Chapter VIII: “The Eye, the Pit, and the Arm”

Before we begin, let it be recorded that not all heroes carry swords.

Some carry feathers, some carry flasks, and a few carry the faint smell of decay.

This chapter is dedicated to:

• Steve, Also Steve, and Steven — Douglas’ faithful undead employees, tragically vaporized in service of professional development.

• Altoid and Other Otter — Hank’s devoted water-weasels, who gave their last squeaks shielding him from doom.

They may be gone, but their legacy (and odor) lives on forever in the hearts—and inventory logs—of their companions.

May their souls find peace, and may their next forms come with better armor class.

⸻

When last we left our heroes, they stood in the silken parlor of Mesa, the woman with two necklaces—one silver, glimmering with emeralds like morning dew, and one of black steel threaded with dull opals that swallowed light whole. Her every motion carried a quiet authority, like someone who had tended this place longer than history had recorded.

The room smelled faintly of myrrh and moss. Statues of children and beasts stood intertwined around the walls. A mirror, polished obsidian, reflected only those who had not lied to themselves that day. Mesa’s voice was soft, yet every word rooted itself in your mind like seed and stone.

“The roots know truth,” she said. “The gifted may grow within them. Those who fail… become the soil that feeds the rest.”

Her necklaces represented dual paths—growth and decay. The academy beneath the earth accepted the gifted into its underground forest of knowledge. Those who failed the test were not expelled. They were transformed—their bodies and spirits reworked into guardians of the living maze below.

Gottz called it cruelty. Tyr called it heresy. Mesa called it balance.

When the argument grew heated, Mesa’s calm cracked, eyes glowing faintly green and shadow in turn.

“Do not mistake me for a god,” she warned. “I am only the gardener.”

Finally, Tyr, tired of the shouting, hoisted Gottz onto his shoulder and carried him bodily from the room. Mesa didn’t stop him. She simply turned the silver necklace between her fingers and said:

“Be careful where you plant your feet. The roots remember everything.”

That phrase would prove prophecy before the night was through.

The next hall opened into a dust-choked study lined with sagging bookshelves. A desk made from the lid of a stone sarcophagus stood in the center, its legs reforged from iron rods. The air was thick with dust and quiet despair.

Vincent sifted through a stack of ledgers.

• 763 — the year the party had first arrived in town.

• 777 — a class portrait, showing a much younger version of Vincent’s uncle: the only humanoid in his class to survive.

As the realization set in, Gottz, predictably, noticed something shiny—a dusty urn resting on a shelf.

“Probably treasure,” he said.

“Probably cursed,” replied everyone in chorus.

Gottz grinned. “Only one way to find out.”

He smashed it on the floor.

Fwoosh!

A cloud of glittering dust burst outward, coating everything in silvery shimmer.

“See? I fixed the lighting problem.”

“You created a different lighting problem,” Douglas said to no one he could see, because they were now all invisible.

The urn contained Dust of Disappearance, and for the next hour, the group wandered unseen—and unheard—except for a steady stream of sarcastic commentary from somewhere near Gottz’s general direction.

Even invisible, curiosity reigned supreme. The party began rifling through shelves and drawers, voices echoing softly in the dark.

They uncovered:

• A spellbook marked Property of Apprentice … (the name charred away) containing:

Comprehend Languages, Crown of Madness, Darkvision, Gaseous Form, Ray of Sickness, Remove Curse, Tenser’s Floating Disk, and Unseen Servant.

• Several mystery potions, one of which Gottz sampled and immediately regretted. (“Spicy healing! Or spicy death!”)

• Financial records revealing families had paid enormous sums to attend the academy—with no refunds issued, ever.

Vincent’s druidic intuition confirmed it: Mesa’s “school” was no school at all—it was the testing ground for the Circle of Growth, a place where the roots consumed the unworthy and the chosen walked free.

Past the study, the hallway stretched forward, flanked by the familiar statues of Harrisburg’s madmen, all grinning in identical, lifeless mirth.

Gottz, still half-invisible and half-proud of his earlier “lighting solution,” strode ahead confidently.

“See?” he said. “No traps.”

The floor immediately collapsed.

SPLASH—SIZZLE—SCREAM

“Acid! THIS ONE’S ACID!”

The hallway erupted into chaos. Everyone started fumbling through their bags at once.

“Rope! Where’s the rope?” shouted Tyr.

“I thought YOU had it!” Cord yelled back.

“I do!” said Barluk, dumping half his backpack onto the floor—two pitons, one moldy ration, and a mysterious bone flute. “Wait, no, that’s the wrong rope!”

Douglas produced an entire coil triumphantly—then realized it was enchanted silk and muttered, “No, that’s my curtain rope.”

Vincent finally pulled a proper rope from his pack. “Got it!”

“Throw it!”

“I can’t see him!”

“I CAN!” shouted Gottz, flailing below as bubbles of acid rose around him. “I’M THE ONE ON FIRE!”

The rope finally dropped into his reach. Tyr anchored it while Barluk and Cord hauled with enough force to nearly yank him through the ceiling. Gottz emerged, smoking, armor hissing, and missing most of his dignity.

“Thanks,” he wheezed. “Ten out of ten rescue. Would drown again.”

Tyr healed him with a weary sigh. “Next time, let the barbarian find the traps with his feet, not his face.”

Gottz coughed. “Good plan. I’ll write that down if my fingers grow back.”

The next chamber sloped downward, the stone cracked and uneven, as if something had clawed its way through ages ago. At its center rested a massive ten-foot stone sphere, perfectly smooth, painted like a bloodshot eye.

“Don’t touch it,” said everyone at once.

Cord, ever the optimist, smiled faintly. “I’m not touching it. I’m just walking past it.”

He took a careful step toward the eastern doorway.

The eye swiveled.

Every muscle in the room went tense. Tyr raised his hand, lips forming a warding spell. Gottz reached for the sphere as if to hold it steady.

Too late.

With a sound like the world clearing its throat, the stone eye began to roll—slowly at first, then picking up speed with terrifying inevitability.

Thoom… Thoom… THOOOOM!

“Run!” shouted Tyr.

Cord’s eyes widened, then he bolted down the hall in a full sprint—arms pumping, cloak flying, the perfect picture of monastic panic. The sphere thundered after him, bouncing off the walls in deafening rhythm.

Thoom! Thoom! Thoom!

Tyr threw up his shield spell too late. Gottz lunged, grabbing for the side of the boulder as if he could somehow stop several tons of divine bad idea with sheer attitude. His hands slipped, and he tumbled like a rag doll into a pile of ancient debris.

Barluk blinked. “He’s fine.”

“HE’S NOT FINE!” Gottz yelled, face-down in dust.

Cord, meanwhile, was a blur of speed—leaping over cracks, dodging broken pillars, ducking just in time as the rolling eye grazed his heel and smashed through a crumbling archway. The impact sent shards of stone spraying past him in a hail of debris.

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then came the rumbling echo as the sphere crashed into the next chamber, splintering a sarcophagus into gravel. A hiss of green gas bled through the doorway.

Cord froze mid-stride, chest heaving. Behind him, Tyr and Gottz appeared from the dust—one muttering a prayer, the other coughing up sarcasm.

“So, uh…” Gottz said, wiping soot from his face. “What did we learn?”

“We learned that the monk’s fast,” Tyr replied.

“And the rest of us aren’t,” added Barluk.

From the room beyond came the sound no one wanted to hear—an eerie, bone-rattling screech, half bird, half bear.

Four of them.

Owlbears.

Cord looked back down the slope, sweat dripping from his temple. “Next time,” he panted, “someone else goes first.”

The chamber was an old lecture hall turned slaughterhouse: tables smashed, walls clawed, a broken sarcophagus leaking poisonous green fog. Four owlbears emerged from the mist, feathers slick and eyes burning with fury.

They screamed.

So did we.

Douglas’ three zombies (Steve, Also Steve, and Steven—gone, but not forgotten) disintegrated under the first wave of sonic force. Hank’s two otters—valiant, loyal, and way too curious—dove forward in a blur of wet fur and courage. Their tiny bodies met the blast head-on, shielding him from the full force. The sound hit like a physical wall, and when the air cleared, they were gone—two small ripples of bravery lost to the poison haze.

For a heartbeat, Hank froze, eyes wide. Then his hands moved—fast, practiced. With a muttered word and a flick of his talisman, feathers spiraled from his palm, forming a small spectral bird, wings crackling with hunter’s magic. It shrieked and launched itself skyward, swooping into the fray, a flitting blur of vengeance and distraction.

Vincent, growling through grief, wild-shaped into a bear and slammed into the nearest owlbear with primal fury.

Barluk met another head-on, Cleave Edge blazing with obsidian energy.

Cord blurred into motion, stunning blows striking like hammerfalls.

Tyr’s holy light radiated through the green mist, holding the line.

Hank’s new bird companion darted and slashed through the haze, harrying claws and eyes, buying the team precious seconds.

Douglas, voice half-mad, shouted, “Teaching Assistant—take notes!” and hurled fire into the chaos.

Amid the din, something gleamed in the cracked sarcophagus—a silvery metal arm, smooth and strange, faint light pulsing through engraved runes.

Cord spotted it first and called out, “Dibs! Nobody touch it, I’m claiming that arm!”

The fighting slowed, the air thick with feathers and acid smoke. Gottz crouched near the relic, inspecting the intricate craftsmanship, careful not to touch.

“Just looking,” he said, holding up both hands. “I’m not touching it.”

Then, with a quiet hum, the arm moved on its own, twisting toward him like liquid light.

Cord shouted, “You touched it with your aura! That counts!”

“I didn’t—!” Gottz started, but the protest cut short as the arm leapt like mercury, snapping onto his forearm with a hiss and a click. Blue-white runes flared up his shoulder, carving patterns of ancient language into his skin.

The group stared in stunned silence.

“Legendary artifact,” Gottz breathed. “Mine now.”

“Correction,” Cord said, crossing his arms. “Rented legendary artifact. One gold per day.”

“You can’t charge me rent for my own arm!”

“Oh, I can,” Cord replied smoothly. “There’s precedent. Ask Tyr.”

“I’m not getting involved,” Tyr sighed, still patching burns on Barluk.

Vincent, still mid-bear, rumbled, “You two done?” and casually smashed the last owlbear into the floor.

And so, a new Accordian tradition was born:

Running Tab — Cord’s “Arm Lease Agreement”

• Day 1: Gottz owes Cord 1 gold piece for “temporary rental rights” to the Silvery Arm.

(Tyr calls it extortion; Cord calls it “clerical balance.”)

When the final owlbear fell, silence returned. The green fog thinned. Only the runes on Gottz’s new arm still glowed—soft, alive, and waiting.

From that room, the party carried more than treasure:

• The Eye was not a trap; it was a watcher.

• The Gas was not just poison; it was memory—the residue of transformation itself.

• The Arm was not a relic; it was sentient, and it had chosen Gottz.

• And Mesa’s words rang clear: “The roots remember everything.”

Douglas flexed his fingers. “Right. Tiny Hut. Alarm spell. Twenty goodberries. Bedtime.”

Barluk slumped against a cracked table, armor still steaming. “I hate this school.”

Hank cleaned his bowstring and smirked. “Cheer up. You passed the entrance exam.”

Far beneath, unseen roots stirred. The Gardener’s work was never done.

That night, as Douglas’s Tiny Hut shimmered into place and the group finally rested, Tyr led a brief, if chaotic, memorial.

He spoke words of light.

Barluk grunted a blessing in Giant.

Hank laid two small river stones beside the fire.

Douglas hummed what may have been a dirge—or indigestion.

Cord concluded the service by carving a small plaque into a broken floorboard:

“Here lie Steve, Also Steve, and Steven — loyal to the end (and beyond).”

“And Altoid & Other Otter — small, slippery, and very brave.”

Below it, Gottz added, “We’re down eight legs and up one arm.”

Cord leaned over, gave the carving an approving nod, and said, “Beautiful. I’ll add one more line—‘Arm still rented. Payment due daily.’”

Gottz groaned.

The group laughed.

And for the first time in a long while, the dungeon felt almost… alive with warmth.