Date: 29 August 2025
Chronicle Day: Day 153
Abercrombie’s recollection, frae the wyrmlings’ retreat tae the burrows of skitterin’ doom.
The Descent
Upon wakin’, we returned tae where the wyrmlings had been, avoidin’ the automaton hall — wisely, as it turns out.
Down the stairs we went, enterin’ a chamber sixty‑five by forty‑five feet.
Stonework clean and hewn up tae the mid‑wall…
then givin’ way tae natural cave stone.
Stalactites above.
Rubble below.
Rudy, scoutin’ ahead, traced a safe path through the debris and bade us follow it exactly.
A doorway in the far‑left corner led tae another hall —
a mirror o’ the automaton corridor above.
Throsh, our cartographer, marked the safe route.
No traps triggered.
Stairs at the far end led us deeper.
The Sitting Room
At the bottom lay a small sittin’ room or entryway.
Rudy slipped ahead again, returnin’ wi’ a bull ring forged frae a strange metal —
the same alloy as the bull‑heads we’d encountered before.
Sergei took over scoutin’.
Immediately tripped.
Muttered “Cyka”.
Tried again.
At the top he found sleepin’ quarters —
small huts, two tae three cots each,
stalactites above,
burrows carved into the walls.
A stalactite dropped on his skull the moment he stepped inside.
A stone door slammed shut behind him —
one o’ the auto‑doors keyed tae automaton gems.
The Piercer and the Centipedes
Rudy, hearin’ the commotion even through stone, sprinted tae help.
Sergei battled a Piercer until Rudy joined him.
We forced our way in —
and the burrows erupted wi’ Giant Centipedes.
Rudy stabbed two.
They bit him and me in return —
poison burnin’ through our veins.
Kaz surged forward, axe swingin’,
cleavin’ one and carryin’ the momentum into another.
Sergei activated his tattoo —
and obliterated eight in a blur.
Rudy, scoutin’ ahead again, stabbed a stalactite still clingin’ tae the ceiling.
It fell.
An angry eye opened.
It locked onto him.
He hid behind my leg.
Kaz misty‑stepped forward.
Sergei engaged another that had dropped behind us.
Ryn tried tae grapple one and shock it wi’ some contraption —
failed.
Throsh sang inspiration.
Flying Death ended the fight.
Rudy checked the ceiling as we advanced —
the wee lad startles, but he’s a pirate; fear doesnae cling long.
Ryn collected samples.
Sergei tried tae move quietly.
Failed.
We followed single‑file regardless.
The Portcullis Chamber
At the end o’ the hall, another stone door.
I slipped through first.
A large chamber.
A mechanical device at its centre.
Debris everywhere.
A massive arched portcullis at the far end.
Burrows evenly spaced along the flanks.
Crossbars forged frae the same strange metal as the bull rings.
I reported back.
We entered together.
Ryn inspected the mechanism —
a great wheel,
a lever,
a wooden plank on a pivot.
Rudy and Kaz tried tae turn the wheel.
It wouldnae budge.
Ryn flipped the lever —
the plank swung tae block the wheel.
He reset it and told us tae push the opposite way.
Slowly, wi’ effort, the wheel turned.
Five pegs clicked past.
The portcullis rose just enough for Rudy tae slip under.
We flipped the lever tae lock it —
but the brake, already splintered, gave way.
The portcullis crashed down,
a crossbar dislodgin’ on impact.
The gap was just big enough for Rudy tae squeeze back through.
Then came the sound.
Heavy footfalls.
Growin’ louder.
Drawin’ near.
Thratsnik and a corpse grinder entered the chamber.
Beneath the Weight of Stone
There’s a feelin’ tae these halls now —
a heaviness in the stone,
a breath in the dark.
Every step deeper feels like walkin’ into the throat o’ some ancient beast,
the walls closin’ in,
waitin’ for the swallow.
The lads held their own today.
Rudy’s nerves are sharp, though he hides them behind swagger.
Sergei took a stalactite tae the skull and barely flinched —
Goliaths are built o’ stubbornness and bone.
Kaz is a storm wi’ legs.
Throsh keeps our spirits from crackin’.
Ryn pokes everythin’ that sparks, hums, or glows.
As for me…
these mechanisms, these metals, these runes —
they’re no’ random.
There’s purpose here.
Old purpose.
Dwarven purpose, if I’m any judge.
And now Thratsnik stands before us again,
wi’ a corpse grinder at his side.
The Chronicle turns another page.
I suspect the next one will be written in sweat and blood.
**Stone above us.
Shadows ahead.**
