The day’s pale sun lay drowned beneath ash-choked clouds when the Meat Wagon’s wretches trudged onto the desolate shelf of the Bergen Chrypt. What little growth remained in that valley hung brown and brittle, as though each thorn and weed had already tasted tomorrow’s grave. Öde’s prophet felt the world’s decay like iron splinters beneath her skin, yet pressed on—driven by the whisper that the rot here concealed the prize they had sworn to steal for the Sous’s feast.
At the juncture of two glacial titans they found the wound: a six-pace oval of grey flesh stretched taut across a fissure in the ice, pulsing with heat like something half-alive. Börda, whose every silence begged to be broken, offered flame. The membrane writhed, then erupted—its searing bile splattering uselessly upon rock as the skin curled away in hissing ribbons. In the breach’s black throat the companions felt an ancient breath exhale, warm and hungry.
They entered single-file, torches guttering against glassy walls that pressed closer with each step. Thirty strides on, the crevice delivered them to hewn stone. Narrow stairs—slick with meltwater—plunged into gloom. Alwrig muttered to Öde and chipped away the treacherous ice, his knife ringing like a funeral bell, and so they descended.
The antechamber below lay silent, water pooled across flagstones. Von hurled a stone: it vanished through the mirrored surface without a ripple and clattered far beneath. Illusion. Yet true peril hid elsewhere—a portcullis slammed down at the edge of their vision, teeth of iron eager for flesh. The trio marked the killer’s trigger and slipped onward, hearts pounding in wary rhythm.
Through the western arch hung three shapes, shackled and motionless. A pebble cracked bone and the ruse shattered; prisoners became shambling corpses clad in jagged scrap. Börda’s bolt thunked against rusted metal, but Alwrig’s dead god lent a baleful word—one cadaver lurched obediently into the unseen pit, its fall punctuated by wet ruin. Another whirled blade upon kin; gory shards burst like shrapnel when it fell, slicing Von’s shield but sparing his hide. Silence reclaimed the cell, and the SCVM pressed east while the skeletal monkeys chittered triumph.
The eastern hall reeked of simmered marrow. Two cauldrons blazed upon fires that gave no heat. In the left, clear water boiled over a silent flame; within, Alwrig’s oiled ladle dredged forth a key scalding to the touch. The right pot broiled a thick green pottage wherein a severed finger bobbed like a ghastly garnish. They left that broth unstirred.
Beyond lay a mirror-twin room—bare save for dust, false puddles and a single crack across the tiles. Alwrig’s boot found a pressure plate; the three dove as a hail of darts screamed above their bent spines. Scarred stone took the venom meant for them, and nervous laughter echoed where once had been breathless dread.
The library waited next, walls armored in tomes without titles. Ink-stink and candle-rot mingled, yet no ward nor whisper rose when Börda’s keen eye found the hidden lock. The cauldron key turned; ancient hinges groaned like graves unsealing.
Within that final chamber a stone sarcophagus sat upon a dais of two cold steps. Runes etched upon its lip named the one entombed: Knogbrüth—he whom Svensson the Bold felled in ages past. No warning followed, as though the dead mocked the living with silence.
Together they heaved, muscles trembling, until the lid slid aside. The corpse inside wore a tarnished crown and a shroud of pallid green moss that clung to bleached skull like withered ivy. Greed stirred, yet purpose held firmer: only the lich-moss mattered. Alwrig, breath shallow, shaved delicate filaments from bone, careful not to shift the regal circlet. A single slip sent stone grinding, but Börda steadied the slab before ruin woke.
Moss secured and fate tempted, they resealed the coffin and fled. The maze behind them rumbled with hammering fists; distant shrieks rose as winter sun bled through the glacier’s mouth. Up the cracked stairs, past dart-scarred floors and illusion-filled pits, they hauled themselves until daylight burned their eyes.
Shadows gathered at the fissure. Out stepped the lich—crowned, eyeless sockets blazing with emerald hate. Sunlight seared its brittle flesh; with a howl like tearing sheets of iron it recoiled, retreating to the dark that birthed it. The SCVM did not linger. Across withered plains they ran, hearts drumming war-songs, clutching Öde’s carrion blessing of lich-moss.
Behind them, in the glacier’s throat, vengeful echoes promised that night would remember their names.
Initial Recap (spoken by GM Brian) Approach to the Mountains Discovery of the Glacial Membrane Crevice Passage Entry Chamber (Glacial Antechamber) Western Passage → Zombie Encounter Western door (unlocked) opened to a rectangular room with more puddles and chained figures on far wall. Von’s rock disrupted the illusion: the “prisoners” were three zombies studded with metal shards. Combat: Portcullis trap: an earlier large rock had triggered a falling gate; rope-loop trick reset the lever overhead to raise it. Eastern Passage → Kitchen Eastern unlocked door led to a stone kitchen: Central chopping table with knives; cupboards beneath; wall shelves with gray powders, root vegetables, dried meat (no quest ingredients). Two cauldrons on active yet cool-burning fires: North Passage → Dart-Trap Room North-East Door → Library Library East Door and Key Crypt Chamber (Knogbrüth’s Tomb) Sparse room with wall sconces and a raised two-step stone dais bearing a closed stone sarcophagus. Lid inscription (in archaic script) read: No curses or warnings inscribed. Harvesting the Lich Moss Retreat and Lich AwakeningSession Notes