Tuesday

The morning after their devastating encounter with the mimics found the survivors nursing both wounds and wounded pride. Druidly’s absence hung over them like a shroud, but the barrowmaze waited for no one’s grief. Bancroft had managed to recruit four new souls willing to risk their lives for treasure—though their qualifications remained questionable at best. “Right then,” Bancroft announced with his characteristic optimism, shouldering a shovel alongside his sword. “Fresh start, fresh barrow.

The morning found their company diminished but determined. Druidly, the half-orc wizard whose arcane studies had served them well, shouldered his pack with the quiet confidence of one who had mastered the mysteries of sleep and flame. “The swamp barrow,” he declared, adjusting his spell components. “Those frogs won’t catch us unprepared again.” Bancroft nodded with the simple enthusiasm that marked all his endeavors. Despite his farmer’s origins—or perhaps because of them—he approached each challenge with the same methodical care he had once given to planting seasons.

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

Bancroft contemplated the holes in his gloves from handling gold coins over the past few days and the heavy weight of almost 400 silver coins in his backpack. After some thought he spent 200 sp to buy a chest and a master lock, put his remaining silver in the locked chest, and left it in his room at the inn. Bancroft and his friends returned to the barrowmaze and descended the block and tackle into its center.

The scorpion grabbed at the sleeping toad with its pincer, but the claw splashed uselessly in the water. The stinger followed but was deflected by the toad’s tough hide. Somehow the toad slept on. Bancroft stepped in to swing at the scorpion but missed as the magical light from the last of Helfa’s stones faded. Lacking other options he moved toward the barrow entrance. Druidly cast Sleep blindly at the scorpion but it had no effect.