The Roving Adventurers—Makhulim, Marcho, Faylen, and Nayzungit—stood amidst the shattered remains of Tzalyx’s lair, the phantom’s wail of defeat still echoing in their minds. The frozen peaks stood sentry outside, and the furious winds howled at the mouth of the cavern entrance that led to the ruins of the once-great warlord’s stronghold.
Something far older and more insidious lurked beneath the surface, waiting to be uncovered.
The Secret Entrance
As the party scoured the remains of Tzalyx’s stronghold, Marcho’s keen halfling instincts led him to a peculiar patch wall; rocks that seemed out of place, smoother and more regular than just a cave. There was a faint hint, a mist of ice, that covered the wall. He traced his gloved fingers over the smooth surface, sensing something unnatural beneath. A rune, long faded but still faintly visible, lay etched into the permafrost.
Faylen, attuned to arcane sigils, murmured an incantation and revealed an ancient inscription: “Knowledge entombed for the sovereign’s return.” The wall bore no keyhole or latch, but Makhulim’s dwarven insight into stonework noticed that the wall responded slightly to heat. With a knowing grin, Nayzungit cast a gentle flame over the surface. Steam hissed as the ice melted away, revealing a recessed stone panel engraved with draconic script.
Marcho deciphered the words: “The frost yields only to the sovereign’s breath.”
A test. The party searched their collective memories, finding an answer in children’s fables, tales and lore of Shalannan. Chulludu, a fabled and famed ancient white dragon, was also know as “The Icy Sovereign”.
Chulludu’s breath would be necessary—but how? After some deliberation, the party experimented with frost magic. Faylen conjured an ice-cold gust, and the wall shuddered open, revealing a spiraling stair behind descending downward into the evil darkness of the cave complex.
The Library of the Forgotten Tyrant
Descending into the depths, the party emerged into an ancient, vaulted chamber, the walls lined with shelves of ice-locked tomes and scrolls. Chandeliers of frozen bones dangled from the ceiling, and the air hung thick with a dreadful stillness. Arcane torches flickered to life with an eerie blue glow, illuminating the chamber in ghostly light. At the room’s center, a great stone table held scattered scrolls, wax-sealed missives, and a tattered leather-bound tome emblazoned with a sigil of a dragon’s eye.
Faylen carefully unrolled one of the scrolls, her elven eyes widening as she read the spidery script:
“The Icy Sovereign’s dominion must be absolute. The elves of Y’hserin, guardians of the ancient ways, stand as the last obstacle to our claim. Their magic runs deep, but their forests will burn and their songs shall be silenced. The storm comes.”
Makhulim’s grip tightened on his axe. “By Angradd’s beard… this ain’t just war plans—this is a call for extermination.”
The Dark Alliance
Marcho rifled through a stack of missives sealed with an unfamiliar sigil, but a larger, heavier tome drew Nayzungit’s attention. Its pages, brittle with age, chronicled the rise of Tzalyx and his pact with Chulludu. The writings described how Tzalyx, once a warlord of lesser renown, had sought power beyond mortal means. In Chulludu, he found not just a weapon, but a vision—a world frozen and remade in their image.
One passage in particular chilled them more than the frozen walls around them:
“When the final snows fall, the Elves of Y’hserin shall be the first to kneel… or perish. Their knowledge must not survive them. The sovereign’s fury shall see to it.”
Faylen swallowed hard. “If this was written centuries ago, does it mean…?”
Marcho grimaced. “That maybe someone’s still tryin’ to finish what Tzalyx started.”
The Eerie Scrying Globe
At the far end of the library, an eerie, crystalline globe sat atop a frozen dais, bathed in pale light from an icy skylight above. Within its glassy depths, shadows stirred and flickered, as if glimpses of another time—or another set of eyes—watched back. The globe pulsed faintly, drawing them forward with an unspoken allure.
Faylen’s bow, Charm, whispered in her mind, its voice a bitter mix of yearning and disdain. “Look deeper. The past holds the answers.” Then, almost immediately, another thought cut through: “We linger too long. Shadows stir, and the dead do not forget.”
Nayzungit muttered a prayer and hesitated before stepping closer. “This thing’s still got power,” he warned. “Could be watchin’ us… or worse, could be callin’ somethin’ to us.”
Marcho, ever the curious rogue, peered into the swirling mist within the orb. He gasped as he saw flashes of movement—an army draped in frost, marching under a sigil eerily similar to Tzalyx’s. The vision blurred, shifting to an icy throne atop a mountain, where a hulking, draconic shape loomed. Chulludu was stirring.
Other Findings and the Urgency of the Warning
The party scattered through the library, uncovering further relics of the past. A rusted chest contained enchanted arrowheads of silvered ice, inscribed with draconic runes. A delicate elven pendant, long frozen in place, bore the insignia of Y’hserin—proof that not all had perished before this place was sealed. A final discovery shook them to their core: a ledger listing names, many of them crossed out. What did this mean?
The realization hit them all at once: this wasn’t history—they had stumbled upon a living threat. If remnants of Tzalyx’s followers or Chulludu’s influence still lingered, then Y’hserin was in grave danger. Time was of the essence. They had to get this knowledge to the elves before it was too late.
As they gathered the scrolls and journals, a deep rumble echoed through the chamber. The torches flickered, and a bitter wind spiraled through the hall. It was time to leave.
