Games Logs

The fireball has already done its work. Where the common room of the Hag’s Arms once hosted the ambient misery of Hell’s traveling public

Nesquo's fog still hangs in the tunnel, thick and impenetrable. The cloaker, on fire and annoyed, launches a thrashing attack — and misses everyone. It connects with nothing but air and its own smoldering indignity. Inside the fog, Glumbo strikes Nesquo.

In the blink of an eye, Fekre is gone. One moment she stands before them — tattered gown, closed eyes, the wire crown pressed into pale

The librarian — cheerful, oblivious, and armed with an enormous key — locks the doors to the restricted section of the Biblioplex without a

Jeremiah finds himself still shackled to the basement wall, the cold stone at his back, the smell of brimstone faint but persistent in the a

The party meets the cloaker in a narrow corridor with nowhere to run. Nesquo throws up a Wall of Fog spell to buy them cover — thick, impenetrable, blinding everyone inside it equally. Frida takes to the air to get above it. The rest fight by sound and instinct. Krasnyy hurls a dagger into the cloud and connects. The creature screams. That's the only confirmation anyone gets that they're even aiming in the right direction. Tall Glumbo sends Dog Glumbo in. The hellhound does

The great hag’s house moves with a rolling gait in wide circles as Duster waits. Its great chicken legs carry the structure back and forth

The plan had seemed sound enough, right up until the moment it wasn’t. Arman, wearing the face and form of the nightmare shepherd Lawrenc

The campus feels borrowed. The architecture is right — the Hex Tower doors swing open for them as they always have — but something in the

The cellar of the Ship’s Prow smells of brimstone and mildew. The boarded door is still holding — barely — and from behind it, the voice of

Krelldutt and his group hold their position at the top of the stairs, hidden from the druids’ sight. Blinsky crouches low, tugging at Krelld

The sled journey done, the comrades stretch after the long ride. An absence of strenuous activity in the bitterly cold environment of Stygia has left them stiff. If not exactly rested, then they are at least not exhausted. The party unpack themselves to stand at the mouth of the Cave of Lost Things. The opening gapes, dark and foul smelling. In the doorway stands a sentient Yeti guardian, easily 9 feet tall, leaning on his halberd. The helm he wears upon his head seems more p

The shelves of the Great Library climb upward into darkness, tier after tier of arcane curiosities vanishing into the vaulted ceiling high a

The party faces a choice: pay one scrip for a bunk in the dormitory, or sleep outside in the freezing Stygian air. Most of them pay. Those who don't spend the night on the ice, with the exception of Lynx, suffer for it. Morning finds them exhausted. Some nights in Hell are like that. At dawn, one of the sled's hellhounds pads up to Krasnyy with a leather pouch hanging beneath its chin. Inside: a letter from Proctor Azurath. He has taken the liberty of arranging transport t

The afternoon passes slowly at the Martikov camp. The family is damp and tired, displaced from their own home by something none of them are equipped to fight alone. Davian Martikov, the family patriarch, carries himself with the settled authority of a man accustomed to being obeyed, and when he summons Krelldutt to speak with him privately, the rest of the family gives them the privacy without being obvious. This is simply how things work with Martikovs.

Being in the bathroom of the Hag’s Arms has become, against all reasonable expectation, being part of a command center. Thunk is the first t

The Amber Temple settles into quiet. The flame skull that had been harassing Rakthe withdraws, vanishing into the darkness, and the oppressive silence of the temple reasserts itself. Vilnius is dead. His mummified remains lie near the entrance to the chamber — skin tight and leathery over the bones beneath, pocked and discolored from whatever illness had been eating him long before his final moments. He crumbles wherever he is touched, fragments of him dropping to the marble

As the truck rolls slowly up to the Hag’s Arms, a landmark in the land of Malbolge, the massive, mummified limb that gives the tavern its na

The truck’s engine idles with a low, greasy rumble as the group clocks the malephant. Seven eyes. All of them pointed at the vehicle. Seve

The dining room is warm with the illusion of plenty. The long table groans beneath an impossible spread — roasted meats glistening with imag