Session 20 - Echoes in The Deep

The gentle lapping of the subterranean river against the sandbank was the only sound for a time, a counterpoint to the adventurers’ ragged breathing. They had rested in shifts, the oppressive darkness and the unknown weight of the earth above them making true sleep a fleeting luxury. Before them, on a slight rise of the bank, stood the crude altar they’d discovered: three squat, idol-like statues of amphibious humanoids, their bulging eyes staring blankly into the gloom. One clutched a miniature trident, another a tiny, verdigris-coated crown, the third an orb of some dull, grey stone. Around their webbed feet lay a scatter of offerings – dried, unidentifiable food, small animal bones, and other, less discernible detritus. These were the gods, or totems, of the cavern’s unseen denizens.

Torvin was the first to stir properly, stretching his aching limbs. The air was cool, damp, and carried the perpetual scent of wet stone and something else, something faintly organic and stagnant. Their last torch had long since guttered out, and the darkness was absolute beyond the immediate reach of their thoughts.

“Time to earn our keep, I suppose,” Hearn’s voice rumbled from nearby, already alert. He rose, the faint scrape of his gear a familiar sound.

Aran clicked a new torch to life, the sudden flare of light chasing the shadows back, painting their small sanctuary in flickering orange and casting long, dancing spectres of the frog-like statues onto the cavern walls. The water, where the river flowed past their refuge, was a glossy black, reflecting the torchlight in hypnotic ripples. It was roughly knee-high, its current tugging gently downstream, deeper into the earth.

“Downstream it is, then,” Gallavan stated, his voice practical.

Torvin, ever cautious in unfamiliar depths, decided to stick to the narrow bank as long as possible, the others wading into the cool water. The river tunnel soon opened, presenting a fork. To their left, the main current picked up speed, rushing into pitch darkness beneath a low overhang of rock – a path that promised a difficult, if not impossible, passage. To their right, the cavern seemed to widen, and with the expanded space came the faintest hints of distant light, like scattered fireflies, and a subtle, almost subliminal whiff of woodsmoke, or perhaps something cooking.

“That way,” Torvin gestured with the torch, pointing towards the faint lights. “Where there’s smoke…”

“…there’s usually trouble,” Hearn finished, but he turned to follow the warrior's lead into the eastern passage.

The smell grew stronger as they advanced, resolving into the aroma of poorly cooked fish. The cavern here was immense, a vast, echoing chamber where stalactites, thick as ancient trees, hung like stone fangs from a ceiling lost in the oppressive darkness above. Stalagmites, their ghostly counterparts, rose from the cavern floor, some meeting their descending twins to form colossal pillars. The sound of a distant waterfall, a constant, dull roar, filled the space, a testament to the immense forces that had carved these lightless realms. Far across the cavern, a flickering light moved, a solitary will-o'-the-wisp too distant to discern its nature.

“Best douse the torch,” Hearn murmured. “No sense announcing ourselves more than that… perfume already has.”

Torvin extinguished the flame, plunging them into a disorienting gloom, broken only by the pinprick lights far ahead and the faint luminescence of certain mosses clinging to the damp rock. They picked their way along the edge of the water, rounding an outcrop.

Before them, on another raised bank of sand and rock, a campfire blazed. Two figures, squat and broad-shouldered, hunched over it, their backs to the newcomers. They were roughly dwarfish in height, clad in scraps of tatty leather armor and clutching crude spears. A strange, burbling language, like water bubbling through mud, passed between them as they poked at something sizzling over the flames. Near the fire, crude sleeping pallets of straw and rotting vegetation lay scattered, more like nests than beds. And in a shadowed corner, a refuse pile rose, from which protruded the unmistakable curve of a human skull, then another, and the long, pale gleam of a femur.

“Friendly folk,” Gallavan muttered dryly.

Aran’s eyes narrowed. “They’re keeping watch, or guarding something. This isn’t just a fishing spot.”

The party exchanged grim glances. The human remains were a stark testament to the nature of these creatures. Hearn, ever the pragmatist, gestured downstream, to the right of the camp. “We try to slip past. No need for a fight if we can avoid it.”

Moving with excruciating slowness, they edged away from the firelight, the burbling conversation of the frog-folk a constant, unnerving presence. As they rounded another bend, the flickering light they’d seen earlier drew closer to the camp they were leaving behind – likely another guard returning.

The passage narrowed again, then opened into an area startlingly different. Before them, huge, man-made steps of cut stone rose from the murky water, leading up to a broad platform. Dominating the platform was a colossal statue of a hooded figure, its features lost in shadow. One hand gripped a massive trident; the other was outstretched, palm up, from which a thick, viscous liquid, the colour of old rust, dripped steadily down the steps and into the water, staining it in ugly, swirling patterns. Flanking the statue were two more of the amphibious sentinels, identical to those at the campfire, standing motionless, their spears held ready. Behind them, two massive archways were sealed by heavy, iron portcullis gates.

“Well,” Torvin breathed, “this is… unexpected.”

Gallavan, studying the creatures, recalled fragments of lore. “Amphibious folk. Often neutral, but easily coerced or conscripted. They could be guarding this for themselves, or for another.”

The implications were chilling. This was no mere den; it was a shrine, or a fortress.

“The camp back there,” Hearn reasoned, “or these two. If we fight, who’s more likely to raise an alarm?”

“These ones are between us and whatever’s behind those gates,” Aran pointed out. “But if those at the camp hear, we’re caught between.”

Torvin, peering from the shadows, gestured. “I’ll scout closer to the statue. See if there’s another way, or what we’re truly up against.”

He moved, hugging the edge of the cavern, the rust-coloured water lapping at his boots. He reached a small landmass near the foot of the great steps, a vantage point just at the edge of the torchlight that illuminated the platform. The statue loomed, 18 or 20 feet tall, its presence heavy and ancient. The flowing liquid from its hand had a faint, metallic scent. The iron gates behind it were immense, impenetrable. There was no obvious mechanism to open them.

“No other way past,” he whispered back to the others when he rejoined them. “It’s them, or we turn back.”

“No turning back,” Hearn said, his voice firm. “We deal with the guards.”

They advanced, weapons drawn. Torvin, despite his size, charged first, shield raised, axe banging against it in a brazen challenge. “Oi, fish-faces! Come and get it!”

One of the frog-folk at the foot of the steps let out an agitated burble and hopped forward, spear levelled.

Torvin met its charge, his battle axe cleaving into its leathery hide. The creature shrieked, a sound like air escaping a punctured bladder, and dark, ichorous blood welled from the wound. It staggered but lunged, its spear jabbing hard. Torvin felt a searing pain as the point bit through his armor, a gasp punched from his lungs.

Aran, seeing Torvin falter, loosed an arrow at the second guard, still on the steps. The shaft struck true, burying itself in the creature’s shoulder. It, too, let out a gurgling cry and stumbled.

Hearn was on the first creature now, his sword a blur, hacking at the wounded amphibian. It reeled under the assault, oozing more dark fluid, its spear falling from a nerveless grip.

The second guard, arrow still protruding from its shoulder, lunged past its faltering comrade, spear aimed at Torvin. The warrior, already wounded, couldn’t avoid the clumsy but powerful thrust. Agony flared through him as the spear tore into his side. His vision greyed. Down. He crumpled, the world fading to a pinpoint.

“Torvin!” Gallavan yelled, seeing the warrior fall. He thrust out a hand towards the wounded, spear-wielding frog-man. “Immolate!”

A silent wave of heat erupted from Gallavan. The frog-man shrieked, a high, thin sound, dropping its spear as it thrashed, an unseen fire consuming it from within. The air filled with the nauseating stench of burning fish and putrid flesh.

Aran, seeing his chance as the burning creature flailed, sent another arrow whistling through the gloom. It struck the frog-man squarely in the head. The creature spasmed and fell, a smoking, twitching ruin.

The first guard, grievously wounded by Torvin and Hearn, tried one last desperate lunge at Hearn. The ranger sidestepped easily, and his sword swept out, nearly severing the creature’s head. It gurgled, collapsed, and lay still.

Silence descended, broken only by the drip of the rust-coloured liquid from the statue’s hand and Gallavan’s ragged breathing.

“Torvin!” Aran rushed to the fallen warrior. “Healing hands!” He laid his hands on his companion, murmuring words of power. A faint warmth flowed, and some of the grey pallor left Torvin’s face. He coughed, then groaned.

“Twice… they got me twice…”

Aran repeated the spell, and Torvin managed to sit up, wincing. “Still here, lads. A bit worse for wear.”

“Your magic is… potent, Aran,” Gallavan said, his usual wryness tinged with genuine respect. Aran felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with magic – his reputation rising.

They searched the fallen frog-folk. Scraps of armor, a few rusted copper coins, and in one’s pouch, another small, carved key, similar to one they’d found before, wrapped in leather cord.

“For what door, I wonder?” Hearn mused, taking it.

After hiding the bodies in a dark alcove, they turned their attention back to the silent, dripping statue and the impassable gates. There was no obvious way forward here.

“The other way from the fork in the river?” Torvin suggested, still sore. “The path we didn’t take, that went under the rocks?”

“Or that door we found earlier, that the other key didn’t fit?” Aran recalled.

It was decided. Backtracking, they found the familiar large wooden door with iron banding. This time, the new key Hearn possessed turned smoothly in the lock. The door swung inward with a groan, revealing a curving passageway and well-worn steps leading down.

An overpowering stench immediately assaulted them – decaying flesh, stomach juices, rot, ammonia – a combination so vile it made their eyes water and their stomachs churn.

“Gods above,” Gallavan choked out, covering his nose and mouth. “What died in here?”

“Something big,” Hearn said, his face grim.

Hesitantly, Torvin led the way down the sloping tunnel. The smell intensified with every step, almost unbearable. The tunnel opened into a curved area with smooth rock walls, strangely scraped and scored. The floor became soft, squelchy, fleshy. With each step, it gave way, releasing more noxious gases. Pustules burst underfoot, disgorging swarms of writhing maggots. The walls of this new passage seemed to be lined with what looked like cartilage spines, like the inside of a colossal ribcage. Globules of putrefied flesh littered the floor, crawling with eyeless worms and other, unnameable things.

“We’re… we’re inside something,” Aran whispered, horrified.

They pushed on, through the reeking, visceral tunnel, deeper into the guts of the earth, or whatever monstrous thing lay dead and decaying around them. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of wading through offal and corruption, the tunnel widened. Before them, like a grotesque maw, was an opening lined with dagger-like teeth, each a foot long. They had emerged from the creature’s mouth – or perhaps its anus, the journey had been too disorienting to tell. They had walked through the entire digestive tract of a colossal, dead void worm that had become wedged and rotted in this subterranean passage.

A waft of relatively fresher air met them as they crawled out from between the giant teeth, finding themselves in a more conventional, musty cave. The relief was immense, though the memory of their passage would linger.

The new cavern was derelict. Steps led up to another man-made archway and a door. This one was simpler, with a standard keyhole. Torvin, after listening for any sound and finding none, tried the handle. It opened into a small, carved chamber, clearly man-made, containing a table and a few stacked crates. Corridors led off to the north and south. This area, at least, was lit by some unseen source.

They took the southern corridor first. It opened into what looked like a holding area or ceremonial preparation room. Along the back wall, a row of ornate cloaks and ceremonial garments hung on pegs, embroidered with the disturbing symbols of the Rust Church. An altar held various accoutrements: daggers, and censers for burning incense.

“Disguises?” Gallavan suggested, already eyeing a robe.

Donning the heavy, musty robes, they felt a chill that had little to do with the cavern’s temperature. Hearn took a censer, swinging it idly. Thus arrayed, they retraced their steps and took the northern corridor.

It was long, its walls covered in faded, ancient carvings. These depicted scenes from the history of the Rust Church, but with a far darker, more apocalyptic tone than any of them had previously encountered. Halfway down, a hefty statue stood in an alcove, a scholarly, cleric-like figure in stone, six feet taller than Torvin. It held a carved stone tablet bearing celestial symbols – moons and stars. At its plinth, a large, embossed brass compass was set, its needle currently still.

“The note…” Torvin breathed. ‘Look to the four directions… let the guided needles find their harmony…’ This had to be one of the ‘wayward pointers.’

At the end of the corridor, another door. It opened into a large, oppressive room. The first thing that struck them was the walls: they were lined, floor to ceiling, with skulls. Thousands upon thousands of skulls, interspersed with bones, formed a macabre, bony brickwork. Benches were dotted around, each with an ornamental pot before it. The very air felt heavy, charged with a dark, ugly energy. This was no mere ossuary venerating the dead; it felt like a place designed to channel dark emotions, a nexus of despair.

In an alcove on the far northern wall stood another giant statue. This one was a tall human figure with a bizarre, fixed smile on its face. One hand was held near a burning brazier that stood beside it, and as they watched, they thought they saw a thin wisp of smoke curl up from the flames, though it could have been a trick of the uneasy light.

And at its plinth, like its counterpart in the corridor, was another worn compass, its needle waiting.

The Chapel of Blood’s Heart. They were closer. And the air grew colder still.