Our intrepid group of DnD players were two down this weekend due to the annoyances of adulting. Through they were missed, my good self and the players still enjoyed another excellent session of roleplaying last Friday evening, which included the usual laughs, cunning plans and some near-death experience. A splendid time was had by all!
From the Long-Forgotten Tome of Phandelver, Leaf VIII: Beneath the Manor’s Cradle of Stone
A Name Etched in Stone
In the flickering glow of torchlight and silence of the crypt, Selrach turned to the gaunt figure of Mirna Dendrar, hope and dread etched equally across his face. With hesitant voice, he spoke the name carved into the cell wall—Mailix. The name of a brother long lost.
*
Mirna’s answer, halting and grim, confirmed what Selrach had feared and hungered for: Mailix had been here. She recalled a man of noble bearing, torn from fine armor and clothing, forced into grey rags, dragged away toward the north—taken, as so many had been, to a place unspoken by name but weighed heavy with menace.
*
With what knowledge they could glean gathered, the adventurers took swift action. It was decided that Durin, stout of heart and hammer, would escort Mirna and her son Nars back to the safety of Phandalin. The rest pressed deeper into the shadows beneath Tresendar Manor.
The Chasm and the Whispering Dark
The air grew colder as they entered a vast natural cavern. A chasm split the stone like a wound, spanned by two crude bridges, while columns of rock stood like silent sentinels. From the dark wafted a breeze heavy with the stench of decay. The place whispered secrets with every draft.
*
Unbeknownst to them, they were already seen. A Nothic—a twisted creature of eye and madness—lurked among the pillars. Hidden in shadow, it probed their minds.
To Dapps, it hissed into his skull:
“A warrior? You weren’t even able to save your parents. Age is no excuse.”
To Selrach:
“You’re worthless, human. Even your brother deserted you when he could.”
The group braced for violence—but the creature, ever craving flesh and truth, offered a dark bargain. A body. A fresh one. The group hesitated, then agreed. Whether in cruelty or cunning, the Nothic withdrew into the gloom, sparing them—for now.
Treasures of the Past
At the bottom of the chasm, a hidden chest glinted in the gloom. Within lay coin, treasures, and a sword of striking craftsmanship—its hilt carved like a hawk in flight, and the name Talon engraved along its blade. Hebbiwyt recalled its legend: the sword of Aldith Tresendar, the Black Hawk, knight of legend and former lord of this very manor.
Bugbears and a Goblin Named Droop
Continuing east, the group entered a foul barracks, air thick with rot and unwashed flesh. Inside, three towering Bugbears toyed cruelly with a simpering goblin. The adventurers, ever resourceful, relied on deception—red cloaks hiding true intent. The Bugbears, lazy and duped, let them pass. The goblin, Droop, collapsed in fear.
*
Regaining his wits, Droop sought to earn favour.. He could not guide them to Cragmaw Castle directly but knew its direction: north, through goblin- and orc-infested wilds. He offered another prize instead—knowledge of the wizard’s lair.
Redbrands and Reckoning
As they crept onward, they neared a door behind which laughter and tankards clashed. The Redbrands’ den of drink and spoils. The adventurers burst in—four brutish humans leapt up, steel drawn. Though dulled by drink, the Redbrands fought like cornered animals. The battle was fierce—steel rang, spells cracked the air, blood was spilled. The group stood victorious, but wounds were deep, spirits frayed.
The Wizard’s Workshop
Droop, fearful of his former masters and their arcane overlord, offered them a sanctuary—the wizard’s workshop, abandoned at night.
*
Within, a rat scurried into darkness beneath a table of twisted glass and steaming alchemical devices. Bubbling flasks and curling vapors whispered of failed ambitions. Among the parchment and books lay plans—notes on potions of invisibility, unfinished, unstable.
*
Dapps found a tome in his native Dwarvish—the journal of Urmon, adventurer and scholar. Its pages spoke of a place long whispered in myth: The Lost Mine of Phandelver… and the Forge of Spells. The implications were vast. Power—ancient and unclaimed—might still slumber beneath the mountains.
Sanctuary in the Shadows
Droop, eyes wide and voice low, revealed a hidden niche behind the bookcases—his refuge from cruelty and pain. It was here that the companions laid down their weapons, drew tight the cloaks of sleep, and finally—after long trial—allowed themselves rest.
*
Above them, the manor’s shattered stone whispered nothings to the wind.
Below, in the dark and secret places of the world, something listened. Something stirred.
Something watched.
And the pages of fate turned once more.
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