Session 19: The Ritual of Murgaxor

Stepping beyond the fractured walls of the ancient fortress, the group found themselves beneath a shimmering, arcane dome that encompassed the area like a captive world. Despite the late hour, dusk’s shadows did little to soften the unnerving glow that rippled across the dome. From my standpoint—an observer dedicated to uncovering the truth behind these mysterious happenings—the air itself seemed charged with a secret so potent that it rattled the very stones underfoot.

Their first steps led them up a set of broken stairs, the group warily scouting the ruins for signs of danger. According to accounts, not everyone witnessed the same phenomena. Two of them—Bob and Ophelia—were startled by a swirling fog forming against the dome’s interior. That fog shaped itself into a ghastly face before devouring them in a moment of shared hallucination. Oddly, the rest of the group saw nothing but their two companions jolting in terror. Tensions ran high; if visions were already at play, who knew what else the dome concealed?

The next unsettling encounter came as a floating skull drifted just out of reach like a magnet repelling their presence. Attempts to capture or communicate with it only drove it to shriek with an earsplitting wail. Prismatic light flashed across the dome’s surface like a twisted alarm. Two of them, Luna and Ophelia, toppled unconscious—struck down by the bizarre burst of power. From my vantage, the fortress seemed to lurch in response, as if the architecture, long abandoned, resented these intruders and the disturbance they had triggered.

Pressing onward, the group stumbled upon a hidden passage below ground level. The air turned dense, rancid with stagnant water and earthen decay. Dimly lit by guttering torches, the subterranean chamber revealed puddles soaking warped parchment, along with crates perched in corners. Far more troubling, however, was the low, rasping chant that reverberated from a higher platform to the north. Descriptions indicate the chanting emanated from a masked individual enveloped in a swirling, mud-like sphere. Pliable yet impenetrable, the barrier sloshed as if formed by living swamp water. Five strange stones orbited him in a mesmerizing pattern, as though dancing to the rhythm of his incantation.

A barrage of unnatural manifestations followed: small, winged creatures took form from the soggy ground, flinging themselves into the fray. One after another, these mud-like creatures attacked. Despite the group’s valiant efforts—crackling lightning, frigid blasts of ice, even a celestial steed materializing in response to unleashed magic—these muddy fiends remained stubbornly intact. The fortress walls echoed with the clash of elemental power against malleable clay.

The masked figure’s chanting never faltered. With each syllable, the ground heaved anew, producing more twisted defenders. The stakes rose dramatically when the ritual conjured a gigantic golem made of thick, gloppy mud. Towering above them, it slammed down thunderous blows that shook the chamber. Bob took a vicious hit, staggering under the sheer force of it; a second hammer-like strike felled him entirely. Witnesses recall Bob’s eyes flickering shut as he sank into the sludgy floor. In that moment, something far stranger occurred: illusions flickered around him—scales, jungles, fog—before, abruptly, his entire form vanished. Where he had once lain was now a copper-scaled figure in battered armor. If there was a moment that truly shocked even the most hardened among them, it was this.

Meanwhile, Ophelia also fell to the golem’s punishing fists. She, too, vanished in a similar manner, replaced by a blue-scaled stranger in robes that seemed cut of the same cloth Ophelia had worn. How these transformations occurred remains a mystery, but there was little time to process the shock. The new arrivals—copper and blue dragonborn—lay unconscious amid the trampled mud. With battle still raging, the remaining companions pressed on, their resolve sharpened by desperation.

Despite mounting injuries, they rallied. Luna summoned a blade of pure flame, illuminating the chamber in a harsh, flickering glow. Krenn, quick-witted and determined, used a length of rope to drag the colossal mud golem to the floor. That window of opportunity allowed Luna to plunge her fiery blade deep into its chest, sending sprays of molten earth across the stone. At last, the monstrous shape collapsed into a shapeless heap, inert and steaming where the fire had burned hottest.

In the aftermath, the chamber’s heavy silence was broken only by the masked figure’s rhythmic chanting. The bubble surrounding him roiled with restless energy, the orbiting stones floating in unwavering focus. Murgaxor—if the rumors are to be believed—remained untouched. It was clear that the confrontation was far from over. Even so, the group stood amid the remnants of the battle, battered but not broken, grappling with two new dragonborn allies who replaced fallen friends.

At this juncture, multiple questions arise: Had Bob and Ophelia truly perished, or had they undergone some twisted rebirth courtesy of this dark ritual? And what manner of sorcery allowed this masked figure to tap into powers capable of reshaping life itself? The fortress’s secrets ran deep, and the group’s determination to unravel them appeared to grow in step with each harrowing trial.

What transpires next is uncertain, but one fact remains indisputable: the fortress under the glowing dome has become the stage for a disturbing confluence of transformative magic, dark incantations, and swirling illusions. As a student investigator chronicling these events, I can only note that danger and wonder have intertwined like never before. Somewhere within those half-buried corridors lurks an even greater revelation. Whether it leads to answers or deeper mysteries remains to be seen, but the fate of those inside—both the original party and the newly emerged dragonborn—now hangs in a precarious balance as Murgaxor’s chanting continues unabated.