The Fellowship’s First Ascent 

Date: 6/29/25 Cast: Donno the human sorcerer played by Jack, Greg the human cleric played by Carlo, Kogan the shifter barbarian played by Omar, Spring the custom linage of elf/human played by Alan.  They named their adventuring group, the Fellowship.

The plaza of Eryndor thrummed like a living heart. Smoke curled from braziers, the faint tang of iron and sweat mixing with roasted chestnuts and stale bread. Above the noise, the Tower of Ascension glimmered like a shard of a fallen star, its surface so polished it reflected the sun into the eyes of every initiate who dared look up.

Donno adjusted the strap of his backpack, fingers trembling just a little as he glanced to his left at Greg. The cleric was already muttering prayers under his breath, his polished wooden holy symbol clutched tightly in his palm. Spring stood on his other side, calm and steady, her half-elven eyes fixed on the Tower with quiet determination. Kogan towered behind them, arms crossed, fangs bared in something halfway between a grin and a snarl — more eager than nervous.

They called themselves the Fellowship. Once just four scrappy orphans sparring with sticks in the orphanage yard, now they were adventurers, standing shoulder-to-shoulder among dozens of others at the foot of destiny.

Above them on the wooden platform, High Warden Calira Veyra raised a gauntleted fist, and the crowd fell to silence.

“Initiates,” she called, her voice sharp enough to cut through the din, “you stand here today because you’ve shown the potential to rise above the rest. Today, you enter the Tower of Ascension. Overcome its trials, earn the Mark of Ascent. Only the worthy rise—and only the heroes who get the mark may ascend higher. Prove yourselves… or be forgotten.”

Her piercing gaze swept the plaza, and for a moment Donno could swear her blue eyes lingered on them.

Toren Brakholt of the Ironclad Crew flipped a coin and smirked at them. “Don’t trip on the first step, Fellowship!” he called, his crew chuckling behind him.

From the shadows, Lirien of the Veiled Seekers tilted her head toward them, crimson eyes glinting under her hood. “The tower will test us all and many will be found wanting” she murmured, her voice carrying just far enough to send a chill down Donno’s spine.

Eldrin Varn materialized out of the throng, parchment spilling from his satchel as he fumbled toward them. “You’re the initiates, yes? Yes? Excellent—bring me anything unusual!” he hissed, stuffing a scroll back into his bag before he was shooed away by a stern warden.

As they began to move toward the glowing portal at the base of the tower, a gaunt beggar in a tattered hood staggered into their path, holding out a shaking hand. “Please,” the man rasped, “just a scrap for a dying soul…”

The Fellowship hesitated — some teams shoved past the man without a glance — but Kogan stepped forward, digging into his pouch. He pressed a single gold coin into the beggar’s palm.

The man froze, staring at the coin as if it were a holy relic. His eyes welled up. “Bless you, son… bless you,” he murmured, clutching the gold to his chest, his voice cracking with disbelief.

Spring decides to give the beggar one of her magical goodberry which the beggar curiously looks at, then shrugs, popping it in his mouth.  The beggars face morphs to one of amazement as he whispers, “fruit of the gods! I feel full for the first time in months… Thank you, heroes, for your generosity”

Kogan only nodded before turning back to his friends. “Come,” he rumbled.

They stepped through the shimmering portal.

A wave of cold energy prickled their skin like frost, and the plaza’s noise cut off instantly.

The Fellowship emerged into a 40-by-40-foot chamber, its walls crafted of smooth, silvered metal etched with pulsating blue runes that cast an eerie, flickering glow. The air hummed with arcane energy, vibrating deep in their bones, and faint whispers echoed in their minds:

Return… heroes…

Four sleek metallic pillars, each ten feet high, stood at the corners, their surfaces reflecting their movements in distorted, almost lifelike flickers. At the center, a raised dais held a glowing orb, its light pulsing like a heartbeat, beckoning them forward.

But as the party approached, the dais shimmered at the room’s center, the orb on its pedestal pulsing like a heartbeat. The faint whispers in their minds swelled into a roar as the chamber trembled, the floor underfoot quivering like a living thing.

From the shadows on either side of the room, the sentinels emerged — tall, sleek constructs of bronze and iron, their limbs jointed like clockwork, eyes burning with cold azure light. One bore a faint sigil on its chest, blurred and unreadable, yet oddly familiar — like something glimpsed in a half-remembered nightmare.

The first sentinel raised its head, the sound of its gears grinding like teeth. Then both advanced, relentless, fists lifting, their motion smooth but somehow wrong, like puppets strung by invisible, merciless hands.

Kogan bared his teeth. “Time to earn it.”

He charged, greatsword in hand, feet pounding against the metal floor with a hollow clang. Beside him Greg hefted his warhammer and muttered a prayer, his voice tight with dread.

The first blow landed with a scream of metal against metal as Kogan’s sword bit into the sentinel’s plating. Sparks flew, but the blade stuck for a moment in the seam of its chest, and he had to wrench it free just as the thing’s arm swung around — fast. Too fast.

The backhanded strike cracked across Kogan’s ribs and flung him into the wall, rattling his bones.

Greg barreled in, his hammer smashing into a sentinel’s knee with a wet crunch of metal and a flash of blue lightning that shot up his arm. The construct staggered, its plating cracked, but its fist came down a second later and caught Greg in the shoulder.

Crack.

The priest grunted and stumbled back, clutching his arm — already numb and tingling from the lightning bleeding out of the sentinel’s wound.

Behind them, Spring raised her hands, her lips moving quickly. She hurled enchanted pebbles at the sentinels — the stones cracked into them, chipping off splinters of bronze and drawing shrieks of static from deep within their chests.

Donno planted his feet wide and thrust his hands out, fingers curled. Firebolts streaked toward the constructs, the heat of each one cutting through the room’s chill and leaving scorched gouges in their armor.

Still, they kept coming.

Every time Greg’s hammer or Kogan’s blade bit through their plating, the cracks flared with jagged arcs of arcane lightning, stinging everyone nearby. The air smelled of burnt metal and ozone, and each strike left the room brighter and darker all at once — flashes of violent light and long shadows that crawled up the walls.

Kogan bellowed, hacking at a sentinel’s chest. He felt the vibration of it all the way up his arms as the sword punched through, lightning sparking out of the crack and crawling across his flesh. He was already bleeding from the temple, sweat dripping into his eyes, but he didn’t stop.

Greg fared worse. A glancing blow from a sentinel’s iron fist crumpled him to the ground, his hammer clattering away. He lay there, gasping, eyes glassy, blood pooling on the smooth metal floor beneath his head.

“Kogan!” Spring shouted. She knelt over Greg, shoved a goodberry into his mouth, whispering something sharp and urgent. His chest hitched. His eyes flickered open — dull and confused — and then he groaned as he tried to sit up.

“Stay down, priest,” Kogan barked, not looking back, his sword carving another line into the sentinel’s plating.

But Greg didn’t stay down.

He staggered to his feet, picked up his hammer with both hands, and waded back into the fray.

Every strike rattled his teeth, every flash of lightning scorched the hairs on his arms and stung his eyes.

The second sentinel finally dropped to one knee under the Spring’s magical pebbles and Donno’s withering fire, which with the last fiery bolt buried itself in the crack of its neck. It let out a metallic shriek, a sound almost like rage — or regret — before collapsing in a heap, its glowing eyes sputtering out.

Kogan planted his boot on the chest of the remaining construct, shoving it back just as Greg swung his hammer one final time, bringing it down on the sentinel’s head. The construct’s skull dented, then split.

Blue light erupted from the fissure, bathing them all in a searing flash before the thing toppled sideways, still at last.

Then… silence.

The air in the chamber hung thick with smoke and sparks, the scent of ozone and blood mingling.

Kogan leaned on his sword, breathing heavily, his knuckles bleeding. “Tough bastards,” he muttered.

Greg sat down hard, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at the shattered remains of the sentinels.

Spring crouched nearby, eyes scanning the room, fingers still curled around another pebble just in case.

Even Donno’s hands still glowed faintly, his lips pressed into a thin line.

When it was over, the floor was littered with dented armor plates and glowing scraps of bronze. The blue runes along the walls flickered weakly, as though the room itself had been wounded.

No cheers. No fanfare. Just pain, and exhaustion, and the quiet satisfaction of still being alive.

They dragged themselves to a corner, bandaging wounds and catching their breath. After a short rest, the trembling in their hands began to subside, though their bodies still ached from the lightning burns.

The room remained sealed — no doors visible. Only the dais at the center, where the glowing orb shimmered with a soft blue light, surrounded by three rune-covered panels.

Each panel bore a dial with four symbols: a sword, a flame, an eye, and a crown.

Kogan approached first — but as he neared the dais, a whisper filled his mind, ancient and commanding:

Heed the verse, hero, to unlock your path.

On the dais, an inscription lay half-buried under the erosion of centuries. Greg, still unsteady but resolute, studied the faded text.

“I… I think it says:

‘A crown doth shine in glory’s might,
Its gleam shall guide through darkened fight.
The spark of flame then lights the way,
To steel’s sharp edge in final fray.’”

They shared glances.

“Crown, flame, sword?” Greg guessed.

Spring frowned. “Seems logical enough.”

Kogan turned the dials: crown… flame… sword.

The orb flared violently, unleashing a shock of arcane energy that sent them all staggering back, gasping in pain.

“Wrong,” Donno hissed through clenched teeth.

They sat a moment longer, thinking. Donno’s eyes narrowed, rereading the text. “…‘steel doth clash’ and ‘blade shall lead’ — that’s sword first. Then… ‘spark awakens embers’… that’s flame second. And… ‘wisdom’s gaze,’ ‘orb that pierces’ — that’s the eye third.”

He stepped forward and set the dials: sword… flame… eye.

The orb pulsed once, then sank into the dais as a seamless door opened in the far wall, revealing a darkened stairway descending deeper.

But before they could move, Kogan stiffened — his vision blurred, and the room around him melted into chaos. He saw himself in the midst of a great battle, his sword wet with a dark black ichor.  All around him were figures obscured by haze, but he heard a voice, fierce and final:

“We end this now!”

The vision vanished. He staggered, gasping, back in the silver chamber, his friends staring at him in concern.

“You alright?” Spring asked.

Kogan clenched his fists, shaking off the lingering echoes of the vision. “Yeah,” he growled. “Let’s keep going.”

The newly opened door yawned before them, revealing a 60-foot-long hallway. The metallic walls shifted with a low, grinding hum, their seamless panels sliding unpredictably, revealing new paths or sealing others with a soft shhhk, their edges glowing faintly with blue light. The air carried a sharp, metallic tang that made their tongues prickle, and the floor gleamed like polished glass, reflecting their silhouettes in warped, shifting forms that twisted and bent unnaturally.

It was as though the very world here tilted beneath them, their balance subtly undermined by the corridor’s unnatural geometry.

Kogan, never one to hesitate, set his jaw and stepped into the hallway.

The moment his foot depressed a subtle section of the floor, a whirring sound erupted above. Hidden panels snapped open with a hiss, and a jagged metallic dart shot from the wall into his chest, knocking him backward into the chamber.

He snarled, clutching the wound. “Trap,” he grunted unnecessarily, blood already staining his tunic.

Greg winced, still feeling the sting of his earlier mistake in deciphering the dais’s verse. “I’ve got this,” he declared, determination steeling his voice. “I… I’ll disarm it.”

The others exchanged glances, uncertain.

Greg, untrained in the art of disarming traps but driven by a mix of guilt and stubbornness, stepped gingerly into the corridor. He scanned the floor, trying to detect triggers, pressing and jamming the seams as best he could.

There was a sharp click.

Another dart buried itself in his shoulder, spinning him halfway around. He gritted his teeth, sweating. “No—no—it’s fine. Just—a setback!”

He continued to prod the panels, testing floor tiles, trying to jam moving parts. Thwip! Another dart slammed into his thigh. He staggered.

“Greg, maybe you—” Donno began, but Greg waved him off weakly.

“I almost have it…”

Thwip! Thwip! Two more darts struck, and Greg dropped to the floor with a groan, unconscious yet again.

Kogan dragged him back into the room, and Spring quickly pressed another goodberry into his mouth. He sputtered awake, pale and torn, but managed a sheepish smile. “See? Making progress…”

He called on his own divine magic to knit his wounds somewhat.

Then, with a determined glare at the corridor — his body a patchwork of holes and torn fabric — he muttered, “Alright. Fine. I almost got it. Just—one more time.”

He staggered back into the hallway, his movements more stubborn than graceful.

Thwip!

Thwip! Thwip!

More darts peppered him like a macabre pincushion, and he collapsed again.

Spring and Kogan dragged him back, shaking their heads. Once revived by yet another goodberry, Greg glared back at the corridor like it was a mortal enemy.

“Oh hell no,” he bellowed at the walls. “You don’t get the better of me, you cursed hallway. That’s it. This ends now!”

The others stood back, half in awe, half exasperated, as Greg stormed back in.

This time, after tense minutes of trial and error — teeth gritted, sweat dripping — he finally disarmed the mechanism. The clicking ceased, and the blue light along the floor dimmed.

“HA!” Greg shouted triumphantly, slamming a fist into the wall. “Got you!”

And in his search he also uncovered a faintly pulsing panel, revealing a small hidden compartment. Inside lay a cracked crystal no larger than a fist, etched with alien script that glowed softly, almost alive.

He tucked it away reverently. “We’re moving on,” he declared, head held high despite his tattered robes.

The group carefully advanced, finally reaching the end of the corridor.

Beyond, the hallway opened into a circular chamber, 30 feet across. Its walls were smooth, unmarked except for a central pedestal.

The corridor behind them was nothing but a dim, breathless memory. The Mark of Ascent floated before them now — a shimmering sigil, suspended like a cruel promise in the center of the round chamber.

But then the air chilled, heavy with rot and menace.

From the base of the pedestal rose a wisp of shadow, at first no bigger than a man’s hand, then swelling into a formless mass that stretched toward the ceiling, curling like black smoke in water.

It hissed. A thin, dry sound that rasped down their spines. Twin points of violet light flared within its center, like eyes that saw far too much.

The pedestal and the sigil above it were swallowed in an inky shroud.

Kogan wasted no time. He shouldered past the others, sword already in hand. His lip curled back in something that might’ve been a grin — though there was little mirth in it.

“Alright then,” he muttered. “Let’s see if smoke bleeds.”

He swung.

Steel whistled through the air… and passed right through the thing. The shadow quivered and re-formed, utterly unfazed. Kogan stumbled forward a step, blinking.

Greg followed, grim-faced, hammer raised. He bellowed something that might have been a prayer — but sounded more like a curse — and slammed the head of the weapon down into the wisp’s center.

Nothing.

The hammer struck the floor beneath it with a hollow clang, sending tremors up his arms, but the shadow merely recoiled, then slithered back together.

Kogan growled in frustration, hacking again and again, his blade carving through nothing but air and bitter cold. The wisp’s eyes burned brighter, and then — it struck.

A tendril of shadow lashed out, curling around Kogan’s chest and yanking him off his feet. Another slammed into Greg’s side, knocking him against the wall so hard his breath left him in a grunt.

The cold was the worst part — it sank right through skin and flesh and bone, a biting chill that felt like it was tearing pieces of him away.

“Not much of a plan, boys,” Spring snapped from behind, her fingers already weaving through the air. Pebbles, faintly glowing with magic, shot toward the wisp. They zipped through the dark haze — and this time, it reacted. The mass of shadow quivered, pulling back slightly as flecks of its form were chipped away.

Donno’s firebolt streaked in close behind — the flames struck true, and the wisp shrieked, a high, horrible sound that rattled the walls and left their teeth on edge.

“Magic!” Greg barked, struggling back to his feet. “Magic’s doing it! Do it again!”

He lunged forward anyway, because that was what he did, even though his arms felt heavy and his ribs screamed.

The wisp darted toward him like a spear, striking his chest and knocking him flat on his back, the breath punched from his lungs. His skin already looked grey, veins dark where its touch had seeped into him.

Kogan roared, rage bubbling over, filling the cracks of fear and pain.

The shadow wisp’s tendrils wrapped around Kogan’s chest, biting into him with a cold that wasn’t just cold — it was hunger. He staggered, sword clattering against the floor, and for a second the light in his eyes faltered. The strength bled out of his limbs, and he dropped to one knee, teeth clenched so hard his jaw popped.

He could feel it. The life in him being pulled out, inch by inch.

That was when he let it out.

The thing inside him.

His lips curled back from his teeth — but this wasn’t just a snarl. It was something older, something buried in his blood. His muscles tightened like coiled rope, and the veins in his neck stood out black against his skin.

His breath came in hot, ragged bursts, steaming in the icy air of the chamber.

And then his bones shifted.

Subtle at first — the thick cords of muscle under his skin bulging, his shoulders broadening. His jaw sharpened, his eyes blazing like two golden embers. Claws split the tips of his fingers, curling, black and cruel.

His skin took on a greyish, bestial hue, hairs prickling along his arms, his back. A low growl vibrated deep in his chest, growing louder, until it spilled from his throat as a full-throated roar that rattled the walls and made even the wisp hesitate.

The cold? Still there. Still gnawing at him.

But now there was something in him to meet it.

The vitality poured back into his limbs like molten iron, burning away the ache and the weakness. The thing’s coils still cut into him, but now they met hard, corded muscle, and he didn’t flinch.

Kogan’s hands tightened on his blade again, claws scraping the hilt, blood dripping down his knuckles — his lips pulled back in a wolf’s grin.

“You want to take something from me?” he growled, voice thick, guttural, almost inhuman.

“Come and try, you bastard.”

And with a savage twist of his body, he wrenched free from the tendrils, his movements faster now, more feral. His strikes weren’t elegant — they were brutal, relentless, delivered with all the fury of some half-forgotten predator woken from its cage.

For every bit of life the wisp tried to steal, Kogan’s rage and shifting vitality shoved it back, burned it out, and left him standing there — taller, meaner, and still swinging.

“Come on then!” he bellowed, swinging again, though each strike passed through harmlessly, his fury buying time rather than victory.

Spring’s pebbles kept hammering at it, gouging holes into its writhing form. Donno’s hands shook as he flung another bolt of fire, sweat trickling down his brow. The flames caught, burning through the shadow, and it recoiled further, tendrils flailing.

It lunged one last time, wrapping Kogan and Greg in its cold, black coils, and the barbarian let out a guttural snarl, fighting to keep his feet as the thing’s power drained him.

But then — another pebble, sharp and shining, cracked into its center. Another firebolt followed, burning through it like oil on water.

The wisp let out a final, broken cry, its eyes flickering, and then it tore apart into nothing, the shadows fading, leaving behind nothing but an acrid smell and a silence so heavy it hurt.

They stood there for a long moment, breathing hard.

Kogan dropped his sword to his side, blood dripping from his knuckles, his chest heaving. “Ugly bastard,” he rasped.

Greg leaned on his hammer, his face pale, jaw tight, every breath a struggle.

Donno wiped his hands on his robes, though they still trembled faintly.

Spring stood with her arm still outstretched, fingers curled as though she had one more pebble ready to fly, her eyes locked on the place where the wisp had vanished.

The Mark of Ascent floated silently above the pedestal now, casting its faint light over them — the room quiet but for their labored breathing.

They had won. Somehow.

The sigil still floated above the pedestal, glowing more brightly now.

Together, they reached out and touched it. Arcane energy coursed down each arm and into their bodies. The shape of the mark burned itself into the skin at the backs of their necks — a magical tattoo, warm but painless.

But as Spring’s fingers brushed the sigil, her eyes widened.

She was suddenly elsewhere — a battlefield.

The sound of combat surrounded her, steel clashing, deadly magic being unleashed, screams of the wounded. Bloodied and exhausted, she stood back-to-back with comrades-in-arms, fending off an endless tide of enemies.

One by one, her allies fell, the circle shrinking, the light in their eyes fading.

But then — a brilliant light engulfed her, and the battlefield dissolved. A strange peace filled her heart as the vision faded.

Her eyes opened, and she was back in the chamber, her arm still outstretched.

Behind them, another magical portal shimmered to life — their way out.

The Fellowship emerged into the roaring plaza, the cheers of the crowd echoing off stone buildings.

High Warden Calira stood at the platform’s edge, her scarred face softening slightly as she regarded them.

“You’ve earned the Mark of Ascent,” she declared, her voice carrying over the din. “Eryndor honors its heroes — but greater trials await.”

She presented each of them with 50 gold and handed over a shared Potion of Healing. Her eyes lingered on them, weighing their potential.

From the crowd, Lirien emerged, crimson eyes sharp, her cloak swirling dramatically.

“The tower holds more than rewards,” she whispered, her smirk both playful and unsettling. “It holds the truth.” A dagger twirled effortlessly between her fingers as she slipped away.

Then Eldrin Varn stumbled forward, nearly dropping his satchel as he inspected Greg’s cracked crystal.

“Not of our world,” he muttered breathlessly, fingers trembling as he examined it. “Find more — and I’ll aid you.” He shot a nervous glance at Calira before retreating back into the throng.

The Fellowship also overheard murmurs around them — that only about twenty percent of the teams who entered the Tower had come back out alive. Worse yet, they learned that Toren Brakholt’s Ironclad Crew had decided to ascend to the second level… and had yet to return.

For now, though, the Fellowship stood victorious.

They had survived the Tower’s first trial.

And the Tower was waiting still.

Wrap up:

Rewards: The Mark of Ascent which gives +1 ability score and key to the rest of tower, minor prestige in Eryndor, 50gp per player, 1 potion of healing for the party, level up to 2.

Off time Kogan went to buy equipment

Off time Greg went to trainer to multiclass for 25g

Off time Spring and Donno has not decided

Options Donate to food banks, rusty blade in to look for rumors, engage in politics.  Let me know if you would like to do something else.  If you do not decide at least 1 week before next session, then off time between sessions is lost.