Session 05: Broccoli Soup

The cold weight of the glacier faded behind them as the adventurers descended into the heart of the tomb. The air here was unnaturally warm, heavy with the stale scent of stillness—like something long dead yet unwilling to rot. Ahead, the flicker of torchlight glinted off slick stone, revealing a broad chamber whose floor was pocked with shallow puddles that did not ripple. When a droplet of melting ice touched one and did not spread, Elora’s keen eyes caught the illusion—an enchantment masking a pit filled with spikes. The group stepped cautiously around it, wary now of every shadow and reflection.

Beyond the trap lay a dim hall, its northern wall adorned with three figures slumped in chains. At first glance, they might have been prisoners. But when Thorn and Elora drew near, the illusion faltered—their flesh rippled like water, and from each hollow shell crawled the shambling forms of the dead. The air filled with the reek of decay and the hollow groans of the risen.

Thorn’s wards flared to life, but the undead struck first—rotting fists pummeling against enchanted armor and flesh alike. Necrotic energy seeped into their wounds, blackening the skin in spreading blooms of pain. Thorn staggered back, barely holding his ground, while Maledurk roared his battle-fury into being, his scaled form half-shadowed by the monstrous spirit that lent him strength. His tail lashed out like a living whip, cracking bone and flinging fragments of the undead aside.

Tempest raised her hand, fourfold in an instant—her chaotic magic splitting her image into identical selves, all laughing and radiant with fire. A wave of flame swept the room, casting dancing reflections in the still puddles. When the smoke cleared, the zombies still stood, scorched but relentless. Elora whispered a word to the earth, and vines burst through the cracks of the stone floor, coiling around two of the creatures and holding them fast. The third broke free and turned its hate toward Maledurk, who met it with a radiant strike from his sunblade. The weapon’s golden light cut through the necrotic darkness like a sunrise breaking a storm—burning away the last vestiges of unlife.

The remaining undead followed swiftly, carved down by Thorn’s conjured sword of pure will and Elora’s glacial sorcery. When the final corpse fell, it stayed down. The illusions along the wall dissolved like smoke, revealing only bare stone where the false prisoners had hung.

Thorn leaned heavily on his blade, his breath ragged. Elora placed a hand upon his shoulder, summoning nature’s quiet mercy to knit his wounds. The healing light filled the chill air with the scent of wildflowers—a brief, impossible reminder of the living world above.

A door stood to the south. Beyond it lay a chamber wholly unlike the rest: a strange, homely place, as if a kitchen had been hidden in the bones of the tomb. Twin cauldrons bubbled over steady flames, and a wide wooden counter held knives, jars, and herbs. Great wooden spoons hung on the walls—each taller than a man’s arm. Steam curled lazily through the air, carrying the savory scent of meat and broth. For a moment, it almost seemed inviting.

Elora’s sharp eyes caught the gleam of garlic in a jar. Maledurk grinned at the discovery—until Thorn, ever suspicious, murmured, “Everything here could be an illusion.” The words cast a chill even the fires could not warm.

Curiosity, however, was stronger than fear. Maledurk approached one of the cauldrons and peered into its simmering depths. The soup looked ordinary—chunks of meat, carrots, even the dreaded broccoli. But as he watched the broth swirl, something flashed at the bottom—a gleam like sunlight off gold.

Tempted by mystery and emboldened by draconic pride, he reached in. The boiling liquid licked his arm with searing heat, yet he did not flinch. His companions shouted warnings, but the dragonborn’s resolve held firm. When at last he withdrew his hand, he found it dry—untouched by any moisture—and in his palm rested a simple key of cool metal. Not even warm.

The second cauldron was thicker, more like stew than soup, and offered no reflection to chase. Thorn, ever the pragmatist, used his blade to tip it over. It spilled nothing; instead, the stew remained suspended in the air, still bubbling merrily, as though gravity were a suggestion. Thorn prodded it with the tip of his weapon until something clinked. Fishing it out, he revealed a second key, identical but for the pattern of its teeth.

Elora sensed enchantment thick in the air. The cauldrons themselves pulsed faintly with illusion magic, while the great spoons shimmered with conjuration—items bound together in purpose. “They were meant to be used,” she said softly. “Together.”

Tempest, ever impulsive, seized a spoon and stirred the first cauldron. The soup obeyed her movement, sloshing up against the sides. When she lifted the spoon, it came up heavy with broth—real and steaming. She offered it, grinning, to Maledurk. “You first.”

He hesitated only long enough to make sure it wasn’t spinach. Then he took a sip. The taste was unexpectedly rich—savory and deep—but the touch of broccoli nearly undid him. He grimaced, swallowed, and waited. His companions watched, tense.

And then, before their eyes, the blackened rot where the zombies had struck him began to fade. The corruption lifted like mist at dawn, leaving unscarred scales beneath. The soup had healed him.

Maledurk blinked at his arm, then looked at the spoon with new respect. “I’ll be damned,” he said, voice low. “The broccoli was the cure.”

A shared laugh broke the tension, echoing through the tomb’s strange warmth. The two keys gleamed in the flickering firelight, mysteries waiting to be unlocked. Beyond the quiet bubbling of impossible cauldrons, a new silence stretched through the corridor ahead—heavy, patient, and expectant.

Whatever lay deeper in the tomb, it was watching.