13th December - Its a Vampire Spawn Infestation
General Summary
Marcus arrived at the Coffin Maker's shop to find the door splintered and hanging loosely on its hinges. Inside, the dimly lit shop carried the smell of sawdust and fear. An old man, bound and trembling, sat in the shadows. Above, the unmistakable echoes of battle—the crash of wood, shouts of exertion, and something else, something sinister—drew Marcus upward. Trouble. It always seemed to find his friends.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Marcus reached the second floor. The scene that greeted him was chaos embodied. Crates lay toppled, their splinters mingling with the cobwebs that hung from the rafters like the remains of an old, broken web. And Vampire spawn—jerky, grotesque things that moved with unnatural speed. Their claws tore through armor, and their fangs glistened with predatory hunger as they hissed and screeched, climbing walls and ceilings as though gravity itself had abandoned them.
The party—Aeli, Vidar, Sorrow, Lars, Ireena, and now Marcus—spread out instinctively, their movements desperate and uncoordinated against the relentless creatures. It was a symphony of survival: the whistle of Sorrow’s crossbow bolts, the hum of Aeli’ sword as it cut through the air, the resounding impact of Lars’ club against undead flesh. Marcus wove through the chaos, his daggers flashing in and out of the fray, every step calculated but urgent.
Vidar, standing firm amid the tumult, called out to Tymora, his voice steady despite the madness. Radiant light poured from his holy symbol, and the power to Turn the Undead surged outward like a wave of cleansing fire. Several of the spawn shrieked and scrambled for the far corners of the room, their movements frantic. But the others pressed on, and the strategy Vidar had hoped for—using the spell to isolate their enemies—went unnoticed by his companions. In their desperation, they fought the creatures still standing, leaving Vidar’s divine protection partially squandered.
Lars swung valiantly but found himself overwhelmed, one of the creatures latching onto him. Its fangs sank deep, draining his vitality and leaving him pale and gasping. Vidar, too, fell prey to their insidious bite, even as he held his holy symbol aloft, trying to shield his friends with the light of his goddess. The room teetered on the brink of defeat, each adventurer pushed to their limit.
And yet, in the way that hope sometimes clings to the edges of ruin, the tide shifted. The last of the vampire spawn fell, its unnatural body crumpling into the dust-laden floor. The party, battered and bloodied, staggered to their feet, exchanging looks of exhaustion and unspoken relief. The threat was vanquished, for now.
But there was no time to rest. The bones. They had been promised that the holy relics were here, somewhere in this room. Splitting up, the group began their search, lifting debris, opening crates, their movements sharp and impatient.
A piercing scream froze them all in place. Ireena’s voice. Sorrow was the first to move, sprinting across the room toward the sound. The others followed, finding Ireena trembling before a hidden alcove. There, cradled in the glow of flickering torchlight, lay the relics they had sought. The Bones of St. Andral.
The room fell silent, save for the labored breathing of the adventurers. They had found what they came for. Now, all that remained was the journey back to Father Lucian, to confirm that these bones were indeed the sacred relics he spoke of. But as they looked at one another, battered and wearied, there was no mistaking the weight of what they had endured—and what still lay ahead.
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