Back in the Storage Room (Room 13)

The party having exited the last mine shaft are back in room 13, the storage room. There are many other crates, boxes and barrels other than the one they have already opened. There is a faint smell of wine. The pathfinder scout seems convinced her possesions will be found here.

I draw cards from the deck of many things.
Monsters? I draw the ‘Humanoid’ card, that fits in nicely with Kobolds. Treasure?
I draw the Mage card. Perhaps an object of art crafted by magic.
With both Renka and Branwen holding torches, they begin to search for the Scouts equipment.

The companions stepped back into the wide storage chamber, their torchlight spilling across stacked crates, dusty barrels, and old mining supplies. The faint smell of wine hung in the air — sweet, sour, and unmistakably spilled somewhere nearby.

Renka lifted her torch higher. “There’s more here than we thought.”

Branwen nodded, scanning the shadows between the crates. “If the kobolds took your gear,” she said to the Pathfinder scout, “this is the likeliest place they’d dump it.”

The elf stepped forward, hope flickering across her face. “They wouldn’t know what half of it is. They probably shoved it in a box.”

Droogami sniffed the air, tail swishing. Lini followed him, her book tucked under one arm, pages fluttering faintly as if eager to record whatever came next.

Nyra rested her new Staff of Fire against her shoulder, its ember‑glow casting warm light across the room. “Let’s start opening things.”

Renka approached a stack of crates, running her fingers along the dusty lids. “Careful. Kobolds love hiding surprises.”

Branwen crouched beside a barrel, examining faint scuff marks on the floor. “They’ve been here recently. Tracks. Small feet.”

Renka grimaced. “Humanoid tracks.”

“Kobolds,” Branwen confirmed.

The Pathfinder scout swallowed. “Then my pack might be close.”

As the party begins their search, they hear it:

A faint scrape.
A whisper.
A soft, hurried chittering.

Renka freezes. “We’re not alone.”

Two kobolds peek from behind a stack of crates — wide‑eyed, startled, clutching makeshift spears. They weren’t guarding anything. They were rummaging.

One squeaks.
The other drops a small wooden box with a clatter.

Then both scatter deeper into the room, vanishing behind the crates.

Not an ambush.
Not a trap.
Just kobolds caught in the act.

As the kobolds flee, something rolls out from the dropped box and skitters across the stone floor.

A small sculpture — no bigger than a fist.

Carved from pale stone.
Shaped like a twisting flame.
And glowing faintly with inner light.

Lini gasps. “That’s… magic.”

Nyra steps closer. “A crafted piece. Not a wand. Not a tool. Something decorative.”

Renka tilts her head. “Dwarven?”

Branwen nods. “Looks like it. And valuable.”

The Pathfinder scout crouches beside it, eyes widening. “That wasn’t mine… but it means they’ve been looting everything.”

She looks up at the others, determination returning. “My gear has to be here.”

First, lets open a crate. Is it locked? No. Lini will try and open it, she is cautious and looks to see if it is trapped first, Perception roll? 19 against a DC 15. So if it is trapped she will spot the trap.
Does the crate have a trap? No. So Lini cautiously opens the crate.
Is there anything inside? No.

Lini approached the nearest crate with the same wary care she’d shown in the Quasit chamber. She set her book down, crouched low, and ran her fingertips along the lid, checking for wires, pressure plates, or anything that felt even slightly out of place.

Renka leaned in, torchlight flickering across the wood. “Anything?”

Lini narrowed her eyes. “If there’s a trap here, it’s a very shy one.”

She pressed her ear to the side, listening for the tell‑tale rattle of something loose inside. Nothing. Not even a shift of weight.

Satisfied, she eased her fingers under the lid and lifted.

The crate opened with a soft creak.

Inside was… nothing.

Just dust, a few stray splinters, and the faint smell of old wine that seemed to cling to everything in this room.

Lini blinked. “Well. That’s disappointing.”

Renka plucked a single note on her shamisen. “Empty crates are still clues. Means the kobolds have been sorting things.”

Branwen nodded, scanning the room. “Or stealing things.”

The Pathfinder scout stepped closer, hope flickering and fading in the same breath. “My pack wouldn’t fit in that one anyway. Let’s try another.”

Droogami sniffed the empty crate, snorted, and padded toward the next stack.

The search continued.

If you want, we can open the next crate, roll for traps again, or let the kobolds react to the noise of rummaging. Droogami sniffed the empty crate, snorted, and padded toward the next stack.

The search continued.

Lets see if the Kobolds come back with reinforcements? No.
Nyra will ponder the magical sculpture. Does it do anything? No.
(the oracle is stuck in negative tonight).

The room settled into stillness again. No skittering claws. No chittered orders. No reinforcements creeping back through the tunnels. Just the soft crackle of torchlight and the faint smell of wine drifting from somewhere deeper in the stacks.

Renka exhaled. “Well… that’s something. At least they’re not swarming us.”

Branwen kept her dagger drawn anyway. “Not yet.”

Nyra crouched beside the small stone sculpture the kobolds had dropped. The flame‑shaped carving glowed faintly in the torchlight, its pale surface smooth and cool beneath her fingers.

She turned it over once. Twice. Held it up to the light. Listened. Waited.

Nothing.

No hum of magic.
No warmth.
No reaction to her touch.
Just a beautifully carved object, abandoned by creatures who clearly didn’t understand it.

Nyra frowned. “It’s… just art.”

Lini blinked. “Really? It looks magical.”

“It looks magical,” Nyra agreed, “but it isn’t doing anything. No aura. No resonance. No spark.”

The Pathfinder scout stepped closer, eyes scanning the crates with renewed urgency. “Then my pack has to be here somewhere. They wouldn’t know what half of it is.”

Droogami sniffed the sculpture, snorted, and padded toward another stack of boxes.

Lini followed him. “Right. On to the next crate.”

The torches flickered.
The shadows shifted.
And the search continued.

its going to take a while if I search the each and every crate box and barrel one by one, so lets just assume they do and that the crate and boxes are not trapped.
Do they find any useful items? Yes and…
Do they find any treasures? Yes. Do the Kobolds Return? Yes but…So, I take it that the useful items they find does indeed include the pathfinder scouts weapons and equipment? Treasure, lets limit it to various coins and a few gems, nothing special but they need some money.
That just leaves the Yes, but… for the kobolds

The companions fanned out across the storage room, torches casting long, restless shadows over crates and barrels stacked in uneven rows. Dust swirled in the warm air, stirred by Droogami’s nose as he sniffed eagerly from box to box.

They worked quickly but carefully, prying lids, shifting crates, and brushing aside old mining debris. Most of the containers were empty or filled with useless scraps — broken tools, rotted cloth, shattered bottles.

But then Branwen lifted a familiar leather satchel from a crate. “Found something.”

The Pathfinder scout hurried over, eyes widening. “That’s mine.”

Moments later, Renka uncovered a wrapped bundle of weapons beneath a pile of old rope. “And this looks like yours too.”

Piece by piece, the scout’s gear emerged — her pack, her tools, her spare clothes, even a small tin of salve she’d thought lost forever. Relief washed over her face.

“And look at this,” Lini said, holding up a small pouch of coins and a few glittering gems. “Kobold treasure. Or… dwarf treasure they stole.”

Nyra found a sturdy crowbar tucked behind a barrel. “Useful,” she said, handing it to Branwen.

The room felt lighter now — until Droogami’s ears pricked.

A faint scuffle.
A whispered chitter.
Small feet on stone.

Renka froze. “They’re back.”

Two kobolds peeked around a stack of crates — wide‑eyed, startled, clearly not expecting the party to still be here. One held a wooden spoon like a weapon. The other clutched a half‑empty bottle of wine.

They squeaked in alarm.

But instead of attacking, they hesitated — torn between fleeing, spying, and trying to snatch something before running.

Branwen raised her torch. “Don’t even think about it.”

The kobolds chittered nervously, backing away but not quite leaving.

The room held its breath.

The Kobolds will be very wary of the party having already come off second best to them in an earlier encounter, especially Droogami whose teeth and claws shredded at least two Kobolds. If Droogami spots them coming towards the party he will stand his ground and make whatever noise a snow leopard makes, and low and threatening enough to put fear in to each and every kobold

Droogami was the first to sense them.

His ears pricked. His tail stiffened. A low, rolling growl built in his chest — not loud, not showy, but deep enough to vibrate through the stone floor.

Renka froze mid‑search.
Branwen’s hand went to her dagger.
Nyra lifted the Staff of Fire just a little higher.

From behind a stack of crates, three kobolds crept into view — the same scrawny, soot‑smudged creatures who had fled moments earlier. They clutched makeshift spears and a dented cooking pot as if it were a shield. Their eyes darted around the room, wide and fearful.

Then they saw Droogami.

The snow leopard stepped forward, planting himself between the party and the kobolds. His fur bristled. His lips curled back just enough to show the gleam of his teeth. And the sound he made — a low, rumbling snarl that echoed off the stone — froze the kobolds in place.

One dropped its spear.
Another whimpered.
The third tried to hide behind the cooking pot.

They remembered him.
They remembered the claws.
They remembered the last time they’d tried to stand their ground.

Renka whispered, “Easy, boy.”

But Droogami didn’t need encouragement. He held his ground with the calm, predatory confidence of a creature who knew exactly where he stood in the food chain.

The kobolds shuffled backward, trembling, their tails tucked tight. They didn’t flee — not yet — but they made no move to approach either. They simply hovered at the edge of the torchlight, too frightened to advance, too stubborn to run.

Branwen lowered her torch slightly. “They’re not here to fight.”

Nyra nodded. “They’re here to see what we’re taking.”

Lini hugged her book. “Or what we’re leaving.”

The Pathfinder scout stepped forward, reclaiming her pack from the floor. “Well, they can watch all they like. We’re done here.”

Droogami growled once more — a final warning.

The kobolds flinched as if struck.

And then, at last, they scattered back into the tunnels, chittering in panic as they vanished into the dark.

Treasure Found, 27 silver, 14 copper, 3 gold coins. two small Garnet’s, one polished agate. I non magical sculpture worth between 10 and 15 gp

The Pathfinder scout knelt beside the open crates, gathering her belongings with a mixture of relief and indignation. Her shortbow, her leather armour, her journal, even the small compass she kept tucked in a side pouch — all here, scattered through the kobolds’ careless rummaging.

Renka jingled a small pouch of coins. “They weren’t shy about taking the shiny things.”

Branwen added a few loose gems to the pile. “Or the pretty ones.”

Nyra held up the carved stone flame. “This one’s more than pretty. Someone shaped it with magic.”

Lini peered at it. “But it doesn’t do anything.”

“Not everything magical has to,” Nyra said, slipping it into her pack.

Droogami sniffed the last crate, snorted, and padded back to Lini’s side.

The scout fastened her pack and slung her bow over her shoulder. “All right,” she said, exhaling. “I’m whole again.”

Branwen nodded toward the dark tunnels. “Then let’s keep moving.”

Room 7. The Shadowed Shaft.

They continue down the dark tunnel, the kobolds follow but pose no threat. The party walk about 100 feet, they can here the chatter of the kobolds behind them, droogami keeps an eye and an ear open, alert to whats happening behind them, his presence enough to keep the kobolds at a distance, then they come to a well mined area, four passages lead off in different directions, they choose to explore the first of them (room 8). Like the last one they entered, this mine shaft has walls that are dug out in horizontal and vertical groves, occasionally some of the rock glitters or shines in the darkness. Several picks and shovels are found on the floor.

As Branwen steps cautiously into the disused mineshaft, the warm glow of her torch throws flickering shadows across ancient stone walls, revealing the rough craftsmanship of long-gone dwarven miners. The corridor is narrow and low-ceilinged, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and rust. Old, rusted picks and broken shovels lie scattered across the uneven floor, half-buried in dust and small heaps of gravel. Occasional piles of rotted timbers—once used to shore up the roof—now sag and splinter, creaking quietly with the party’s every step. Lini’s keen eyes catch faded chalk marks in Dwarven script on the wall, obscured by grime but hinting at directions or warnings from years past.
Droogame sniffs the air, his whiskers twitching as he pauses by a tangle of footprints in the dirt—smaller, clawed impressions mixed with the larger, heavier prints of boots. Renka’s torchlight glints off a patch of unearthed ore embedded in the wall, and a faint, musty breeze stirs from deeper within, carrying the distant echoes of kobold voices and the metallic tang of old blood. Nyra, bringing up the rear with the rescued Pathfinder scout, notices a makeshift snare cleverly hidden amidst the debris—a tell-tale sign of the kobold clan’s ingenuity and caution. The oppressive silence is thick, broken only by the companions’ footsteps and the occasional drip of water from above, as they press further into the unknown depths of the ancient mine.

They reach the end of the old mine shaft, this one contains nothing, so they turn and head back the way they came.

I ask the oracle if they encounter anything on their way back? Yes, but… So its only the three Kobolds that have been following them, and they quickly run away again.
They take a trip down another mine shaft, this one (room 7), is much shorter than the others they have ventured down.
Are there monsters? Yes. Card drawn Undead. A Shadow hides in the mine shaft. The mysterious undead known as shadows lurk in dark places and feed on those who stray too far from the light. Those who parley with shadows, typically by keeping them at bay with a glowing weapon, may learn great secrets, for they are ideal spies.
Are the traps? No.
Any Treasure? Yes, Card drawn Celestial. A magical item useful against celestial creatures.

The next mineshaft was shorter, narrower, and colder than the others. The moment the companions stepped inside, the air changed — thinner, stiller, as if the darkness itself were holding its breath.

Branwen raised her torch, but the flame seemed to shrink, its light swallowed by the gloom ahead.

Renka frowned. “That’s… not normal.”

Lini hugged her book closer. Droogami pressed against her leg, fur bristling, his ears flat and his tail low. A soft, uneasy growl rumbled in his throat.

Nyra tightened her grip on the Staff of Fire. The ember‑glow along its runes flickered, as though reacting to something unseen.

The Pathfinder scout whispered, “I don’t like this.”

They moved forward cautiously. The shaft ended abruptly in a small, hollowed‑out chamber — empty, silent, and utterly lightless. No tools. No crates. No signs of kobolds.

Just a cold that seeped into their bones.

Branwen stepped forward—

—and her torchlight dimmed, as if a hand had closed around the flame.

A shape peeled itself from the wall.
A darker darkness.
A silhouette without substance.
A human outline stretched thin and wrong.

A Shadow.

It drifted forward, silent and hungry, drawn to the warmth of their living bodies.

Renka gasped. “Back—!”

Nyra thrust the Staff of Fire forward. The runes flared, casting a sudden burst of bright, ember‑red light.

The Shadow recoiled, its form rippling like smoke in a gale.

It hissed — not a sound, but a feeling, a vibration in the air.

Lini whispered, “It hates the light.”

Branwen stepped beside Nyra, torch raised high. “Then we keep it back.”

The Shadow hovered at the edge of the light, unable to approach, its form trembling with frustration. It did not flee — but it did not attack. It lingered, watching, waiting for the light to falter.

And then Renka spotted something behind it — a faint glimmer on the ground, half‑buried in dust.

A small object.
Metallic.
Shaped like a stylised sunburst.

She pointed. “There. Something’s on the floor.”

Nyra narrowed her eyes. “A relic?”

Lini whispered, “It feels… celestial.”

The Shadow drifted sideways, guarding the object like a jealous wraith.

Branwen exhaled slowly. “So. We need to get past that.”

Droogami growled, low and warning, his eyes fixed on the undead shape.

The Shadow hovered, waiting for the light to dim, for a mistake, for a moment of weakness.

The treasure lay just beyond its reach.

And the mine held its breath.

Nyra, holding the staff of fire, keeps the shadow at bay, allowing Renka to get the relic. Now the shadow will offer information in exchange for celestial relic Renka has just picked up. What the party want to know is how to open the hidden door at the mines entrance, what they need apart from the key they have, and what is behind the door?
Renka has occult 6, she rolls 18 = 24 against dc 20, so the shadow answers. Renka, true to her word, leaves the shadow it relic. Armed with this information the party move on.

Renka held the relic just inside the edge of the light, the carved sunburst gleaming faintly in her hand. The Shadow hovered at the boundary, its form trembling where Nyra’s Staff of Fire cast its ember‑glow across the stone.

Renka swallowed, steadying her voice. “We keep our word. You keep yours.”

The Shadow leaned forward, its outline rippling like smoke in a draft. When it spoke, the sound was not a voice but a cold vibration in the air, brushing against their skin like a winter breeze.

“The dwarves… hid their light behind stone. A door that remembers. A door that listens.”

Nyra tightened her grip on the staff. “Tell us how to open it.”

The Shadow’s shape stretched, as though reaching for the relic but held back by the burning light.

“You have the key,” it whispered. “But the stone will not turn for metal alone. It needs a memory. A phrase carved into the bones of the mountain.”

Renka leaned in. “What phrase?”

The Shadow shivered, its edges fraying like torn cloth.

“Stone remembers the First Flame. Speak it with the key in hand, and the door will wake.”

Branwen exchanged a glance with Nyra. “And what’s behind it?”

The Shadow recoiled slightly, as if the memory pained it.

“A vault. A reliquary. A place where the dwarves hid what they feared to lose… and feared to keep.”

Droogami growled softly, fur bristling.

Renka nodded once. “Our bargain is done.”

She stepped forward and placed the celestial relic on the ground. The Shadow surged toward it, its form tightening, sharpening, drinking in the object’s faint glow like a starving creature.

The moment it touched the relic, the chamber grew colder.

The Shadow sank back into the wall, its form dissolving into the darkness.

The mine fell silent.

Nyra exhaled. “Let’s not linger.”

Branwen nodded. “We have what we came for.”

The Pathfinder scout adjusted her pack. “Then let’s find that door.”

With the phrase of opening whispered between them, the companions turned and made their way back toward the branching tunnels, the ember‑light of the Staff of Fire guiding them through the dark.

to be continued.