12th September 2025 - The Lull in the Storm

The Amber Temple had gone quiet again. Too quiet.

The smell of ozone still clung to the air, acrid and sharp, mingling with the ever-present dust of centuries. The party barricaded themselves into the chamber where they’d once shattered an Amber Golem. Their breathing was ragged, their bodies bruised from the berserker fight.

Then the light came.

It was faint at first, a bobbing, sickly green glow seeping beneath the doorframe. Not firelight, not torchlight. Flameskulls. The light lingered, as though listening, then slipped away without a sound. A promise, not a retreat.

They didn’t speak much. There wasn’t much to say.

Aeli buried herself in Van Richten’s journal, its pages stiff with age, its margins scribbled with desperate, meticulous notes. One passage caught her attention, words underlined twice in dark ink:

"Werewolves are savage and relentless, their curse granting them immense strength and speed. They hunt in packs, using coordinated tactics to isolate and overwhelm their prey. Silver is their bane—a weapon forged of silver can pierce their hide and disrupt their unnatural regeneration. Without it, even the mightiest blows may fail to bring them down.

They are most dangerous under the light of the full moon, when their transformation is complete and their bloodlust peaks. However, even in human form, they retain heightened senses and a predatory cunning. Striking at their human allies or loved ones may provoke them into reckless behavior, breaking their pack cohesion.

Fire is also effective, as it forces them to keep their distance. When facing werewolves, always carry silver, and never fight them on their terms. Lure them into confined spaces where their numbers and mobility are less advantageous."

It felt less like information and more like foreshadowing.

The mention of wolves pierced Lars' soul, and he stiffened. His hatred for wolves was a living thing, and it seemed to sharpen his features, set his jaw. He was out the door in search of the Dire Wolf before anyone else could argue, leaving only a trail of breath in the icy air.

The rest followed him into the storm. Snow flurried thick, and the tracks were easy to find: large, deep pawprints leading south.

The pack found them first.

Wolves materialized from the storm like spectres, eyes shining yellow-green. The dire wolf was there too, the same beast that had fled earlier, its massive form low to the ground, hackles raised.

The fight was fast and brutal. Marcus’s Fireball turned night to day for a heartbeat, vaporizing one wolf and leaving the air smelling of scorched fur. Aeli’s Sun Sword blazed like a tiny sun, cutting a wolf in two with a spray of snow and light. Lars moved with a predator’s precision, mace crunching through skull after skull.

The dire wolf lunged, clamping its jaws on Aeli’s arm, but she planted her feet, refusing to fall. The battle ended in steaming blood on fresh snow, the pack broken. Lars knelt, trying to skin one of the wolves, but exhaustion and rage left him clumsy. The hide came away ragged.

No trophies tonight.

Back inside, the temple felt worse somehow. Oppressive. Hungry.

The first room they cleared was a dining hall. The table was laden with a feast so perfect it was disturbing, roast meats steaming, wine glasses brimming, bread still warm.

Marcus’s Wand of Secrets revealed nothing, but the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. “It’s a trap,” he said, voice tight.

They left the food untouched. Whatever waited in that room would have to hunger for someone else.

The shrine was next. The statue dominated the room, a towering obsidian figure with no face. Two corpses slumped before it, dried husks that might once have been pilgrims.

Aeli stepped into the room, and the air shifted.

Her voice changed first, filled with awe. “It’s… beautiful,” she breathed, moving toward the statue.

Lars swore, fumbling for a rope.

Marcus didn’t hesitate. His Dispel Magic slammed into the enchantment like a hammer, shattering it. Aeli blinked, shaking off the compulsion just as her hand hovered inches from the statue’s surface.

Then came the sound.

A hidden door creaked open, releasing a torrent of skulls that cascaded into the room, the clatter echoing through the temple like a death knell.

And then the balcony gave way.

The floorboards rotted through, dropping them thirty feet to the temple floor below. The impact left them gasping and bruised. For a long time, they hid in the alcoves, listening for barbarian war cries that never came.

The treasure room was more disappointment than triumph. Copper coins. Rusted armor. Dresses ruined by time.

And then the curios: a silvered rapier with a pink glass hilt, an obsidian scepter, and a dozen pristine copies of The Tales of Phandalin signed by Gary Gygax.

The most chilling find was a child-sized sarcophagus of black wood inlaid with gold. Empty. Waiting.

A crack in the wall led them into a smaller chamber, its floor lined with six rotting crates.

Marcus opened one.

The vampire spawn burst out, claws flashing, its gear still strapped to its withered form. Another crate rattled and split as a second vampire joined the fight.

The battle was close and vicious. The creatures healed almost as quickly as they were wounded, their snarls echoing off the stone. Aeli’s Sun Sword was the difference, its light searing through undead flesh. Marcus hurled spells. And Lars struck with grim determination.

One by one, the vampires fell, bodies collapsing into sludge.

The spiral staircase brought them into silence.

A library stretched out before them, grand and untouched by time, every book in perfect condition, and every single one blank. Marcus searched for a password, for a way to unlock the knowledge, but nothing revealed itself.

The secret doors were a relief, connecting the temple’s map in their minds. One door opened into a sitting room heavy with dust and cobwebs.

And there he was.

A skeleton, standing as though it had never moved, draped in the remnants of robes long rotted to threads. Pinpricks of red light flared in its sockets.

Its jaw moved. The sound was dry, rasping, like parchment torn in slow motion.

“Do I know you?”