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| Map of the Temple of Howling Hatred |
The group pressed deeper into the earth, down the dangerous, twisting stairs. Darkness consumed them, broken only by the dim, persistent glow of the driftglobe. After what felt like an eternity, a faint light shimmered in the distance—the sparkle of myriad mineral deposits, illuminated by a source yet unseen. Another mile of relentless descent, and the glow intensified, revealing a massive, collapsed section of wall. From this opening, a roaring waterfall cascaded into the abyss, and beyond it, the indistinct outline of a pyramid structure encircled by a moat (10 & 11). A final, grueling half-mile around the curving path shifted their perspective, granting them a glimpse through a tunnel: a colossal Dwarven statue, its hand holding a lantern, illuminated heaps of rubble and the stark silhouettes of ruined and standing buildings (5 & 7).
Finally, they reached the foot of the stairs, where the carved reliefs of two axe-wielding dwarves formed an imposing entrance (1). Ahead, an open doorway led into the shadowy unknown, flanked by an array of cunningly designed murder holes (2). As they approached, a cacophony of agonizing wails and screams of pain echoed through the vast cavern, quickly multiplying from every corner of the temple. Just as the horrific chorus faded, a new sound emerged: the haunting, ethereal strains of wind instruments, flutes perhaps, drifting from further within.
The Helmed Horror, a silent guardian, soared ahead on their command. It circled the broken cavern, its gaze piercing an open section of wall (4). Inside, a stone fountain stood at the heart of a grand plaza, where several cultists awkwardly tried to learn an instrument from a frustrated half-elf.
As the Helmed Horror scouted, the group advanced, their boots crunching on ancient stone. Voices, distorted and unsettling, snarled from the murder holes: "I see you!", "Come out!", followed by chilling laughter. Bessok’s keen ears, however, discerned the trick—only a few voices mimicking many, trying to create an illusion of overwhelming numbers. Joe, a wraith in the shadows, slunk low, evading the murder holes’ gaze, advancing towards the grand plaza door. Bessok, ever the bulwark, raised his shield, taking a defensive stance against the unseen threats.
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| Kenku |
The rest of the group surged into the room, the Helmed Horror joining the brutal melee. Outside, Bessok roared, calling upon the spectral might of his ancestors. Ghostly forms, imbued with primal dwarven fury, ripped through the walls, tearing through the Kenku with chilling ease. The plaza fight was a whirlwind of steel and desperate shouts. The cultists, lacking physical prowess, relied on a sinister new weapon: seeker darts. These small projectiles whistled through the air, unerringly finding their targets with an unnerving, lightning-charged flash.
But the invisible bard remained a threat. Rowan, with a grim determination, pulled out his lantern, its magical light cutting through the deception, illuminating the shimmering outline of the invisible foe. The bard, spotted, made a desperate dash for the exit, but Joe, a blur of deadly precision, was faster. Two arrows slammed into the fleeing figure, the first causing a lurching stumble, the second sending him face-first to the cold stone floor, scraping for a foot or two before coming to a literal, sickening dead stop.
A heavy silence descended, broken only by the distant, soothing roar of the waterfall. As they discussed their next move, the horrific screams echoed through the temple once more, a chilling reminder of the horrors that lay deeper within. They decided to press on, cautiously rounding the next corner.
Three imposing tapered obelisks, their sides etched with ancient pictographs, scraped against the fifteen-foot-high ceiling (16). At the base of each, a gaunt human, dressed in the now-familiar cult robes, was bound. So familiar, in fact, that Gark, with a predatory gleam in his eye, decided everyone should adopt the cult’s fashion, stripping the robes from the dead cultists in the plaza.
Joe approached the bound cultists, his voice low, asking if they were victims, if they needed food or water. Their reply was chilling: they were willing members of the cult, their master teaching them to survive on air alone. Rather than watch them suffer a drawn-out, agonizing death, Joe’s hand moved decisively. His dagger flashed, silent and merciful, ending their misery. He explained his grim decision to the others as they joined him.
Once more, Joe scouted ahead. He quickly pressed himself behind the last obelisk as a massive, draconic creature with a rider swept past the end of the corridor. Seizing the momentary advantage, Joe lunged, dropping into the cold water of the moat. His magical cloak instantly allowed him to breathe freely, and he moved through the water with effortless grace.
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| Wyvern with Rider |
The moat floor was a treasure trove of the lost: rusted weapons and armor, rotted wood and leather, but also the tantalizing glint of forgotten gems and gold. This, he knew, was for later. Joe swam swiftly northwards, hugging the moat's edge. Suddenly, a colossal, animated Dwarven statue rounded the corner, its stone form racing directly toward him, seemingly intent on adding Joe to the moat's collection of sunken treasures. With a desperate surge, he burst from the water, his magical boots instantly engaging, carrying him aloft over the moat.
But his dramatic exit caught the eye of the Wyvern and its rider, now perched atop the pyramid. With a shriek, the monstrous beast and its master launched into the air, diving savagely after Joe. The Wyvern’s claws raked, its poisonous tail lashed, but Joe, a master of aerial evasion, danced out of reach. As the Wyvern swept past, however, its rider leaned low, his dagger flashing, catching Joe in the side with a searing slash.
The group surged forward, a desperate rush to aid their fallen comrade. The Wyvern rider expertly swerved his beast, lining them up for a devastating bolt of lightning. Joe, even wounded, retaliated with a hail of arrows, each finding its mark, eventually bringing the rider crashing down. Rowan, with a defiant roar, clambered onto the back of the Helmed Horror, who surged forward, dropping him onto the Wyvern’s back. Rowan plunged his blade in again and again, a frenzied attack that sent the monstrous beast plummeting. The cacophony of battle, however, echoed through the vast cavern, drawing more enemies: more Kenku, a formidable Monk, another Sorcerer, and several heavily armed Cultists rushed in. The air filled with cackling Kenku, the thud of the Monk's fists, and the crackling of lightning bolts, all adding to the chaotic, bloody symphony. When the last enemy fell, the group stood victorious, but only barely. They were bleeding, battered, and Bessok, desperate for relief, seemed to chug healing potions with the fervour of a man possessed.
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| Air Cultist Priest |
The first cultist died before he even registered the tiger’s charge. The others scattered for cover behind the pillars, unleashing a swarm of those insidious seeker darts. A Monk and Sorcerer were among the cultists. The Monk lunged at Bessok as he entered, while the Sorcerer unleashed crackling lightning, adding to the torment as the darts whistled, leaving faint trails of charged light in their wake.
As the battle finally wound down, Bessok frantically patted himself down, his movements shaky as he sought more healing potions. The group, bruised, bleeding, and utterly exhausted, debated their next move. Retreat, perhaps? The screams of the temple echoed again, a grim reminder. Suddenly, Gark, still in tiger form, was slammed by an invisible force, a massive blow to the head. He could feel it, but he couldn't see it—a permanently invisible assailant.
Rowan, reacting instantly, pulled out his lantern. Its light flared, revealing the shimmering outline of the unseen foe: a humanoid form, featureless, as if crafted from solidified air. Realizing it was exposed, the Invisible Stalker darted towards the stairs, but not before being savaged by a flurry of arrows and magical attacks from the group.
Rest here was impossible. Joe, with a desperate surge of resolve, made a bold move, pursuing the stalker up the stairs. He burst into a twenty-foot-high chamber, its flagstone floor meticulously etched with a map of an ancient dwarven realm. At the far end, a high throne atop a marble dais overlooked the chamber, behind which a great spiralling horn rested in an alcove (19).
Ten more cultists awaited within, their movements unfocused, their minds clouded by the thick scent of incense and something far "stronger" wafting from the room's corners. The group’s initial assault was brutal and efficient, the disoriented cultists falling quickly. Gark, however, remained below, recognizing his own exhaustion.
| Aerisi Kalinoth, Prophet of Air |
Joe moved instantly, unleashing a volley of arrows that she deflected with an almost casual raise of her hand, a magical shield briefly flaring as the arrowheads impacted. Bessok flanked her, while Rowan remained near the stairs, darting in and out to land precise shots. With Joe as the primary threat, the invisible stalker reappeared, slamming its ethereal fists into the ranger. The Helmed Horror, sensing the unseen threat, moved to assist, landing blow after blow against the invisible foe.
The Elven woman fixed her gaze on Rowan, her finger pointing. A heavily charged lightning bolt erupted, tearing through the rogue. The sheer force of the blast sent him reeling, slamming against the wall before he collapsed, unconscious, tumbling down the stairs to the floor below. Gark, hearing the sickening impact, roared a healing word, bringing Rowan back to his feet, dazed but ready. Hearing that only one target remained, Gark decided to follow the rogue back up the stairs.
The Helmed Horror continued its relentless assault on the invisible stalker, while Joe, moving away from the direct engagement, turned and fired a final, decisive shot. The invisible creature shimmered, then faded away, dissipating back into the realm of air. With her protection gone, the Elf decided to flee, making a desperate sprint for the stairs, a hail of arrows and magical attacks tearing at her from all sides. She plummeted down the stairs, rushing toward the central pit, but before she could reach it, several more arrows struck, and she dropped, her hand outstretched, desperately reaching for her destination.
The air around her stirred, then erupted into a small whirlwind. Her body entwined with the swirling winds, disintegrating into nothing more than dust. Only her previously carried belongings remained, scattered on the floor—a trove of incredible gold, and a peculiar spear. Joe picked it up, twirling it, testing its weight.
Beaten, bloody, and utterly exhausted, the group made the collective decision to retreat for now. The rest of the temple's dark secrets would have to wait for another time.
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