Chapter 1 - Into the Sandstone Keep
Last Updated 12 April 2025
Iesha, Shiqo, and Sulala stepped through the crumbling arch of the old keep, sun high behind them and bronze at their sides. The place had the stink of abandonment and old secrets. Iesha and Shiqo paused at the first door, ears pressed to the splintered wood. Nothing stirred behind it.
The door groaned as Iesha forced it open, revealing a vestibule empty but for a labyrinthine mosaic of tiles underfoot and a ladder leaning against the southern wall. Just as they stepped inside, three pale rot grubs plopped from the ceiling and squirmed into Sulala’s skin.
Shiqo didn’t hesitate. He jammed his torch against the wriggling invaders, searing them out—but the pain dropped Sulala like a sack of barley. While Shiqo poked through corners for anything of interest, Iesha set about binding Sulala’s wounds, smearing a stinking balm of herbs and healing potion with her hands.
Once Sulala could walk again, Iesha scouted ahead. She found a forgotten sauna, the walls warm with the chirping of birds nesting deep in the crumbling brick. A dragon, half-sketched and never finished, had been scrawled on the eastern wall. Strange, but harmless.
Next was the throne room. The tiles showed old myths, chipped and faded, and the ceiling was splattered with ancient blood. The kind of place that once meant power. Now? Picked clean. Not even the more visually appealing tiles remained, having been pried off by thieves generations ago.
In a confessional room, they found a shredded tapestry sagging from the wall and bent copper coins scattered like dried leaves. While tugging at another stuck door, the group drew attention—desert nomads, maybe a dozen of them, silent as shade and with blackened hands. They had that hollow-eyed look, and Sulala later said their very presence made her stomach twist. One of them warned the party off, advising them to stay out of the lower keep. They could not be protected down there.
The trio didn’t argue.
Instead, they continued on to a room built like a maze. Black and white tiles lined the floor, and some joker had scrawled a crude nymph on the wall. Iesha must’ve stepped on the wrong square, because a hiss of gas dropped Shiqo where he stood. Sulala dragged him clear while Iesha pressed ahead alone.
In a cell chamber, Iesha heard chanting—low, steady, like wind humming through a grave. Rotten ropes littered the floor, and the sound had no source she could find. Not one to stick around when her skin itched, she turned back.
In the end, the keep gave up no treasure, only warnings. The blood on the ceiling, the nomads, the chanting in the deep—they didn’t add up to anything good. The trio left with their lives, empty hands, and a quiet agreement: if the magic brewing down below ever boils over, they’ll be back.
