Up. Adventures
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Summarized To. Discord Link
Caldera
Strange tides flow around Caldera, and some clever sailors have threaded a course that leads to the docks of Castlenou…
A day’s walk from the city lies Milon’s End, a ruined manor built atop a much older dungeon. Adventurers delve it, sometimes pulling up valuable treasure, sometimes dying down there with their possessions. It is used as a lair by whatever malcontent or monster happens to be in the area at present.
Rumors and rewards:
- The dungeon has four levels/floors that are accessible at present.
- Some local villagers have been surreptitiously visiting the dungeon with regularity in spite of the common dangers.
- A thief recently managed to steal the Vase of Holy Quicksilver from the monastery of Sent Miquel. They were tracked to the vicinity of the dungeon before their pursuers were beset by goblins and had to turn back.
- The local baron will pay 12,000 silver if you can verify to his inspector that the manor ruins are safe to begin restoration.
Traveling to Milon’s End
We departed Castlenou in the morning, reaching the outer extent of the city’s fields by lunch. The afternoon was spent following the woodcutter trails into the dense evergreens of Bosc Rimasser. We reached a break in the trees around sundown, then soon found a clearing. At its center was a low hill, a bulge of stone forming natural ramparts for the ruined villa upon its crest. Several dirt footpaths led to it.
We reached the store room and found a tight spiral stairway that led to the dungeon. The room was filled with graffiti, ashes, and trash. We camped, then proceeded down the staircase.
Goblins in the Dungeon
Mikel Embyre, the priestly Spellsword of the Fractured Flame, joined the party (Malis the archer-warrior, Barow the healer-hog, and Homla the druidish kitsune with her fire-fox companion Mozilla) mid-confrontation in the dungeon beneath the ruined villa at Milon’s End. He arrived noisily down the entrance stairs just as the group was warily negotiating with a band of goblins led by Grungledunk, who were approaching from deeper in the dungeon. Suspicion quickly escalated due to the goblins’ evasive answers and the party’s awareness of prior goblin attacks on intruders (tied to a rumor of a stolen holy vase). Mikel took a frontline position alongside Barow, whispering cautions while straining to assess the threats.
The standoff turned violent when the party ambushed the goblins, with Malis landing the first kill-shot on Grungledunk. Combat ensued: Barow was wounded but healed himself miraculously, Malis unleashed a devastating arrow barrage to fell three more goblins, and the survivors’ leader fled south into the darkness, shouting alarms. Mikel gave chase down the stairs (aided by Mozilla’s torchlight), discovering branching alcoves with doors east and west at the base. He hurled an Elemental Blast (a fiery magical attack) at the fleeing goblin but missed, singeing it harmlessly. The pursuit revealed a wider room ahead with at least two more goblins lurking in ambush positions, plus possible reinforcements deeper in. The party regrouped at the stair base, deciding against full pursuit for now, as Mozilla retreated with the light. No major injuries or loot have been claimed yet, but the alarm raised suggests potential incoming threats. Mikel’s role has been supportive and combative, leveraging his warrior-mage abilities in a brief, tense skirmish.
Mikel’s Dungeon Journal Entry
Fungal Infestation and Goblin Prisoners
Day Unknown, Beneath Milon’s End
The Flame’s embers guide us through this cursed delve, though their light feels faint in these fungal depths. I joined Malis, Barow, and Homla—strange companions, but sturdy—midst a clash with goblins in this ruined manor’s underbelly. Malis, sharp-eyed archer, felled their leader, Grungledunk, with an arrow through the gloom, and when the rest hurled spears, she cut them down like a storm reaping chaff. Barow, that hog-man healer, took a grievous wound but rose again, his flesh knit by some beastly vigor. I loosed a fire-burst at a fleeing goblin, but the Flame’s wrath missed its mark, singeing only hair. We learned these halls split east and west—more paths to dread.
A spider, vile and venomous, near claimed Barow later, its fangs dripping poison. Malis pinned it dead to a tree, and we found fungi sprouting from its corpse, like the land itself festers. Homla and I burned it to ash with the Flame’s gifts, wary of its taint. In a chamber thick with mushrooms, we torched another mass, revealing a corpse clutching a book bound in golden thread—Mozila, Homla’s fire-fox, fetched it bravely. The room stirred something unnatural in Homla, a joy too bright for this place, though I sealed its cracks with sparks to slow the fungal creep. The Flame whispers caution; these spores may yet haunt us.
We heard a wail, human-like, and found a prison where goblins held captives: Elise, a hunter; a young monk; and an old hermit. Homla’s guile and my fiery show cowed a lone goblin into yielding keys, though Elise spat venom at our mercy. We freed them, and I shared rations, my heart stirred by their plight yet tempered by the Flame’s call to prudence. The monk begs escort to town, and we’ve agreed, turning from deeper perils—goblins, spiders, and worse lurk below. Malis scouts our retreat through secret doors and shadowed halls, her bow ever ready.
The Flame bids me gather relics for a shrine, but this delve tests my resolve. Elise’s gear, the golden book—small steps toward my goal, yet each feels heavy with risk. I pray the elements shield us as we guide these souls to safety, for the dungeon’s heart pulses with threats unslain. May the Fractured Flame light our path back to the sun.
The Return to Castlenou
Day 1, Post-Delve, En Route to Castelnou
The Flame’s embers flicker faintly as we tread from Milon’s End, our steps shadowed by the threat of goblin ambushes. We kept watch on the cowering creature we spared, ensuring it stayed put as we slipped through the dungeon’s secret passages. Malis scouted with her keen eyes, and by the Flame’s grace, we emerged unscathed after five hours in those fetid depths. Night loomed too close to reach Castelnou’s gates, so we veered to a wayhouse under Mother Alba’s stern rule—a haven of sturdy palisades where even Barow’s rowdy heart bowed to civility. Elise, the hunter we freed, warned of Alba’s intolerance for trouble, and we settled quietly, joined by Deodat the hermit and the young monk, all bound for the capital.
At the wayhouse, seven pilgrims arrived, their faces grim despite talk of Sent Amand’s festival. They sought our escort to Castelnou, eager to reach its gates at dawn. Barow and Malis probed their dour mood, but their lips stayed sealed, hinting only at a urgent errand cloaked in holy pretext. Homla learned from our monk that they carry a vital message, perhaps tied to High-Abat Berengar, and we agreed to guard them, swayed by promises of coin and connection. Elise, still sour over our mercy to the goblin, will travel with us to Rossilhon, while Deodat, half-mad with talk of true and false gods, shared whispers of a stream entrance to Milon’s End, known to villagers and goblins alike. I spoke tales by the fire, letting the Flame’s sparks dance to my words, binding our group’s resolve.
We left before dawn, a caravan of lanterns in the foggy dark, and reached Castelnou by first light. The monk secured us an audience with High-Abat Berengar in his fortified monastery, its walls bristling with martial brothers. The Abbot, sharp-eyed and commanding, commended our rescue of his monk and outlined a new task: escorting secret cargo south, sworn to secrecy under threat of confinement or worse. Malis saw through to the clergy’s shadowed motives, but we accepted, bound to the monastery’s guest quarters. Days dragged—seven, then eight—with no word, only boredom. Barow taught us a card game for pebbles, and Malis’s sly hand nearly bested him, though he won through bluff and charm. The watching monk joined us, his face torn by some hidden shame, and from him we pieced together the mission’s truth: a southern town’s church bell, warding off goblins and fae, lies broken, and a new one, valuable and heavy, must be rushed down the coastal road. Secrecy shields it from goblin raids, though whispers have already slipped.
Homla sold the golden threads from our dungeon book for 200 silver, a small boon for my shrine’s dream, and we rested, fed by the monks’ grace. I honed my blade and prayers, the Flame’s whispers urging vigilance. Tomorrow, we rouse before dawn to guard this sacred cargo. The road south promises peril—goblins, bandits, or worse—but the Flame burns steady in my heart, guiding us to serve and survive.