While Aele and Thistle spread the ancient vellum of the Pump Station Map (Cylinder 89-B) across a stone plinth, Dorn and Cabe set to work on the grim task of stripping the fallen Gilder captain.

Voss's Gold Plate: Dorn carefully unbuckles the gold-tinted +1 Plate Armor from Kaelen Voss's corpse. At a value of 2,500 gp, this is the crown jewel of your current haul.

Voss's Maul: Cabe retrieves the gold-filigreed Masterwork Maul (Value: 150 gp).

Letter of Marque: They also secure the legal document from the Gosterwick High Magistrate, which may prove complicated if presented to the wrong authorities on the surface.

Dorn stands amidst the fallen Gilder mercenaries and the broken remains of the Archive Warden, his voice echoing through the vaulted Hall of Records. He turns to the two goblins who have been trailing the party since their rescue from the Beastmen in the pipes.

With the gravity of a seasoned leader, Dorn delivers his instructions. "Return to King Weskenim and tell him that his allies, The Brothers of the Deep, have won a great victory over his foes, the Beastmen."

The goblins, eyes wide at the sight of the defeated Kaelen Voss and the shattered stone construct, nod vigorously. They understand the weight of this news; the defeat of "The Gilded" and the securing of the Thothian Archive significantly shifts the balance of power in this sector of Arden Vul.

As the goblins scurry off toward the Mushroom Forest to deliver the message, the party prepares for the ascent:

• Loot Secured: Dorn and Cabe have finished packing Voss's Gold Plate (2,500 gp), the masterwork maul (150 gp), and the pouch of Gosterwick coin (240 gp).
• Intel Gathered: Aele and Thistle have the Pump Station Map (Cylinder 89-B) and the Gosterwick Lineage (Cylinder 112-D) ready for study on the surface.
• Protection: Dorn’s Silver Heart-Feeding Locket is fully charged, ready to restore 2d8 HP should he fall in battle.
• Thistle’s Growth: Now at Level 2, Thistle carries Aele’s iron mace and wears his new studded leather armor.

"I really need to rest, both my body and my mind," Aele says.

"Indeed," Cabe agrees. "And our young friend Thistle," he claps the acolyte on the shoulder, "must tell us more about these Gilded we have defeated, and about the order to which Thistle belongs. Do we camp here?"

"No," Dorn decides. "The scuppers we used to get here are perfect. Let's rest there, where we have a handy bottleneck in case we get attacked. We'll put you and Thistle in the back, Aele. Cabe in the middle, and I'll rest at the mouth of the duct so I'll be the first any enemies or wandering monsters meet."

The goblins have disappeared into the darkness toward King Weskenim. Aele has secured the cylinders, and Thistle is staying close to the center of your formation.

Dorn leads the way into the ventilation scuppers, his superior strength allowing him to boost the others up into the narrow, dusty maintenance ducts of the "Shadow-Path." The air here smells of ancient copper and ozone.

The party retreats into the narrow, elevated confines of the ventilation scuppers. These stone-lined conduits are cramped but provide an excellent defensive position; the only way in is through a single-file opening that Dorn can easily hold with his 18 Strength and high AAC.

The Brothers of the Deep settle in, the adrenaline of the battle with Kaelen Voss finally cooling. They consume their rations and water, the silence of the Archive only broken by the distant, rhythmic ticking of the Thothian machinery.

Aele's Recovery: After eight hours of meditation and rest, Aele’s connection to the Thothian resonance is fully restored. He regains all spent Surges.

Ritual Preparation: As per his habit, Aele spends the end of the rest preparing his defensive rituals.

Moving through the ventilation scuppers proves to be a cramped, dusty ordeal, but it offers the one thing the main corridors cannot: anonymity.

As The Brothers of the Deep ascend the narrow vertical shafts, the map from Cylinder 89-B guides them through the "Shadow-Path." These are the literal veins of the megadungeon, designed for the maintenance constructs of the Thothian Empire rather than the soft flesh of explorers.

Dorn takes the lead, his 18 Strength making light work of the vertical rungs even while hauling the Gold Plate and the Resonance Chisel. He sets a steady pace, pausing frequently to listen for the clatter of Beastmen or the hum of a Violet Eye.

At about the midpoint of their journey, the heroes pass a massive brass grating that looks out over the Great Pump Station. From this height, the machinery is a dizzying array of churning pistons and glowing conduits. They can see groups of Beastmen patrolling far below, completely unaware of your presence in the walls above them.

Using the Heart-Seed Scarab to cast a dim, amber light on the map, Aele ensures that the party avoids the "Vent-Screamer" shafts—sections where the air pressure would have been enough to throw the party back down the stairs. After several hours of climbing, the air loses its smell of ozone and copper, replaced by the scent of damp earth and the cool, stagnant draft of the upper ruins.

Our four delvers emerge through a heavy stone floor-plate that slides aside with a groan of long-unused counterweights. You are now in the Surface Ruins of Arden Vul, specifically in a collapsed courtyard that was once a temple to a forgotten Thothian deity. The sun filters through the jagged ceiling, casting long shadows across the broken marble. "Remember this location," Dorn says. "If we ever need to sneak into the dungeon, it could be very valuable."

As the party hikes toward Gosterwick, Dorn asks Thistle, "This Kaelen Voss that we killed, was he well known in Gosterwick?"

Thistle adjusts the strap of his newly acquired mace, looking back toward the receding silhouette of the mountain. He looks up at Dorn, his face a mix of lingering adrenaline and the weariness of the climb.

"Kaelen Voss?" Thistle echoes, a grimace flickering across his face. "He wasn't just known in Gosterwick, Dorn—he was the steel hand of the High Magistrate. People called him the 'Gilded Enforcer' because of that armor. It was his signature. If you saw that gold plate reflecting the morning sun on the Imperial Road, you knew someone was about to lose their land or their life to a 'legal' seizure."

Thistle kicks a loose stone into the brush. "He was a veteran of the Archontean campaigns, or so he claimed. He used that Letter of Marque to operate outside the common law, hiring those Gilder mercenaries to do the dirty work the town guard wouldn't touch. To the wealthy merchants at the Stunned Acolyte, he was a necessary safeguard. To everyone else... he was a predator."

He looks at the heavy bundle on Dorn’s back containing the armor. "Walking into Gosterwick with his plate is going to be like carrying a lightning rod in a thunderstorm. Half the town will want to thank you, and the other half—the half that signed his paychecks—will likely see it as a declaration of war."

Aele slows his pace, joining the conversation. "Which is why we must be careful with that Letter of Marque, Cabe. It proves Voss was there on official business. If we show it, we admit to killing an agent of the state. If we hide it, we're just tomb robbers who murdered a high-ranking official."

After considering Thistle's tale and Aele's words, Dorn says, "That's what I feared." The Brothers walk along in silence for a quarter mile. Dorn decides, "Okay, let's head south a few miles along the Swift River, then cut east through the foothills. Speed isn't essential, so we'll cover seven, maybe eight miles today then camp overnight. Tomorrow morning, we'll use soot from the fire to smudge up Voss' armor and cover over the gold."

By late afternoon, the deep delvers have covered roughly 7.5 miles. As they settle into a secluded camp tucked into a limestone overhang, the sunset paints the sky in bruised purples and deep oranges—reminiscent of the violet eyes in the Halls Below.

Thistle helps Cabe gather dry wood for a small, smokeless fire. Cabe asks, "Thistle, are you well-known in Newmarket?"

"In Newmarket?" Thistle gives a small, self-deprecating shrug. "I’m a ghost there, Dorn. I spent most of my time in the libraries and the lower scriptoriums of Gosterwick. To the thugs and brokers in Newmarket, I’m just another stray acolyte. They might see the Thothian symbols on my robes and think I’m a student of Aele’s, but they won't know my name."

He looks over at the bundle of gold armor. "That’s a good thing. It means I can move through the markets and scout for a buyer while you and Cabe stay with the gear. I can find out who’s looking for high-end plate and, more importantly, if anyone is asking questions about a missing Gilder captain."

The party prepares for a quiet night. Cabe and Dorn split the watch, allowing Aele and Thistle uninterrupted sleep. The fire crackles low under the limestone overhang as the sun dips below the horizon. The first watch passes without incident, the rhythmic sound of the Swift River masking any minor noises from the camp.

As the pale morning light hits the foothills, Thistle and Aele set to work. They gather the fine, black ash from the center of the cold fire, mixing it with a small amount of grease from their morning rations to create a thick, adhesive paste.

With steady hands, they smear the mixture across the ornate filigree of the Gold Plate. What was once a shimmering, regal suit of armor is transformed into a dull, blackened set of heavy plate, looking more like the gear of a destitute sellsword than a high-ranking enforcer. To a casual observer, the armor now looks like soot-stained iron. Only a close inspection (or a determined cleaning) would reveal the 2,500 gp treasure beneath.

The party breaks camp and strikes out east. The foothills are rugged, but the path is secluded. By midday, they crest a final ridge and see the sprawling, chaotic sprawl of Newmarket in the distance. Unlike the orderly stone of Gosterwick, Newmarket is a patchwork of canvas tents, wooden shanties, and repurposed ruins centered around a massive open-air plaza. Smoke rises from a dozen smithies, and the distant sound of shouting merchants and braying pack animals carries on the wind.

The heroes reach the "Toll-Gate"—which is little more than two bored-looking mercenaries sitting under a sun-bleached awning. They eye your group—specifically the massive, soot-covered warrior (Dorn) and the two men in Thothian robes.

"Five copper a head for entry," one of them grunts, not even looking up from a piece of wood he’s whittling. "No brawling in the Inner Circle, and if you're looking to sell stolen goods, keep it to the Gray Stalls. We don't want the Gosterwick tax-men smelling the blood."

Dorn forks over not twenty coppers but twenty-five coppers, pausing to ensure the mercenaries notice. Then he asks, ""Who’s running the Gray Stalls these days? We’re looking for someone who appreciates Thothian craftsmanship."

The extra five coppers have an immediate, grease-like effect on the situation. The mercenary whittling the wood stops mid-shave, deftly catches the coins, and slides them into a pocket with a practiced flick of the wrist. The bored slouch vanishes, replaced by the sharp-eyed attentiveness reserved for "high-value" travelers.

"Generous of you, friend," the mercenary grunts, leaning back and gesturing toward the chaotic sprawl of the inner market. "Twenty-five says you're either looking for trouble or looking to avoid it. Since you asked about the Gray Stalls, I'll assume it's the latter." He spits a bit of wood pulp into the dust.

"The Gray Stalls are split three ways, but for 'Thothian craftsmanship,' you want Master Orym. He’s an old man with a pedigree longer than your sword, runs a shop called The Gilded Archive — there's some that say he has aelf in his lineage. Don't let the name fool you—he doesn't care about the Gosterwick law, only the weight of the silver and the rarity of the find.

"Keep your soot-stained friend close," he adds, nodding toward Dorn’s armor. "Orym is fair, but the Crow-Feather Gang watches the paths to his shop. They like to 'tax' anything that looks like it came out of Arden Vul before the merchant even sees it."

Dorn chuckles. "Appreciate the tip, friend. I eat crows for breakfast, and I've not had breakfast yet," the big fighter says.

The mercenary’s eyes widen slightly at Dorn’s casual threat. He gives a stiff, respectful nod, realizing he’s dealing with more than just a well-funded traveler. "Then you'll find the market quite to your appetite," he mutters, returning to his whittling.

The "streets" are narrow corridors of mud and timber, packed with people from across the Issenda map: Archontean deserters, lizardfolk traders, and shadowed figures in heavy cloaks.

As you walk, Aele whispers to the group, "Orym sounds like a collector. If he’s an elf, he may have lived long enough to remember when the Thothian influence was still a living memory. He’s our best bet for the Resonance Chisel and perhaps a discreet buyer for the Gold Plate."

"Sounds right," Cabe agrees. "Let's find this Gilded Archive..."

Aele and Thistle keep their robes and holy symbols (Aele found a spare Thothian holy symbol in the Halls for Thistle) visible, to suggest they are on official Thothian business, potentially scaring off low-level street thugs. Aele tells Thistle, "Preen a little bit, like you think you're King Shit of Turd Mountain. We want everyone to see we're here on official Thothian business, and not to be delayed."

Thistle takes the instruction to heart with surprising enthusiasm. He pulls his shoulders back, chin tilted at an angle of supreme unconcern, and lets the spare silver Thothian holy symbol—the ibis-headed disk—rest prominently over his chest. He adopts the haughty, rhythmic stride of a high-caste scribe who has never had to wait in a line in his life.

Aele, meanwhile, carries himself with the quiet, terrifying gravity of a man who actually knows the words to end the world. Together, they project an aura of "divine bureaucracy" that makes the local thugs hesitate. The Crow-Feathers on the rooftops don't just see a group of adventurers; they see a potential diplomatic nightmare.

Master Orym finally looks up from his pottery shard as the Thothian presence fills his shop. His bored expression wavers, his eyes darting from the soot-blackened armor on Dorn's back to the unmistakable weight of the Heart-Seed Scarab hanging from Aele's belt.

"Official business, is it?" Orym says, his voice losing its condescending edge. He sets down his lens and straightens his silk robes. "I haven't seen an Ibis-symbol worn with that much... conviction since the Gosterwick purges. And that scarab..." He pales slightly. "That is not a replica."

Aele steps forward, his voice calm and resonant. "We are the Brothers of the Deep, Master Orym. We have recently returned from the lower levels of Arden Vul—specifically the Hall of Records. We find ourselves in possession of items that require a curator of... flexible loyalties."

Dorn doesn't wait for an invitation. He unslung the bundle and places the Resonance Chisel on the mahogany counter. The copper and brass of the tool hum faintly in the quiet room.

Orym’s breath hitches. "A Thothian harmonic breach-tool. Functioning. This belongs in a museum—or a very well-guarded vault."

Then, Dorn begins to untie the leather straps holding the soot-stained plate. As the blackened metal is revealed, Aele leans in. "And then there is the matter of a certain 'Gilded' captain who no longer has a use for his finery. We are looking to exchange these for liquid assets—gold, gems, or perhaps information on the deeper levels."

Orym walks around the counter, his fingers hovering just inches from the Chisel, then the armor. "I can offer you 1,200 gp for the tool. It is niche, but for the right 'architect,' it is worth double that. I will take the risk of holding it."

He scrapes a tiny bit of soot away with a fingernail, revealing the +1 enchanted gold beneath. "Voss's skin. My, my. You didn't just kill him; you plucked him. This is dangerous to sell. I can't give you full market value because I'll have to melt it down or ship it to the Southern Satrapies to hide the provenance. I can give you 1,800 gp for the set, provided the Masterwork Maul is included in the deal."

Dorn shares a brief look with Aele and Cabe, then makes it a point to catch Thistle's eye (the new kid needs to feel included too). "We can probably make Option 2 work, if you have a decent set of chainmail and perhaps a small buckler for ... Brother Briar," he says, squeezing Thistle's shoulder in a big-brother sort of way. The pressure of Dorn's grip tells Thistle to go along with the fake name.

Thistle’s eyes go wide at the sudden weight of Dorn’s hand, but he’s quick on the uptake. He offers a solemn, slightly pained nod—the "pious young acolyte" role suiting him well. "The road has been... unkind to my vestments, Master Orym," he adds, his voice cracking just enough to be convincing.

Orym’s gaze lingers on "Brother Briar" for a moment, then he allows a thin, knowing smile to touch his lips. He recognizes a "rebranding" when he sees one.

Orym gestures to a rack of well-maintained gear at the back of the shop. "Chainmail and a buckler for a holy man on the move? A small price to pay for the pleasure of seeing Voss's legacy melted down."

Orym gestures to a rack of well-maintained gear at the back of the shop. "Chainmail and a buckler for a holy man on the move? A small price to pay for the pleasure of seeing Voss's legacy melted down."

He pulls out a bundle of supple, finely linked Chainmail (sized for Thistle) and a Polished Steel Buckler embossed with a simple sunburst—neutral enough to avoid attention, but sturdy enough to turn a blade.

A Deal is Struck:

As Orym begins to count out the gems onto a velvet cloth, he leans in closer to Aele. "A word of advice for the 'Brothers.' That map shows a path through the Screaming Vents. It is a shortcut to the Way-Station, but it is haunted by the ghosts of the Thothian laborers who died building the pumps. If you hear a rhythmic tapping on the pipes... do not tap back."

The deal is struck. The weight is off Dorn's back, and the party's purse is heavy with gems. As they step back out into the smoky air of Newmarket, the Crow-Feathers are still there, but they seem to be reconsidering their tactics now that the BotD have been seen doing high-level business with Orym.

Aele lingers and is last to leave Orym's shop. "Today you have helped a humble priest who serves a wise god that sees all. Thank you for your discretion and your time, Orym."

Orym pauses, his long, slender fingers hovering over the velvet cloth where the soot-stained gold plate now rests. He meets Aele’s gaze, and for a fleeting second, the mask of the cynical Newmarket broker slips. He looks not at the priest, but at the Heart-Seed Scarab pulsing with its faint, amber light.

"Wisdom is a rare currency in these lands, Priest," Orym replies, his voice dropping to a low, melodic hum. "Most who come to me are looking for the power to destroy. It is... refreshing to deal with those who simply wish to remember."

He offers a shallow, graceful bow—one that acknowledges Aele’s station as a true Wizard-Priest of Thoth. "May your 'Way-Station' be quiet, and may the eyes that see all look kindly upon your journey back into the dark."