The tunnels of the Black Lung Mines rumbled faintly above Othar as he made his way toward daylight. The air was thick with dust and iron scent, the familiar perfume of dwarven labor. Mortimuer’s letter—creased and re-creased from rereading—felt heavy in his hand. His friends… the Defenders… they were waiting. Doskvale was broken, confused, frightened. And Othar had been trapped down here too long since the attack.
Just as he stepped toward the exit shaft, boots skidded on stone.
A young dwarven miner—barely past apprenticeship—stumbled in front of him, chest heaving, eyes wide with panic.
“Sir.....you’ve got to come quick! We found something. Down in the lower shafts. You’re the only one I could find... please come quickly”
The boy’s face was pale beneath the soot. He was terrified. But Othar’s oath to his companions weighed equally heavy.
Othar narrows his eyes.
“Slow your breath, lad. Tell me what you saw.”
The boy wipes his brow with a shaking hand.
“It’s… a light, sir. Green. Faint at first, but—growing. The overseer sent me to fetch someone who… well… has been further down than the rest of us.”
He swallows. “And the others down there… they won’t go near it.”
The description jogs at Othar’s memory...... "A green light?" Othar mumbles..... something about that sounds familiar. A memory pricks him like a splinter.
Othar clamps a firm hand on the lad’s shoulder. “Lead the way. My friends can wait—whatever this is, I must see it.” Relief floods the boy’s face as they hurry deeper. The lantern light flickers strangely the further they descend, as though the shadows themselves are uneasy.
By the time they reach the older tunnels—carved long before Othar was born—the dread is unmistakable. The rock feels heavier here. The air is colder. The path they follow, and the boy’s strained descriptions of the green light and what lies ahead, tug at Othar's memory......
ROLL: Observation Check (DC 15)
Player rolls Observation / Perception. If using a d20, report the result and whether you pass or fail.
A shiver crawls up Othar’s back as they continue down the cavern.
He glances toward an old metal rack meant for storing emergency gear along the cavern wall's edge. Among the rusted picks and bent crowbars sits a broad-bladed mining axe—heavy but well-balanced. He snatches it from the pile.
“Helthun guide my hand,” he mutters, taking it.
As the tunnel opens into the long corridor, the flashes of memory become undeniable: the drider and his battle against it with his friends, the Defenders. And the desperate escape from the collapsing under-cavern. His hand moves instinctively to the drider’s tooth hanging from his belt—taken as a trophy on that terrible day.
As they approach the end of the tunnel, voices echo ahead. Miners. Nervous. Whispering. They are close.
The oppressive feeling grows with each step, but he cannot place why he feels this way. His fingers twitch restlessly near his belt, as if expecting danger. Still, the lad rushes ahead, and Othar follows out of duty and instinct.
The corridor widens into an open space—and recognition hits him like a falling stone: this was the battleground. Where the Defenders fought the drider priestess. Where shadow and venom nearly claimed them all. Black Lung miners cluster around the massive pit, muttering anxiously. That is when the memory floats his mind:
"The drider," he curses. Remembering his battle against it with his friends, the Defenders. And the desperate escape from the collapsing under-cavern. His hand moves instinctively to the drider’s tooth hanging from his belt—taken as a trophy on that terrible day.
Othar shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, lad. My duty lies elsewhere. The Defenders need me.”
He walks toward the cavern exit—but a sudden, crushing wave of purpose stops him mid-stride. Helthun’s calling. His oath to the Order. His obligation to King Oakhelm. It all slams into him like a hammer to an anvil. The encounter with Lady Esmerelda had clouded his judgement.
“No…” he whispers. “Duty calls indeed.”
NOTE: Having initially avoided his call to duty imposes a -5 penalty to any future rolls in this HTML adventure (track it on your character sheet).
Reaching the Cavern
Othar and the boy hurried down the cavern path. The trek felt like hours as Othar’s mind swam with memories of that battle so many moons ago. The Defenders had defeated the drider—but what had been far more unsettling was how it had reached this land in the first place. There had been a faint residue of a magical passageway where the creature first appeared, but it had vanished by the time Othar investigated. Could this be a reopening? Could he finally go home? But what of the Defenders… of Doskvale? These thoughts churned in his mind.
But the thoughts stopped the moment they reached the end of the corridor. Before them yawned the huge circular opening in the floor—the very chamber they had climbed out of after the battle. And at the ledge overlooking the hollowed-out space below, a familiar dwarf waited.
“Phol Soothaxe,” Othar said, approaching and clasping the dwarf’s forearm. “Didn’t expect to see you back here.”
Phol smirked. “Didn’t expect to be back here. But we found something—and you’ll want to see it.” He pointed downward.
At first, Othar saw only darkness. Then—a soft green pulse lit the lowest corner of the cavern. The exact color of the drider’s half-open portal.
“It can’t be…” Othar murmured. In the far corner of the pit—where they had finally destroyed the drider—a faint green glow shimmered. Once he saw it, he knew instantly: it was a pathway. Perhaps home. But was it an entrance… or an exit? He needed to get down there and find out.
He turned to Phol, urgency sharpening his voice. “I have to get down there. Is there anything you can lend to help?”
ROLL: Persuasion Check (DC 13)
Remember to add/subtract previous effects onto this role if you have any.
Phol digs in his pouch and produces a small, dull gray shard that glows faintly when held to the light.
“A Duststone,” he says. “Take it. It'll steady your arm when you need it most.”
You have advantage on one role.
Phol shakes his head. “Wish I could help, but the lads have already taken everything we can spare.”
No help. You must rely on your strength and tools.
Having no idea what awaits him below, Othar prepares to descend into the depths. As he tightens the laces of his boot and steps toward the first rung of the miners’ hastily erected ladder, a soft voice calls from behind him.
“E-excuse me, sir… I’m willing to come.”
Othar turns. He had nearly forgotten about the young dwarven miner who had followed him this far. The boy stands there—dust-covered, wide-eyed, yet anchored by a steady determination. Beneath the soot, a quiet bravery flickers.
“By Oakhelm’s Axe…” Othar mutters, impressed despite himself.
The boy swallows hard. “No one else will go down there, sir. But I… I heard the stories of your courage defending our city. If you’ll have me, I’ll stand with you in the depths below.”
Othar regards the young miner with a solemn, appreciative look. For a moment, he considers accepting the offer—but then stops. This is not the boy’s fight, nor his burden to carry.
Stepping closer, Othar places a firm hand on the lad’s shoulder and gently turns him toward the ladder. “Thank you, lad… truly. But I need you up here.” He nods toward Pohl with a faint smirk. “If there’s trouble, that gold goat will need a young man’s quick feet.”
The boy exhales, torn between relief and disappointment. Othar squeezes his shoulder once—steady, reassuring. “I’ll be right back,” he promises, then turns toward the yawning dark below.
He descends alone into the lower chamber. The air grows colder, vibrating with a low, uneasy hum. At the far corner, a ragged green slit of light flickers—sickly, pulsing, unmistakably arcane.
As Othar reaches the final rung and steps onto the cavern floor, he turns—and freezes. There it is. The portal. Not fully open, but torn just wide enough to be active for a heartbeat more. The edges shiver, collapsing inward like a wounded beast.
It’s closing—fast.
Othar’s instincts ignite. Whatever this rift leads to, whatever truth or danger it holds—this may be his only chance.
Othar studies the young miner—dust-covered, trembling, but undeniably resolute. The boy’s courage is raw, unpolished, but true. And Othar knows the depths ahead hold dangers no dwarf should face alone.
He nods once, firmly. “All right, lad. If you’re willing to stand with me, I’ll not turn you away.”
The boy straightens, eyes going bright with a mix of fear and pride. Othar offers a rare, small grin. “Stay close. Keep your wits sharp. And no heroics unless I call for them.”
They descend the ladder together, the old wood creaking beneath their weight. The deeper they go, the colder the air becomes—until it hums with a faint, unsettling vibration. The boy pauses, whispering, “Sir… do you feel that?”
Othar does. The energy is unmistakable.
They step onto the cavern floor, boots crunching against the stone. And then they see it—both of them stopping dead in their tracks.
Across the chamber, a ragged green slit of light flickers in and out of existence. The same color as the drider’s portal. The same shape. The same wrongness.
“By the Forge…” the boy breathes.
The portal shudders—shrinking, collapsing inward like it is being pulled closed from the other side.
“It’s closing,” Othar says, jaw tightening. This could be his only chance for answers… maybe even a path home. But only if he moves now.
The cavern hums. The light pulses. The opening begins to seal.
Othar looks about the chamber, memories pressing at the edges of his mind. Instinct guides his hand to his belt. His fingers brush the worn haft of one of his small mining axes—an old companion, balanced perfectly for moments just like this.
With a practiced breath, he draws it, feeling the familiar weight settle into his palm. Then—without hesitation—Othar hurls the axe across the chamber. It spins once, twice, then strikes the shrinking portal with a sharp, ringing clang that echoes through the hollow space.
The blade bites into the very edge of the rift, catching on some unseen force. For a heartbeat, the collapsing portal shudders… then halts, held open by the stubborn dwarven steel.
Othar rushes forward, boots pounding against stone. As he reaches the flickering slit of green light, he draws forth the Crest of the Order of Helthun—its edges warm with ancient blessing. With a grunt of effort, he wedges the relic into the fissure alongside the embedded axe.
The crest flares gently, a halo of pale gold radiating outward. The portal trembles, fighting against the intrusion, then stabilizes—if only barely. The light is thin, wavering, but holding.
For the first time in a long while, Othar feels something stir in his chest.
Hope.
Othar scans the chamber, heart pounding as the portal’s sickly green light flares and flickers. Instinct drives his hand to his belt. He draws one of his small mining axes—old, reliable steel that has never failed him in the depths.
With a steadying breath, he hurls the axe across the chamber. It spins true… but the portal contracts faster than he expected. The blade strikes the stone just inches from the rift with a harsh, jarring crack, sparks skittering across the cavern floor.
“Stone and sorrow…” Othar growls under his breath as he rushes forward, desperate to reach the collapsing tear.
He pulls free the Crest of the Order of Helthun, its faint divine heat pulsing in his palm. He tries to wedge it into the fissure—tries to force the light to hold—but the portal shudders violently.
The green glow pulses once, twice, then collapses like a dying ember.
Othar is left kneeling before a bare patch of stone, his crest dim in his hands. The air grows still. Cold. Quiet.
And yet… in that final instant as the rift snapped shut, he saw it--
a sliver of landscape not belonging to Doskvale, and not belonging to the Great Expanse.
It was crude and fleeting, but unmistakable.
"Home" he muttered
Othar rises slowly, jaw set. The portal may be closed—for now—but for the first time since that long-
Hope.
End of Scene
Othar stands in the hollowed chamber for a final moment, letting the quiet settle around him. Whether triumph or setback, the path forward is now clear—and it leads far beyond these ancient stones.
Climbing the ladder, he emerges into the ring of lantern-lit faces. Othar offers the young dwarf a steady nod and clasps his shoulder. “You did well, lad. Doskvale could use more hearts as brave as yours.”
Phol Soothaxe steps forward next, worry etched deep into his features. Othar grips his forearm in a rough, honest handshake. “Thank you, friend. Keep these tunnels safe. And if anything stirs down there again… send word fast.”
Phol huffs a weary laugh. “Aye. Would’ve been nice if trouble stayed buried for once.” But the humor fades into something more somber. “Go on, Othar. We’ll take it from here.”
Othar turns to the gathered Black Lung miners—dusty, exhausted, but steadfast. He bows his head in respect. “My thanks to all of you. Your vigilance is always appreciated.”
With that, he begins the long ascent through the mine’s upper passages. Each step toward the surface feels heavier than the last—burdened not with fear, but with purpose. The cold stone gives way to warmer air, then finally to the open sky. When he steps out onto the Streets of Doskvale, a stiff wind meets him, sharp and bracing.
He sets off toward Villa 4563, boots striking the street with renewed determination. His friends await. Answers await. And perhaps, somewhere beyond the veil, a chance to return home. But first, to his friends
Report success or failure to your GM and resume play at Villa 4563.