Bancroft
The jingle of coins in his purse was a happy, heavy sound, a promise of steel and safety. Bancroft, his mind as clear and simple as a summer sky, had a singular purpose. “I have enough,” he’d declared to his friends, his voice booming with the certainty of a man who has counted his treasure and found it sufficient. “We go to Ironguard Motte. I’m getting my plate mail!”
Wyz
The morning after their return from the shadowmaze, Wyz gathered his companions in his cramped room at the inn. The goblin’s scarred fingers trembled slightly as he worked the clasp on the scrollcase they had recovered from the rats’ nest—whether from anticipation or exhaustion, none could say.
“Stand back,” Wyz commanded. “And try not to breathe too heavily. You’ll contaminate the arcane residue.”
Perch snorted from behind his fish-head helmet. “We’re standing in the hallway, Wyz.”
The first blow that day came with the ordinary violence of the barrowmaze—bloody, sudden, and oddly intimate. Bancroft planted his feet, cursing his missing shield, and brought his sword down across a shambling zombie’s shoulder. The thing snarled with a voice like dry leaves and spun, its filthy claws raking the cleric’s forearm.
“By Sylvanus,” Bancroft gasped, tasting iron, but he kept his footing. Irulan stepped forward without hesitation, her blade ringing true as it bit into rotten tendon. Riyou’s arrow sang from the shadows and struck the creature between its shoulder and chest, driving it to its knees.
The morning sun cast long shadows across Helix as Bancroft made his way through the town’s winding streets, his mind turning over an intriguing conversation from the previous evening. He had encountered a small goblin wizard—scarred and bearing himself with the cold authority of one who had gazed beyond death’s veil—who spoke of an animated serpent trapped near the rats’ nest in the shadowmaze.
“An animated snake, you say?” Bancroft had mused, his farmer’s practicality already working through the possibilities. “Made of brass and steel?”
Wyz
The shadowmaze beckoned once more, and Wyz—still bearing the wicked scar across his belly from his previous near-death experience—gathered his “recalcitrant minions” for another descent into darkness. The goblin wizard’s eyes held that same cold fire that had burned there since his miraculous return from the depths, and his companions could sense that something fundamental had changed in their diminutive leader.
“We return to the chamber with the statues,” Wyz announced, his voice carrying an authority that brooked no argument. “There is a rat infestation that requires… methodical attention.”
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. Sylvanus teaches us that from death comes new growth.”
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. “Sylvanus teaches us that all creatures have their place,” he said, hefting his sword. “Even giant frogs.”
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. Irulan clutched the elvish longsword they had claimed from the statue at such terrible cost, but her face was grim. “The magic’s gone,” she reported, watching the blade’s ornate surface catch the lamplight without so much as a glimmer. “Pretty enough still, but no more than decoration now.”
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.
Session map
Session map
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. As the adventurers stood ready for battle, the vermin’s courage faltered. One by one, they melted back into the shadows, leaving only the sound of distant scurrying and the party’s ragged breathing.