharr takes his place opposite her, gauntleted hand clasping Azalie’s. His eyes fix on the sentinels, jaw set. “If this is judgment, then let it be for all of us. Better to stand as one than fall alone.”

One by one, hands link. The circle closes.

The chamber responds.

A low tremor ripples through the floor as the sentinels groan in unison, joints cracking, dust spilling like falling sand. Their swords grind lower together, tips hovering just above the waiting sockets. Blue-white light floods the runes, pulsing faster now, coursing down the etched veins into the blades. The hum rises, vibrating in your skulls until your teeth ache.

Then the motion halts. The blades hang inches above the sockets, the runes blazing bright but incomplete, the guardians poised as if awaiting the final command—or the final push.

The silence sharpens, the Pit gnawing at you harder with each heartbeat.

The wardens are awake, their swords nearly in place. The lock is ready, but not yet sealed. You may try to command them to finish the motion, force the blades down by your own strength, or risk pressing further into the strange power binding this chamber. What do you do?

Current Time: 9:20 PM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 61°

Current Phase: Exploration

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

Deeper into the Pit

Azalie looks puzzled.

“What? Why did they stop.” She glances at the team and shrugs. “Uh, open the gate…?”

Your words echo in the chamber, carried by the hum of power still running through the runes. The wardens do not move at your command, but both sets of stone eyes tilt faintly in your direction, the swords quivering just above the sockets as though listening. The silence feels heavier for a moment, almost expectant — like the guardians are waiting for something more than a single word.

Fizz stares at the guardians in confusion!

"I've met some stubborn rocks in my life, but you two take the mushroom cake!"

Digging into his pack, Fizz grabs one of his waterskins and flicks a little water onto the guardian closest to him.

He also checks for any kind of a lock, safety, or lever that allows the swords to drop into the socket.

As he sprinkles water across the statue’s stony surface, it runs quickly into the faint seams between the joints — seams that aren’t ornamental, but engineered. With your sharp eye, He notices grooves carved into the base of each sword’s hilt, perfectly aligned with the runes on the gate. These aren’t locks so much as channels, cut to funnel energy directly into the sigils once the blades are seated. You also notice faint scratches in the stone near the slots — signs that the swords have been lowered before, many times.

The message is clear: the swords themselves are the key, but they won’t fall on their own. They need to be driven into place — either by the guardians’ will… or by your own strength.

Mutt takes a step away from the statues in frustration and confusion. He can feel the malign energies of this place permeating his body. His fights down the rising anxiety in his gut and walks over to a nearby step, taking deep breaths. He’s been able to ignore the crushing weight of the millions of tons of rock around him and the oppressive darkness up to now, but it’s starting to take its toll on him.

He breathes deeply and removes WW from his back, strumming her strings lightly. Music has always had a way to calm his nerves, so he starts strumming and singing a tune hoping to gain some inspiration into their predicament.

The weight of the Pit drags at you, nausea clawing at your gut, but Whimsyweft hums under your fingers with eager resonance. The tune you strum lingers in the chamber longer than it should, each note stretching into a shimmer that vibrates in your chest. For a moment, the suffocating heaviness eases, replaced by an odd lightness.

Then the lute sings, her lilting voice playful and sly:

“Two mouths thirst together, not one alone. Lower both blades, and the lock will be sated. But beware, sweet minstrel—force them wrongly, and the bite will be yours.”

Her strings buzz like laughter before settling back into silence, the guardians’ blades trembling still hovering right over the slots.

Orin's expression is drawn, shadows under his eyes betraying the sickness taking hold. Still, his gaze tracks the runes with near-fevered focus.

 “They’re waiting...,” Orin says, his voice low but edged with command. “Two mouths, ready to drink. Maybe we give them a dose of the weave, together. Some small spell, directed at each. Or we try to force them down.”

 He glances around the circle, urgency straining through his calm. “Either way, it must be at once. The longer we wait, the more this place will take its toll.”

The runes flicker faintly at Orin’s words, their sluggish light crawling faster along the blades. The wardens tilt their heads as though listening, but remain poised, swords quivering just above the sockets.

Uptharr shifts beside you, gauntleted hand tightening on his holy symbol. 

“You’re not wrong,” he says, voice low but steady. “Locks are built for order, not chaos. These things were meant to move together, not alone. Two blades, two hands, one purpose. If we falter, the whole seal turns against us.” His gaze flicks to the glowing swords. “Whatever we choose, we must strike it as one.”

Orin’s face is pale, the Pit’s sickness gnawing at him, but his eyes remain fixed on the sentinels. He swallows hard, then raises his voice to the group.

“They’re nearly there. Fizz, Mutt... let's try something small, harmless, and together. Aim for the face, the mouth. See if they’ll drink it in.”

 He lifts his hand, a steady glow blooming in his palm as he whispers the words of Light. The soft radiance spills across the guardians’ features, painting their stone visages in pale brilliance.

Orin’s glow washes across one sentinel’s face, sinking into the grooves like sunlight through deep water. Mutt’s illusion threads into the same current, swallowed whole as though it were substance instead of shadow. Fizz cups his flame with both hands, the wavering fire licking across the second guardian’s jaw like an offering pressed to its lips. For a moment the power shudders — uneven, fragile — then it locks into place, each spell weaving with the others.

The guardians groan as one. Dust cascades from their joints as their swords grind lower, the points sliding into the sockets with an echoing screech. Sparks flare where rune meets steel, the lines across the chamber blazing white-hot before fading to a dull, smoking glow.

The gate answers.

With a deafening groan, it grinds open, shrieking against centuries of rust. A wall of stale air bursts past you, choking with the stench of rot, ash, and something colder still, like a tomb disturbed. The weight of the Pit presses heavier, but beneath it runs a sense of release — as though you’ve torn open something that should have stayed shut.

Behind you, the guardians bow their heads slightly, their blank eyes tracking your movement as you step through. When the last of you crosses the threshold, the massive slab grinds back down, the sound echoing like a funeral bell. The guardians return to stillness.

The way back is sealed.

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.

The second barrier looms at the far end of the hall, but the way is lined with ancient dead, their alcoves close-set and silent. The weight of the Pit presses on you, daring you to move further. Do you advance cautiously, test the alcoves, or make straight for the gate?

Current Time: 9:30 PM

Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742

Temperature: 61°

Current Phase: Exploration

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

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