19 - Vault of Terror

Happy Halloween, Vaulters! This spooktacular update of art and kickoff of the adventures of our iconic Vault characters does not require any action on your part. 

Marshall Art

We've got two spooky creatures to chill your bones for this October update: an ethereal Banshee and a bone-crunching Grimlock.

   

Vault Ventures 

This section is a narrative of the community-chosen adventuring band, as detailed in Update 18. Its purpose is to showcase the Vault as used for actual play, and entertain backers over the course of product development and production. 

Remme - Human Circle of the Shepherd Druid

Votun - Warforged Battlemaster Fighter

Grecken - Gnome Assassin Rogue

Elora Damn-ed - Archfey Pact of the Tome Warlock

Our iconic adventurers have gathered around a table in cozy tavern in an unfamiliar town. The inn is comfortable but costly, and funds have run low. 

As the four friends sipped their drinks and savored the warmth of the hearth, the tavern began to fill with the lively chatter of locals, their voices alight with excitement about an upcoming holiday—a time to honor the dead. This celebration, they overheard, was a blend of remembrance and spooky tales, meant to remind the children of very real dangers lurking beyond the borders of civilization.

Intrigued, the party listened intently as a local bard, draped in dark attire and a garishly painted leather festival mask, took the stage. As the tavern hushed in anticipation, the bard began to weave a chilling fable, one that sent shivers down their spines:

The Tale of The Abattoir of Avarice

In a time long past, in the outskirts of the long-abandoned city whose ruins form the foundations of this town, there lay a cemetery so sinister, it came to be known as “The Abattoir of Avarice." Originally called “Elysium of the Elite” and reserved exclusively for the wealthy and influential, it was a necropolis of those who had it all, yet for all their power could not acquire the one thing money could not buy: life itself.

Not that that stopped them from trying. Strange visitors from lands beyond the edge of maps were brought into town, at exorbitant expense. They brought with them even stranger devices, and exotic materials, and the notion that what cannot be bought might yet be stolen. Over the ensuing years the town gained a reputation for peace and order. At first, the townsfolk celebrated how the local constabulary seemed to be more vigorously rounding up bandits and criminals. The streets were cleared of beggars and thieves. Then they began to comment on how travelers seen entering town tended to not be seen leaving. And that those who took ill, and were taken to the High Houses for treatment by the nobles’ physicians, seldom returned.

Whispers in the night spoke of forbidden rites performed by the aristocrats. Yet even these dark sacrifices could not satiate their unholy hunger. Travelers and merchants began to avoid the town. Desperation took root, and the nobles turned to openly abducting local villagers and even their own servants to prolong their wretched existence.

The commoners could bear this wickedness no longer, and on a night much like tonight, they rose in revolt. With fury and vengeance they unleashed their wrath upon every noble in the city, and cast their lifeless bodies into a mass grave within Elysium. The once-opulent cemetery was sealed, abandoned, and erased from all maps. The estates and their contents were put to the torch. When word of the revolt reached the capital city the King’s Justice fell swiftly, and the empty city fell into ruin.

Some claim this story is naught but a legend, an exaggeration spun over the years to terrify children. Others, however, whisper that the tales are real. They say that the Abattoir of Avarice became a harbinger of doom as the souls of the rich nobles, ruined by insatiable greed and covetousness, seeped their malevolence into the very soil. And that on a night like this, those who wander too far at night become prey for the insatiable spirits that still hunger for more life.

The story told, the adventurers engaged in a spirited debate. Votun, his tone blunt, expressed their financial woes and raised the unsettling notion that the wealthy, much like the nobles in the tale, might have taken their riches to their graves. Elora, appalled, couldn't fathom disturbing the deceased, but Grechen pointed out the futility of gold lying with the dead when they, the living, had needs for it.

Remme suggested that gold or no gold, such a place was a dangerous blight upon the land. With a collective nod, the party resolved to determine the truth of the story.

The party spent a frustrating morning attempting to uncover more information about the cemetery or its location. With seemingly little to show for it, the party took a late lunch to discuss next steps.

“I spoke with a pair of mercenaries traveling from the East, heading West tomorrow. They have not seen anything matching the description of the cemetery we seek.” Votun said. “I also spoke with a tinker traveling the opposite way, on the return leg of his seasonal route. In all his years of travel through this region, he has never seen anything like the Abattoir of Avarice.”

“I wonder where the mercenaries were coming from?” Elora asked. “Is there a war nearby?”

Grecken grouched, “There’s always a war, child.”

“They came from Heston, in the province of Kharan” Votun said.

“Helton is well North of here,” Remme said. “Going West would take those mercenaries through rocky terrain. The forest to the north is dense, but even so, would be a much better route.”

“That may be, but there is no road to the North” Votun pointed out.

“No, there isn’t…” Remme mused. “This tinker, was Heston his destination?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s been traveling his route for years?”

“He said so. I see no reason why he would lie to me.”

Remme looked thoughtfully toward the North. “And I see no reason why this town and Heston should not have built a direct road through yonder wood. It’s not much, but it’s something.”

Grecken cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. “Remme, you think you’re the first person to figure out that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line? There could be any number of reasons for that road to not exist. There would be a good tavern along the Western way. There could be an important crossroads. These humans could just be lazy!”

“I agree, there could be many reasons.” Remme stood up. “Let us go amongst the people, and ask.” 

As it turned out, not a single villager had a clear answer for why there were no roads–or even trails–heading North out of town. Elora wondered aloud, “But if they don’t have a good reason for why they haven’t built a road, and it’s so obvious that a road would be beneficial, why not just… build it?” 

“Because tradition can be more than a guide,” answered Remme. “It can be a jailor. These people have avoided those woods for so long, they’re probably not even aware that they’re avoiding them. It simply never occurs to them to head directly North, especially with such a well-traveled route West.” He pursed his lips, then nodded to himself. “Yes. I think it’s time we go for a hike.”

Elora squinted up at the sun, well past noon. “But, Remme, aren’t we losing the light?” 

Remme laughed. “Oh, don’t worry child. Druids don’t get lost in the woods!”

They got lost in the woods. It happened slowly. The party’s initial foray made good time, and they swiftly put miles between them and the village. The ground was firm and the old growth left little opportunity for ground scrub. It also let precious little light through the canopy, such that it was difficult to determine the passage of time. It wasn’t until Elora saw Remme squinting to and fro, in apparent confusion, that she realized the light had dimmed to an extent that his human eyes were finding it difficult to see. Finally, with a sigh and a whispered word,, the druid instantiated a ball of green flame in his open hand. 

Grecken sidled up. “What’s the matter old man? Lost the path?”

“That’s why we’re here, Grecken–there ARE no paths.” Remme cast his gaze back and forth, and couldn’t help but notice that the green glow and dancing shadows from his flame brought not cheer, but instead imparted a ghastly look upon the wood. “Despite my best efforts, I can’t seem to get the lay of this confounding land. It seems I have not been able to find our quarry. It’s almost like the cemetery doesn’t want to be found.”

Votun stomped closer to the light. The green flame turned his armored body into gleaming emerald. “A cemetery is not alive. It cannot want.”

“No, of course not,” Remme said. “Well, we’ve lost the light. Let’s get out of this wood and try again in the morning.”

It soon became clear that was easier said than done. A ground mist arose, further limiting the sight of even those with Darkvision. The trees seemed to grow closer together, and the party found itself backtracking when the foliage grew so close as to form a wall. The fog thickened. “And now we’re in an area with groundcover.” Remme thought to himself, as he saw vague shapes, low to the ground, to his left and right. “We didn’t come through this way… I truly have lost our quarry.” 

The druid extended his hand to caress the viney growth, but recoiled in sudden pain. Instead of pliable plant, he encountered sharp metal. A brief lull in the fog revealed a twisted fence of jagged black iron. The word “quarry” ran through his mind yet again. “My friends… I took you into these woods for a hunt,” the druid said, with growing alarm. “But I believe it is we who are being hunted.”

The mist parted to reveal a pair of stacked stone towers, spawning ironwork fencing left and right to the limit of their sight. A ruined gate was cast down between the pillars. Beyond was a wide expanse of open ground, seething with ground fog and strewn with tombstones. Larger crypts and sarcophagi loomed out of the mist throughout the unhallowed grounds.

Votun’s armored visage swept left to right. He then strode three steps forward, and turned around to address his companions. “We have found it, or it has found us. It matters not. We are here. We will go within, and we will overcome whatever threats await. Together.” The warforged’s words emboldened the party, and practiced hands confidently gripped blade, staff, and orb. Votun turned, set his shield, and marched through the gate.

The mist roiled in apparent response to the intrusion, then settled. The party moved steadily forward. And then, all at once: a cacophony of grating stone as dozens of marble lids slid open. To their left, a small hill came tumbling down as its mass of occupants clawed their way through to the surface. 

Choices in the Mist

Faced with a desperate battle against the ravenous undead, the group is forced to make a choice:

Choice 1: Ritual de lo Habitual - Form up and protect Remme, and push to the heart of the cemetery where he can perform a ritual of purification to dispel its malevolent presence.

Choice 2: Crypt Keepers - Dash towards a nearby crypt with an open door, where the party could defend the narrow entrance and limit the advantage of numbers.

Choice 3: Run To the Hills - Flee into the dense woods, where the undergrowth would disperse the undead horde, offering a chance at escape.

The fate of our heroes lies in your hands, dear backers. Choose wisely, and together, we'll continue to uncover the next thrilling chapter of The Vault of Mini Things' iconic adventures!