Chronicle Day: 172
As told by Abercrombie Whalan
Abercrombie’s Note
After all the roads travelled, all the merits earned, and all the madness we’d survived since leaving Mount Druitt, we finally stood before the gates of Dun Rell Sulca.
The elves call it the Hill of Many Roots. Most humans insist on calling it Rooty Hill. Having seen the place for myself, I suspect the Elves have the better name.
Arrival at Dun Rell Sulca
With our three merits presented and accepted, we were finally granted audience.
The southern gate opened before us, and we were escorted through the city toward the palace itself. Dun Rell Sulca was unlike anything I’d seen before. Great living trees intertwined with elegant stonework, and much of the city looked less built than grown.
The place felt ancient. Not old in the way dwarven halls are old. Older. As though the forest had long ago decided to allow people to live within it.
Upon reaching the palace, we were fed, watered, cleaned, and generally made presentable. A welcome change after sleeping in caves, fighting bugbears, chasing sewer rats, hunting trolls, and travelling with owlbears.
Only once we were suitably refreshed were we brought before the Everqueen’s Consort. The business at hand was grim.
The Missing Emissaries
Several Elven Emissaries had disappeared. Three days ago. Rather than awaiting our arrival, they had chosen to investigate the Elven Vault themselves. No messages returned. No scouts returned. No sign of any of them had been seen since.
The Everqueen’s Consort informed us that search efforts had yielded nothing. Whatever lay beneath Dun Rell Sulca had swallowed an entire expedition.
We were granted authority to enter the vault, investigate their disappearance, and recover them if possible. Of course we accepted. No one earns three merits merely to turn around at the finish line.
The Elven Vault
The entrance felt familiar. Uncomfortably familiar. Not identical to Mount Druitt’s vault, but close enough that every instinct I possessed began whispering warnings. The same grand construction. The same impossible age. The same sense that the builders expected visitors long after their own passing.
We descended. Derek took point as always.
The Circle Chamber
The first great chamber opened into a broad circular room dominated by what appeared to be a teleportation platform. The resemblance to the Dwarven Vault was immediate.
Derek spent considerable time investigating every inch of the room. Eventually, he found a chest. A suspicious chest. The sort of chest that practically announces itself as a trap.
Naturally, he investigated it. The rest of us remained well back. After considerable effort and no small amount of caution, he managed to open it.
Nothing. No treasure. No poison. No explosion. No mimic. Just emptiness. In a vault that somehow felt suspicious in its own right.
Into the Southern Passage
Beyond the chamber lay a rune-marked stone door and a corridor descending deeper into the complex. The workmanship differed from Mount Druitt. Dwarves favour straight lines. Elves favour curves.
Dwarves carve for function. Elves carve for beauty. Yet beneath the ornamentation, the structure felt strangely alike. Almost as though both vaults shared a common purpose. Or a common origin.
Sergei and Derek moved ahead while the rest of us followed.
The Abandoned Studies
Further within, we found chambers that had once served as studies and workrooms. Bookshelves lined the walls. Scroll racks stood collapsed in corners. Most documents had succumbed to mould, damp, and time. Yet enough survived to tell us something important.
This vault had once been actively used. People worked here. Studied here. Researched here. Then something happened. Abruptly. The work stopped. The rooms were left exactly as they stood.
And no one ever returned.
The Harpies
We were still searching the ruined studies when the screaming began. A high-pitched shriek echoed from somewhere above. Then another. And another. Shadows moved overhead. The harpies descended without warning.
One seized Derek and tried to carry him into the darkness, but the wee bastard twisted free before she gained proper purchase. Sergei launched himself upward and drove a fist directly into one of the creatures. Kaz entered a rage. As is tradition.
The rest happened quickly. Crossbow bolts flew. Magic flashed. Steel bit flesh. The harpies died. The final survivor attempted flight. It did not succeed.
Signs of the Lost
Beyond the harpy chamber, we discovered the first real evidence that the missing emissaries had reached this section of the vault.
Tracks. Disturbed dust. Scuffed floors. Broken debris. Recent signs of passage among halls abandoned to centuries. The trail continued deeper. We followed.
Eventually, we entered a series of chambers heavily decorated with serpent imagery. Ryn noticed tooth-like carvings hidden among the artwork. Once he pointed them out, I saw them everywhere.
Nothing about the place felt welcoming. Everything about it felt deliberate. The further we travelled, the stronger the feeling became that the emissaries had found something important.
And something dangerous.
Final Thoughts — Abercrombie Whalan
The vault beneath Mount Druitt felt like a fortress. Knockmort’s garden felt like a wound. The vault beneath Dun Rell Sulca feels like a question. Every chamber raises another mystery. Every answer seems to create three more.
Several emissaries entered these halls three days before us. None returned. Tomorrow we follow their trail. And I fear the deeper we go, the fewer answers we’ll find.
Ancient roots behind us.
Ancient secrets ahead.
The Whalan Chronicles continue.
