The pedestal holding the orb has crumbled into sand, leaving crude metallic tongs holding the eerie black stone in place. The party stares with apprehension.

With a slight *ping* noise, the black stone is easily dislodged by Elf Piss, “What a lovely stone!” he says and shoves it into his pocket.

There is a steel door at the unvisited end which is entirely bound by iron bracing. Dean checks for traps, sees the door is locked, and lacking of thieves tools, uses a tinkerer's tools instead to break open the lock.

The door opened, there is a split in the hallway. The party saunters off rightmost along the hallway, despite Hargle kinda wanting to go left but not being too partial about the decision overall. There is about ten feet ahead of hallway before a dead end appears.

Dean and Hargle notice a slight shimmer to the wall ahead, and it is obvious that it is fake. They mention it to Martyr, and he hits it with a hammer hard, and the sound of wood being struck is heard. The illusion fades, and a door becomes visible to the party.

Dean looks closer at the door, and it strangely seems to be out of place. Bricks are strewn upon the ground and the doorframe seems forced into the space between the stonework. Dean proceeds to cautiously open the door and peek within, it is a dusty room full of old furniture, a withered skeleton is leaning against one wall and is donned in typical commoners garb.

Dean rummages through the pockets of the corpse. There is a withered old scroll, blackened bloody cloth covering a stab wound, a small dagger, and a handful of silver. Hargle pockets the dagger, Martyr the silver, and Dean the scroll.

The scroll says “Please bring the dagger to the Roc.” They each scratch their heads, and Dean suggests touching it to the black stone held by Elf Piss. Hargle rummages around, and taps the dagger against the black stone. After a short moment Elf Piss levitates, reorients, and stands upside down on the ceiling. “This is incredible!”

Then Elf piss retches, vomiting, and the vomit drips onto the floor shortly after pooling up on the ceiling. Hargle is intrigued by the physics of it.

“Drop the stone!” Dean exclaims, but Elf Piss physically is unable, though after a short moment Elf Piss drops down spontaneously, breaking their fall on the unconscious body of Heywood. Elf Piss stands up, immediately throws the phone to the side, and Dean picks it up. It is slightly warm to the touch.

A passage seems to become visible, as though illusion magics have been weakened within the room.

The party is very cautious of illusory tricks now. The hallway seems turns off to the left after about ten feet. The party notices a small pile of bricks which are out of place in the corner of the room. Martyr notices a dark opening on the other side of a crack in the wall by the bricks. Martyr sticks his hammer through the crack, checking if the darkness is illusory, but it seems to be mundane darkness. Martyr then cracks his hammer against the wall, gradually dislodging the stone bricks from their place, already mostly dislodged. The gap is a fairly tight squeeze for most of the party, but there is a tunnel that continues ahead.

Elf Piss dashes quickly down the dark hallway, it seems to meander fairly straightforward for about 60 feet. The party waits patiently, and after about a minute the footsteps seem to stop. Then, shortly after, they hear “I made it to the other side!”. The party decide to mosey on down the hallway, eventually it does indeed end in another crumbling dungeon wall. In front of the wall, is Elf Piss, with a streak of blood gently rolling down his face, after evidently eating shit sprinting down the tunnel, yet otherwise no worse for wear. The party squeezes through the wall and enters the room.

Martyr and Hargle recognize the exact room they are within… they are right below the fisher price puzzle. Not wanting to endure that once again, they enter the hallway with the ten foot gorge yet again, and Heywood helps them across with his great dexterity. The party is now walking back to the main first room of the labyrinth.

It is a very large room with several . Walking in, there is a sort of film, as though one is walking through a barrier. In the very middle there is a very large raised stone platform inscribed with arcane runes flanking this on each side there are many magical portals which lead t various areas within the dungeon (itself). Dean feels his witch radar go off, subtly, informing him to pay attention to his surroundings.

A couple of parties enter through the portals and go about their way as the party stands around the main room. Hargle and the heartbreakers beeline to the nearest portal, returning to the bottom of a grand staircase at the adventurer's guild. Hargle is barely able to keep up after a day of constant walking, he is huffing and puffing and wheezing every labored breath. The party walks up a staircase, exhausting Hargle further, and finally get into a room flanked with portraits of prominent figures, and further yet there is a room with bustling activity of various adventuring parties, and a tavern eastward of the party. Everyone immediately goes toward this haven of a tavern. Except Elf Piss, who is searching for a street vendor of pipe weed, and who stuck in the city for weeks.

The old-timey tavernkeep takes their orders, Dean orders a bottle of local wheat whiskey which is drunk before the description can be fully orated by the tavernkeep. Hargle orders the usual, Alterian Fungal Whiskey, though the label has changed. Upon the bottle is a humanoid figure with a fungal head, and along the top and bottom are the words “NEW LOOK” and “SAME FUNKY TASTE!”, Hargle orders a gooey plate of roasted mushrooms while Dean and Martyr have a dire turkey leg and mashed potatoes.

Dean asks the tavernkeep, while shining a golden coin, “Good sir… where be the witches?” “Which wenches?” “Nay, witches.” “Ah… Curious man, they are in the tower of the Holy Quarter.” Hargle licks his plate clean. Supposedly there is a tower of calling, which is a sprawling marketplace. Dean hands the gold coin to the tavernkeep, they lock eyes with longing.

It is later in the day, so the party considers where they shall go to bed tonight. The old mudhole is out of the question. The Journey's End is an option. The party can smell, and faintly hear, the crashing waves of the nearby ocean shore. There is a large dockyard with many crates stocked with goods headed for the marketplace. Heading toward the roads that head outside of the town, they continue along until they see a handsome building with marble pillars supporting each corner, it is the Journey's End itself and appears to be a reputable place.

There are some horses and carts parked outside, and upon entering it appears quite upscale, especially the tavern. The receptionist takes them in with more hospitality than they deserve, and they saunter off to their rooms. Dean bunks with Heywood, platonically, and Hargle with Martyr. The rooms themselves are very beautiful, even quite upscale, each have a large bathroom and luxurious beds. There are two hot baths being ran.

Hargle, somehow already donned in his nighttime pajamas with patterns of pale crescent moons and fishermen sitting upon them, tries to crawl his grubby ass into bed. Two attendants peel him away and wash him thoroughly in the bath. Now squeaky clean, Hargle crawls into bed, and keeps squeaking with each subtle movement. Martyr is about to lose his mind already, but Hargle uses his druidcraft to surround his head with a sphere of rainstorm sounds to help him sleep. Dean and Heywood hit the hay, though Heywood meditates for most of the night.

The party roll out of bed and break their fast, then sit around peacefully.

Dean and Heywood venture on toward the Dragon's Hoard, nested within the guild and near the entrance of the dungeon.

The store itself is built from the wreckage of a ship. The windows are the portholes, the mast streams banners of advertisements, and the clientele are of many walks of arcane life.

Dean walks up the shopkeeper and speaks to him in Draconian, “I want your finest wares.” The shopkeep gives an impressed look, responding in draconian, “Well spoken, and a rare ability around these parts.” He then greets them both in common, “What can I do for ye both?”

Dean gives an assortment of gemstones and obsidian to sell, the shopkeeper appraises them for a modest sum of 100 gold.

Hargle suddenly appears, and hands the man a dagger to appraise. It is a mundane dagger, worth less than the appraisal itself, but the inscription on the base is in dwarven and Hargle can read it is a good luck charm. Dean has the shopkeep inspect the strange obsidian stone, it is a strange artifact which seems to momentarily flip the gravity of the bearer under certain circumstances. Dean sells it for 75 gold pieces, the shopkeep puts it in a secure locker which emits a sort of wailing sound, intending to reverse engineer it later.

Dean asks the shopkeeper about witches. He responds with what he knows, and Dean asks for his name, “I am the humble Bharesh.” Asking in regard to removing a curse, the shopkeep directs Hargle toward the Holy Quarter, but notes that he would need to entice someone powerful for such a task.

Asking for holy oil, shopkeeper Bharesh shows off his entire stock. Dean pays the steep price for these oils, and the transaction is ended.

Hargle and Dean meet some homeless on the way to the nearest druid-run herbalist shop. Dean tosses some copper, and Hargle tosses a bottle of ratfink.

There are a couple of potted plants growing with serenity outside the store. There is a strong smell of smoldering incense within. The walls are stocked to the brim with medicine and exotic plants. An older gnomish woman is sitting behind the counter wearing a large straw hat. She is smoking a knotwood pipe which looked gigantic in her gnomish hands.

Hargle requests 2 “King's Crown” mushrooms, she raises an eyebrow but sells them anyway, warning him that he must use them medicinally. He also gets 1 Mage's Beard, 2 Shod Rock, and naught else. Dean buys two health potions.

As Dean and Hargle leave the shop, a strange cloaked man is about thirty feet away and pursued by guards. As he approaches, Dean tried to bind him with his whip, whiffs, but Hargle spores him and robs him of his breath with a halo of spores.

The Guard immediately catches up to the man, binds his arms, scans the faces of Dean and Hargle. Taking the apparent thief off, the guard leaves a bag behind unknowingly. Hargle and Dean peak within, it is full of money, Hargle is disappointed. They take it to the police station.

They then head toward the Tower of Calling, it is a curious structure of stacked towers that gradually narrow toward the top. To enter, the party cuts through the holy quarter and squeezes past the crowds of clerics. Finding an impenetrable crowd, they retreat and approach from the dockside. Dean stops one of the clerics passing nearby and strikes up a conversation. He mirrors the gentle urban accent of the holy passerby.

Dean speaks with the cleric about their typical duties and dedications, “Our deity is one of small works and not at the center of glory except to us. I personally tend to the gardens of Fessa, our goddess.” Hargle makes a gesture of devotion to Fessa.

Hargle and Dean walk swiftly toward the Tower of Calling, making especial care not refer to it as the Tower of Calling, making request directions complicated, but entirely unnecessary due to their proximity to the tower of calling.

The door to this tower is fashioned from a sort of orange-hued wood with arcane ruins etched upon it. Opening the door, the party is hit with the pungent smell of embalming fluids and stale odors.

There is a sort of large reception desk. To the right there is a staircase that leads to the next level. There is someone at the reception desk, as though they are waiting for the arrival of some new customers. Wearing a large purple robe which obscures the delicate features within. Immediately after entering there is a strange sensation in each persons head, invoking strange imagery, and a soft grumbling voice speaks within the mind, “Welcome, what may we do for you?”

Dean attempts to determine the characteristics of the robed figure, but fails to have much success. The arms suddenly move, bony arms covered in patches of bandages and faint purple bruises upon desiccated skin.

After a slight delay, the grumbling voice repeats, “What brings you… into my shop… today?”

Dean asks for cures to curses, the boney figure gestures broadly to the rich contents of the many shelves of the room they are within. “How long have you been adventuring…” it asks, the party give their accounts, each novices. Hargle mentions the southeastern bogs, the figure seems to groan in disgust. “If you are needing something more exotic… seek the witches to the Northwest.”

“She is difficult to catch, but her magics forsake her upon the new moon. It is then that you may be able to speak with her.” Upon stating this, a small purple tentacle seems to peek from beneath the hood, but it disappears as soon as it had been revealed.

Dean asks about the dungeon itself, “The Dungeon… ah yes… for most of its time it was a prison, until the foolish adventurers sought to profit from the forsaken remains at its pits. It is now more like a training ground, but we know not for what, except that one must be singular in every feat of strength to reach the furthest depths today.” Dean asks about the ability to have a wish granted, the figure hums with affirmation, but nothing more. Dean mentions the prudish clerics, the figure seems to humorously chuckle, mumbling some blasphemous phrases which are nearly unintelligible.

Dean requests to see his various wares, a magic hand retrieves a weapon from the wall, “This sword has been imbued with fire. Isn't that the coolest shit you've ever seen? You can cook a mean stew with it.”

Hargle asks for some grease spells, but is too broke to afford it. Despite making no transactions, the strange shopkeeper wishes to see them again.

Dean asked Hargle if he knows of any race with tentacles coming from the face, Hargle, without a beat, responds that it would be a mind flayer. They mosey toward the thrift shop.