Session 15: Speketh any wight yit Middel Comoun? Report

Granny Whizzelda’s Temple Tale

A fireside retelling by a very small, very sparkly, very tired fairy, 36 years in the future   Now settle in, my sproutlings. Tuck your wings and pass me that thimble of dewberry cordial—no, the blue one, thank you. Good. Are you ready for a tale of brave blunders, skeletons full of salad, and one very rude fireball? Then let Granny tell you what happened last time, in the ancient dungeon under the temple with too many doors and not nearly enough snacks.   So there I was, tucked in the threadbare corner of Josie’s bag—between the book she forgets to read and a particularly stale bit of trail bread. We’d just figured out that the big scary door with five glowing symbols wasn’t quite open, even though they’d done all the statue-pressing and rune-humming they could think of. Four glowy bits, yes. Five? Nope. The fifth one was all dark and moody, like a teenager with a secret poetry journal.   Josie, clever thing, sat herself down to prepare a Dispel Magic, thinking maybe she could shout the enchantment off the door like it was a rude neighbor. Meanwhile, off trundled Skreet, Derrick, and dear little Tich Tich into a westward chamber, poking at dusty corners. But Derrick, in his usual oafish luck, found a key just lying there while the others were actually trying. Classic. They went off through the halls, whispering about barracks and breakfast. I nearly sneezed from the old soup smell in the abandoned kitchen—rotten carrots everywhere!   Down the hall they wandered, through bunks and bones, until they found the word “Betrayer” scrawled in ash on the floor in the old common. Even older than your old Granny, if you can imagine it. Now, if I weren’t so dedicated to keeping a perfect four-foot distance, I’d have shouted something helpful right then and there! But no—fairy rules.   Back with Josie and Maggie, the dispel trick didn’t work. But they put their pretty heads together and remembered that back in the library that dusty book told them they already said the name, and Josie and her weird fit where she went on about how “Zorrinth” means Betrayer in Draconic out of nowhere back in the caves. Said the word aloud and whoosh—the fifth sigil lit up like a firefly with something to prove. Through the double doors they went, and ooh, my darlings, it was a sight!   A grand staircase led to a room with blue and silver tiles, glowing moss in the grout (fairy-approved decor), and a lofty mezzanine. Up on that perch stood the rest of the Treblemakers—Skreet waving like he owned the place. And on the throne? A skeleton, still wearing fancy armor like it had somewhere to be. More bones were scattered below in robes, crumpled from what seemed a rather aggressive exit from the mortal realm.   Josie and Maggie poked around and found more of those awful alien vines—roots like green lightning, pulsing with weirdness, wrapped around the skeletons. Just lovely.   Now Skreet, twitchy as ever, sniffed out a secret door on the west wall. No moss grew in there—bad sign. Off they all went down the dark tunnel, and BOOM! Skreet triggered a pit trap! But Derrick, sweet lummox that he is, had a hand on Skreet’s shoulder and managed to save them both from an embarrassing tumble.   Just then, the skeletons behind them woke up. Oh yes. Vines glowing, bones rattling, the whole dramatic mess. They fought with the zeal of a hundred men! Derrick got singed, Maggie punched things, and Tich Tich got Skreet stuck in his own webs trying to protect everyone from falling down the hole. Still, they pulled through.   Now, curious Tich Tich scurried beyond the trap and found a strange room with two big statues holding shields marked with the five temple sigils. One of them was blacked out—ominous, yes? In the middle sat a chest. He sent his little automaton buddy to open it, and wouldn’t you know, BOOM again! Fireball trap! Lit the roots like kindling and turned the web to ashes. Tich Tich scampered out mostly unharmed and came back with four shiny gems—red, green, blue, and yellow. Pretty baubles. Dangerous baubles.   Down into the pit they climbed, discovering yet another secret door leading to a circular hallway with a treasure room in the center. Oh, the excitement! Rotten scrolls and relics littered the place, but the real prize was under three glass cloches: a lute, a jug, and an axe. Each pedestal was marked with a symbol—grapes, vines, and triangles—but had a missing bit, smooth and empty. Curious!   Naturally, someone tried touching the cloches, and whoosh! Terrifying ghost illusion! Everyone but Tich Tich ran out squealing. Brave little bug.   In the chaos, Skreet found another hidden door—this one to something very special. A great drakursi skull, silver-toothed and solemn, sat like a monument. Inside its mouth (ew), was a pedestal with ancient tribal engravings. Oh, and a poem! One I remember well:   A gate of mist in the ivy deep, A key of bone the willows keep, And something stirs beneath its sleep.   A tooth once dropped from jaws of flame, It guards the lock, it knows no name— But speaks in dreams and calls the same.   The dragon-bear, with breath of frost, Remembers all the oaths once lost. Step not too close, nor pay the cost.   Chilling, right? And wouldn’t you know it—I swore I remembered Tich Tich had the missing tooth, back in the warehouse! He recognized the magic instantly. I think he made a squeak. Or maybe that was me.   They moved on to the leader’s room, dug through a couple of chests, and found three stone keys that matched the missing patterns on the artifact pedestals. Tich Tich bravely returned alone and slotted them in—click click click—and poof! Illusion gone. Artifacts secured. Score one for team bug-boy.   One last stretch of hallway awaited, with cell doors, a staircase, and more secret passage nonsense. But Skreet, bless his fey-touched gut instincts, felt something calling. He darted toward a passage filled with roots and glowing fungus, muttering about the Eldertwist and destiny and probably snacks. The others were very tired and wisely suggested a rest.   So, with sighs and sore feet and a new pile of weird loot, they headed back home—promising to return when they could walk without limping and cast spells without groaning.   And that, my little petalwings, is the tale of the Treblemakers and the Temple of Far Too Many Secrets. Next time, who knows? Maybe the tooth finds its lock. Maybe the dragon-bear stirs.   Now off to bed with you, before I trap your dreams in a teacup and sell them to a pixie for thistle candy.   — Granny Thimble, invisible chronicler of heroic nonsense