The city of Kemperbad hummed with rumor and tension, the air thick with talk of blood and scandal. In the quiet offices of the Reikland Chancellery, a magistrate’s letter was sealed in wax—an official account of Lady Etelka Herzen’s death. The letter spoke of her body and that of her companion, both found in their chambers at the Golden Bull Inn, their throats cut and their belongings rifled through. To the magistrate, it was a tragic crime of passion or greed. To the fellowship who had killed her, it was an uncomfortable echo of unfinished business.
The group—Felrick Flappan, Thindruk Steelbone, Qavitrae, Wanda Hahnemann, and Nora Abendroth—watched the sun rise over Kemperbad’s riverfront, their thoughts turned toward escape. Lady Herzen’s death was cleanly executed, but the Empire had a long memory. Even now, they suspected, the city was waking to gossip of sorcery and murder. They spoke quietly aboard the Dandy Fräulein, the small riverboat that had become their refuge, debating what to do next.
They had found maps in the dead woman’s room—strange, ink-stained things that spoke of geometry and obsession. A great triangle stretched across the heart of the Empire, each vertex marked in precise angles as though measured by divine instrument. The southern point was circled, labeled only as The Devil’s Bowl. Another red mark appeared along the River Reik near Altdorf. And in the satchel they had stolen from her corpse, a peculiar key of brass—key-shaped, but without teeth.
Felrick turned the object over in his hands, watching it catch the morning light. “A key without a lock,” he muttered. “Or a warning without words.”
Their debate wandered through possibilities—north to Middenheim, south to Altdorf, or upriver toward the mark on the map. Thindruk, ever practical, chose the river route: it was on the way, and the boat was already paid for. Still, Felrick’s unease grew. Altdorf was not safe for them; their faces were on wanted posters there, remembered in song and story for a barroom brawl that had turned to murder. But the lure of mystery—and profit—was too strong. They would trade cargo along the way, keep up appearances, and follow the red mark downriver to see what secrets it concealed.
By midday, the group found a merchant willing to sell woven cloth at a decent rate—thirty bales for two hundred crowns, filling the Dandy Fräulein’s hold. The deal was struck with sharp words and sharper smiles, and they departed the next morning beneath a pale spring sky. The river was calm, its current lazy and green, and for two days they drifted in uneasy peace.
On the third day, a shape appeared along the southern bank: the ruin of an old tower, half-collapsed but not abandoned. Smoke curled from campfires at its base, and the shouts of dwarves echoed faintly over the water. Two of them, aprons smeared with soot, ran to the dock and waved the travelers in.
“Oi! Passage!” one called, desperation in his voice. “We’ll pay well!”
Before Qavitrae could answer, a stocky dwarven woman came storming down the slope after them, pipe clenched between her teeth. Her voice carried over the water. “You’ll do no such thing! Get back to work, you lazy bastards, or I’ll see you blacklisted from every guild this side of Altdorf!”
She was Angel Eisenbeard, forewoman of the crew—master artisan of the Altdorf Engineering Guild, as she would soon announce with pride. Thindruk, intrigued by the sight of dwarves at labor, came ashore to speak with her. She explained that they were constructing one of the Empire’s new signal towers, a vast network of beacons meant to carry messages across provinces in moments. The tower, she said, was being rebuilt upon the ruins of an older one, a structure of dark stone not native to these lands.
But all was not well. Dwarves were disappearing.
“They say it’s cursed,” Eisenbeard spat, smoke curling from her nostrils. “Twelve I started with. Six remain. No blood, no struggle—just gone, one or two a night.”
Thindruk frowned. “You’ve searched the grounds?”
“Aye. Nothing but strange tracks in the mud, light as feathers. I thought it was nonsense—till two more vanished last night.”
While Thindruk drank her bitter tea and weighed her story, Qavitrae and Felrick examined the ruin. The stone was dark and glassy, harder than granite, the kind of material one shipped from faraway hells. Felrick’s eyes narrowed at the fractures that spiraled through the base. “This wasn’t erosion,” he murmured. “Something blew this place apart from within.”
When he pried loose a chunk of stone, its inner face glittered like obsidian. “An explosion,” he said softly. “And not the powder sort.”
That night, Qavitrae opened her senses to the winds of magic. The air around the ruin throbbed faintly with Dar and Shyish—the sour winds of death and corruption. It clung to the stones like old blood. The elf shuddered. “This place remembers dying,” she whispered.
The next morning, Felrick set to work tracking the missing dwarves. The earth was damp from rain, and at first the ground told him nothing—until he found prints not made by boots. Human-shaped, yes, but elongated, with claws in place of nails. The marks barely pressed into the soil, as though the creature that made them weighed less than air. Following the faint trail, he found scraps of torn fabric near a collapsed tent and a few drops of blood that had darkened to rust. The tracks led away from the camp—and back to the tower.
He returned to the others grim-faced. “Whatever’s been taking them, it lives inside.”
They approached the sealed door at the tower’s base. Felrick drew out the key they had taken from Etelka Herzen’s corpse. It looked nothing like it should fit any lock, but as he raised it toward the door, the heavy stone portal shuddered—and opened of its own accord. A blast of freezing air poured out, reeking of the grave.
Wanda and Felrick were closest. The breath of that darkness struck them like a hammer. Felrick heard the voice first—a whisper in the wind, cold and commanding. Go back. Wanda saw more: a face, pale and translucent, rising from the gloom. Her heart seized. She fell where she stood.
Felrick staggered, clutching her by the collar, dragging her backward from the threshold. As soon as their feet left the shadow of the doorway, the stone slammed shut with thunderous finality.
They revived Wanda minutes later, her eyes wild and unfocused. “A face,” she breathed. “It spoke.”
The others gathered close. Qavitrae’s jaw tightened. “Then it warned us.”
“Or invited us,” Felrick muttered.
Thindruk folded his arms, thinking. “Either way, it’s the source of their trouble.”
The debate was short. The dwarves wanted to flee. Angel Eisenbeard herself wavered now, torn between pride and dread. The laborers muttered about curses and elf magic, and when Thindruk’s words failed to calm them, Qavitrae’s sharp tongue only hardened their resolve. Soon, tents were being packed, hammers thrown down. Felrick fired his pistol into the air, the crack echoing through the valley.
“Hold!” he barked. “No one leaves without leave!”
It slowed them, but only barely. In the end, Thindruk ordered them ferried across the river to camp on the far bank, within sight but beyond reach of whatever haunted the tower. It was a compromise between mercy and control.
As dusk bled across the water, the Dandy Fräulein’s crew stripped the wheel from their boat and dragged it into camp—a precaution against mutiny and theft. The night ahead would bring either quiet or horror.
Felrick stood staring at the sealed tower, the air around it unmoving, heavy with unseen presence. “If it comes for us,” he said, “we’ll be ready.”
Qavitrae’s eyes glinted in the fading light. “If it comes for us,” she replied, “it will regret it.”
Across the river, the dwarves’ campfires flickered like uneasy stars. And between them, on the hill by the ruin, the dark stone of the old tower drank the last of the daylight.
Party reactions and clarifications around the letter and prior events: The group remarks on the spelling of Kemperbad (noting confusion with “Kemberbad”). Table recollection (in-character): the party had previously killed Etelka Herzen in her sleep to prevent her from casting dangerous magic; they slit her throat afterward to conceal the real cause (an arrow), and quickly searched her chambers. Items earlier found in Etelka’s rooms (recapped): The group escaped the Golden Bull Inn after the killing. Strategic discussion on next steps (locations and risks): Decision to acquire cargo in Kemperbad before departure: Logistics and timing: Navigation to the red mark along the Reik: Initial contact at the tower site: Site survey and stonework observations: Gathering accounts from workers (Wanda and general mingling): Formal meeting with the forewoman: Magical sensing at the site: Tracking and physical evidence around the camp: The sealed door and the key: The stone base has a sturdy door partway up a short stone stair. The party produces Etelka Herzen’s key-shaped object; when brought near the door, the door swings open on its own (no visible keyhole used). Resolve checks (easy) are called for Felrick and Wanda at the doorway: An icy wind rushes out; a voice whispers “Go back”; Wanda also perceives a spectral face in the wind before collapsing. Felrick drags Wanda back a few feet; the door slams shut. Immediate response and tactical debate: Evacuation of the workers and securing the boat: Session close positioning:Session Notes