Dorn finds a quiet, shadowed corner near the edge of the market to perform the "split." His fingers, seasoned by years of handling illicit coin and appraising loot, move with a rhythmic efficiency. He doesn't need a scale; he knows the "fire" of a high-quality emerald by its weight and the way it catches the fading light.
He distributes the 2,000 gp in gemstones as follows, ensuring each hero has a hidden pouch tucked away:
| Hero | % Share | Value in Gems | Description of Parcel |
|---|---|---|---|
| Dorn | 40% | 800 gp | two large, deep-green emeralds |
| Aele | 40% | 800 gp | collection of clear saphires; one 'heart' emerald |
| Cabe | 15% | 300 gp | handful of small sapphire chips |
| Thistle | 5% | 100 gp | a single, modest emerald and a few sapphire fragments |
Dorn grins at Cabe's wide eyes as he receives a share of precious gemstones. Aele hands Thistle his parcel. "Don't be flashy with these, lad."
Thistle shakes his head. "I've never been this wealthy!" Thistle looks at his 100 gp emerald with wide eyes. "I've spent years copying scrolls for two copper a page," he whispers, tucking the gem into a hidden seam in his new chainmail. "Dorn, I think I like this 'Brother Briar' fellow more than the last guy I was."
Cabe nods, satisfied with the light weight. "Easier to run with these than a 50-pound golden chest-piece. And if we get cornered, a man can swallow 300 gold easier than he can hide a maul."
Aele secures his share, his mind already drifting to the Sealed Map. "The distribution is wise. If one of us falls or is taken, the wealth of the mission survives with the others. But we should not linger. The Crow-Feathers are curious, and the air in Newmarket is thick with eyes."
The Current Standing of the Delve Brotherhood
- Liquid Assets: 2,000 gp (Gems) + 240 gp (Voss's Coin) + 45 gp (carried by Dorn) + 800 gp (hidden in their Gosterwick townhouse) = 3,085 gp Total.
- Current Gear: Dorn still carries the Resonance Chisel; Thistle is now armored in Chainmail & Buckler.
- Next Goal: The Way-Station on Level 4 via the Screaming Vents.
Dorn purchases additional delving supplies for the group. Rather than paying for a room in a town where the "Crow-Feathers" know they've just come into wealth, Dorn and Aele decide it is safer to put some miles between themselves and the market.
The four men spend the evening hiking back toward the Swift River. By the time the twin moons of Issenda rise, they are back in the familiar, rugged foothills leading toward the megadungeon. They find a defensible spot—a limestone cleft that masks their firelight.
Dorn spends an hour scraping the last of the "merchant soot" off his gear. He’s no longer pretending to be a destitute sellsword. He polishes Swift, and the blade glows with a faint, blue light that reflects in his eyes. He feels the weight of the Resonance Chisel in his pack—a tool that might be the key to the entire fourth level.
Cabe maintains the active bond between himself, Dorn, and Aele. He sits on the edge of the light, eyes darting toward the shadows. He knows that while they escaped Newmarket, the Gosterwick Magistrate will eventually realize Captain Voss isn't coming back.
Aele takes a moment during the quiet of the evening camp to observe Thistle. He reaches out with the mental and spiritual "tether" of the blood-bond, attempting to weave the young cleric into the shared connection he holds with Dorn and Cabe.
However, as the bond approaches Thistle's mind, it encounters a strange, crystalline resistance—not a wall of hostility, but a hum of psychic static. It’s the signature of Thistle’s nascent psionic talent. Like two magnets of the same pole, the primal magic of the blood-bond and the raw potential of Thistle’s mind simply cannot occupy the same space.
Thistle looks up, blinking as if shaking off a mild headache. "I felt... something, Aele. Like a distant bell ringing in my ears. But I don't think I can join that circle of yours. My mind is... a bit crowded, I suppose."
Cabe nods solemnly from the shadows. "The bond is a heavy weight, lad. Perhaps it's for the best. You'll be our 'quiet' observer—the one whose thoughts aren't echoed in our own."
To determine if the night passes in peace or peril, we must consult the dice. The author rolls a d6: on a 1, the darkness brings a visitor.
The Roll: [4]
The night is quiet. The only sounds are the rhythmic rush of the Swift River and the soft, metallic clink of Thistle adjusting his new chainmail in his sleep. The "psionic static" around the young cleric seems to act as a strange, silent ward; perhaps the local predators sense a mind they cannot easily categorize and choose easier prey.
The Brothers of the Deep stir as the first light touches the limestone cliffs. After a quick meal of dried rations, Aele leads the group through the morning rituals.
- Thoth’s Balm & Comfort: Aele prepares these as per his habit.
- Thoth’s Champion: Prepared and ready for the first sign of trouble.
- Blood-Bond: Cabe re-attunes the connection.
He feels the familiar, steady heartbeats of Dorn and Aele, while Thistle remains a distinct, isolated presence—a "blind spot" in the collective sensory web.
Cabe says, as the foursome march north, paralleling the Swift River, "Should we invest in potions? Is there even anywhere nearby they can be acquired?" He looks at Aele as if addressing his question primarily to the party's senior priest.
Aele slows his pace, the Heart-Seed Scarab catching the morning light as he considers Cabe’s question. He glances toward the looming shadow of the mountain where the Sign of the Broken Head sits, a beacon of (relative) civilization in the waste.
"A prudent thought, Cabe," Aele replies, his voice carrying the measured tone of a scholar. "In the Hall of Records, we saw canopic jars that might have held ancient elixirs, but those are as likely to be poison as they are panacea after ten thousand years. For reliable draughts, our options are limited."
"The innkeeper there, a man of many secrets, often keeps a small stock of Healing Salves or Anti-venoms for desperate delvers. They are expensive—expect to pay double the guild price—but they are tested."
"We could have found them in Gosterwick, but given our recent 'business' with Captain Voss’s gear, returning there now would be... unwise. We wouldn't anybody to connect his disappearance with our reappearance."
"There are rumors of a blind herbalist who dwells in the Mushroom Forest on Level 3. Since we carry the Sovereign’s Scarab, he might be inclined to trade with us, though his 'potions' often have... side effects."
Thistle speaks up. "We will meet someone in the Halls that can help us in this regard."
Aele studies him for a moment. "Care to explain?"
Thistle shrugs, "I don't really know how I know that. But there is a place in my mind where sometimes strange knowledge bubbles up."
"Like something unpleasant? A memory you have buried way down deep?" Cabe asks.
"No, not really. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it's information I'd have never guessed a poorly scribe from Burdock's Valley would know."
Aele’s eyes narrow, but not with suspicion—more with the clinical curiosity of a man who has spent his life studying the unseen. He looks at the "psionic static" he felt earlier, realizing that Thistle’s mind isn't just a closed door; it’s a radio tuned to a frequency the rest of them can't hear.
"The Akashic drift," Aele murmurs, referencing an obscure Thothian theory. "Sometimes the soul taps into the collective memory of the world, or perhaps the dungeon itself is speaking to your latent talent, Thistle."
Cabe shifts his weight, his hand resting on the hilt of his weapon. "As long as it’s a 'healer' and not a 'horror' your mind is conjuring, I’m willing to trust the hunch. But if that 'strange knowledge' starts telling you to open doors we’ve specifically marked as Do Not Touch, we're going to have a talk."
The party decides to make a brief stop at the Sign of the Broken Head before the final descent. The stone walls of the inn are thick, scarred by centuries of use and the occasional siege. As they push through the heavy oak doors, the smell of woodsmoke and sour ale greets them.
The common room is sparse. A few grim-faced mercenaries sit in the corners, their eyes tracking your gear—especially Swift at Dorn's hip and the unmistakable Heart-Seed Scarab on Aele's chest.
A man with a face like a crumpled map and a missing ear leans over the bar. He wipes a glass with a rag that has seen better decades.
"Thothians," Barnaby grunts, his eyes lingering on Thistle’s new chainmail. "Don't see many of your lot coming back from the deeps with their skin still attached. You looking for a room, or are you just here to breathe air that doesn't taste like tomb-dust?"
Dorn steps forward. "Information first, Barnaby. And perhaps a look at your private stock. We're heading back down—Level 4. Heard anything about the Screaming Vents lately?"
Barnaby spits into a bucket. "The Vents? You’re brave or suicidal. Word is the Cabal of the Violet Eye has been moving more 'sentinels' into the pipes. They’re looking for someone—or something—that breached the Hall of Records a few days back. Some say the 'Weight of Ma'at' was lifted."
He looks Aele dead in the eye. "If that was you... you’re walking into a hornet's nest."
Dorn notices that while the Iron-Jaws are focused on their fatigue, the hooded duo at the back stopped whispering the moment that he mentioned the Screaming Vents.
Barnaby leans in closer, his voice a low gravelly rasp. "The lads by the fire just came up from the second level. Said the goblins are stirred up because something 'purple and glowing' moved through the lower ventilation shafts. If I were you, I’d be careful who I talk to about 'lifting weights' in the Hall of Records. Walls here have ears, and ears are often attached to people who get paid in Gilder silver."
Dorn pays 5 gp for a round of decent liquor for everyone. "Let's eat a good meal, boys. We don't know when the next hot one will be coming our way." After Barnaby takes their orders, he leads the party to a booth about fifteen feet from the solemn pair of figures in dark, hooded cloaks. Far enough away to not appear to be eavesdropping, but close enough to keep a careful eye on them and see if the free drinks elicit any response.
Barnaby's eyes light up at the sight of the gold. He moves with surprising agility, pouring a round of "The Black Drop"—a potent, dark-aged brandy that smells of peat and burnt sugar.
"To the Brothers of the Deep!" Barnaby calls out, setting the glasses on the bar.
The Iron-Jaws at the fireplace raise their mugs with weary nods of appreciation; they aren't much for conversation, but they respect a man who buys a round. The Lone Scholar barely pauses his pen, though he pulls his glass toward him like a reflex.
The response from the Hooded Figures is more calculated. They don't raise their glasses in a toast. Instead, the one leaning back reaches out a gloved hand and slowly slides the glass toward the center of their table. He doesn't drink. He simply looks toward your booth, his face obscured by the deep cowl, and offers a slow, deliberate nod of acknowledgment.
It wasn't a "thank you." It was a "we see you."
Barnaby brings out four bowls of a thick, savory stew made of root vegetables and salted mutton, along with a loaf of crusty black bread. As you eat, the low-level hum of the common room provides a perfect acoustic screen. Dorn uses his thief-trained hearing to filter out the crackle of the fire and the scratching of the scholar’s pen.
Even from fifteen feet, Dorn catches snippets of the hooded duo's conversation. They aren't talking about Gosterwick or bounties.
"...the resonance is shifting," the whispering one says. "...if the Chisel is active, the seals on the Fourth Cylinder will be brittle."
The other one responds in a voice like dry parchment: "The Thothians are dead. If someone has the tool, they are either ghosts or fools. Either way, the High Priest wants the Eye to follow the vibration. We wait for the signal from the Vents."
Thistle, sensing the shift in the room's psychic energy, leans in close to Aele. "The 'static' is getting louder," he whispers, his voice barely audible over the clatter of spoons. "Those two... their minds feel like cold iron. They aren't here for the drink."
Cabe keeps his back to the wall, his hand resting on the bench near his side. He is ready to activate the Blood-Bond at a moment’s notice.
Dorn spoons stew and thinks: The hooded duo know about the Resonance Chisel and the Vents. They are likely agents or scouts for the Cabal of the Violet Eye or a rival faction interested in the Fourth Level. Dorn's fine-honed underworld skills tell him something more: They seem to be waiting for a "signal" before moving.
Dorn makes eye contact with Cabe. As the big fighter stuffs another piece of bread in his mouth, he momentarily lays three fingers alongside his nose. Cabe sees it and scratches an ear to acknowledge the silent message: danger nearby; we may be attacked.
Unfortunately, the founding members of the Brothers of the Deep haven't had time to teach Thistle this secret language. But Cabe waits until Aele makes eye contact and then dips his index finger momentarily into his ale.
Aele catches the signal instantly. The "dip of the finger" is an old tactical code within the bond—a warning that the waters are about to get murky. He subtly adjusts the Heart-Seed Scarab at his chest, ensuring the focus is ready for an immediate ritual or surge.
Thistle, despite being the "blind spot" in the group's secret language, isn't oblivious. He sees the sudden, sharp intensity in Dorn’s gaze and the way Cabe has stopped chewing, his jaw tight. The young cleric feels the "psionic static" in the room rise to a piercing hum. He doesn't need a hand signal to know that the atmosphere has shifted from a tavern meal to a pre-combat standoff.
The hooded figures remain motionless, but the one who nodded to Dorn now has his hand hidden beneath the table—likely on the hilt of a blade or a concealed focus. The "High Priest" they mentioned and their knowledge of the Resonance Chisel marks them as something far more dangerous than simple street thugs. These are Inquisitors of the Eye, or perhaps agents of the Cabal, and they are currently evaluating whether to strike you here or follow you into the dark.
Barnaby, sensing the sudden drop in temperature in the room, quietly slides a heavy iron bar onto the shelf beneath the bar. He’s seen this play out a hundred times.
Dorn finishes his drink, the glass hitting the wooden table with a deliberate clack.
"Good stew, Barnaby," Dorn says, his voice loud enough to carry. "Almost makes a man want to stay on the surface." He looks directly at the hooded pair. "Almost."
Dorn’s performance is masterful. He catches his foot on the leg of the bench, letting out a slightly-too-loud laugh and a lazy wave to the room. To anyone watching, he looks like a mercenary who’s just spent a significant portion of his payday on liquid courage.
Barnaby, playing his part in the dance of the tavern, catches the 200 gp Dorn slides across the scarred wood. With a practiced motion, he ducks under the counter and produces two vials of thick, swirling crimson liquid. "Safe travels, 'Brother Briar,'" Barnaby says with a knowing grunt, tucking the gold away.
As the group shifts toward the door, Cabe and Aele form a loose "V" around Thistle, shielding the young cleric from any sudden movement from the back of the room.
The two hooded figures don't move. They watch Dorn’s "stumble" with the cold, unblinking focus of raptors. The one with the gloved hand doesn't reach for his glass; his fingers remain motionless under the table. They aren't buying the act, but they aren't stopping you either. They seem content to let you lead the way into the Maw.
As the party push through the heavy front doors, the chill mountain air hits their faces, snapping the group, if possible, into a state of even higher alert. The sun is high, but the interior of the Great Maw—the entrance to Arden Vul—looms just a hundred yards away, a dark hole in the world that seems to swallow the light.
The heroes stand at the entrance of the ruins. Behind them is the relative safety of the tavern; ahead is the descent toward the Pump Station and the Screaming Vents.
"They're going to follow us," Cabe whispers, his hand tightening on his weapon. "They aren't going to let that 'signal' go to waste."
Thistle looks at the dark entrance, his brow furrowed. "The static is quieter now that we're outside, but it's changing pitch. It's... humming. Like the map Aele was showing us."
After the Brothers of the Deep are fifty yards from the inn, moving toward The Maw, Dorn says, "Change of plans. Those two are part of a cabal, or perhaps servants of the Cult of Set. I heard them mention 'the high priestess', and word is the Set Cult has a high priestess. They might be able to track or sense the resonance chisel. I doubt it. More likely, they're simply hunting for it and I drew their attention by stupidly mentioning the Screaming Vents out loud. Sorry guys. But I think we have an opportunity to play two sets of enemies against each other. Here's what we're going to do..."
And Dorn quickly outlines the plan: rather than heading for the Screaming Vents, the four will instead descend to Level 3 and seek out the halflings. "We let on like we've just come from the Inn and overheard a pair of hooded sorcerers planning to wipe out the halflings and take their place as extortioners in the dungeon. You know that's the sort of thing they surely fear will happen."
Aele catches on. "Ah, and if the hooded ones follow us there, they are either extraordinary trackers or else have some magical means of tracking us, such as a fix on the Resonance Chisel."
"Clever," says Cabe. "If they follow us, the halflings will likely attack first and ask questions never. "We may even gain credibility with the Small Ones."
Dorn’s grin returns, though this time it’s sharp and predatory. The "stumble" from the inn is gone, replaced by the low-slung, efficient stride of a man who has spent years outmaneuvering the Prelm city watch.
"Exactly," Dorn says, glancing back toward the stone silhouette of the Broken Head. "If they're tracking the Chisel, they'll walk right into a hornets' nest of halfling sling-stones and traps. If they aren't tracking it, we’ve successfully shaken them and bolstered our standing with the only folks in this hole who have a decent trade network."
The party adjusts their heading. Instead of the direct mechanical descent toward the Pump Station, they navigate the upper-level "Maw" bypasses to reach the Great Stairs.
Aele keeps the Resonance Chisel wrapped in a lead-lined pouch he used for spell components, hoping to dampen any "leakage" of its harmonic signature.
Cabe stays at the rear, eyes fixed on the shadows behind them. He’s looking for the tell-tale shimmer of a displacement spell or the silent footfalls of the hooded duo.
Thistle seems remarkably calm. "The halflings... they have a village in the Mushroom Forest, right? My mind... it’s telling me they have a brewer there who makes a tea from white caps that clears the head. Maybe that’s the 'help' I was sensing."
As they approach the outskirts of the Fungal Forest, the air turns damp and sweet with the smell of spores. The flickering light of small, well-placed lanterns begins to appear in the high crevices—the perimeter watch of the Halfling "Small Ones."
A sharp whistle echoes through the cavern, followed by the dry snick of multiple cross-bows being cocked in the darkness above.
"Hold!" a high, gravelly voice calls out from a mushroom-thicket. "That’s the Thothian and the big man who drinks like a dwarf. And a new one... a little cleric?"
Dorn steps forward, hands open and away from his weapons. "It’s us. We’ve come from the Broken Head with a heavy warning. There are two hooded vultures—sorcerers or cultists—creeping down the stairs behind us. We overheard them talking about 'clearing the forest' to set up a new base for their High Priestess. We ran to warn you before they could get the drop on your scouts."
