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 storm that followed was merciless, trapping the company in town for another day of servitude. The church tasked Bancroft with shepherding the faithful to their prayers, though the simple-minded cleric couldn’t help but whisper of Sylvanus and the green growing things that offered truer salvation than stone altars. His friends watched with growing unease as their companion’s debt deepened with each passing hour.
When the weather finally broke, they set out for the barrowmaze with heavy hearts. The very land seemed to sense their desperation—a pack of wolves emerged from the mist, yellow eyes gleaming with hunger. It was Tohru, the former circus performer, who saved them with an absurd display of her pet duck Kyo, the wolves retreating in confusion at the sight.
Druidly, the half-orc wizard, caught up to them at the maze’s threshold. His green-tinged skin bore the scars of a hard life, and his eyes held the cold calculation of one who had learned magic through necessity rather than privilege.
They descended through the secret passage, the skull-mechanism grinding like old bones as it opened the way into darkness. The corridor beyond reeked of decay and chittering life. A mound of rubble writhed with insects, and Druidly’s tactical mind immediately began planning their destruction. He wove protective magics around himself while Bancroft called upon Sylvanus for divine protection, though his simple faith felt fragile in this place of death.
Ali stepped forward to disturb the pile, but death struck from above. A massive centipede dropped from the shadows, its mandibles finding her throat with surgical precision. She died without a scream, her blood pooling on the ancient stones as five more of the creatures erupted from their nest. Irulan slew the centipede that slew Ali, her sword’s retribution swift and sure.
Kafeelia, the dwarven fighter, roared with battle-fury and drove her spear through the nearest centipede. She lifted the writhing corpse high, her eyes blazing with the primal joy of her first true kill. In that moment, she felt the warrior’s fire ignite within her soul.
Druidly’s Sleep spell washed over the creatures like a tide of exhaustion, dropping two of them into unnatural slumber. Bancroft traded clumsy blows with another, his farmer’s strength no match for his lack of wit. Tohru’s arrow found its mark, and the last centipede fled into the darkness.
They pulled a skeletal arm from the rubble—still clutching a chisel in its death grip, as if the dead mason had been trying to carve his way to freedom. The discovery of a secret door to the east offered hope of greater treasures, and Tohru’s circus-trained fingers found no traps upon its surface.
Beyond lay a vast burial chamber, its walls honeycombed with alcoves holding clay urns of ash and silver coins—131 pieces in total, a fortune to their desperate band. At the chamber’s heart stood a tomb bearing the name “Klexx the Maligned,” its stone slab sealed tight against grave robbers.
But the maze had not finished feeding. While they searched the niches, Itchi and Bruzra—the latter a bard whose songs would never again lift spirits—were set upon by centipedes and torn apart. Their screams echoed through the chamber before cutting off with horrible finality.
Kafeelia discovered a hidden vase containing 50 gold pieces, but greed stayed her tongue. She secreted the treasure away, feeling the weight of true warriorhood settling upon her shoulders like armor.
Without tools to breach Klexx’s tomb, they prepared to retreat. The silence from beyond the secret door pressed against them like a living thing. Bancroft renewed his Light spell with shaking hands and called again upon Sylvanus for protection, though his god seemed distant in this realm of the dead.
They emerged to find horror. Blood and torn cloth marked where their companions had died, but the sleeping centipedes lay bisected by clean cuts—killed by something far more dangerous than chittering insects. The exit door stood closed, its mechanism sealed by unseen hands.
In the flickering light of Bancroft’s spell, the survivors stared at their prison of stone and bone. The maze had claimed its tribute in blood, and now it held them fast. Above, the storm clouds gathered once more, and they wondered if they would ever again feel sunlight upon their faces—or if they were doomed to join the countless dead who whispered in the darkness, forever trapped in the Shadowmaze’s hungry embrace.
