“I said, that’s a shambling mound!” shouts Nesquo. “There’s no way we can defeat it. It’s too strong!”
All except Fuzzy. The wizard, spotting a small brook that runs through the underbrush near the creature casts Shape Water, lifting a five-foot cube of water from the stream. He then manipulates it to hover over the prone creature, thrashing in the shallow hole.
Fuzzy allows the block of ice to drop.
The squelch is followed by a splat of foul smelling vegetation onto Fuzzy, who unflinching, tries to determine if the creature is still a threat. It does not seem to be moving. And Fuzzy, not wishing to get any closer, rejoins his companions, who congratulate him on the defeat of the shambling mound.
The group move on.
As the sun sinks low in the sky, the jungle begins to change. The trees grow more orderly, almost arranged. Stone blocks jut from the undergrowth, covered in moss and lichen. Then the trees part.
The temple rises before them.
An immense doorway is sealed with a slab of stone that stretches fifteen feet above them. The sandstone is smooth, worn by centuries of wind and rain. A rough carving dominates the surface’s bottom third—a serpent, its body coiled in intricate patterns. At the serpent’s head, a perfectly round hole opens like a mouth, dark and empty. Above the enormous door, a dozen tiny windows are cut into the stone wall. They are small, barely large enough for a hand to pass through. Sparrows flit in and out of the openings, chirping as they go about their business, oblivious to the party far below.
On the doorstep, a line of writing is carved into the stone.
Fuzzy kneels, brushing away dirt and moss with careful fingers. The script and the serpent carving are coarse, unmistakably more recent than what looks like a form of elvish that is inscribed high above the door. “This is Draconic,” he says, “carved by someone different than the makers of this temple!” His voice sounds too loud after the long silence. He traces the letters, translating slowly. “ ‘Only moonlight may enter until the serpent drinks.’ ”
The group exchanges glances. Astrid looks up. “This is a temple to Arcos, an ancient name for a drow god, Selvetarm. He is the god of warriors. He represents fear, hunger and loot gained in conquest.” She does not tell the group the dark secrets she knows about Selvetarm…yet.
At the sound of the word ‘loot,’ the party clamors to enter. Putting aside doubts, Astrid strides up to the serpent carving and tips her waterskin to pour its contents into the carved serpent’s mouth.
Immediately, the massive door shudders and begins to swing inward very slowly. The grinding of stone against stone causes the muddy ground beneath their feet to tremble. The shrieking noise is deafening, starling birds who are roosting in the dimming light of evening to explode in panic away from the trees that ring the temple.
Through the thick stone dust settling in the gloom, a pair of large glowing red eyes can be seen from the depths of the room. The eyes regard them for a moment before the stamping of feet and the slamming of a door.
Hanging lights ignite on their own above the temple floor.
An immense face is carved upon the back wall. It stares down upon an altar made from what seems to be a single block of stone with what seems a benevolent expression. Two closed doors flank the altar on opposite walls. One of them must have been used by whomever…or whatever…just exited this cavernous space.
Three, with a whoop of joy, gallops into the temple, covering the thirty feet to the opposite side quickly. The echoes of his voice reverberate back from the towering veiling. The dragonborn launches himself upon the top of the altar and begins doing a small jig of triumph.
Unsure of what they may be seeing from the door, Istyher believes there is now a thin stream of what might be water beginning to drip from the face’s fanged mouth. Wanting to check, they cautiously make their way to the celebrating Three, followed by Astrid and Grapalt.
Sensing the deep evil in the temple, Fred also enters. With each step toward the altar, the cleric’s growing unease escalates. He pauses, a few feet before Three, still dancing atop the altar.
The expression on the face of the carving has changed. It now looks angry. No, Fred thinks, it looks furious.
The carving’s brows have lowered, and its mouth is now shaped in an ‘o’ as if to blow the massive Three from the top of the altar. It seems the diminutive paladin has offended the drow god.
As he watches, the carving’s angry eyes ignite in glowing blue.
Darting from between its stone lips, a wide bolt of lightning streaks toward Three. The lithe dragonborn backflips out of the way, traveling towards Istyher and Astrid.
It smashes into the stone wall just behind them, missing them by inches.This time.
The carving’s eyes are yet again glowing with the terrifying blue light and pointing at the companions.
11/06/2025: Jungle Encounters
