The Haunted Fairground of Cobblecrest

The Haunted Fairground of Cobblecrest

Prelude: Echoes in Iron and Warning Whispers

The biting chill of Alturiak, the Claw of Winter month, clung to Cobblecrest like a shroud. Frost spider-webbed the cobblestones, and the air, sharp enough to sting the lungs, carried the rhythmic clang of hammer on metal. It was a sound of stubborn life in the late winter gloom, echoing from Ironhand’s Anvil and drawing the four adventurers – Seraphina Goldlight, Darian Stonesworn, Naivara Moondream, and Kaelen Duskwalker – towards its source.

The forge radiated a welcome heat that pushed back the morning’s frost. Sparks erupted in fiery constellations as Balin Ironhand, his face grimaced in concentration, brought his heavy hammer down upon a glowing horseshoe resting on the anvil. The muscles in his bare arms bunched and corded with the effort, sweat beading on his brow despite the cold seeping in from the street. Around him, the tools of his trade lay in ordered chaos – tongs, hammers, files – and racks of finished work gleamed dully in the firelight: swords, axe heads, shields, their polished steel surfaces reflecting the forge’s hungry flames.

Standing near the anvil, seemingly oblivious to the flying sparks, was a dwarf woman whose stout frame seemed hewn from the very mountains she mined. Her hands, smudged with soot, gestured emphatically, a cluster of raw, uncut gemstones flashing in her grip. A heavy leather satchel, bulging with ore, was slung across her shoulder. This was Greta Ironfist, ore trader and miner, known throughout the region for her shrewd bargaining and encyclopedic knowledge of Maerthwatch veins.

"Don’t give me that look, Balin," Greta’s gravelly voice cut through the forge’s din. She waved the fistful of gemstones under the blacksmith’s nose. "This is top-quality stuff—straight from the veins of the Maerthwatch. Better than that rubbish you got last season!"

Balin paused, hammer held aloft, and squinted at the stones. His inspection was brief, his expression unchanging. He brought the hammer down again with a resounding clang, sending another shower of sparks towards the soot-darkened rafters. "Quality it might be, Greta, but you ask a king’s ransom. The ore, maybe." He nodded towards a crate of dark, heavy rock. "These pebbles?" He grunted dismissively. "Overpriced."

Greta scoffed, tucking the gems back into a pouch at her belt with a practiced flick of her wrist. "Pebbles? These 'pebbles' have veins of mithril, Balin! Fine enough for your apprentice’s little… pet project." She nudged the crate of ore with her sturdy boot. "Ten gold per pound for the iron, and I’ll throw in the mithril shard I showed you. That’s my final offer."

Balin grunted again, setting the finished horseshoe into the quenching tub with a loud hiss of steam. He wiped his brow with a forearm, leaving a streak of soot across his weathered skin. "You’re as stubborn as a rock troll, Greta, but fine. You drive a hard bargain." He finally looked up properly, his gaze falling upon the adventurers who had entered quietly and now stood observing the exchange. His usual gruffness softened almost imperceptibly. "Need something?"

Before they could articulate their needs, Greta turned, her sharp eyes taking them in with a swift, appraising glance that lingered on their well-used weapons and sturdy armor. "Well now, who might you lot be? Adventurers, aye?" Her gaze was direct, bordering on challenging. "Those blades look like they’ve seen better days. Armor’s sturdy, though," she conceded, nodding towards Darian’s formidable dwarven plate mail. "What’re you doing here? Don’t tell me you’re taking up blacksmithing—Balin’s grouchiness is enough for one forge!"

Kaelen, the half-elf ranger whose movements were as quiet as falling snow, stepped forward slightly, his green eyes watchful. "We seek reliable gear, Master Ironfist. And perhaps… information."

Greta snorted, a sound like rocks tumbling. "Information? Cobblecrest is quiet these days. Too quiet, maybe. Unless you count that cursed fairground." She spat forcefully onto the packed earth floor near the forge, the spittle sizzling instantly in the ambient heat. "Place gives me the creeps."

Naivara, the moon elf wizard whose pale violet eyes seemed to hold the light of distant stars, tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. "Fairground? The one abandoned near the foothills?"

"Aye, that one," Greta confirmed, her tone darkening noticeably. "If you’re looking for trouble, I passed it a few days ago, fetching this ore." She patted her bulging satchel. "Something’s wrong with that place—unnatural wrong. Lights flickering in the mist, the ground freezing underfoot even when the sun tried peeking through. And the air…" She shuddered, a rare show of unease crossing her usually implacable features. "Stinks of sulfur. Like a gate to the Abyss cracked open nearby."

Darian Stonesworn, the mountain dwarf paladin whose presence radiated steadfastness, stroked his silver-laced beard. "Sulfur? And strange lights? Sounds like more than just winter chill."

"You're telling me," Greta retorted, folding her arms across her broad chest. "Saw tracks, too. Villagers heading towards that place, none coming back. Hollis Amberleaf, the tutor? Gone. Young Mariel from the Gilded Lily? Vanished. Callen Wreave, the weaver; Jorin Brightshade, the farmer who fancies himself a mage... good folk, missing. Tracks lead right to that gate." She jabbed a thick finger towards the misty outline of the mountains visible through the forge’s open doorway. "I didn't stick around, and neither should you. If you’re smart, that is."

Seraphina Goldlight, the lightfoot halfling cleric whose optimism usually shone brighter than her holy symbol, stepped closer, her hazel eyes wide with concern. "Missing villagers? Perhaps the dawn guides us to help them."

Greta eyed the cleric, a flicker of something – perhaps respect, perhaps pity – in her gaze. "Maybe. Or maybe something foul is lurking in that carnival. Something that eats adventurers for breakfast." Her gaze swept over them again, assessing their mettle. "If you’re planning on going, you’d best be well-armed—and not just with steel. You’ll need guts too. And maybe a priest." She nodded towards Seraphina.

Kaelen studied Greta’s face intently. Her outward show of toughness was clear, but his sharp eyes detected the genuine flicker of worry beneath it, a concern she quickly tried to mask. "Do you know anything more, Mistress Ironfist? Any way in besides the main gate?" he asked quietly.

Greta hesitated, glancing towards Balin who remained impassive, then seemed to make a decision. "There's an old mine shaft," she said, lowering her voice slightly as if sharing a forbidden secret. "Barely more than a prospector's hole, north side of the meadow, near the treeline. Caved in years ago, but… maybe not entirely. Might get you past the gate, if there’s something nasty guarding it." Her insight felt genuine, a helpful tidbit offered despite her caution. She paused, then rummaged in her satchel again, pulling out a small, rough stone shard that pulsed with a faint, internal light, casting strange blue shadows on her calloused hand. "Tell you what—if you’re really daft enough to go poking around there, take this with you." She pressed it firmly into Kaelen's gloved hand. The stone felt strangely cold. "Glows a bit near bad magic. Brighter if it’s fiendish. Might give you a warning."

Balin, who had been listening silently while seemingly inspecting the temper of a newly forged axe head, added his own gruff counsel. "You’ll need more than stories and bravado if you’re thinking of heading into that cursed fairground. Steel can break, armor can fail." He gestured to the impressive racks of weapons and shields lining his forge. "I’ve got blades here that can cut through troll hide and shields sturdy enough to turn a giant’s hammer. Equip yourselves properly. Going in unprepared is just asking for a shallow grave." He met their eyes, his gaze stern but not unkind. "For you lot… seeing as you’re taking on this trouble… ten percent off repairs."

The adventurers exchanged glances, the weight of the situation settling upon them. Missing villagers, unnatural cold, sulfurous stenches, strange lights, a haunted fairground, and now a helpful dwarf offering a magic rock and a discount. Trouble, certainly. But also, perhaps, a duty they could not ignore.

The Fog-Wreathed Gate and the Thing That Waited

They followed Greta's careful directions, the path leading away from the relative warmth and familiar sounds of Cobblecrest towards the looming, mist-shrouded Maerthwatch foothills. The air grew progressively colder, the light mist from the village coalescing into a thicker, chilling fog that clung to their cloaks like damp cobwebs and beaded on their eyelashes. Visibility dropped drastically; the world shrank to a twenty-foot radius of grey uncertainty, muffling sounds and distorting shapes. The rhythmic crunch of their boots on the frosty ground seemed unnaturally loud in the eerie silence.

Then, the smell hit them – faint at first, a strange mix carried on the frigid air, then stronger – the cloying sweetness of burnt sugar overlaid with the heavy scent of damp earth and, sharp beneath it, a distinct, metallic tang like old blood. And fainter still, almost subliminal, the acrid whiff of sulfur, just as Greta had described. The fairground materialized from the mist ahead, not as a place of potential joy, but as a skeletal ruin steeped in an atmosphere of profound wrongness.

The wrought-iron gate, grand even in its decay, stood before them like the jaws of some forgotten beast. Its surface was slick with a thick layer of frost, the intricate scrollwork beneath marred by deep, grotesque claw marks that looked disturbingly fresh, as if made only hours before. Beyond the gate, the fairground sprawled in eerie disarray. Broken rides – a listing carousel, a skeletal Ferris wheel – loomed like the carcasses of forgotten behemoths, their shapes indistinct and menacing in the fog. Abandoned stalls tilted at drunken angles, their colorful paint peeled and faded, their signs shattered and unreadable. Torn carnival banners, their festive images warped by weather and time into mocking leers, flapped listlessly in a breeze only they seemed to feel.

Erratic lights flickered from within the grounds – pale, sickly colours of green, yellow, and violet that pulsed like dying hearts, casting shifting, distorted shadows that danced with the swirling mist. And through the oppressive silence drifted the broken notes of that carousel tune, discordant and unsettlingly slow, a melody stripped of all joy. It was punctuated by whispers that seemed to slither just at the edge of hearing, too indistinct to understand but filled with malice, and the occasional faint, faraway scream, muffled as if carried through water or distance.

Kaelen paused again, his hand resting instinctively on the hilt of his Whisperfang dagger, his ranger senses screaming caution. He scanned the gate, his sharp eyes narrowed, trying to penetrate the gloom and the frost. Something felt inherently wrong. The frost pattern seemed too uniform, almost deliberate, and the metal sheen beneath it looked unnaturally… smooth? He sensed a subtle wrongness, a stillness that felt predatory. "Hold," he murmured, his voice a low warning that barely disturbed the fog. "The gate…"

As if in response to his intense scrutiny, the gate groaned. Not the creak of rusted hinges yielding to a non-existent wind, but a low, guttural sound that vibrated in the cold air. The iron bars seemed to ripple, to writhe, like snakes stirring from slumber. Then, with shocking, unnatural speed, the center of the gate split wide, not swinging open on hinges, but tearing apart down the middle to reveal a cavernous maw filled with rows of jagged, iron-filing teeth. A wet, guttural chuckle echoed from the darkness within as the seemingly solid bars twisted and flowed into coiling, searching pseudopods of dark, frost-rimed metal.

"Ambush!" Darian bellowed, the word exploding into the mist as he hefted his verdant shield and drew his warhammer, its surface gleaming even in the dim light.

The monstrous Gate-Thing lunged.

It moved with a speed that belied its apparent bulk, a thick pseudopod lashing out like a whip towards Darian. The dwarf met the blow squarely on his shield, the impact ringing like Balin’s hammer striking true on the anvil, but the sheer force of it staggered him back a step. Another pseudopod snaked towards Seraphina, who yelped and scrambled back, the holy symbol of Lathander clutched in her hand flaring with sudden, protective light.

Kaelen reacted instantly, his movements fluid and economical. An arrow hissed from his bow, striking the mimic’s "frame" – the solid-seeming edge of the gate – with a dull thud. It stuck fast but seemed to cause the creature little more than annoyance. Naivara, her face pale but her eyes alight with focused arcane energy, began tracing complex symbols in the air, her voice chanting sharp words of power that cut through the fog.

The Gate-Thing ignored the others, focusing its malice on the largest threat – Darian. Its maw gaped wide, revealing rows upon rows of teeth, and a sticky, adhesive strand shot out, faster than a striking snake. It enveloped the dwarf paladin’s shield arm, clinging tight. Darian roared in frustration, trying to tear his arm free, the muscles in his shoulders bunching, but the substance held fast, strong and unnervingly resilient. The mimic began to drag him closer, inch by inch, towards its iron-toothed maw.

"Hold on, Darian!" Seraphina cried out, her voice high but steady as she invoked Lathander's blessing upon Kaelen. The ranger nocked another arrow, this one aimed with deadly precision at the vulnerable-looking, hinge-like area where the attacking pseudopod joined the main gate structure. The arrow struck true, eliciting a wet tearing sound and a high-pitched screech of pain from the mimic.

Naivara completed her spell. A lance of pure cold, sharp and bright as a shard of glacial ice, shot from her outstretched fingers, striking the mimic’s central maw. Ice sheeted across the dark metal, frosting the jagged teeth, and the creature recoiled visibly, its movements momentarily sluggish, its guttural sounds turning into a pained hiss.

"The cold!" Naivara shouted, her voice sharp with discovery. "It doesn't like the cold!"

Seizing the opening, Kaelen fired again, his arrow finding the same weakened joint he’d struck before. Seraphina darted in bravely, her blessed mace crashing against the icy patch Naivara had created. The impact shattered metal that was already brittle with cold, eliciting another howl of agony from the creature. Darian, gritting his teeth against the pull, put his full dwarven strength into a mighty heave. The adhesive substance tore with a sickening ripping sound as he finally broke free, stumbling back but keeping his footing.

Wounded, denied its prey, and perhaps sensing the shift in the tide of battle, the mimic hissed again, a sound like escaping steam mixed with grinding metal. It recoiled rapidly, its massive form blurring as it seemed to melt back into the thick, grey fog. One moment it was a terrifying, animate gate barring their path, the next, just another indistinct, menacing shape lurking in the oppressive grey of the haunted fairground.

Silence descended again, thick and heavy, broken only by the party’s ragged breathing, the distant, maddeningly slow carousel music, and the faint drip of melting frost from the surrounding decay. The entrance stood open now, a ragged, tooth-lined tear in the mist-laden perimeter of the fairground.

"Well," Darian grunted, rubbing his arm where the adhesive had clung, "that was an unnecessarily aggressive welcome." His gaze swept the foggy path beyond the breached gate.

Kaelen retrieved his arrows where possible, examining the mimic's sticky, dissipating residue with distaste. "It may not be the last." He nodded towards the interior of the fairground. "We need to find those villagers."

Carefully, stepping over the last remnants of the defeated gate-creature, they moved through the breach and into the fairground proper. The air inside felt even colder, heavier, charged with a latent, hostile energy. They moved cautiously, weapons ready, checking the nearest dilapidated stalls. Most were empty, overturned, or filled with sodden debris and frozen refuse. But Kaelen, his ranger eyes sharp even in the gloom, spotted faint drag marks in the frost-covered ground, leading away from one broken stall towards the looming, skeletal silhouette of the Ferris wheel, barely visible in the distance (He successfully noticed the tracks).

Naivara, meanwhile, her arcane senses heightened, examined the tattered remnants of carnival posters plastered to a nearby kiosk. Beneath the peeling layers advertising ring tosses and feats of strength, faint runes glowed with a sickly, greenish Abyssal light, invisible to the untrained eye (She successfully used her magical senses). "Kassilith," she whispered again, tracing one of the wavering symbols in the air with a gloved finger. "The Twin Maw of Discord. A demon lord’s sigil."

Near another collapsed stall, half-buried in frozen mud and debris, Seraphina found a shard of mirror, perhaps from an old funhouse attraction. As she stooped to pick it up, a terrified face momentarily flashed within its cracked surface – a villager she recognized, screaming silently for help – before the image dissolved, leaving only her own wide-eyed reflection staring back from the shard (She found the clue).

The clues were sparse, unsettling, but they pointed deeper into the fog-shrouded nightmare. Towards the groaning, creaking bulk of the rides, where the haunting music seemed just a little louder.

Carnival of Shadows: Trials of Glass, Steel, and Flame

Venturing deeper into the heart of the fairground, the adventurers found themselves in a graveyard of forgotten joy. The towering rides loomed like the broken skeletons of giants in the swirling mist, their paint cracked and peeling, their metal rusted and groaning. A haunting atmosphere pervaded the area – each ride seemed possessed of a malevolent life, their mechanical movements jerky and unnatural, occurring without wind or any visible power source. Faint screams echoed from within the attractions, their cadence disturbingly blending with the twisted, off-key carnival music that drifted relentlessly through the cold air. Faintly glowing runes of Abyssal origin pulsed rhythmically on the rides’ surfaces, flickering like dying embers in the gloom. Shadows darted across the mist at the periphery of their vision, hinting at hidden dangers. Each ride seemed to shift slightly as they approached, as though watching them with unseen eyes.

The Hall of Mirrors

They decided to investigate the Hall of Mirrors first, its entrance a gaudy, dilapidated archway promising distorted fun but radiating only menace. Inside, the air was unnaturally cold, colder even than the frosty air outside. A labyrinth of dusty, grimy glass panels reflected warped and grotesque versions of the adventurers. Seraphina appeared squat and unnaturally wide, her usually cheerful halfling face stretched into a fearful grimace. Darian’s sturdy dwarven form was elongated into a spindly nightmare, his shield looking impossibly thin and fragile. Kaelen seemed to ripple and distort, his features indistinct and shifting, while Naivara’s reflection flickered like a faulty illusion, sometimes vanishing entirely.

Naivara frowned, her hand instinctively going to the components pouch at her belt as she concentrated, trying to pierce the strange magic. "Illusions," she murmured, her breath misting in the frigid air, "but strong ones. Woven with… fear?" Her innate understanding of the arcane allowed her to sense the underlying patterns. She pointed down a corridor where the reflections seemed slightly less distorted. "That path seems clearer. Perhaps safer."

As they navigated the disorienting maze, the sense of being watched intensified. Some reflections in the mirrors lagged behind their movements, turning their distorted heads to watch them pass with malevolent intelligence. Others leered silently, their features twisting into silent sneers of pure malice. Suddenly, a reflection of Kaelen, dark, gaunt, and unnervingly tall, stepped out of the mirror’s surface, coalescing into a being of pure, flickering shadow, its insubstantial claws reaching for the ranger. Simultaneously, another shadow detached itself from Darian’s distorted image, flowing across the floor like spilled ink.

"Ambush!" Kaelen yelled, drawing his Whisperfang dagger as he fluidly dodged the grasping, chilling claws. Darian met his shadowy counterpart with a clang of steel on stone, his warhammer striking empty air as the creature flowed around his powerful blow, reforming instantly.

Seraphina held her holy symbol aloft, its divine light causing the shadows to recoil, hissing like water on hot coals. "Lathander, grant us clarity and banish this darkness!" she prayed, the air around her warming slightly. Naivara, quicker than thought, unleashed bolts of pure force from her fingertips, the arcane missiles unerringly striking one of the creatures. It shrieked, a sound like tearing silk, and dissipated slightly, its form wavering.

The fight was confusing and treacherous. The shifting reflections in the myriad mirrors made it incredibly difficult to track the true enemies, who flickered in and out of view, using the distorted perspectives to their advantage. Their chilling touch seemed to leech the very strength from limbs they brushed against. Kaelen, relying on his honed ranger’s senses more than sight in the disorienting hall, managed to pin one of the shadowy forms against a mirror with a well-aimed dagger throw, the blade seeming to bite into its ephemeral substance. Darian, guided by the steady glow of Seraphina’s holy symbol, finally landed a solid blow with his enchanted hammer, the impact scattering the other shadow like smoke in a gale.

As the second shadow dissolved with a final, despairing wail, one last, non-hostile reflection appeared in the mirror it had emerged from. It was a man with a kind, familiar face, though now deeply etched with terror – Hollis Amberleaf, Cobblecrest’s bardic tutor. He seemed to mouth the words "Help me…" before his reflection shattered violently into a thousand glittering pieces. Where the image had been, lying amongst the shimmering shards of glass on the dusty floor, was a single, bloodied lute string. Faint Abyssal runes pulsed along its length, momentarily spelling out a location before fading: Wheel.

The Ferris Wheel of Torment

Following the spectral clue, they emerged from the disorienting, glass-strewn hall back into the oppressive mist. The groaning clank of the Ferris wheel was louder now, drawing them closer like a funeral dirge. The massive structure spun slowly, ominously backward, its rusted machinery protesting with each unnatural revolution. Bound figures were clearly visible inside several of the passenger cabins swinging high above, their struggles and muffled cries lost in the wind and the grinding noise. Shimmering, dark barriers, like curtains of solidified shadow, pulsed around each occupied cabin, trapping the occupants within.

At the base of the ride, four squat, foul-smelling lesser demons – the dretches – capered and gibbered, prodding at the wheel’s rusted supports with crude implements under the watchful, hateful gaze of a larger, flickering shadow demon perched silently on the operator’s booth like a grotesque gargoyle.

"More fiends," Darian growled, his grip tightening on his warhammer. "And villagers trapped above. This must be their doing."

The shadow demon spotted their approach, letting out a chilling shriek that cut through the mist like ice, a sound filled with malice and hunger. It pointed a shadowy claw, and the dretches, with surprising speed, abandoned their prodding and charged towards the adventurers, their own sharp claws scrabbling on the frosty ground.

"Kaelen, Naivara, deal with the lesser ones!" Darian commanded, bracing himself and Seraphina to meet the inevitable assault of the more dangerous shadow demon. "Seraphina, with me! We need to find a way to free those people!"

Kaelen and Naivara moved to intercept the dretches. The small demons were individually weak but attacked with a feral pack mentality. Worse, as they closed in, some emitted clouds of disgusting green gas that clung to the ground, its stench causing nausea and weakness in those caught within. Kaelen moved like a phantom through the mist and gas, his blades flashing, weaving between the clumsy attacks of the dretches. Naivara used precise blasts of cold magic to slow the demons and, helpfully, to dissipate the worst patches of the clinging, fetid gas.

Meanwhile, Darian and Seraphina faced the shadow demon as it detached itself from its perch and flowed towards them. The creature moved with unnatural speed and silence, its incorporeal form allowing it to phase through the Ferris wheel’s solid supports as if they were mere illusions. Its shadowy claws lashed out, not aiming to rend flesh, but striking directly at the mind, inflicting waves of disorienting psychic pain that bypassed physical armor. Seraphina’s holy light, however, seemed to cause it discomfort, forcing it to squint its non-eyes and making its attacks slightly less accurate.

"The cabins!" Seraphina shouted again, pointing upwards with her holy symbol as she narrowly dodged a psychic blow that left her momentarily disoriented. "The runes on the outside! They must be the source of the barriers! We need to break them!"

Darian nodded grimly, glancing up at the slowly rotating wheel. "Easier said than done." Climbing the moving, rusted structure while fending off the incorporeal shadow demon seemed a suicidal task.

"The supports!" Naivara called out, momentarily disengaging from the dretches as Kaelen dispatched another one. "Maybe there’s a mechanism! If we disrupt the base, perhaps we can stop the wheel, break the enchantment!" Her quick mind saw an alternative path.

Kaelen saw the logic instantly. While Naivara kept the remaining dretches busy with shimmering illusions and blasts of frost, he darted towards the wheel’s main supports, his keen eyes searching for a weak point or a control mechanism in the rusted machinery. He found it – a series of faintly glowing Abyssal runes etched not on the cabins, but into the main axle housing at the center of the ride's base. Taking careful aim, he loosed an arrow, empowered by Seraphina’s earlier blessing. It struck the largest rune squarely. The symbol flared violently with dark energy, then sputtered and died like a snuffed candle.

The massive Ferris wheel shuddered, groaned horribly, and ground to a halt with a final screech of protesting metal. The dark, shimmering barriers around the occupied cabins flickered and vanished into nothingness. Simultaneously, the shadow demon shrieked in pure rage, its form flickering wildly as its control over the ride's dark magic was broken. Darian seized the momentary distraction, his warhammer crashing down, imbued with the holy light Seraphina channeled. The blow connected solidly, scattering the fiend’s shadowy essence like ash on the wind.

They quickly helped the freed villagers down from the now-stationary cabins. Among them was Callen Wreave, the town weaver, trembling uncontrollably but blessedly alive. He clutched a small, brightly coloured carnival ticket in his hand, apparently given to him by his captors. As they watched, the ticket began to glow with an internal light. Kassilith’s twin-maw sigil burned brightly upon its surface for a second before fading, leaving only an arrow-like shape magically etched onto the paper, pointing insistently towards the relentlessly cheerful, off-key music of the carousel nearby.

The Carousel of Chaos

The carousel stood in the center of a fog-shrouded clearing, its saccharine, repetitive music a jarring counterpoint to the surrounding decay and silence. The wooden horses mounted on their brass poles were hideously transformed – painted smiles stretched into snarling, fanged maws, glass eyes burning with a malevolent red light, carved hooves sharpened into wicked claws. The circular platform beneath them pulsed rhythmically with glowing Abyssal runes that seemed to writhe, momentarily forming the word "Discord" before dissolving back into abstract patterns. At the very center of the rotating platform, guarding a large, heavily rusted lever that presumably controlled the ride, hunched a grotesque, hulking creature – a maw demon, its enormous mouth drooling thick, foul-smelling ichor as it regarded their approach with mindless, gluttonous hunger.

"The lever," Naivara stated the obvious, pointing towards the center of the carousel. "That must control the ride. But those runes… they're powering it somehow." Her sharp eyes had already deciphered the Abyssal script.

"And that," Kaelen added grimly, nodding at the drooling maw demon, "guards the lever."

As if understanding their intent, the demon roared, a sound of pure, ravenous rage that echoed strangely in the mist, and charged towards the edge of the platform, ready to intercept them. It moved with surprising speed for its apparent bulk, its enormous bite looking capable of tearing through shield and armor with ease.

"Darian, Kaelen, keep it busy!" Seraphina directed, raising her holy symbol, its light making the maw demon flinch slightly. "Naivara, the runes! Can you disrupt them, break the enchantment?"

Naivara nodded, her face set in concentration, her hands already weaving intricate arcane energies. "I can try, but I'll need time! Keep that thing off me!" she replied, her eyes fixed on the swirling symbols on the carousel platform.

The fight began in earnest. Darian met the maw demon's lumbering charge, his shield groaning under the brutal impact of its powerful bite, the force nearly knocking him off his feet. Kaelen flanked the creature, his twin blades flashing like quicksilver, darting in to strike at its tough hide, seeking openings in the creature's relentless assault. The carousel continued its maddening, ceaseless rotation, the platform slick with frost and something darker that might have been ichor or blood. With every rotation, the floor seemed to lurch unnervingly beneath their feet, threatening to send them sprawling. Darian, despite his sturdy dwarven balance, was caught off guard by one such lurch and stumbled, falling heavily to one knee, narrowly avoiding the demon’s snapping jaws as it lunged.

Seraphina chanted urgent prayers, bolstering Darian's defense and sending blasts of purifying sacred flame searing into the maw demon’s foul hide, causing it to bellow in pain and rage. Naivara, standing firm despite the lurching platform and the nearby combat, focused her will on the swirling runes, her brow furrowed in intense concentration as she meticulously picked apart the threads of the Abyssal magic powering the ride.

"Almost there!" Naivara cried out, sweat beading on her forehead despite the cold. One by one, the Abyssal runes flickered and died under her focused assault. As the last rune faded into darkness, the carousel ground to a halt with a final, mournful groan. The grotesque wooden horses froze mid-snarl, their painted eyes suddenly dull and lifeless.

Distracted by the abrupt cessation of the ride's dark magic and the sudden silence, the maw demon faltered for a crucial moment, its single-minded focus disrupted. It was all the opening they needed. Kaelen, ever opportunistic, struck from the disorienting shadows created by the flickering lights, his blades finding purchase. Darian surged back to his feet, his warhammer glowing as he unleashed Moradin’s righteous fury in a powerful smite. Seraphina’s final blast of Sacred Flame seared its hide, causing it to stagger. The creature roared one last time, a sound of frustrated hunger, then collapsed heavily, dissolving into a cloud of foul-smelling, greasy smoke that quickly dissipated in the cold air.

Beneath the now-still platform, near the central mechanism and the now-useless lever, lay a tattered fragment of dark, heavy cloth – clearly part of a banner or standard. Woven into it in tarnished silver thread was Kassilith’s twin-maw sigil and a single, ominous phrase: “The finale begins at the tent.”

Amidst the debris scattered near the central pole, Seraphina also found a small, intricately carved golden music box. It seemed miraculously undamaged. When she carefully opened it, it played a hauntingly beautiful, yet strangely calming melody, a faint counterpoint to the lingering sense of dread.

The Twin Maw Unleashed

The main tent stood like a colossal, tattered bruise at the very heart of the blighted fairground, drawing the eye and radiating a palpable aura of menace. Its striped canvas, once likely bright, was now ripped, stained, and faded, flapping listlessly in an unnatural, icy wind that seemed to emanate from within the structure itself. No cheerful light spilled from its entrance flaps; only darkness and a profound sense of dread leaked out into the swirling mist. The sharp, sulfuric stench that permeated the fairground was strongest here, mingled thickly and nauseatingly with the coppery tang of old blood.

Steeling themselves, the party pushed through the heavy, mouldering entrance flaps. The air inside was thick, unnaturally cold, and suffocating, making breathing difficult. Flickering torches mounted on warped poles cast long, dancing shadows, their flames an unhealthy, pulsating greenish hue that offered little real illumination and made everything look sickly and distorted. The tent walls, stained and patched, seemed to writhe and ripple in the strange light, not just from the wind outside, but as if the canvas itself were alive and breathing slowly. Whispers slithered through the frigid air from all directions – a cacophony of indistinct voices speaking in unknown, sibilant tongues, layered with deep, mocking laughter that seemed to echo from nowhere and everywhere, and the faint, despairing screams of the lost, woven into the very fabric of the oppressive silence.

In the center of the vast, circular space, a large, low platform dominated the area. Faint Abyssal runes glowed across its surface, pulsing slowly in time with the eerie green torches lining the tent walls. As the adventurers watched, shadows began to coalesce above the center of the platform, swirling and thickening like smoke drawn into a vortex. The temperature plummeted further.

Two distinct shapes began to emerge from the swirling darkness, wreathed in shadowstuff. One resolved into a massive, crocodilian maw, impossibly wide and filled with rows upon rows of needle-sharp teeth dripping with some dark ichor. The other took the form of a sinuous, serpentine head with hypnotic, glowing crimson eyes that seemed to pierce the gloom and fix upon each of them simultaneously. Kassilith’s projection took form, a towering, nightmarish amalgamation of predatory shapes, radiating an aura of pure malice and chaotic energy that pressed down on them like a physical weight.

"Foolish mortals," the twin voices echoed again, not through the air, but resonating directly within their minds, a discordant, grating chorus of reptilian hunger and ancient contempt. "You dare defy me? You have dismantled my diversions, yes, but you cannot comprehend the symphony of chaos I orchestrate! I am discord incarnate, the twin maw that devours courage and sows despair. Now… witness your own demise!"

With terrifying speed, the crocodilian head lunged forward, its jaws snapping shut with the force of a portcullis slamming down. Simultaneously, the serpentine tail, thick as a tree trunk and tipped with a bony barb, lashed out from the swirling shadows, aiming to sweep Darian, the sturdiest among them, off his feet.

"Stand fast! For Cobblecrest!" Darian bellowed, planting his feet wide and raising his shield, the holy symbol of Moradin embossed upon it gleaming defiantly against the encroaching gloom.

Seraphina invoked Lathander’s protection, a surge of golden light momentarily pushing back the oppressive shadows around them, offering a fleeting sense of warmth and hope. Kaelen, as was his way, melted into the flickering gloom at the tent's edge, the shadows welcoming him as he sought an advantageous position to strike. Naivara, her face a mask of concentration, began weaving a counter-spell, her hands moving in complex, intricate patterns, her lips forming silent arcane syllables.

Kassilith – or rather, its projection – laughed again, the sound grating and cold inside their skulls. "Your pathetic lights cannot banish true darkness! Your courage falters, your resolve weakens. I can taste your despair upon the air… It is… delicious."

Illusions flickered constantly at the edge of their vision – phantom fiends charging from the periphery, visions of collapsing tent poles raining down debris, shadowy claws reaching from the undulating walls. The very walls of the tent seemed to press inward, crushing and constricting, the air growing heavy and close.

The demon lord’s projection was a whirlwind of coordinated attacks – the snapping, bone-crushing bite of the crocodilian maw, the sweeping, unbalancing lash of the serpentine tail. Then, both heads inhaled simultaneously, drawing in the swirling shadows and the very whispers from the air, and unleashed a terrifying wave of pure, mind-breaking chaotic energy that washed over them. Seraphina and Naivara cried out, stumbling back, clutching their heads, their minds momentarily overwhelmed by visions of madness and primal terror.

"Focus!" Darian roared again, shaking his head to clear it, his dwarven fortitude resisting the worst of the psychic assault. He charged forward, his warhammer glowing with the divine power of his faith, striking a heavy, ringing blow against the projection's shadowy flank. Kaelen reappeared from the gloom like a vengeful wraith, his twin blades finding purchase in the creature's substance, inflicting deep, chilling wounds.

Enraged by their defiance, Kassilith shrieked, its twin voices a disharmonious cacophony of fury. "Insolent gnats! You need… distractions!" With a dismissive gesture of a half-formed clawed hand, two squat, foul-smelling dretches shimmered into existence beside it, immediately scrambling with gleeful malice to attack the nearest adventurers, adding their own chaotic nuisance to the fray.

The battle raged, a desperate, chaotic dance of steel, faith, magic, and shadow in the flickering green gloom. Naivara, regaining her composure, dispatched the summoned dretches with precise bolts of arcane force, her expression grim. Seraphina, shaking off the last vestiges of the induced fear, channeled Lathander's healing energy into Darian, mending his wounds and bolstering his resolve. Kaelen harried the projection relentlessly, his gloom stalker abilities making him a flickering, hard-to-target nightmare in the dim, shifting light, his blades biting deep. Darian stood as an unbreachable anchor, his shield weathering blow after punishing blow, his enchanted hammer finding its mark again and again, each impact causing the projection's form to waver and thin.

Slowly, agonizingly, the projection began to weaken noticeably. Its form flickered more violently now, the shadows composing it growing thin and translucent, the Abyssal runes on the platform beneath it dimming. It lashed out with renewed, desperate fury, sensing its dissolution, focusing its attacks on Darian, trying to take down at least one of them before its manifestation failed.

"This changes nothing!" it snarled again, its twin voices growing slightly weaker, laced with frustration. Its tail caught Kaelen with vicious force, sending the half-elf ranger sprawling across the platform. "This form… is temporary… a mere echo… but the discord I sow… that is eternal!"

With a final, concerted effort, they pressed their attack, sensing victory was near. Darian’s final, powerful smite struck home like a thunderclap. Seraphina’s Sacred Flame enveloped the creature in holy fire. Naivara’s arcane bolt ripped through its fading, shadowy essence. And Kaelen, recovering quickly from the blow, surged forward and plunged his Whisperfang dagger deep into the heart of the crocodilian maw.

The projection convulsed violently, letting out a final, ear-splitting shriek that was part reptilian roar, part serpentine hiss, a sound that echoed and faded into the oppressive silence. "This is but a taste… of the chaos to come! I will see you again, mortals… And next time… you will beg for the mercy I will not grant!"

With that final, defiant promise, the shadowy form dissolved completely, imploding into nothingness, leaving behind only a lingering chill and the faint scent of ozone. The eerie green torches flickered one last time and died, plunging the vast tent into near-total darkness, save for the steady, comforting glow from Seraphina’s holy symbol and the faint, pulsing light of the Glowstone shard Greta had given them, now resting harmlessly on the platform. The whispers ceased entirely. The oppressive atmosphere lifted abruptly, replaced by a profound, echoing silence that felt almost heavy after the preceding cacophony.

On the central platform, where the terrifying dual-headed demon had stood only moments before, lay only two objects: a small, heavy leather pouch containing a modest sum of gold coins, and a single, pristine, brightly coloured carnival ticket. This one, however, felt inherently wrong. A palpable cold emanated from it, and etched onto its surface in smoldering Abyssal runes was Kassilith’s twin-maw sigil and a single, chillingly clear destination: Fellshade Sanctum. It pulsed faintly with dark energy in Kaelen’s hand, a malevolent compass needle pointing towards an unknown darkness lurking deep within the nearby Chondalwood.

Beneath the Surface, Still It Stirs

They emerged from the oppressive darkness of the main tent back into the cold, grey light of late morning. The unnatural wind had ceased, the silence of the fairground broken only by the mournful creaking of the derelict rides. The mist had thinned slightly more, revealing a somber, overcast sky that promised more icy rain. The journey back to Cobblecrest was undertaken in a heavy silence, each adventurer lost in their own thoughts, the weight of their strange encounter and the ominous implications of the cursed ticket heavy upon them. The Fellshade Sanctum. The Chondalwood. It seemed their ordeal was far from over.

Cobblecrest, when they finally reached it, seemed subdued, almost holding its breath. The usual morning bustle of the market square was muted, the cheerful calls of vendors replaced by hushed whispers. Villagers gathered in small, anxious clusters near the well and the Town Hall, their faces turned towards the path leading from the fairground, their eyes wary but filled with a desperate curiosity as they spotted the returning adventurers. As the party entered the village proper, heads turned, conversations ceased, and whispers followed them like rustling leaves: “They’ve returned...” “Did they stop it?” “What about Hollis…?” A wave of mixed emotions – palpable relief, lingering fear, intense curiosity – washed over the adventurers.

Mayor Thomas Greenfield met them near the Town Hall steps, his usual composed authority visibly cracked. Relief warred with deep-seated worry on his face. "Thank the gods you’ve returned!" he exclaimed, his voice tight with emotion, stepping forward to greet them. "Is it… is it truly over? The fairground? What happened? What of the missing villagers?"

Before they could fully answer his barrage of questions, Sister Eliza arrived from the direction of the Shrine of the Harvest Moon, her usual serene presence a welcome balm in the tense atmosphere. "You have faced great darkness," she said softly, her calm eyes scanning each of them for injury, physical or otherwise. "Come, rest yourselves. We will tend to the rescued." She gestured towards the Shrine, where several villagers were already comforting the four traumatized performers they had managed to free from the rides.

Greta Ironfist, ever direct, pushed through the small crowd that had gathered, her face grim, her eyes demanding answers. "Well?" she demanded, fixing Kaelen with an intense stare, her hand resting on the pommel of the axe at her belt. "What foulness did you find in that gods-forsaken place? Tell us the truth of it. What beast plagued that cursed ground?"

Piece by piece, the story came out – the gate that was not a gate, the hall of maddening reflections, the haunted rides, the shadowy creatures, the trapped villagers forced into torment, the final confrontation with the terrifying twin-headed projection of the demon Kassilith. They spoke of the pervasive runes, the whispers of discord that seemed to infect the very air, and finally, Kaelen produced the cursed carnival ticket, its sigil still faintly cold to the touch, pointing towards the Chondalwood and a place called Fellshade Sanctum.

As they spoke, the rescued villagers – Hollis, Callen, Mariel, and Jorin – cleaned, warmed, and comforted by Sister Eliza and others at the Shrine, began to share their own fragmented, nightmarish memories. Hollis Amberleaf, the bard, shuddered, her voice still hoarse. "I heard… verses… whispered in the mirrors. Not words I understood, exactly, but feelings… overwhelming dread, utter chaos… and a name… a place… Fellshade Sanctum."

Callen Wreave, the weaver, his hands still trembling too much to consider returning to his loom, described the glowing runes on the Ferris wheel. "They weren't just decoration," he stammered. "They felt… alive. Like they were drawing power… feeding something awful." Naivara confirmed his suspicion, explaining how the symbols seemed to be components of a larger, perhaps incomplete, summoning ritual.

Mariel, the young apprentice cook from the Gilded Lily, could barely speak, tears streaming down her face, still haunted by the grotesque transformation of the carousel horses and the mindless hunger of the maw demon. Jorin Brightshade, the farmer-illusionist, humbled and shaken, admitted his simple festive illusions had been twisted by the fairground's dark magic into terrifying nightmares beyond his control or understanding in the Hall of Mirrors.

Mayor Greenfield listened intently to the adventurers and the rescued villagers, his expression growing graver with each revelation. "Fellshade Sanctum…" he mused, stroking his neatly trimmed beard. "An old name indeed, tied to dark legends of the Chondalwood. An abandoned temple, they say, steeped in discordant magic, best left undisturbed." His eyes met Kaelen's, acknowledging the implied threat.

But as the initial relief of the party's safe return and the rescue of the villagers wore off, underlying tensions within Cobblecrest began to surface. Gregor Daleson, the traveling spice merchant, whose caravan had recently been troubled by bandits, his face pinched with fear and suspicion, pointed an accusatory finger at the adventurers. "Misfortune!" he cried, his voice rising, attracting the attention of the surrounding crowd. "Ever since they arrived, darkness follows! First bandits raiding near the village, now demons at our doorstep! They draw this evil to Cobblecrest!"

Tobias Grumblefoot, wiping his flour-dusted hands on his apron as he emerged from the comforting warmth of the Rusty Cauldron, rounded fiercely on Gregor. "Hold your tongue, Daleson! If it weren’t for these brave folk, Hollis and the others might still be trapped in that wretched fairground, or worse! They faced the darkness while you hid behind your precious spice barrels!"

The argument threatened to split the gathered crowd. Some villagers muttered agreement with Gregor, eyeing the adventurers warily, their fear finding an easy target. Others shouted their support for the party and Tobias, praising their courage.

Darian Stonesworn stepped forward, his sturdy presence and calm demeanor commanding attention. "The fiend sought discord," he said, his deep voice cutting through the rising clamor. "It sought to divide us, to turn neighbor against neighbor with fear. We faced its shadow, yes, but the true battle is often here – within ourselves, maintaining our unity against the darkness." His words, simple and direct, spoken with the quiet authority of a paladin, seemed to resonate with the common folk. The arguing subsided, replaced by a tense, thoughtful silence.

Mayor Greenfield nodded, his expression one of relief and gratitude. "Master Stonesworn speaks wisely. We owe these adventurers our thanks, not our suspicion." He cleared his throat, addressing the party directly. "You have done Cobblecrest a great service this day. The village coffers are low, especially after the recent troubles, but we have gathered a small token of our appreciation…" He presented Kaelen with a sturdy leather pouch containing 50 gold coins, a significant sum for the small village. Sister Eliza stepped forward once more, her hands raised in blessing. "May Chauntea's light protect you on your path, and Lathander guide your steps," she intoned, and a faint, comforting warmth spread through the party members, a tangible blessing against the lingering chill of their ordeal.

The immediate crisis in Cobblecrest was over. The haunted fairground was cleansed, the missing villagers rescued and returned to their homes. But the cursed carnival ticket felt cold and heavy in Kaelen’s pouch, a tangible link to the darkness that still lurked deep within the ancient Chondalwood, waiting patiently in a shadowed, unholy place called Fellshade Sanctum. Their work, the adventurers knew with dawning certainty, had only just begun.

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• Click here for the D&D session plan that inspired this story. 
• Click here for profiles of the characters in this session.
• Click here to go to the Cobblecrest Chronicles website.