Gaming

Bancroft staggered through Helix’s gates like a man touched by plague, his once-proud bearing reduced to a shambling gait. Yellow mold clung to his skin in sickly patches, and his head bore fresh dents from their harrowing escape. Most telling of all, his jeweled sword—the blade that had marked him as more than a simple farmer—was gone, lost to the maze’s hungry darkness. One by one, his companions limped back to town, each bearing their own wounds and disappointments.

The shadowmaze had claimed its victims, and now it hungered for more. After the chaos of the previous session—where skeletal warriors had burst from concealment and Wyz’s own caltrops had become a treacherous obstacle course—the survivors found themselves scattered and desperate. The cunning goblin wizard’s plan to destroy the reforming skeleton had failed spectacularly, leaving him face-to-face with his undead nemesis as torchlight flickered and died around them. Aura stumbled southward through the suffocating darkness, her torch finally surrendering to the dungeon’s malevolent atmosphere.

The stone walls of the Barrowmaze pressed close around Bancroft and his companions, their only known exit sealed shut by mechanisms beyond their understanding. Behind them, the chittering of giant rats grew louder, echoing through the narrow passages like the whispers of death itself. With nowhere to retreat, Bancroft hefted his sword and shield, calling upon Sylvanus for strength as the party formed a defensive line. The rats, however, seemed to sense their desperation.

Bancroft (2nd level cleric of Sylvanus): Born a farmer, he has almost everything going for him. Strong, quick on his feet, wise and friendly… if only he had a brain. His good nature helps him get along, and his friends eventually convinced him to seek his fortune in the Barrowmaze. There, he found that his connection with plants, animals, and nature blossomed into worship of Sylvanus. He wields sword and shield, and wears chainmail.

The weight of debt pressed upon Bancroft’s shoulders like a funeral shroud. The church of St Ygg had demanded payment for their divine intervention—the Cure Disease that had saved him from the festering rot of a rat’s bite. Now penniless, the former farmer trudged through the rain-slicked streets to the soup kitchens, his chainmail gleaming incongruously among the ragged masses. His jeweled sword marked him as a man fallen from grace, a warrior reduced to begging for scraps.

The party found themselves in yet another chamber of the accursed shadowmaze, their nerves already frayed from countless encounters with the dungeon’s malevolent inhabitants. Wyz, ever the cautious scout, pressed his pointed ear against the southeastern door, straining to catch any telltale sounds beyond. Meanwhile, his companions busied themselves searching the room for hidden treasures or traps, their movements creating a soft symphony of rustling gear and whispered observations.

Just as the party thought their situation couldn’t grow more desperate, the northern door burst open and two terrified townsfolk stumbled into their chamber—Ibri and Itchi, their faces pale with fear and their clothes torn from their own flight through the rat-infested passages. These were clearly not adventurers; their wide eyes and trembling hands spoke of ordinary folk who had somehow found themselves trapped in this nightmare maze. What business could have possibly brought them into these deadly depths?

The session began with an unexpected moment of levity as Irulan found herself locked in a battle of wits with Keelgo, a gruff dwarf from the Outriders of Uleck. What started as casual tavern banter quickly escalated into an elaborate exchange of “yo momma” insults that had the entire common room in stitches. By the end of their verbal sparring match, the two had developed a mutual respect and genuine friendship, proving that sometimes the best bonds are forged through good-natured mockery.

We lowered ourselves into the barrowmaze on a block and tackle — slow, steady, and sensible. The lamps swung and the ropes creaked while the sound of the surface faded. When our boots finally touched the packed earth below, the air was cold and smelled of old things. We pressed forward into unexplored corridors, careful to mark our path and avoid needless rushing. Soon after we passed through a large, empty chamber that echoed our footsteps like empty bowls.

Bancroft and his friends searched the area once the strangers had left. One of the nearby rooms had a table with three polished skulls sitting on top — very strange decor. Druidly thought they might be magical, so the party kept them. A few minutes after they finished searching, a group of adventurers came from a door to the south. There was a tense moment, with Druidly moving his hand toward his pouch of spell components, but the newcomers left without a fight.