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Session 9 - The Shattered Path and the Tower’s Secrets

The companions gathered near the tower’s base, a somber silence holding sway as they reflected on the grim reality of Bomtom’s death. Though they had suffered losses during their earlier travels, none had struck as deeply. The crude camaraderie of shared meals and whispered plans had forged bonds that now felt irrevocably fractured. As the afternoon sun cast elongated shadows, their resolve to press on crystallized amidst the pain.

Camp of the Fallen

Northeast of their position lay a ramshackle camp. Guided by a subtle yet acrid scent of dying embers, the group approached cautiously. The crude structure—little more than a lean-to—appeared to have been the haunt of the defeated Minotaur guardian. The area bore a grim history. Around a long-dead fire lay scattered bones, some still bearing scraps of flesh, and others—too disturbingly human—wore the tattered remnants of boots and clothing.

Behind the lean-to was a haphazard wooden shelter. This crude framework covered a pit exuding fetid odors of decay and filth. Its depths were impenetrable, but ragged breathing hinted at the presence of life—or something resembling it.

A Voice in the Pit

Cautious yet driven, Aran shifted the wood away to allow daylight to penetrate the dark abyss. Among rotted remains, a skeletal form leaned against the pit’s edge. A second figure, gaunt and hunched, cowered in the shadows, its voice barely above a rasp.

“Kill me… or free me,” the figure implored, words tangled with despair. Despite the group’s misgivings, curiosity and perhaps compassion won. They threw a blade into the pit, allowing the prisoner to cut his bindings. Moments later, a man clambered from the depths, his sunken cheeks and haggard demeanour a testament to long suffering. He identified himself as Torven—a grizzled warrior of dour humour and sharp pragmatism. Pledging his sword to repay his debt, he accepted food and drink before preparing to accompany his saviours.

The Tower Beckons

The companions reached the tower shortly thereafter. A relic of another age, the structure’s skeletal remains whispered tales of lost grandeur. Its crumbling spire jutted against the sky, its door yawning wide in a gesture of unspoken invitation. Thorny, blackened vegetation ringed its base, twisted as if by sorcery. The group hesitated briefly, noting the unnatural decay.

“Who has a torch?” Torven asked, breaking the silence. The group exchanged embarrassed glances; none had thought to bring one. Shrugging off the omission, the swordsman drew his blade and stepped inside.

Exploration and Discovery

Ascending the spiral staircase, the party emerged cautiously onto the second floor of the crumbling tower. The chamber greeted them with an eerie tableau: several severed heads, grotesquely preserved, mounted on posts encircled a central altar. The heads varied in appearance—some rotting and eyeless, others grotesquely intact. The altar itself was bare but for a single yellowed parchment, its surface etched with symbols forming an enigmatic cipher.

The Cipher

Hyrne’s curiosity overpowered his caution. Gently lifting the parchment from the altar, he held it up to the dim light spilling through jagged window openings. The cipher’s complexity intrigued him, the symbols seeming both familiar and alien. Muttering to himself, he began to unravel its secrets while the others fanned out across the room.

Torven, his eyes narrowing at the grotesque display, approached one of the severed heads, the skull perched ominously on its post seemed to leer at him.

“I don’t trust it,” he muttered.

The Touch of Dread

Torven’s pragmatic nature overrode his instinct to leave it alone. He extended a hand, pressing cautiously against the skull’s surface to open its mouth. As the jaw creaked open, a pulse of cold dread surged through him. He staggered back, his normally stoic expression replaced by abject fear.

“Something… something unnatural about it,” he rasped, wiping a hand across his face.

The group exchanged uneasy glances. Aran rested a hand on the hilt of his blade, his gaze darting between the heads and the altar.

Finds Among the Dead

Exploring further, their attention turned to the pair of cloaked figures standing silently against the wall. Their forms, once statuesque, sagged under the weight of centuries, their robes now tattered and dusty. By the feet of one of the figures lay a battered shield, its surface adorned with the motif of fish leaping through waves—a relic from an age of seafarers, perhaps. Hyrne set the cipher aside momentarily to inspect the shield.

“Ornamental,” he murmured, running a finger along its edge. “But still sturdy enough to block a blow.”

Meanwhile, Aran searched the first figure and retrieved a scrap of parchment from the folds of its cloak. The note bore only two cryptic characters: “A-H.”

The Gem and the Key

Returning to the cipher, Hyrne deciphered a vital clue hidden within: “one eye” He turned his attention back to the grim circle of heads. Could the inscription be literal? He examined each skull carefully, his eyes drawn again to the single one-eyed, skull. Steeling himself, he pried open the skull’s mouth—and there it was. Nestled within the bone was a small, gem-shaped stone.

He held it aloft triumphantly, but his announcement was cut short as Aran, emboldened by frustration, stepped forward with a grim determination. Raising his weapon, he struck one of the posts holding a skull. His blade misses the post, but the outburst seemed to release the tension in the room.

“Enough of this,” Aran muttered, his blade still drawn. “We’ve what we need. Let’s get moving.”

Return to the Ground Floor

Descending the winding stairs, the party returned to the chamber’s ground floor. Hyrne approached the recess where they had first noticed the gem-shaped indentation. With the group gathered around, he placed the gem into the slot.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a resonant click, the doorway shuddered, and the sound of grinding stone filled the chamber. A hidden passage began to open, revealing a staircase spiraling downward into darkness.