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. In her blind panic, she crashed into the pile of rat-infested refuse that dominated the chamber’s center, sending rodents scurrying in all directions as she fought to regain her footing.
Meanwhile, word of the disaster had reached the surface. Alandor, Mira, Kronk, and Perch descended into the barrowmaze with fresh torches and grim determination, their footsteps echoing through corridors that had already tasted too much blood. They could hear familiar voices crying out in the distant darkness—desperate calls for help that tugged at their hearts and urged them deeper into danger.
But the shadowmaze was not finished with its cruel games. As the rescue party searched through the twisting passages, two sapphire skeletons materialized from the gloom, their gemstone foreheads gleaming with unholy light. These were no ordinary undead—they moved with purpose and intelligence that spoke of darker magics at work.
In the chaos that followed, Wyz—the self-proclaimed master of recalcitrant minions—found himself stumbling through absolute darkness, his magical dagger cutting nothing but empty air. The skeleton he’d thought destroyed had indeed reformed, and now it sought vengeance with supernatural fury. The creature’s rusted blade found its mark with terrible precision, and Wyz collapsed in a spray of green blood, his tiny body crumpling like a discarded puppet.
The violence spread like wildfire through the chamber. A second skeleton’s blade found Lessa, striking her down with vicious efficiency. The brave woman who had tried to rescue the trapped dwarf now lay bleeding in the very room where she’d shown such compassion.
The rescue party fared little better. A third skeleton lunged at Perch, its bone weapon whistling through the air, though fortune smiled briefly as the blow went wide. But as the would-be rescuers milled about in confusion, overwhelmed by the sudden assault, the skeletons pressed their advantage. One rushed at Kronk with murderous intent, its blade raised for a killing blow—only to have its skull explode in a shower of bone fragments as Alandor’s sling stone found its mark with devastating accuracy.
Panic seized the survivors. The rescue had become a rout, and in their terror, they abandoned Aura to the darkness, slamming the door behind them as they fled. The sound of that door closing echoed through the chamber like a death knell, sealing her fate with the remaining undead horrors.
On the other side of the barrier, Mira’s hands shook as she lit a fresh torch, its flame casting wild shadows as she and Kronk continued their desperate retreat. But even in the relative safety of the corridor, they could hear the sounds of battle continuing behind them—the clash of bone on steel, the cries of the wounded, the scrape of skeletal feet on stone.
Alone in the absolute darkness, Aura faced her nightmare. A skeleton’s blade found her in the black, opening wounds that would have felled a lesser soul. But she clung to life with desperate tenacity, guided by something beyond mortal understanding—perhaps the spirit of fallen Lessa, who had shown such kindness in her final moments.
Kronk managed to light another torch, its blessed illumination cutting through the oppressive gloom. Somehow, miraculously, Aura found the strength to flee, following the distant glow as skeletal pursuers gave chase through the winding passages. Their bone feet clicked against stone in a rhythm that spoke of relentless, inhuman persistence.
The running battle continued through corridor after corridor. A skeleton’s blade slashed across Perch, opening wounds that would leave permanent scars. But still they ran, driven by the primal need to see sunlight again, to escape the hungry darkness that sought to claim them all.
Against all odds, Aura caught up with the others just as they reached the rope that led to salvation—the way out of the barrowmaze and back to the world of the living. But the skeletons were close behind, their empty eye sockets fixed on their fleeing prey with supernatural determination.
In those final, desperate moments before escape, the undead made their last stand. A skeleton’s blow shattered Perch’s shield into splinters, the impact sending shockwaves up his arm. Another blade found Aura just as she reached for the rope, striking her down mere feet from freedom, her blood pooling on the stone as darkness claimed her vision.
But Alandor and Perch would not be denied. With strength born of desperation, they hauled Aura’s unconscious form up the rope, their muscles burning as skeletal claws scraped at the stone below. Hours passed in a blur of terror and exhaustion as they fled through the surface world, always listening for the sound of pursuit, always fearing that the undead might follow them into the realm of the living.
Eventually, mercifully, Aura’s eyes fluttered open. She lived, though a wicked scar now marked her face—a permanent reminder of how close she had come to joining the ranks of the shadowmaze’s victims.
But not everyone was so fortunate. Deep in the darkness, Lessa drew her final breath alone, her compassionate heart finally stilled by wounds that no mortal frame could endure. The woman who had tried to save a trapped dwarf became another casualty of the maze’s insatiable hunger.
And then, when all hope seemed lost, when the survivors had given up their missing companion for dead, the tavern door burst open with dramatic force. There stood Wyz—battered, bloodied, but undeniably alive. A horrible scar ran across his belly, testament to how close he had come to death’s embrace. His green skin was pale with blood loss, his robes torn and stained, but his eyes… his eyes burned with something far more dangerous than mere anger.
As he surveyed the faces of those who had fled without him, the cunning goblin wizard’s lips curled into a sneer of absolute contempt. “You are all horrible minions!” he declared, his voice carrying the weight of betrayal and something else—something darker.
For Wyz had not simply survived the shadowmaze’s tender mercies. In those moments when death had seemed certain, when skeletal blades had opened his flesh and darkness had claimed his vision, he had glimpsed something beyond the veil. The maze had whispered its secrets to him in the language of pain and shadow, and now terrible knowledge burned behind his eyes like cold fire.
The shadowmaze had let him live for a reason, and that reason would soon become clear to all who dared to call themselves his minions.
