Around midday, Umur found the heart of the Sunken Fens. All hint of sunlight was gone because of the tangled branches overhead and heavy mists that seemed to cling to everything. The stench of burbling muck, like rotten eggs, hung in the air and made the companions wrinkle their noses. But what made Umur swear in his dwarven tongue and stop their advance, what made him know that they had found the Hound of Hirot’s befouled lair, was the gaping hole before them.

The waters of swamp drained away here, all moving like sludge inexorably towards an enormous sinkhole, more than three times across as the humans were tall. Slow, billowing clouds of black miasma roiled at its edges, though there was no sign of fire or cause for the smoke. Visible through the haze, dozens of fat flies the size of Haffoot’s fist buzzed almost drunkenly over the hole’s width. The bark of the rotting trees surrounding the sinkhole was stained black, and branches reached out like warding arms. It was a blight, this place, and wholly unnatural.

“By the Dancer of the Half-Light’s Path,” Erin gasped. “It is no wonder that this lair is shrouded from the sun and moon alike. Shul preserve us.”

“It’s killed the forest here,” Briene whispered, covering her mouth with a delicate hand. Tears formed in her wide eyes. “Corrupted it.”

“There is power here,” Hilda intoned from the back. “Ancient, dark power.”

“We have to go down, yeah? Into the hole?” Haffoot asked anyone who would answer in a small, halting voice.

“To rid the world of the Hound, absolutely we do,” Erin said. One hand strayed to the silver crescent at her neck, touching it for reassurance.

Umur had edged forward as the others huddled and whispered. He stood a stride’s length from the gaping maw of the sinkhole and peered over its edge, squinting to see through the putrid, oily clouds and bloated flies.

“Blast it all. Let’s get to it, then,” he said, and began unshouldering his backpack.

Even with his dwarven darkvision, Umur could not see the bottom of the sinkhole. They tied their ropes together, then secured one end to a rotting tree. The bark squelched and burst like a boil when the dwarf and Joane tightened their knots, releasing a smell like spoiled meat. Yet the anchor appeared strong enough to hold their weight, which Umur tested with violent tugs.

The armored dwarf went first, his face stoic and etched in concentration. Shield strapped to his back and longsword sheathed at his hip, he dug his boots into the soft muck of the hole’s side and lowered himself hand over hand through the coiling smoke and flies. The others held their breath, fear and disgust warring within their bellies.

Long after he had disappeared into shadow, Umur’s voice called up. “Alright,” it echoed. “Haffoot next. The rope’s sturdy. We can take two at a time.”

As instructed, the halfling chuckled nervously, then, with a quick salute, hopped over the edge. Her boots squelched into the side, and then she disappeared. Joane, with Ulfheonar’s wolf-spear jutting over one shoulder, followed her. Once they’d called up, Erin Wywood, her white armor and softly glowing eyes in contrast to everything in her surroundings, gripped the rope. Then lovely Briene, tears still glistening on her cheeks, disappeared over the edge as well.

Finally, Hilda of the Empty Star stood at the sinkhole’s maw. She peered around abstractly, studying the effect of the Hound on this place. The young healer had been correct, the magic had corrupted the forest. Shaped it. No different, she realized, than what she had accomplished near the standing stones when she reached out to her patron. What would this place look like if shaped by the bald man in the orb instead of the Hound? Would it be beautiful or horrific or something else? Someday, long from now, would the orb in her satchel lay forgotten in a sinkhole somewhere, sculpting the world to its whims and calling out for a new master? There was still so much about the nature of the power she wielded that she did not understand. What powers had the Savage King been tampering with, long ago, within the portal under the stars?

“Hilda?” a voice called from below. It was Erin’s. The wizard grinned.

“Coming!” she responded. She pushed her reverie aside and descended into the depths of the Hound’s lair.

It was a long way down, and two-thirds of the way the walls flared out and away, leaving Hilda to dangle like a spider on a slender thread to the bottom, with water above splattering down constantly and wetting her robes. Waiting at the bottom were her companions, who steadied and helped her stand on the sludgy ground.

They stood, all of them soaked, in a single chamber that was roughly circular. From above rained a cascade of dark water from the swamp, spattering at the edges of an inky black pool at the chamber’s center. The pool’s surface roiled like a boiling cauldron, yet inexorably slower. Bubbles lazed their way at the pool’s black surface, taking several heartbeats to slowly burst. The result was a pool that felt as if it did not boil so much as undulate, the effect as unnatural as everything else about the sinkhole.

All around the pool’s perimeter, at the companions’ feet, bits of rusted metal, bones, and broken weapons littered the muddy, slick shore. Otherwise, no signs of life existed. Not even the gorged flies, it seemed, would venture here.

“Ugh, it stinks even worse than above,” Haffoot complained, covering her nose and mouth. The halfling’s high voice echoed weirdly.

“I can barely see,” Joane added. “You’d think more light would come from above.”

At that, Hilda reached into her satchel and removed the glowing orb. Immediately, a pulsing, celestial light filled the chamber. In some ways, the orb helped to push back the horror of this place, but it also highlighted the foulness all around them. If anything, the surrounding shadows deepened. Joane and Briene edged away from Hilda, unsure if they were grateful for the illumination or resentful of the reminder of the wizard’s unnerving powers.

 “Now we wait,” Erin said. “I suggest we fan out and surround the pool.”

“If it comes at nightfall,” Haffoot grimaced. “Won’t it be hours still?”

The cleric smiled, but the expression did not travel beyond her lips. “Time enough to dry ourselves. And to pray. We battle an ancient Chaos tonight. Make peace with your gods and ancestors.” With that, Erin settled to the wet ground, resting hands on armored knees. She closed her eyes and began to hum a haunting melody. She did not say it aloud, but the tune was meant to shield her from the evil of the black pool as much as to connect with Shul. It radiated a… wrongness that threatened constantly to infiltrate her thoughts, and the moon tonight would be the barest sliver. She prayed that her god’s gaze would find her.

Time did not pass quickly that afternoon. Erin stayed motionless, her various cants echoing within the foul chamber. Joane and Briene huddled and whispered, distracting themselves with banter. Umur, Haffoot, and Hilda, meanwhile, spent their time searching the shore. Between the three of them, they found dozens of bits of gold and silver jewelry, some of which seemed ancient. The most valuable of these was a golden necklace decorated with bronze that Haffoot happily pocketed. With some polishing, she said, they had more wealth from the debris here than any of them would have seen in a lifetime working in Graymoor.

The armaments, unfortunately, were mostly shattered beyond use. There were two exceptions: the first was a wavy-bladed sword, inlaid with silver, that seemed perhaps as if it once belonged to a warrior from the Snake King’s tribe. Umur thought it might be reparable in a proper smithy, though unlikely better than their existing weapons. The second was a small, round buckler shield. The shield itself was dirty but in remarkably good condition, but the leather straps had long since disintegrated. With some care, the dwarf said, it was a proper shield for a two-weapon duelist like Haffoot. The halfling’s eyes lit up at the idea, and she found a place for the metal disc as well in her possessions.

Eventually, after long hours, night arrived. They did not know its arrival by the waning light from above, for the place seemed unchanged in its gloom. Instead, they knew nightfall by the stilling of the black pool before them. The slow boiling of the foul waters ceased, and an unnatural quiet fell over the chamber. Even the falling water above seemed muted in its patter.

The companions sensed the change, and as one they assembled around the pool’s perimeter in pairs. Umur had his longsword in one hand, sturdy wooden shield in the other. Near him stood Haffoot, dancing side to side with one thin blade and one short, flat one. Joane and Briene likewise stood together. The tavernkeeper’s daughter gripped the ancient wolf-spear in sweaty palms, while the trembling healer notched an arrow in her bow. Erin held her long, curved dagger, while at her side Hilda cradled the pulsing orb in one hand.

“Remember,” Hilda said into the stillness of the moment. “We will use the net to bind it. Only once bound can it truly be slain.”

As the final word left her lips, the Hound of Hirot arrived.

The creature did not rise slowly, like something newly birthed. Instead, it exploded from the still, black pool, sending ichor flying in all directions as it roared towards its target. That target was a wide-eyed Joane Cayhurst and her wolf-spear. The red-haired woman yelped and stepped back, avoiding the pony-sized beast as it landed in the mud. The Hound snarled and snapped with its jaws, oily black spraying from its fur and teeth. It looked larger than the two nights at the standing stones, and somehow more savage.

Hilda raised the orb overhead, its light now an eerie blue instead of white. A wind briefly swirled around her, rippling her robes and causing her hood to fall backwards. The black rectangle upon her forehead shone with the same blue light, matching the sphere in Hilda’s hand. She chanted in a language she did not understand, and, instead of avoiding the power pulling at her, she embraced it. Her body noticeably withered, becoming gaunt and gray where it had been plump and pale, as her chanting reached its climax.

In a flash of blue light, something emerged from the shadows beyond Joane and the Hound. It was human-sized, but with hunched shoulders, overlong arms, and enormous hands tipped by claws. The thing seemed to be made entirely of stone, and its face had neither eyes nor mouth, like a statue worn away by time and elements. Indeed, the Hound did not realize the stone creature was a threat until it had swung one of those large hands sideways, tearing at the Hound’s oily sides. The Hound snarled and snapped at the stone beast, and then its head swiveled around, eyes searching. For the first time since it had leapt from the pool, it seemed to realize the full number of intruders in its lair. Haffoot and Umur were making their way around the pool towards it one way while Erin circled the other.

The Hound rumbled a low, threatening growl. Its red eyes locked on Erin and her blade, which had begun to shine in its pale, holy light. It launched itself into the air, away from Joane and Hilda’s summoning, hurtling past Briene and directly at the cleric of Shul.

Surprising them all, the Hound had not leapt at Erin. Unmistakably, it flew to her, massive jaws stretched wide. The cleric used her glowing dagger defensively, keeping the beast at bay while her companions moved around the pool to attack.

“Raaaargh!” Joane screamed, eyes wide and red-haired braid swinging madly. She brought the wolf-spear overhead with both hands and plunged it down, impaling the Hound and pinning it to the soft muck below. The crossbars on the wolf-spear did their job, and Joane put all her weight into keeping the creature held while it thrashed and snapped.

“While it’s pinned!” Briene shouted from the back of the cavern. She held the shortbow in her hand but felt incapable of firing into the frenzy of battle for fear of hitting her allies.

The stone monstrosity loomed at Joane’s shoulder. It brought both enormous fists overhead and slammed them down onto the Hound’s neck, eliciting a yelp of pain and snarl of hatred.

Haffoot, panting, finally made it to Hilda’s side, several steps from the melee. She blinked, startled at her friend’s loss of weight and vitality.

“Hilda! Are- are you alright?”

“Take,” the wizard gasped, then swooned with vertigo. She pulled forth the item from her satchel, a net made of hair that glowed like the embers of a fire. “Take this. Bind the beast.”

The halfling, wide-eyed, slammed both of her swords into their scabbards and reached for the net. “I’ll do it,” she nodded.

“Blast it all!” Umur thundered, stomping past them. He was the slowest of them with his short legs and heavy armor, and had been opposite the Hound, across the pool. Only now had he joined the battle. “I’ve got you now!” He yelled, shield held forward like a battering ram.

Roaring, the Hound stood. The movement threw Joane aside like a ragdoll. The wolf-spear still protruded from its back. But it was no longer pinned.

In a flash, its enormous jaws closed around Erin. She yelled out in pain as it worried and tore at her with its jagged teeth, each nearly as long as her glowing dagger.

“No!” Hilda yelled weakly. “Haffoot, the net!”

“Heeeyah!” the halfling whooped, leaping up and throwing the strange net up and over the Hound’s flank. Haffoot twisted as she jumped, tangling two of the creature’s legs. It was a wholly lucky throw, yet no less effective. Indeed, the magical net seemed to hug the Hound tighter, further hampering its movement. The glowing embers of its strands contrasted with the deep black of the beast’s coat.

Umur stepped past Haffoot and stabbed. Councilwoman Leda Astford’s ancestral longsword, the item that had pulled Umur Pearlhammer from a sedentary life in Graymoor back into a quest for his homeland, plunged into the neck of the Hound, past its oily, thick fur. Black blood erupted from the wound, and the Hound howled out, dropping Erin from its maw. At first the sound was a wailing despair, but it quickly became a whimper and, finally, an almost human-like sigh. When Umur pulled his blade free, the creature had ceased moving. As the companions all watched in horrified wonder, it began to dissolve into oily sludge, like rapidly melting black ice within the glowing net.

The stone creature that Hilda had summoned loomed over the dissipating form of the Hound, seeming to examine it. Then it stood and, with a grunt that sounded like two boulders crashing together, two enormous stone wings erupted from its back like insects hatching free. Joane cried out in surprise as one of those wings pushed her aside. The creature then turned its eyeless, stone gaze upwards, hunched its legs, and launched itself into the air. It flew awkwardly, almost like a bat carrying something too heavy. The group of adventurers gaped as the thing flapped its way to the mouth of the sinkhole and then disappeared into the darkness above.

Hilda, gaunt and gray, watched the stone monstrosity rise. As it vanished from sight, the glowing black rectangle on her forehead went dark, her eyes rolled up in their sockets, and she fainted into the mud.

The Hound had almost completely dissolved, now nothing more than a mound of black sludge. Next to it, Erin groaned, rolling to her knees. Blood spattered from her lips as she coughed. Her dagger lay nearby, discarded and no longer alight with its divine aura.

“Erin!” Umur gasped, shaking himself out of the shock at seeing the stone creature fly off. He dropped to his knees next to the cleric.

“I’m alright,” she coughed weakly. “Just give me a moment.”

She closed her eyes, murmuring between coughs. Her companions expected Shul’s power to heal the cleric, as had happened earlier that day in the fens. Instead, Erin’s coughs kept interrupting the prayer, and she shook her head in frustration. Then she, too, fainted, bleeding, her inert body slumping next to Hilda’s.

“Blast it all to the Nine Hells,” Umur swore. “Briene! Get over here, lass! We need a healer!”

Joane gasped. “Briene! No!”

Umur and Haffoot turned at the exclamation. Then they too cried out, as Briene Byley, her face a mask of concentration, waded to the center of the corrupted, black pool.

DCC Character Level 1: Briene Byley