Being the dramatization of six friends Dungeons and Dragons adventuring…
Part 1: Well Met at Brookhaven
The sun was low and blood-red over the Shard Peaks when five strangers came to Brookhaven. The trade road bent southward, crossing the SilverStream River by way of an old stone bridge—arched, moss-grown, and slick with the spray of evening mist. Beyond it lay the village: a scatter of timbered cottages, the scent of peat smoke in the air, and the quiet hum of hearths settling into twilight.
Brookhaven lay cradled between the rugged heights of the Peaks and the dark wall of the Bramble Deep Forest—a place where the mountains bled into wilderness, and civilization clung to the edge by grit and faith.
From every road they came: wanderers, outcasts, dreamers—each following their own quiet purpose.
Eric, a gnome sorcerer of uncertain reputation, small in stature but with eyes that glimmered like polished obsidian.
Isledie, a halfling rogue whose laughter could be as sharp as her daggers.
William Shepherd, a human cleric in travel-stained robes, the sunburst of his order tarnished but still bright enough to mark him as a man of faith.
Alder, a wood-elf bard whose soft voice and keen eyes hid centuries of old songs and older regrets.
And Farden, a human barbarian with the look of someone who had wrestled beasts and won—though not without cost.
They met, as so many destinies do, at the Silver Stream Inn, where Mira Holtsong’s stew filled the air with herbs and promise. The common room fell quiet when they entered, the silence stretching long enough for a log to snap in the fire. Then came the low murmur again, and the laughter resumed, though now a little forced.
Jacque, the inn’s grey-eyed steward, greeted them with the diplomacy of a man used to trouble. He led the newcomers to a shadowed corner, a table set apart near the warmth of the hearth. “You look like folk who’ve walked far,” he said softly. “Best sit where the light’s kind and the walls don’t listen.”
They ordered food and ale. Isledie was delighted to discover Pulsh Brown, the local halfling brew, nutty and strong. For a brief moment, the talk was simple—tales of roads traveled and storms survived.
Then the door burst inward.
A man filled the threshold—a brute of a figure, hair wild, face smudged with soot, eyes blazing with desperation. The air reeked of sulphur and forge-fire.
“Ignal Ironeater,” Jacque muttered, blanching.
The blacksmith staggered forward. “They’ve got her!” he roared, voice cracking. “Dira—my girl—they’ve taken her! Those cursed goblins snatched her from right under my nose!”
The room froze.
Eric’s eyes flicked to the others. Isledie set down her tankard. Farden flexed his hands on the haft of his axe.
After a brief, tense discussion of “expenses” and the mayor’s standing bounty—twenty-five gold for every pair of goblin ears—the five strangers found themselves united by purpose, if not yet friendship.
“Show us where,” William said simply.
Ignal led them west, toward the dying sun.
The smithy stood on the edge of the village, the air heavy with the tang of iron and ash. The light was failing fast. “They went that way,” Ignal said, pointing toward a line of trees. “Crow Fen Grove. Beasts dwell there—boar big as wagons. You’ll be needing steel and sense both.”
The trail was faint but clear to practiced eyes. Broken brush, smeared footprints, the stink of goblin musk. The party pressed on.
Within the hour, the forest swallowed them—branches thick as prison bars, the earth soft beneath their boots. Then, movement ahead: two hulking shapes, tusked and bristling, emerging from the shadows.
Boar.
“Breakfast,” Farden muttered, and charged with a roar that made the birds flee the trees.
The fight was savage. Isledie darted through the fray like a shadow, blades flashing, until a boar’s tusk caught her side and sent her tumbling. William knelt over her, calling on his god’s grace as blood soaked into the moss. Light poured from his hands, and the wound closed, leaving her pale but breathing.
When the beasts lay dead, Farden insisted on butchering them. “No sense wasting good meat,” he said, hanging the carcasses high from a branch for later.
Night claimed the forest. They made camp—fire crackling, mugs steaming with herb-tea and something stronger passed around. Tales were told; laughter came easier now. Alder took the watch, his eyes reflecting starlight.
The dawn was cold but clear. Within minutes, the trail was found again, leading westward.
By mid-morning they reached open ground, and from a low hill saw two goblins in the distance, their crude armor flashing in the light. The party shadowed them until the creatures vanished over the ridge—and there, hidden beneath the hill, lay a dark maw in the earth: the Goblin Lair.
They crept forward, silent as ghosts. Or nearly.
Alder’s boot cracked a dead branch.
The sound was like thunder in the still air. Goblin sentries shrieked and loosed their barbed arrows. Alder hissed a word of power—sleep washed over the creatures like mist, and they slumped to the dirt.
Knives flashed. Ears were taken. The bounty would be paid.
Down they went into the lair, through a narrow passage that stank of filth and fear. At the base of the steps stood a pair of rough doors. Isledie checked them for traps; finding none, he nodded.
They burst through.
Chaos. Fire. The gnome’s flask of oil shattered across the hearth, flames blooming like flowers of death. The doors slammed shut as the chamber filled with smoke and screams. When they opened again, goblins still stood—coughing, snarling, arrowstrings taut. Alder sang another spell, and three dropped instantly, eyes fluttering shut.
The rest fell to blade and flame, though not without misfortune: Eric’s bolt went astray and struck Farden squarely in the chest. The barbarian grunted, singed and furious, but kept swinging until the last goblin fell.
Then—chanting.
A deep, rhythmic call echoed through a door to the west.
They paused only long enough to bind their wounds and take stock. In the flickering light of the goblin brazier, Alder traced carvings on the wall: a company of knights battling a host of monsters beneath the inscription—
“I pledge to fight the chaos of the world, in all its forms, and to uphold the vows of the Order. By the honour of my word, I pledge this.”
The words hung in the air like a memory.
Farden, ever impatient, led the way down the next passage, half-listening, half-dreaming of roast boar. His reverie ended with a snap as his foot struck a hidden plate. Blades, four of them, swung from the ceiling with a shriek of metal. They struck sparks from his pack but left him standing, swearing mightily.
“Leave the sneaking to the rogue,” Isledie sighed, shaking her head.
Beyond the trapped hall, the chanting grew louder—frenzied now, desperate. They drew weapons, muttered prayers, and flung open the final doors.
The Hall of the Oathkeeper.
Smoke and incense wreathed the chamber. A massive statue of a knight loomed over a crude altar where a young girl wept in chains. Before her stood a goblin shaman, dagger raised high.
And from the shadows lumbered something worse.
A bugbear, hulking and fur-clad, its eyes gleaming red beneath its brow.
“They’ve brought a bugbear!” Eric gasped.
The monster swung its morning star and Falden bravely traded blows swinging his giant axe as if his life depended on it. Eric’s fingers danced through sigils, and a spectral hand shimmered into being. Blocking out the chaos around him, Eric focussed and kept the hand in place, in front of the Bugbears eyes, putting it at a big disadvantage. Alder and Isledie used every last ounce of concentration to fire into the swirling melee, some of their arrows came very close to fitting Farden but somehow they found their mark in the bugbears hide.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the statue another desperate encounter was playing out as William went toe to toe with the Goblin shaman. For a while it looked like William had the upper hand, landing some telling blows with his quarterstaff. A moment of distraction, a guard dropped and the Goblin found an opening how his cruel dagger. William dropped to the floor, unconscious and losing blood.
The fight was brutal and short. Steel met flesh, spells flared, and rage filled the air like thunder. When it was over, the bugbear and the shaman lay dead, their bodies twisted in the incense haze. Friends rushed to Will’s assistance, minding his wounds and providing rough and ready battlefield first aid. After agonisingly long minutes, Will’s eyes opened. “Have we won?”.
Dira was freed, though her sobs could not be calmed. “I could silence her,” Eric offered, waggling his fingers. “Another ‘Mage Hand’—over the mouth.” The others glared. He shrugged. “Just a thought.”
Searching the room, they found two vials containing a viscous blue liquid… healing potions, gold, gems, and—at the altar’s base—an inscription:
“If you are to keep this, you must first give it to me.”
They puzzled over it until Farden, wiping blood from his axe, grunted, “My word. I give my word.”
As the last syllable left his lips, stone grated against stone.
A secret door slid open.
Cold air spilled from the darkness beyond.
The adventurers exchanged looks—equal parts weariness and wonder.
The road to glory, it seemed, had only just begun.
Chapter Two — The Tomb of the Delian Order
The heroes withdrew from the Hall of the Oathkeeper in shaken silence. Beyond the hidden door the air hung cold and still, as though the very stones held their breath. Weariness pressed upon them—bone-deep and dangerous.
“We rest here,” William said, voice low but firm. “We push further and we die further.”
The party agreed. They barred the outer door with scavenged timber and wedged shards of stone so that even the slightest tampering would clang loud enough to rouse the dead. Then they pulled the secret door half-closed, just enough to conceal their presence from anything wandering the passages, and settled uneasily within the cramped antechamber.
Sleep came fitfully.
No dreams, only dread.
But it was enough.
Alder was the first to wake. Elven blood required little rest, but the hours had left him more alert, senses sharpened by the oppressive silence. One by one the others rose, stiff but restored.
“Open it,” Farden murmured, nodding toward the secret portal.
Eric placed a hand on the stone. “If there were wards, they’d have woken with us.”
“Not comforting,” Isledie muttered, “but true.”
With careful, breath-holding slowness, they pushed the secret door open and slipped inside.
The Tomb Awakened
The corridor beyond sloped downward into cold air, tinged with the faintest whisper of incense long faded—ghost-scent from an age when this place was holy. Their footsteps echoed like intruders trespassing upon memory.
Isledie took the lead, eyes narrow, hands lightly brushing the ground and walls. “Old places like this don’t forget they were built to guard things,” she whispered.
And the Tomb remembered well.
They entered a vast crypt lit only by their torches. Six sarcophagi, masterfully carved and polished like marble rivers, stood in two neat rows. At the far end lay a seventh—larger, grander, its stone embroidered with carvings of knights bearing shields against an endless tide of shadow.
“Delian Order,” Alder breathed, reverent. “The knights who swore to fight chaos until the world drew its last breath.”
“Seems they kept their bones tidy,” Farden remarked.
A cold wind stirred, though no passage allowed for it.
Eric lifted his hands, tracing sigils. Detect Magic blossomed from his fingertips in a ripple of blue-white light.
The far sarcophagus blazed as though with inner flame.
“Something sleeps in there,” Eric whispered, awe softening his usually sharp tone.
A small object rested on its lid—a book covered in cracked leather and dust centuries thick. Alder brushed it clean.
“The Chronicle of the Delian Order,” he read aloud. “A history… or perhaps a warning.”
Farden placed both hands on the lid. “Help me with this.”
Alder joined him. Together they heaved. The stone slid aside with a slow, grinding moan.
Inside, nestled upon faded silk, lay a longsword. Its blade shimmered with cold fire, runes dancing faintly along its length. The air tasted suddenly of steel and storm.
Then—a sound.
Stone scraping on stone.
Six stone lids moving.
Isledie froze. “No. No, no—put it back!”
The lids of the other sarcophagi shifted. Bony hands clawed the air. Skeletons rose—tall, armored, their empty sockets burning with pale blue flame.
They came without warning, without hesitation, without fear of death.
A sword crashed against Alder’s shoulder. Another skeleton seized Isledie by the cloak, dragging her toward a stony maw. Eric shouted an arcane word, flames flickering from his palms—only to be knocked aside by a skeletal shield. Farden swung wildly, but more rose, their weapons cutting the air with unnatural precision.
“THE LID!” William roared. “CLOSE THE LID!”
Alder and Farden stumbled back to the grand sarcophagus, shoving with all their strength. The lid slid back into place with a resounding thud.
Instantly the skeletons halted.
One by one, as if guided by unseen command, they returned to their sarcophagi, lay down, and went still.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Eric swallowed hard. “Let us… not disturb them again.”
They backed away, leaving the tomb and the magical sword sealed behind them—for now.
A Parting of Shadows
Exhausted and grim, the adventurers made their way back to the goblin lair’s upper chambers, intent on leaving the accursed depths behind.
They collapsed in the goblins lair, they were so exhausted some even nibbled on the goblins rations.
It was Alder’s sharp ears that caught it first—a rhythmic tread of small feet approaching the lair’s entrance.
He nudged Farden. “Goblins. Patrol.”
The others rose quickly but silently.
Moments later, two goblins entered, chattering in their guttural tongue—unaware of the death that awaited them. The heroes struck with sudden, brutal precision.
It was over in moments.
“More ears for the mayor,” Isledie said, wiping her blade clean.
“More coin,” Eric corrected, already plucking them free.
Return to Brookhaven
With Dira safely carried in William’s arms and the spoils of their grim work packed away, the companions made their weary journey back to Brookhaven.
Ignal Ironeater met them at the outskirts of town. The moment he saw his daughter his legs gave way. He wept—not the tears of a weak man, but the unguarded sobs of a father who feared the world had taken everything from him.
“I owe you my life,” he said, voice thick. “My life—and hers.”
Word spread quickly. Brookhaven turned out in a flood of lanterns, cheers, and embraces. Children danced around the heroes; elders pressed charms of good luck into their hands.
That evening a great feast was held. Mira Holtsong herself supervised the butchering and roasting of the boars Farden had carried across the forest. Two enormous spits were set over a roaring firepit, the meat sizzling and spitting fat into the flames.
Casks of ale were rolled open. Bottled apple brandy—usually reserved for weddings and harvest ceremonies—was poured freely.
Alder played the inn’s old lute, coaxing life into its weathered strings. Even Farden laughed, though his laughter sounded like a mountain clearing its throat.
Amid the revelry, William found himself seated beside cattle herders who nursed their drinks with troubled looks.
“Bad things in the hills these days,” one whispered. “Not goblins. Worse.”
Another leaned closer. “Cattle found dead come morning… corpses full o’ tiny holes. Like needles. Like something sucked ’em dry.”
William frowned. “Why has no one spoken of this?”
The herders traded glances. “Fear,” one said. “And who’s to believe us? Till now, no heroes came this way.”
Later, Alderman Brightstaff—Brookhaven’s round-cheeked mayor—stood upon a stool and raised his mug.
“To the heroes of Brookhaven!” he boomed. “May their blades be ever sharp, and their purses ever heavy!”
A chorus of cheers answered him.
The mayor leaned close afterward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “There is another matter, if you’ve an appetite for more adventure.”
Eric perked up immediately. “Coin?”
“And glory,” the mayor said. “A month past, two young members of a noble merchant house—Talgen and Sharwyn Hucrele—set out to find the Sunless Citadel. Promised to return within a week. They did not.”
A chill settled over the group.
“No word. No tracks. Nothing. Their mother offers reward for news, or for their safe return.”
Alder exchanged a look with William.
Isledie’s brows lifted.
Farden grinned.
“Sunless Citadel?” the barbarian said. “Sounds like trouble.”
“Sounds like profit,” Eric corrected.
“Sounds like destiny,” Alder murmured.
The feast raged long into the night.
But the firelight could not warm the cold whisper that threaded itself into each adventurer’s thoughts:
The world was stirring.
Darkness was moving.
And the tale had only just begun.
Chapter Three: Into the Ashen Wilds
It was decided.
If Talgen and Sharwyn Hucrele yet lived—somewhere on the long, perilous road to the Sunless Citadel—the party would find them. If fate had claimed them and carried their spirits to the halls of their ancestors, then at the very least the heroes would return with their signet rings, and with those small tokens, give the grieving Hucrele family the closure they deserved.
The mood in the Silverstream Inn shifted like a tide turning. The roar of laughter dimmed; the clatter of tankards softened. Determination, grim and weighty, settled over the adventurers.
Garron the barman appeared at their table, a fresh jug of dark ale in hand. “Sounds like you’ve set your feet on a hard road,” he muttered, though his tone held admiration. As he refilled the mugs, his brow wrinkled as he dredged up an old memory.
“There was another traveler,” he said slowly, “years ago—twelve, maybe thirteen—asking after the Sunless Citadel. A grim sort. Dark-cloaked, kept his hood low even by the firelight. Called himself Belak.” He snorted softly. “Came in with the strangest creature I’ve ever seen—a giant frog or toad, big as a hound. Sat under his table staring at me like it understood every word. Belak fed it scraps with a long iron spoon.” He shivered. “Didn’t stay long. Didn’t speak to anyone but me. Slipped out before sunrise.”
The name hung in the air like a cold draft.
At dawn, the party departed Brookhaven. Villagers gathered sleepily at the gate to see them off—some waving, others murmuring short prayers for their safety. The road through the lowlands was peaceful, a gentle contrast to what awaited them. Alder and Isledia gathered mushrooms along the way, Valder brought down a hare, and by dusk they made camp on the border where fertile fields gave way to the dragon-scorched desolation known as the Ashen Wild.
They feasted as well as travelers could. But the land ahead—dark, silent, and hostile—pressed at them like a held breath.
The iphone on the tripod bears the essence of Eric, whose player, diseased in the real world joins us via a video link!!
The Orcs of the Ashen Wild
On the first watch, Alder lifted his head sharply. A soft crunch. A mutter of guttural voices. The stink hit him next: sweat, iron, and something rotten.
Three orcs emerged from the treeline—ugly brutes with cracked tusks, pig like faces and matted hair. Steel whispered from sheaths. The party woke to the clash of combat.
Valder took the charge of the largest orc, the blow that struck him loud as a drum. Alder, quick-footed even bleary-eyed, countered with a slice that sent blood spraying. Isledia hurled herself onto one of the others, daggers flashing, stabbing with a frenzy that left the creature staggering before she dragged it down into the dirt.
Eric lifted himself groggily from his bedroll, murmuring arcane syllables. One of the orcs stiffened mid-snarl, eyes rolling back as sleep overtook him. The remaining attacker faltered—and Eric’s second spell wrapped around the brute’s mind like a velvet leash. The orc blinked, blood still dripping from its axe, and suddenly grinned.
Grishnákh of the Broken Tooth clan, now their enchanted ally.
“You fight good,” the orc slurred, tapping his own chest proudly. “You friend now. Broken Tooth honour you.”
Before anyone could object, Grishnákh drew an orcish blade—sharp enough to cut flesh, filthy enough to carry sickness. “You take scars. Mark of tribe.”
Valder shrugged and knelt without hesitation. Eric, already flush with arcane pride, did the same.
The blade bit their cheeks, carving tooth-shaped sigils into their flesh. Grishnákh rubbed a foul-smelling tar into the wounds. Valder merely grunted.
Eric swayed, blinked twice—and collapsed in a feverish heap.
As the orc departed, cheerfully pledging the friendship of the Broken Tooth tribe, the party hurried to wrap Eric in blankets. His skin burned, his breaths rasped. They kept watch through the night, taking turns tending him. By noon the next day, the wizard woke—pale, shivering, lucid but weak, and unmistakably diseased.
They pressed on regardless.
The Chasm of Descent
By late afternoon, the land dropped away abruptly. They stood at the edge of a deep chasm cleaving the Ashen Wild like a wound. Broken stone pillars jutted from the earth, each scratched with crude Dwarvish runes.
Alder whispered the words of Comprehend Languages. The carvings shimmered, then resolved into meaning: “Slavers Below. Turn Back or Be Taken.”
Nearby lay the charred remnants of a campfire—about a month old. Too recent for comfort.
A sturdy rope hung from one of the pillars, leading down the cliff face. Alder inspected it. “Two weeks old at most,” he murmured. “Talgen and Sharwyn passed this way.”
Isledia went first, sliding down the rope with practiced grace. The ledge below was broad, sandy, scattered with bones. She had a heartbeat to register the rustle—
Three giant rats lunged.
Their teeth sank into her leathers as she fought them off with desperate speed. Alder descended next and was savaged immediately, blood bright against the gray stone. Between the two of them they slew one, staggered another, and held on until Will dropped onto the ledge with a shout, smashing the final rat aside with his staff.
Eric was lowered down carefully by rope, followed by Valder. Together they descended a narrow switchback stair—slippery, ancient, washed smooth by centuries.
Down and down, deeper and deeper, the sunlight fading behind them.
The Sunless Citadel
William’s staff flared with warm radiance.
Out of the darkness, stone rose—first a shadow, then a silhouette, then the unmistakable lines of towers and battlements. An entire fortress buried beneath the earth. Its windows hollow and blind, its turrets cracked and listing. The air smelled of dust.
And rot.
The heroes stepped into a courtyard that had once been a tower’s pinnacle before time—and something else—dragged it below the surface of the world.
They moved carefully across the rubble. Too carefully for the cracked stone beneath Alder’s foot. It gave way with a thunderous crumble. He vanished with a shout.
“ALDER!” Valder bellowed, but barely had the barbarian sprinted forward when a trapdoor ahead snapped open beneath him. He plunged into a pit littered with goblin corpses—and one massive, snarling rat.
The beast lunged—missed—and Valder’s answering blow painted the stones with its insides.
Isledia, heart hammering, attempted to disable the trap. The mechanism clicked ominously. A section of flooring shifted beneath his boot. Only blind luck kept him from plummeting. With shaking hands, he locked the trap shut.
By tying rope rails along the worst sections of floor, the party finally reached the far door. Alder, bruised but alive from his own pit, cast Mage Hand and gently pushed it open.
Inside lay a circular chamber. Four goblin corpses rotted in place—one pinned to the wall by a long, dark javelin.
Valder yanked the weapon free. The corpse slumped forward, half-devoured by rats. Etched along the shaft, now revealed, curled a line of Draconic script.
Alder traced it with one trembling finger.
“Ashardalon.”
The name echoed through the chamber like a distant growl.
And deep below, in the black beneath the Citadel, something old stirred in its sleep.
With all the fancy gadgets, tablets and similar – nothing beats good old dnd paper dungeon floor templates 😀 Nice report, thank you. And Pulp Alley cursed discs are on the table! 😀