The Hall of Petrification
- Dungeon Master
- Jun 28
- 12 min read
Updated: Jul 16
Quick Links
The Workshop
The Howlbears stand at the end of the petrified hall, where the corridor splits left and right—each path ending at a solid stone door fitted with a familiar circular crank.
Fizzbum kneels, tracing parallel grooves in the dust with his fingers, muttering to himself with a gleam of intensity.
“They were moved… dragged here,”
he confirms, smearing a bit of dirt between his fingers like a detective examining a crime scene. The fear etched into the stone faces tells the rest of the story. These aren’t statues. They’re victims.
Dorf narrows his eyes. He may not be versed in magical details, but those expressions—screaming, fighting, frozen in panic—speak louder than any sculptor’s hands ever could.
Mutt scans the door mechanisms, fingers brushing faint claw marks near the crank.
“Guys, I don’t like this,”
he mutters, eyes darting to the shadows above. The mechanisms are free of traps, but the scratches—subtle but recent—suggest the doors have been used. And recently.
Orin inspects the corridor walls and notices faint, dormant runes etched in the stone—like vines wrapping through the foundation. He frowns.
“Whoever did this wanted us to see their work. To fear it.”
Then, Azalie goes still. Her hand rests lightly on the stone as she closes her eyes and reaches out with Primeval Awareness. A cold rush floods her senses as her awareness touches the left-hand door—there, in the dark beyond, lies something watching. Undead. Ancient. Malicious. And not alone.
She quickly steps back.
“Uh… it’s aware of us. It’s been watching. I don’t think we should open that one.”
There’s a pause. Even Uptharr goes quiet, staring between the two doors with a clenched jaw.
Eventually, Mutt clears his throat. “Right door it is.”
He grips the crank and turns.
The right-hand door grinds open on ancient hinges, stone scraping against stone. Dust billows out around your feet, curling and shifting like breath held too long. Beyond lies a square chamber—tall, dark, and eerily quiet.
The room resembles a forge or workshop, but one twisted by obsession. Workbenches made of cracked stone line the walls, scattered with blackened tools: chisels, clamps, broken surgical blades. Pieces of petrified remains, lay scattered about the room—twisted bits fused from petrified flesh and sculpted obsidian.
The air is cold and still, and a coppery tang clings to your tongues.
Suspended above, black iron chains dangle from the ceiling like marionette strings, a few ending in stone limbs or shattered remnants. Others sway gently, though there is no breeze.
At the rear of the chamber, hunched in shadow, sits a massive stone construct, knees bent, arms resting on its sides. It appears dormant—for now.
Near it, faint torchlight catches on something carved into the wall—a bas-relief of a woman’s face, eyes blindfolded, lips parted in a cruel smile. Her hair curls back in layered spirals, unmistakably serpentine. Though worn by time, the artistry is striking—and unsettlingly lifelike.
Scattered across the floor lie several pieces of discarded gear: a leather satchel half-buried in dust, a cracked Mirror shield etched with a holy symbol, and a sword, still sheathed, but buried partially in dust. No bodies—just remnants. Dropped, abandoned… or removed.
Nothing moves. Nothing stirs. But every inch of this room feels like a message carved in silence.
What do you do?
Current Time: 11:46AM
Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742
Temperature: 49°
Current Phase: Exploration
Corruption Level: Rising slowly.
The Stone Golem Wakes
The moldy scent of the chamber clings to the air as the Howlbears file inside, torchlight and Orin’s glowing coin casting long, uneasy shadows along the walls. The eerie quiet is broken only by their careful footfalls and the occasional groan of ancient stone shifting in the dark.
Azalie’s voice cuts through the stillness.
“...That’s a golem,”
she whispers, eyes locked on the massive, slumped figure against the far wall. The construct rests like a forgotten statue, unmoving... for now.
Her gaze lifts to a carving above the workbench—faint, yet unmistakable. A woman’s face half-shrouded in curls of stone serpents, elegant and cruel. “Well. There’s our Medusa,” she mutters, trying to shake the cold crawling down her spine.
Mutt moves carefully along the far wall and spots a stone archway carved with plain edges—an exit.
A rusted lever sits beside it, set in the wall like a forgotten key. Judging by the orientation and the layout they’ve explored, this door likely leads back into the chamber where they fought the flamebound revenants.
“If we need to run,” he says, mostly to himself, “that’s our way out.”
Dorf kneels beside a gleaming blade partially buried beneath the dust in the floor. It’s unnaturally clean—no rust, no dust, no blood. Just waiting.
Azalie’s voice sharpens: “Dorf! Don’t touch that!”
But it’s too late.
Dorf grips the hilt and pulls it free with a smooth motion. The sword leaves the ground.
The room changes.
A faint thrum echoes beneath their feet. A buried rune on the golem’s chest flares to life, glowing dull amber through the stone dust and cracks.
Fizz, still hovering near the entrance, snaps his gaze toward the construct—then behind him, as a grinding sound groans from the entry door. It’s moving.
A heavy slab begins to descend, ancient gears churning slowly as the trap activates.
You won’t all make it out before the door seals shut.
Fizz must act—now.
Slip through into the hallway and risk being cut off.
Stay inside and commit to being inside with the party.
Wedge the door open using debris—chunks of petrified limbs and shattered stone fragments that litter the floor near the door.
Inside the room, the golem’s head tilts upright. Shoulders rise. Its limbs tremble with stored power, like a statue shaking off centuries of stillness.
Orin’s light reflects off its carved armor plates as the magic sigil across its chest pulses again—brighter this time.
Uptharr shouts, “By Tyr—it's coming alive!”
Hruna’s boots grind across the floor as she plants herself beside Azalie.
“Dorf, if that thing swings, I hope you plan to put that sword to use.”
The golem doesn’t attack—not yet—but the groan of shifting stone fills the chamber like a growl.
Actions:
You may take immediate actions: cast spells, move into formation, drink potions, draw weapons.
Fizz must choose: stay, slip out, or try to jam the door open.
The northern lever may be pulled, and could possibly open the northern exit into the Revenant chamber.
What do you do next?
Notable Items in the room (Treasure Added):
Cracked Mirror Shield on floor
Leather Satchel buried in the dust
Current Time: 11:56AM
Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742
Temperature: 49°
Current Phase: Exploration
Corruption Level: Rising slowly.
Escaping the Golem
The click of metal pulls everyone's attention—Dorf lifts the sword from the floor.
A low tremor rumbles through the stone beneath your feet. Across the room, the dormant golem stirs. The rune on its chest flares to life with a deep amber glow, and its eyes ignite like twin coals. Stone joints grind and shift as the hulking construct begins to rise.
“I knew it,” Azalie breathes, already moving backward. Her hand flies to her quiver, heart pounding. The golem isn’t fully awake… but it’s close.
Fizz jumps as the southern door begins to descend behind him—grinding shut with ominous weight.
“Umm… umm… rocks! I need rocks!”
he shouts, scrambling for chunks of debris. He jams stone into the track, and the heavy slab groans in protest. Dust sprays out from the frame, but the blockage holds—for now—leaving a narrow one-foot crawlspace beneath the closing door.
“I’ll see if I can stop this!” Fizz shouts. “Get that thing’s legs before it finishes waking up!”
Mutt rushes to the northern door. His mage hand yanks the rusted lever down—CLICK—but nothing happens. The door doesn’t budge.
You feel it in your gut: whatever magic triggered the golem also locked this chamber down. That door’s sealed.
“Everyone, back out of the room! Move!”
Mutt shouts, whirling around to face the others. He raises his crossbow, already anticipating the inevitable clash.
Uptharr doesn’t hesitate. He rips the cracked mirror shield from the floor and sprints to the narrow crawlspace.
“You heard him! Out! Now!” he bellows, sliding into place. “I’ll cover the rear—go!”
Orin is already moving, coinlight vanishing into his pouch as he darts around the table, avoiding the golem’s reach. He drops to his knees and slides under the crawlspace, vanishing into the hallway beyond.
Azalie’s boots kick up dust as she follows, narrowly avoiding the debris pile Fizz shoved beneath the door.
“Orin!” she calls, tossing a bundle of arrows to him. “Make these useful—quick!”
Hruna grabs Dorf by the collar. “You’re not dying in here over a pretty sword, you stubborn ox!” she growls, dragging him back from the glowing construct.
The golem’s stone limbs lock into place with a final CLACK. Its torso rotates slowly toward the group, arms rising.
CRACK.
A foot slams down, splitting the floor where Dorf stood moments before.
Fizz calls out, “It’s almost through! Get down—crawl!”
One by one, the Howlbears dive for the exit—scraping across shattered tiles and dust-choked stone.
Uptharr is the last to slide under, armor scraping the tight gap. As he emerges into the hallway, He yanks the last chunk of debris free.
With a roar of grinding stone, the door SLAMS shut behind them.
Silence returns.
You stand once more in the corridor of statues, your chests heaving, backs pressed to the cold wall.
The workshop is sealed.
The golem is trapped inside.
But it’s awake now… and it knows you were there.
You now have two options. You can enter the left chamber, or return to the main camp where you first entered this place. (Updated Map Below)
Current Time: 12:06 PM
Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742
Temperature: 49°
Current Phase: Exploration
Corruption Level: Rising slowly.
We're not leaving her at our backs
The dust still settles from the slammed workshop door as the Howlbears find themselves once again in the hall of stone faces—pale, horrified, and silent. A low thudding boom echoes once more from behind the sealed slab. The golem stirs restlessly, denied its quarry. The Stone door that closed, seems to be holding the Golem off, plus even if the passage was open, you doubt the Golem would fit into this hallway, so it seems you are at least safe from it.
Azalie brushes grit from her sleeves, eyes fixed on the other stone door across the hallway.
“Well… that escalated quickly,” she mutters. “We got the mirror, and Dorf got a new blade.”She throws him a glance. It's not quite a glare—more like a warning flicker of concern through dry sarcasm. “Try not to touch everything in the next room, alright?”
Dorf gives a shrug and smirks, resting the point of the new sword gently against the ground.
“You wanted excitement.”
Mutt leans against a statue. The moment his fingers touch the cold stone, he jerks away as though shocked.
“Gods, I hate this place.” He holds up the satchel with a flicker of a smile. “Still, we didn’t come out of there empty-handed.”
He digs into the pack, producing a potion of Stone to Flesh and tossing it to Azalie. “For emergencies.” Another vial, a potion of Mirror Image is passed to Orin, who nods with a quiet word of thanks. Then Mutt pulls out a squat, bulbous mushroom. “Fizz, you’ll love this. Might even be a talking one.”
Fizz catches it with a bright grin and tucks it carefully away. “If it sings opera, I’m keeping it forever.”
But even through the jokes, the tension lingers.
Azalie tightens her makeshift blindfold, keeping only a sliver of vision toward her feet.
“I don’t think we should delay,” she says, her voice steady but low. “She’s still in there. Watching.” She tilts her chin toward the left door. “And if she’s this deep in the dungeon, it’s for a reason. I’ve got a hunch—we’re going to need whatever she’s guarding if we want to get any deeper.”
Hruna grunts in agreement. "A Medoosa she may be, but we’re no' leavin’ th’ beastie at oor backs. Press on wi’out dealin’ wi’ her, an’ she’ll be on us th’ moment we’re weak’ned"
“Then we make a stand,” says Uptharr, his jaw clenched. He hefts the cracked mirror shield into position on his arm. “One threat at a time.”
Orin frowns, running a finger along his chin. “I wish I had something to enchant Azalie’s arrows. But even so… we’ve faced worse.”
“Worse?” Fizz says, eyes wide. “Like what exactly is worse than a nightmare snake-lady with a death stare?”
Mutt rubs his temples, as if shaking off a headache “A beholder. We’re just working our way up the list.”
Dorf steps up beside Azalie. “If you’ve got a hunch, I’m with you. We go in, we finish this.”
The group assembles in a semicircle around the left-hand door. The grooves in the floor are clearer here—drag marks leading out from the doorway, the remnants of statues positioned like trophies in the hallway. Mutt’s eyes narrow. He’s certain now. This door leads forward, not backward.
Entering her chamber:
Uptharr grips the circular crank embedded in the stone, braces his boots against the floor, and turns.
With a heavy grind and a rumble like distant thunder, the ancient door creaks open—stone scraping against stone—revealing a chamber veiled in shadow.
Torchlight spills inward.
At first, the air feels... still. Heavy. A thick musk of dust, mildew, and something sharper—like the scent of decayed flowers—wafts out from the room beyond.
The chamber opens into a nearly perfect square, 35-by-35-foot vault with walls of rough-hewn black stone and a ceiling that stretches twenty feet overhead. The flicker of light glints off twin pairs of alcoves carved into the west and south walls—each containing a twisted, humanoid statue, frozen in poses of agony or defiance. But these aren't just stoneworks. Their poses are too vivid, their forms too... recent.
Their eyes seem to follow you.
Your gaze shifts forward, past a central hazard: a spiked pit carved into the floor—five feet square, ten feet deep, and filled with rusted iron spikes. Broken skeletons lie skewered below, some shattered, others still clutching weapons or bits of armor. The stench of old death hangs thick around it.
And then—your eyes are drawn to the southwest corner of the chamber.
A cracked stone throne rises atop a jagged dais. Slumped in the seat is a figure draped in tattered robes, her posture slack, her head bowed in silence. But the skeletal serpents atop her scalp writhe and coil—restless, alert.
At first she speaks, staring only past you, purposefully avoiding eye contact.
“More meat for the garden,” she hisses, her voice dry and venom-laced, echoing off the walls like wind through bone.“I wondered how long I would wait for the next set of trophies.”
One of the serpents snaps at the air with a rattling hiss.
“The living… soft, warm, blind to the gift they squander. You wear skin like it’s a right. You breathe like it means something.”
She slowly raises her head, and though her gaze is still hidden in shadow, you feel her eyes on you—cold, cruel, and hateful.
“I remember what it was to live. I remember the sun. I remember touch. Now I remember only pain.”
A bitter smile curls her lip as the snakes hiss in unison, as she finally turns her head toward you, and her eyes begin to glow white.
“Come closer... You’ll remember nothing at all.”
The statues in the alcoves suddenly twitch, and their eyes glow red.
A large, iron-bound treasure chest sits along the northwest wall, just beyond the range of the torchlight, its surface dusty—but undisturbed.
You stand at the threshold, tension thick in your chest.
What do you do?
Current Time: 12:10 PM
Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742
Temperature: 49°
Current Phase: Exploration
Corruption Level: Rising slowly.
The Revenant Medusae
She lifts her head slowly. Her face is haunting—beautiful once, still echoing the majesty she possessed in life. But now stretched and withered, her skin pulled tight over her high cheekbones. Her dead eyes shimmer with unnatural light.
“You shouldn’t have come. I was almost content in silence.”
The snakes hiss, echoing like dry leaves.
“But I suppose even silence grows old when one cannot die.”
She tilts her head slightly.
“So tell me, little mortals—should I start with your eyes… or your bones?”
Fizz, already on edge, scowls and shifts his grip on his staff. “Clever girl…” he mutters, casting a quick enchantment. He brushes Orin’s sleeve, whispering, “Hit ’em hard, Mr. Orin.”
Mutt produces a small reflective eyepatch, strapping it carefully over one eye.
“Don’t quote me, but I think they don’t like seeing themselves,” he says with a grin he doesn’t feel. He knocks back a potion and readies his crossbow.
He glances at Uptharr. “Think she’s open to peaceful negotiation?”
Uptharr, gripping his new cracked mirror shield, steps forward, booming confidently.
“This foul curse shall be ended today! Yours is the evil of cowards, lurking in shadow—face the light, foul serpent!” His stance is square and proud.
Orin lowers his gaze, the weight of the Medusa’s presence bearing down on him.
“We’ll do what we must,” he says grimly, flickering with protective magic from Mutt’s potion. His eyes flick to the constructs in the alcoves. “They’re brittle... Let’s see how well they hold together.”
Azalie, already half-blindfolded, sends Mellon into the air to scout. She downs the potion Mutt handed her and checks her arrows.
“Her breasts aren’t worth the kind of hard you’ll stay,” she quips coldly, sensing the best position to lay a Cordon of Arrows.
Hruna lifts her sword, preparing for a fight. "Aye, we take 'er down quick, lads—else we’ll be statues on a shelf by sundown, mark me words!"
Dorf, already bristling, pops the cork on a potion and downs it in one gulp.
“No more talkin’. Let’s smash some rocks.” His eyes burn with barbarian fury as he lets out a low growl.
As the last echo of the Medusa’s voice fades, the statues in the alcoves begin to twitch.
Stone grinds softly. Red eyes flare.
The guardians are waking.
Her skeletal snakes twitch once more, and her head finally tilts upward.
“Enough pleasantries.”
She raises one hand — its fingers stretched and crooked like dead branches — and points toward you.
“Bring them to me.”“Let them feel what it is to be seen.”
A strange glow begins to pulse from the snakes on her head as she commands her minions to bring you to her.
The guardians step forward, stone joints cracking like shattered ice.Their eyes burn crimson. Their claws drag across the floor.
Roll for initiative.
Current Time: 12:12 PM
Date: Ninthday, 29, Alturiak, 1742
Temperature: 49°
Current Phase: Exploration
Corruption Level: Rising slowly.
Player Replies
Azalie keeps her gaze low, avoiding the Medusa’s deadly stare, but her eyes flick toward the gargoyle. A subtle nod sends Mellon gliding silently into the air, wings outstretched as he seeks a higher vantage.
She leans her head back and laughs.
“Never thought I’d get the honor of meeting a Gorgon.”
Her mind shifts, hardening. Whatever pity she might’ve held for the cursed creature is gone.
Without breaking focus on the serpentine movements of their opponent, Azalie reaches back.
“I’ll take that Blessing, Mutt.”
She downs the magic like a shot of fire, letting it fuel the tension in her limbs. The door behind her still looms, and if the golem crashes through, she’s not sure they’ll survive whatever…
Orin flinches slightly at the Medusa’s voice and immediately drops his gaze to the stone at her feet. He doesn’t need to see her eyes to know what waits behind them.
When Fizz’s hand touches his robe, Orin feels the subtle surge of Guidance ripple down his spine. He nods, tightly. “Thanks, Fizz. We'll do what we must.”
He steps lightly to the side, drawing the potion Mutt had handed him earlier. The vial clinks softly against his belt as he uncorks it and drinks. The effect is immediate. Flickers of himself begin to shimmer at his flanks—ghost-images shifting with each breath.
As the statues in the alcoves twitch to life, Orin shifts his focus. Those statues may overwhelm them if…
While everyone takes a minute to catch their breath and deliberate about which way to go next, Mutt produces a small glass of iced tea from his small bag of holding. He takes a long, slurping sip of the cool beverage and catches Hruna staring at him with a raised eyebrow from the corner of his eye. Mutt shrugs and grins sheepishly. He quickly chugs down the rest of the glass and tosses it over his shoulder as the group comes to a decision. "OK, then. We go towards the ancient evil. Great." He rummages through his pack and unfurls his set of thieves' tools. He removes a small mirror mounted on a metal handle and a length of string. He…
Fizz wrinkles his nose in distaste. “Smells like stink rot mushrooms mixed with Dandelions if you ask me! Not my favorite combo!” Catching sight of the Medusa on the throne, Fizz quickly averts his gaze to the alcoves. Well… that’s not much better! Trusting Mr Mirror shield to take care of the Medusa, Fizz focuses his attention on the red eyed creatures approaching from the sides. “Clever girl…” he mutters as he adjusts his snake armband, and prepares for battle. Fizz reaches out and touches Orins robes as he moves his staff to the front. “Hit em hard Mr Orin!” He whispers without taking his eyes off the alcoves.
Pre battle Guidance on Orin
Orin leans against the stone wall, brushing grit from his sleeves. As Azalie tosses him the arrows, he catches them reflexively—then examines the shafts, brow furrowing. “I wish I could,” he says softly. "Enchantment has never been my specialty, and I'm afraid I don't have anything prepared that can help with these." He hands them back carefully, regret in his voice but not his expression. He turns as Mutt hands him a small vial, nodding in thanks. “This I can use. Thank you, Mutt."
"The sooner we can leave this place, the better I will feel. Should we at least explore that other path before making our decision?"