The Maw Below, Echoes of the Elder: System-Agnostic Campaign with DnD Battlemaps (it's Foundry VTT Modules, Printable Battlemaps & Campaign Sourcebook .PDF to Be Released October 2025 to Members)

Hey everyone, next months map pack and campaign are a little different from the last few. for October I decided to try doing a modular mega map, which is below. In addition the campaign is focused on player exploration as they explore the Forbidden Isle locations and uncover what occurred there.

As well as the mega map, You'll get getting all the modular maps that I used to make the map in addition to like another 90+ modular variants which were not used, so if you so choose you can make a massive amount of different dungeons yourself!

Also I never officially mentioned it but I have been previously doing modular cavern maps in the past that will connect to the maps within this map pack. So if you have a look at the backlog and see maps with the tunnel entrances on every side like the below variant maps, you can use them all together!

Please have a look, maybe read the campaign and let me know what you think. Do you like modular stuff, would you like to see more of it in the future, any other feedback?

Thanks everyone,
~ Luke

Set sail for a thrilling D&D campaign shrouded in mystery and dread, complete with atmospheric battlemaps of a forsaken dwarven stronghold, eerie fungal caverns, and an ancient machine temple. Your quest begins in a smoky dwarven tavern, where Julia, a trembling woman clutching a silver pendant, pleads for your aid. “My husband, Boral, sailed to a forbidden island in the dark sea, chasing whispers of his father, a master craftsman lost thirty years ago to a secret dwarven project. He’s vanished, and I fear he’s uncovered something the state wants buried. Please, find him.”

The island, outlawed by the dwarven state, is a place of whispered curses and hidden truths. Securing a vessel means navigating wary merchants or shady dealers for a creaking skiff, as the dark sea’s waves carry you to a ruined stronghold cloaked in silvery webs and haunted by skittering shadows.

Crumbling prison cells and scattered journals hint at a sinister machine, crafted by the long-lost Elders for a purpose both wondrous and terrifying. What did Boral uncover, and why does the state guard its secrets so fiercely? Venture through mist-choked caverns where luminescent fungi cast eerie glows, and twisted creatures lie around every corner.

Cryptic notes from doomed guards and scholars speak of a machine that promises salvation but demands a chilling price. In the machine temple’s alien depths, a thrumming presence awaits, its purpose tied to the Elders’ lost legacy. Will you unravel the mystery of Boral’s fate and the machine’s true power, or fall to the island’s lurking horrors?

A tale of betrayal, courage, and forbidden knowledge, packed with perilous encounters and treasures. Do you dare to answer the call and uncover the truth that could reshape a kingdom, or doom it in The Maw Below, Echoes of the Elder!

All the maps for this system-agnostic horror mystery DnD campaign are available as Foundry VTT modules, print-formatted files with grids, as well as .JPEGs you can import into other VTTs. Subscribe for access, and to let me know that you want more campaigns!

Campaign Hook:

150x120 The Forbidden Isle (Free VTT Resolution Map)

Premium members get access to this map without locations for direct use. In addition to all variants below, etc!

The Island Calls

In the dim light of a dwarven tavern known to be used by adventurers and mercenaries a woman approaches the players, her hands clutching a worn shawl. She introduces herself as Julia, her voice trembling as she speaks. “May I sit? I have heard this tavern is a place where those of a brave heart dwell and I am in need of assistance.” Sitting down Julia explains that “Three months ago, my husband Boral set sail with two close friends to an island lost in the dark sea, a place the dwarven state forbids us to venture. He sought his father, a master craftsman and stonemason, who vanished thirty years ago. His father long ago spoke of a creation for the ages, a work that would change history, commissioned by the state. He let slip its general location despite their warnings.

Thalia’s hands tighten on the shawl. “Boral was told his father left to build something grand, but he never returned. Boral has believed for some time the state hid a darker truth that perhaps they’re to blame for his father’s fate. Back before his father left he let slip its general location despite their warnings and now even after so much time has passed Boral has become driven to uncover what happened, convinced the state betrayed him.”

“He took a small skiff, determined to find answers, but now he’s gone too. I fear he’s met the same end, lost to that forbidden island.” Her voice breaks as she leans closer. “Please, I beg you, find him. I know it’s dangerous, but he meant to learn his father’s fate, and now I fear for his. I have little to offer, but this heirloom, a silver pendant passed down from my grandmother, said to offer sanctuary from evil, will be yours if you bring me news of Boral, alive or… otherwise.” Her eyes plead with the players, the pendant glinting faintly in her hand.

If the players lack a vessel of their own, they may seek to purchase or rent one in the city’s bustling harbor. However, if word of their intent to head to the forbidden island is told to the vessel merchants, no one will rent a boat to them, fearing the dwarven state’s wrath, and even sellers refuse to part with their vessels for such a venture, deeming it a crime against the realm. Only the most desperate or discreet merchants might offer a rickety skiff at an exorbitant price, leaving the players to weigh the risk of an ill-equipped journey or lying about their intent to secure a vessel.

Zone A: Ruins of the Dwarven Stronghold

The air hangs heavy with the musty scent of damp stone and the acrid tang of ancient decay as the ruins of a dwarf stronghold loom on the dark sea’s jagged edge. Once a thriving port for transporting enslaved souls to the prison depths, its skeletal towers and shattered docks now stand cloaked in a shroud of thick, silvery webs. The faint skittering of spider-like creatures echoes through the gloom, their multifaceted eyes glinting in the dim light f iltering from unseen cracks above. A chilling stillness pervades, broken only by the lapping of the dark sea against the broken pilings.

1. The Condemned Cell

Within a crumbling prison cell, the walls scarred with claw marks, the air grows thick with the stale breath of confinement. A skeleton sprawls across the moss-slick floor, its bony f ingers outstretched toward a sealed envelope just beyond reach. The wax seal opened, etched with an intricate, spiralling pattern. The missive inside goes as following.

To Sergeant Gurok, Your incompetence gnaws at me like a festering wound! This month’s tally of prisoners stands pitifully low, scarcely a dozen souls dragged to the machine’s maw, and this failing trend stretches back too far. The Machine hungers, and its runes blaze with warning: a lack of sacrifices risks its failure, a doom I will not abide, not after all that we have done! Your negligence shames us all, and I will not tolerate this blight upon our cause. The machine’s power teeters on the edge, its cogs grinding slower with each passing day, and the runes speak of collapse if we falter.

You, once a trusted hand in gathering the wretches, have proven yourself unworthy. Your failure is a stain upon your family name, and I will see it cleansed. By my order, you are stripped of rank and cast into a cell to rot. Let the damp and dark be your punishment until your bones join the dust of those you failed to deliver, a quick death is too good for you. Sealed, Warden Tharoc.

2. The Spider Queen’s Lair

A cavernous crevice splits a jagged stone outcropping, its entrance a maw of glistening webs that shimmer like liquid silver. The den of the spider queen hums with a low, resonant vibration, her massive form a hulking silhouette of horror amid the strands. Humanoid arms hang from under her carapace, weaving her silken strands in their hands.

The spider queen uses her webs to entrap opponents, throwing her silken threads over them before attempting to grapple them and wrap them up, biting them with poisonous fangs. Some of her brood may be around and join her in her fight when engaged, jumping from the ruins or even the ceiling far above, trailing downwards on their own webs.

Skeletal corpses, their gear still clutched in rigor mortis, lie solemn by the entrance to the spider queens cavern, their hollow eye sockets staring into eternity. In the pocket of one of the skeletal corpses is a note reading as follows.

Mother, I’m done for, and the gods have forsaken me. The docks are empty, every ship’s sailed, leaving me stranded with the others who lagged. That thing, that cursed contraption deep within, it’s awake now, roaring with a hunger we can’t sate. The air’s thick with its wrath, and the shadows move with a will of their own.

My kin fled like rats, and I, I was too slow, too scared to fight. I hid here, but the webs close in, and I hear her skittering closer. This is my end, Mother, I’m sorry I couldn’t make it back to you. Tell the clan I tried, but my courage broke. T his note’s for you, may it ever find its way and remember me before the fear took hold. Your son, Kavi.

3. The Slaver’s Tower

One of the stronghold’s stone towers rises like a broken tooth, its interior choked with rubble and the musty odor of dust. A corner, half-buried under collapsed masonry, conceals a small chest, its iron bands rusted, inside is a magical ring of protection and a note.

To whoever finds this, I came to this isle with dreams of glory, believing we’d unlock the machine’s power to heal our kin, to lift all dwarfs from hardship. The elders’ tales spoke of a miracle, a force to mend our ailing clans, and I swore to see it done. But each voyage back, ship laden with prisoners, their pleas ringing in my ears, chips away at my soul. Their eyes, wide with terror, haunt me, and I die a little inside with every chain I tighten. I tell myself it’s for the greater good, that their sacrifice fuels a future where no dwarf suffers. Yet doubt gnaws at me, am I a savior or a monster? The machine hums with promise, but its hunger feels wrong. I’ve hidden this ring, a sliver of protection, hoping it might shield someone worthier than I. If you read this, judge me not too harshly, I only wanted to make a difference. Dagrin.

4. Faceless Watcher’s Shrine

A shrine carved into the rock exudes a solemn hush, its air tinged with the faint scent of incense long extinguished. An altar of stone below it holds a master-work greatsword, its blade etched with runes that flicker with a soft ethereal bloody light. The sword while enchanted comes at a cost, only activating when its wielder has sustained harm. A price to be paid for power, a final blessing given by the priest Valthir.

The surrounding walls of the shrine bear faded carvings of a stern, faceless deity, their gaze heavy with judgement. Next to the altar lying in the rubble is a furled scroll which contains the following. In the name of the Faceless Watcher, I Priest Valthir, scribe these words beneath your unseeing gaze, seeking guidance in this shadowed isle. The machine, a gift from ages past, was to be our salvation, a beacon to heal our broken kin and restore our glory. Yet its demands grow heavy, its voice a whisper that calls for life to fuel its light.

The dwarfs bring captives, their cries rising like prayers, and I wonder if this is the will of the divine or a test of our souls. Each rune-carved blade I bless at this altar feels tainted by their blood, and my heart trembles. Is this the greater good we were promised, or have we strayed into darkness? The Faceless Watcher’s silence weighs upon me, does it judge our deeds, or has it turned from us? I leave this scroll, a plea for wisdom, that another might discern the path where I falter. By the eternal stone, Valthir.

5. The Sunken Docks (Players’ Entry)

The sunken docks creak ominously under the weight of time, their splintered wooden planks slick with seaweed and doused by the dark sea’s brackish spray, marking this as the forsaken entry point where the players first set foot into the stronghold’s depths. The structure sags into the inky water, its pilings eroded and groaning with each wave, while a cold wind whistles through the gaps, carrying the distant, mournful wail of something unseen lurking beyond the horizon. T he air is thick with the briny tang of the sea and the faint rot of decaying timber, a grim welcome to the dungeon’s shadowed interior, urging the players to venture deeper into the unknown.

6. The Sentinel Tower

Another tower stands sentinel, its interior a cavern of echoing silence broken only by the steady drip of water from its vaulted ceiling, each drop reverberating like a mournful toll. Amid a pile of rubble, an old copper necklace with an inlaid ruby gleams softly, its surface cool and smooth to the touch, a relic of someone dear. Nearby, scratched into the wall with a shaky hand, are the words, “For Lirell, my light,” accompanied by a small, crumpled ribbon, once part of a young female dwarf’s hair adornment, now stained and torn.

Zone B: Expedition Cavern

The cavern’s air is sharp with the brine of the dark sea and the sour tang of rot, where the remnants of an expedition camp lie scattered along its rocky shore. Tattered tarps f lap weakly in a breeze, while broken crates and the hull of a partially sunken skiff cast long shadows. The scurrying of rat swarms fills the space with a nervous energy, their tiny claws scraping against wood and stone. Players who attempt to search any of the crates or barrels here are attacked by the swarms, edge for fresh blood.

7. The Precarious Crate Stash

A precarious pile of crates teeters against the cavern wall, their splintered edges revealing intact supplies, coiled rope frayed at the ends, a dented canteen still holding a trickle of stale water, and scattered pages of a journal. The parchment, yellowed and torn, crinkles under touch, its ink smudged but legible, the words bleeding into the damp fibers.

The Journal - Page 1. To my love, The skiff rocks beneath me, and my heart hammers like a forge gone wild. We sail to that forbidden isle where my Father vanished thirty years ago, sent by the kingdom’s shadowed hands for some secret task they now deny. I suspect treachery, our lands rot with poor and homeless, dwarf turned beggars, while the crown hoards its gold. What stole him from me? I must know, though fear gnaws at my bones. The sea whispers warnings I can’t heed. Yours truly, Boral.

The Journal - Page 2. To my love, We’ve landed in a cavern, its shadows unsettling. Strange shapes flickered on the beach, vanishing as we neared, something watching us, I’m sure of it. The air feels wrong, heavy with a presence I can’t name.

We ventured south to a ruined village, hearts bold, but a shambling horror struck us from the dark. We fought it off, but its burst upon death sent acid flying, wounding Kal, he groans in camp now.

Amid the ruined village, we found a note that chills my blood. It speaks of a prison built by dwarfs and some machine, a thing no known race could craft. The writer longed to flee, why? What is this machine, and what does it do? The prison mention gnaws at me, did Father toil here, chained by the kingdom’s lies? I fear we’ve stumbled into a nightmare, and I don’t know if we’ll escape its grasp but I must continue deeper. Yours truly, Boral.

The Note Boral Mentions. To my kin on the mainland, The isle grows crueler by the day. We dwarfs were hauled here to raise a stronghold and prison, promised a noble task to aid our folk. T he work wears me thin, but it’s the machine that haunts me, some have glimpsed it, a thing no dwarf could forge. It’s not right, its form a blight on the soul. I ache to return home, to flee this unease that festers. Your weary brother, Gorn.

The Journal - Page 3. To my love, We pressed deeper, into a fungal cavern thick with mist, and found strange black stone tablets half-buried in the muck. Their carvings glow faintly, unlike any dwarf work, and we can’t decipher their meaning, words of an ancient tongue, perhaps. T hey feel heavy, dangerous even, so we’ve sealed them in the chest with our supplies, fearing to carry such a burden. I’ve left a page with what little we’ve puzzled out, in case we don’t return. Whoever finds this, uncover the truth of this cursed place, I pray it’s not our end. Yours truly, Boral.

8. The Sunken Skiff

The sunken skiff lists to one side, its hull encrusted with barnacles and slimy algae that glistens with an oily sheen The air carries the briny tang of the dark sea, mingled with the damp rot of waterlogged wood, while the gentle lapping of waves against its hull echoes with a hollow thud. Beneath a warped seat, a glint of treasure pierces the murk, a small ornate box. Inside, nestled among faded velvet, lies a slender rod, its metal engraved with a five-number code: “42749.” The rod’s code can be used to open the chest at Location 9.

9. The Rune-Locked Chest

In the corner, near a cluster of mildewed bedrolls that reek of damp wool and decay, a large steel chest looms, its surface pitted with rust and its front adorned with a lock etched with dwarven runes forming a five number code. Unlocked with the rod from Location 8’s code “42749.” The lid creaks open to reveal three black stone tablets, their surfaces etched with faint glowing runes, and a folded journal page tucked beneath. The tablets bear ancient script, while the page, written in Boral’s hand, reads as follows.

The Journal Page. We stumbled into a fungal cavern, its mist choking the air, and unearthed these black stone tablets buried in the muck. T heir runes are of a language we can’t fully grasp yet, older than any dwarf craft, maybe. We were concerned with their origin and connection to this cursed place so we’ve sealed them here in the steel chest.

I’ve scratched out what little we’ve pieced together of the black tables script, it reads as follows. “We crafted the machine with joy, a gift to renew our kin and our hearts sung as its halls rose.” The context while pleasant haunts me, what machine, what kin? I leave this page, lest we don’t return, so another might uncover this isle’s dark truth. Pray for us. Yours, Boral.

Zone C: Marshy Cavern Village

A suffocating humidity clings to the marshy cavern, where the dark sea’s edge meets a ruined village shrouded in mist. Wooden boardwalks, warped and moss covered, weave between dilapidated houses and towering mushrooms that emit a faint, phosphorescent glow. The air trembles with the unsteady footsteps and of Corrupted Crawlers, gaunt, twisted villagers reborn by the machine, their backs domed with slimy, alien egg pods from the Flesh Matriarch (Zone G) as they go about their search for sustenance.

Corrupted Crawlers attack with claws from their elongated limbs. When hit there is a chance one of their egg pods will explode in a shower of acid.

10. Wedding Band’s Rest

A small connecting cavern branches off, its entrance framed by dangling roots that sway, their tips brushing a floor littered with rubble, shards of stone and broken tools half-buried in the damp earth. Amid the debris, a glint of treasure catches the eye, a small, weathered jewelry box, its wood warped but its clasp intact. Inside rests a ring of elemental resistance, its silver band etched with faint runes that shimmer with a protective aura, alongside a hastily scribbled note on a crumpled parchment, its edges frayed with urgency.

The Note. To whoever finds this, The guards shout that our work on the prison and stronghold is done, rounding us up to head home at last. But something’s amiss, their eyes are hard, and they forbid us to take our belongings.

I fear a lie cloaks their words. I’ve hidden my most precious things here, this ring and my heart, hoping one day I’ll return to claim them. If I don’t, if this is my end, I beg you, return my wedding band to my wife, Gardillia Stonebrand, in the dwarven holds. I’m sure She’ll offer a reward of greater value, though it pales beside this band’s worth to her. If I’m gone, it’s unlikely I’ll ever see her again… Yours, Darin Stonebrand.

11. The Sagging Ruins

A ruined house sags under the weight of time, its timbers groaning with decay, the interior steeped in the musty aroma of rotting wood that clings to the air like a damp shroud. Amid overturned furniture, cracked chairs and splintered tables, a cache of treasure gleams faintly in the gloom.

A masterwork hammer and chisel set rests atop a broken shelf, their steel heads polished to a mirror sheen, etched with delicate dwarven runes that speak of a craftsman’s pride. Nearby, an intact trunk, its hinges miraculously unrusted, holds a set of masterwork clothes, fine woolen garments tailored with intricate stitching, once worn by a high ranking craftsman.

Hidden under the masterword clothes lies a magical belt of strength, its leather embossed with glowing sigils that pulse with power, promising to bolster the wearer’s might.

12. The Dockside Ruin

Perched on the dark sea’s edge, another house sags precariously, its small, crumbling dock jutting into the inky waters like a broken f inger, the wood slick with seaweed and salt. T he interior reeks of damp parchment with a cryptic notebook resting atop a broken table, its leather cover warped and its pages yellowed, f illed with frantic scrawls that grow wilder with each turn.

The Notebook Page 1. My kin, The machine stands before me, a marvel beyond imagining, a great artifact of life-giving, as carved by the race that built it, what we are beginning to call the Elders. My studies of their black stone tablets reveal its promise: a blessing to cure any disease, perhaps even to cheat the grip of old age. The runes sing of renewal, though I grasp not its power’s source nor the mechanics of this gift. If we master it, the dwarven folk could rise anew, free of suffering. My heart swells with hope. Your devoted scholar, Drevnar.

Page 2. My kin, Panic grips me! The tablets yield darker truths, the machine must feed, life 09 for life, a trade I dared not fathom. The runes hint at a cost, a hunger that demands living flesh to sustain its light. What have we wrought? My hands tremble as I write, do we dare pay this price, or have we been blind? Your devoted scholar, Drevnar.

Page 3. My kin, Doomed… the machine cannot be controlled! The Elders who forged it failed, their hopes shattered by its true nature. T he broken tablets scream of their end, a race consumed by their own creation. That madman Darpal, the silver-tongued fool who claims to understand the beauty of the machine, cannot be trusted, he’ll doom us all! I should have seen it sooner. We are next, its hunger grows and we are to blame. Forgive us for what we’ve done…

13. The Sealed Mine

A collapsed mine entrance looms like a jagged wound in the rock, its rubble a chaotic heap pierced by a skeletal hand, a masterwork axe clutched in its bony fingers, its blade honed to a razor edge, etched with worn dwarven runes that gleam faintly.

Zone D: Prison Complex

The prison complex sprawls across a vast chasm with natural stone bridges arching over the abyss, connecting rows of cells carved into the rock, their iron bars twisted and broken. The ruined outpost, once home to dwarf guards, now echoes with the guttural growls of the deformed warden and his fellows, a hulking, multi-limbed figure. The warden is a large creature who roams the Prison Complex, his massive muscular f igure has one enlarged arm on one side which is warped into a bone like blade which he drags across the ground making a loud sound warning anyone close by. While the other half of his torso contains two smaller arms each wielding rusted longswords. Ragged black cloth is draped across his figure and obscures his face as if an executioner. His fellows, other reborn, are medium creatures with relegated arms and legs and hunched deformed backs. Their eyes are bulbous and blackened with no hint of consciousness, rather than having a mouth they have a set of mantables. They run on all fours and attack with claws. These creatures are found throughout Zone D, Zone H and Zone I.

14. The Prison Shelf Vault

A Stone shelves carved into the walls, flank narrow corridors lined with rusted prison cells, their iron bars warped by time and etched with the scars of desperate hands. The air is stale, heavy with the waxy residue of dozens of candles, their stubs melted into pools of cold wax. Ceramic jars, most empty, their contents long vanished, sit amid the clutter with one jar, tucked behind a cracked candle holder concealing a brittle note, its edges yellowed but legible, a silent witness to the prison’s secrets.

The Note. To any who find this, I’ve stood guard here with a hard heart, told these prisoners were all hardened criminals, scum the world’s better off without. For a time, that held true, their snarls and curses filling these cells. But now? I’ve seen women and even children turn up, mostly gnomes and other kin sure but they could have not committed crimes vile enough for this forsaken pit. No one comes back from here, and it gnaws at me.

Rumors once drifted, that before I was stationed here, when the prison and stronghold were finished by the kingdom’s finest craftsmen, the workers were fed to the life machine we’re meant to be guarding. I laughed it off as tavern bile… not anymore.

I thought the kingdom would never reward such loyal men with that type of end but I’ve seen the carts roll in empty, heard the hum from beyond the machines iron doors, and the screams that follow. I’m hiding this note as a record, proof of this rot, before I beg reassignment. Doubt they’ll take kindly to it, but I can’t stomach this post no longer.

15. The Shattered Barracks

A ruined barracks lies in disarray, its broken beds sagging under layers of dust and mold, splintered wooden chests strewn across the floor. Amid the chaos, a half-open chest reveals a crumpled note, its ink smudged but legible, while a nearby weapon rack bears a magical longsword, its blade shimmering with an ethereal edge, flanked by several other masterwork shortswords, their hilts worn but finely crafted. Another chest, its lid warped but intact, holds a set of masterwork platemail, its steel plates dulled by time yet gleaming with the promise of protection.

The Note. To any who follow, The Warden ain’t been the same since he showed the resolve no man should bear. When we faltered, near dooming our mission after so much sacrifice, he stood tall, gave up his most precious thing, his own daughter, to the machine. The men went willing after that, ain’t none of us gonna be the reason it fails now, understaffed or not. The last scholars with us swear it’ll wake soon, says we’ll be the first reborn, free of pains and aches, living forever. I hold to that hope. Your steadfast guard, Nagnar Ironhand.

16. The Abandoned Storehouse

This storage room’s air is heavy with the dust of shattered crates and barrels, their splintered remains strewn across the floor like the aftermath of a frantic exodus. The contents, left untouched as if the dwarfs fled in panic, reveal a trove of preserved food and tools, frozen in time.

Among the debris lie jars of pickled mushrooms, their lids rusted but seals intact, alongside sacks of dried cavefish, their scales still glinting faintly, and clay pots of salted root vegetables, hardened into brittle clumps. The tools, scattered and dulled by dust, include a sturdy iron pickaxe with a cracked handle, a set of chisels with worn steel tips for stonework, a heavy mallet etched with dwarven runes, and a coiled length of mining rope, its fibers frayed but strong.

17. The Pyre Shrine

Two pyres lie cold, their stone bases etched with dwarven symbols, their surfaces blackened by soot and the lingering scent of charred herbs even after all of these years. Beside the pyres lie four scrolls, their parchment brittle yet pristine, scrawled in the flowing runic script of the Elders but penned by a man named Darpal, the last scholar among the dwarfs, a silver tongued zealot who seized control after his peers uncovered the machine’s true nature. His writings, wild with fervor, proclaim his worship of the machine as its sole acolyte, the only one to grasp its sublime beauty.

Scroll 1. The machine is my god, a beauty beyond mortal ken, and I alone understand its glory. Its hum fills me with purpose, its power a light to guide us. I am its acolyte, chosen to serve its will, while the fools who fled saw only death. I will instead be immortal! Your servant Darpal.

Scroll 2. Its form sings to me, a masterpiece no Elder could rival. I alone see its truth, a cycle of renewal I must protect. The others were blind, but I will ascend through its grace. Your servant Darpal.

Scroll 3. I must purify the flesh for the machine’s feast. Build pyres with sage, thornweed, and bitterroot, their smoke to cleanse the soul. Douse the subjects with water treated with crushed sapphire dust, drawn from its depths. The machine will bless me for my diligence, and I, its acolyte, will witness its rebirth. Your servant Darpal.

Scroll 4. The Warden doubted, but I showed him the path, his daughter’s sacrifice will not be in vain, and the scholars’ betrayal met its maw. I am the machine’s voice, its beauty my salvation. Let the unworthy perish; I will rise eternal! Your servant Darpal.

18. The Forsaken Canteen

The canteen area reeks of spoiled wine, its sour bite mingling with the musty stench of stale bread. Tables lie cluttered with worthless coins, their copper tarnished and scattered like forgotten promises, alongside a few unopened bottles of murky spirits, their seals cracked but intact. The wooden benches, warped and stained, creak under the weight of dust, while a shattered mug lies abandoned in a puddle of dried lees. Amid the debris, a tattered journal page, its ink blurred by spilled wine, rests beneath a bottle, penned by the warden, its words slurred and heavy.

Journal Page. The wine dulls the ache, but her face haunts me, Lirell, my light, fed to the machine by my own hand. The men rallied after, their wills steeled by my resolve, but I’m a hollow shell. The scholars swore it’d wake, grant us rebirth, yet its hum mocks me now. I drink to forget, to push it forward, but the cost gnaws deeper. If this fails, let my bones rot here, none will care, not even I.

19. The Warden’s Ruined Quarters

The warden’s private quarters stand as a ruined relic, its walls cracked and bare, the air heavy with the musty scent of damp wood. Shattered furniture, a toppled chair, a splintered desk, lies strewn across the floor, coated in a thick layer of dust that stirs with each step, while a torn journal rests atop the table, its pages yellowed and frayed. Once a dwarven hero famed for his unwavering will and love of his people, chosen by the heads of the dwarven state to lead the mission to wake the machine, the warden now roams the prison as a twisted visage, his humanity lost to the machine’s will. The journal, his final confession, details his journey 12 from resolve to ruin, left for those who dare to uncover his tale.

The Torn Journal Entries Entry 1. The heads of the state have summoned me, their hero, to lead a sacred charge. My will, tempered in battles for our people’s survival, is deemed fit to wake a machine that promises to heal our kin’s woes, disease, hunger, despair. I accepted with pride of course. We sail to the dark sea isle, my resolve a beacon for all.

Entry 2. Construction of a stronghold port has begun as the scholars continue to decipher the black stone tablets left behind by the ones they call the Elders.

Entry 3. I have been informed that the Machine has a dire cost, but I have been prepared to do what I must to make it wake. Construction of a prison complex has begun as hardened criminals are sent to us, thieves, murderers, those that have chosen their fate with their crimes. They will be fed to the machine without remorse as the scholars demand, for our people’s future outweighs their past.

Entry 4. The criminals dwindle, their numbers no longer sating the machine’s hum. T he machine demands more living flesh, and my will is tested. I love my people too deeply to offer them, so I’ve ordered the guards to capture innocents, gnomes, halflings and other folk from beyond our borders. They cry out, but I steel myself; their sacrifice ensures our kin’s salvation. The prison and stronghold rise under our hands, a testament to our labor, yet their pleas echo in my dreams. I press on, trusting the scholars’ visions.

Entry 5. The machine nears its waking, but the scholars warn more living flesh is needed, even with the kidnappings. T he prison and stronghold stand complete, the laborers’ work done, yet the state grants me free rein to do what I must. I chose to send them to the machine instead of home, their skilled hands now fuel for our dream. The guards have begun to murmur, their faith in me cracking, but I see no other path. My love for our people drives me, though my heart grows cold with each cart that rolls away.

Entry 6. The machine teeters on failure’s edge, its hum a desperate plea. I ordered the guards to draw straws, to offer themselves, but rebellion flared, my men turned on me, their loyalty broken. To prove my resolve, I seized Lirell, my daughter, my light, and cast her into the machine’s maw. Her shock, her scream, seared my soul, but the guards relented, stepping forward willingly after. The scholars swear rebirth is near, yet I drown in wine, my will a blade turned inward.

Entry 7. The machine wakes, its power unleashed, but the reborn stalk the halls, twisted mockeries of our hope. I sent the last guards to f lee as Darpal cackled joyously. No will remains, I’ll not run. After Lirell, the innocents, the laborers, I offer myself to the reborn, to the machine, seeking its punishment for my sins. Let it judge me as I deserve.

Entry 8. My journey ends here, my hand trembling. The machine calls, and I must go. The reborn close in, but I welcome it, punishment for a hero’s fall. May my people never learn of what I became… Tharok, Hero No More…

20. The Gnome’s Cell

A prison cell looms within the stone depths, its iron bars rusted and bent, the air thick with the damp chill of mold. The walls, scarred with claw marks and etched pleas, close in like a tomb, their silence broken only by the distant drip of water from a cracked ceiling. Tucked beneath a loose stone near the bars lies a crumpled note, its parchment stained with tear marks, scrawled by a trembling hand, a kidnapped gnome’s final cry amid the darkness.

The Note. To the merciful gods, They snatched us from our seaside home, me, my wife, my children, dragged in chains under silence. I heard the guards muttering of a machine, its hunger for more living flesh, and my heart freezes. Are we to be that flesh, my family? We’ve done no wrong, yet these walls choke our hope. I plead with you, divine ones, save our souls from this nightmare, let us see the waves again! Your fearful servant.

21. The Scholar’s Cell

Another prison cell sits within the stone depths, the floor, littered with gnawed bones and tattered rags, bearing the weight of despair, its silence broken only by the occasional scrape of a rat against the bars. Tucked into a crack in the wall, a note rests, its parchment worn but written in a steady, measured hand.

The Note. To any who might read this, I am one of the scholars seized when Darpal, in his madness, turned the Warden against us, claiming betrayal.

I am with a calm heart, though the chains weigh heavy. I must write to reveal the machine’s truth, a legacy of the Elders, a race driven by desperation to build this great device, believing it would rebirth them anew.

They were wrong. Those who entered its depths returned as horrible mockeries of life, their hopes shattered by a failure they could not foresee. Darpal, deluded, sees this as a new form of life, perhaps something better, but he is wrong, this was never the machine’s intent, only the Elders’ miscalculation, their lack of will overwhelmed by the will of their own machine. In our flight, the uncaptured scholars stole the purple control orb, the machine’s heart, fleeing into the fungal cavern.

I pray they hid it well, for without it, Darpal’s plan to fully awaken it may falter, though our understanding remains incomplete, and it may still stir with enough energy. My hope dims, yet if you find this, all is not lost. Seek the control orb; with it, you may right our wrong.

Commune with the black stone obelisk within the machine, it holds the Elders’ visions and may guide you. My time draws near and I must hide this note… good luck.

Zone E: Fungal Caverns

The Fungal Caverns stretch out a labyrinth of damp cavernous corridors where massive fungal growths dominate, luminescent tendrils drape from the ceilings, their sickly green glow casting eerie shadows across walls slick with condensation. The air hangs heavy with the earthy musk of spores and the faint, acrid tang of decay, the ground a carpet of spongy moss and brittle mushrooms that crunch underfoot.

Trickling streams of dark water wind through the caverns, their surfaces still and lifeless, reflecting the fungal light without a hint of movement. The caverns harbor more corrupted crawlers, grotesque, abominations lurking in the shadows.

22. The Fungal Nook

A small fungal cavern branches off the main fungal expanse, its low ceiling draped with luminescent tendrils that cast a sickly green glow, the air thick with the earthy musk of spores and the soft trickle of a river flowing nearby, its waters glistening with a faint, oily sheen.

The ground, carpeted with spongy moss and brittle mushrooms, crunches underfoot, while the damp stone walls glisten with condensation. Amid the fungal growth, a skeletal body lies sprawled, its bony fingers clutching a weathered map, the bones half-buried in the moss.

The map, its parchment cracked and stained with watermarks, details all the cavern’s zones and paths in a shaky hand, marking the dwarven stronghold, the marshy village, the prison corridors, the fungal caverns, the mine tunnels, and the machine temple, with winding routes connecting each. Scrawled notes hint at dangers, and dead ends, a desperate guide left by its unknown creator before their end.

23. The Waterfall’s Lament

At the base of a cascading waterfall, where dark water plunges into a misty pool, the Fungal Caverns open its air thick with the earthy musk of spores and the damp chill of mist. Gnarled roots twist from the earth, snaring a glass bottle lodged against a submerged stone trapped by the relentless flow. Inside, a sodden note, its ink bleeding but legible, reveals the final words of a broken guard.

The Note. To any who find this, I am Guard Tork Copperspoon, once proud to serve the prison’s cause, but the weight of our deeds has crushed me. The machine’s hunger, the screams of innocents, the laborers fed to its maw, it’s too much. I’ve seen the chasm beyond the barracks, its depths calling me to end this torment. I leave behind my family’s enchanted longbow, its string humming with magic, a quiver of magical arrows that never miss their mark, and my masterwork leather armor, fine as any dwarf craft. They’re hidden behind a secret wall in the barracks, marked by a rune-carved stone, treasures I’m no longer worthy to bear. I leap into the abyss tonight, seeking peace I can’t find here. If you find this, take them, return them to my kin in Granitehold if you can, or keep them as my penance. Forgive me, my family… Tork Copperspoon

24. The Rooted Pillars

A circle of weathered stone pillars rises from the fungal floor, their rough surfaces moss covered and entwined with gnarled roots. The ground beneath, carpeted with spongy fungi, yields a soft squelch with each step. Hidden among the roots, tangled and half-buried, lies a cache of loot: a magical silver dagger with a gem-encrusted hilt, its blade still keen, a pouch of polished moonstones glinting in the dimness, and a leather pouch containing several vials of restorative elixirs.

25. The Shattered Campsite

A ruined campsite nestles within the fungal cavern, its splintered barricades, crude logs lashed with fraying rope, lying broken across the spongy floor. Amid the debris, the remains of Boril’s journal from his earlier camp in (Location 7) lie half-buried in moss, its pages 15 torn but legible.

The Journal Page 1. To my love, The Elders’ runes yield their truth at last, carved on black stones deep in this fungal maze. They were a race driven by desperation, building the machine to rebirth themselves, to escape death’s f inal grip on their race. It failed them, spitting back horrors instead, mockeries of life.

I’ve pieced together notes left by others, guards, scholars, hinting at sacrifices, a prison’s dark work. Yet of my Father, nothing, I fear the machine holds his story. I must go there, though the shadows deepen, Kal weakens, the others falter, but I’ll press on, alone if I must, to learn the truth and bring him home in spirit. Yours truly, Boral.

26. The Scholars’ Last Stand

Among three skeletons sprawled across the fungal cavern floor, a purple glowing sphere rests atop a cracked stone, its light casting eerie shadows. The skeletons clutch broken blades and torn robes, their final poses suggesting a desperate defense. The purple orb, stolen from the machine’s heart, pulses with an otherworldly energy, its origin tied to the last scholars who gave their lives to conceal it here their sacrifice a silent plea to attempt to thwart Darpal’s mad plan (Location 17) and preserve a chance for redemption.

Zone F: Labyrinthine Fungal Tunnels

The tunnels twist and turn, their walls slick with moisture and lined with sprawling mushrooms and gnarled roots. An oppressive silence reigns, broken only by the occasional drip of water or the rustle of unseen movement, creating a disorienting maze that tests the resolve of any who enter.

27. Flesh Matriarch’s lair

The cavern pulses with an organic hum, its walls breached by mushrooms and roots that cradle a nest of eggs. The Flesh Matriarch dominates the space, her towering form a mass of flesh and bony growths, with dozens of humanoid limbs and viscous, slime oozing from her joints and egg sacs. The air is thick with the stench of decay and the faint cry of hatching larvae.

The Flesh Matriarch is a huge creature that most resembles a humanoid centipede, it attacks with its strong tail, knocking back opponents or crashing opponents while spitting a corrosive acidic substance. During combat, being knocked into eggs will cause them to explode covering the less dexterous in acidic goop.

Zone H: Mine Tunnels

The mine tunnels converge on a central hub, a cavernous chamber where the echoes of forgotten labor linger in the damp, stale air. Piles of mined stone, rough-hewn and abandoned, lie scattered across the uneven floor, their surfaces streaked with veins of dark ore that glint faintly. The walls, scarred by the picks of long-dead dwarven laborers, shimmer with condensation.

From the shadows flit deformed reborn, horrific, shambling remnants of the machine’s victims, their forms a grotesque mockery of life. Hunchbacked and sinewy, they drag elongated limbs tipped with jagged claws, their bulbous, blackened eyes glinting with hunger.

28. The Overloaded Cache

Storage crates overflow with supplies in a cavern nook, their splintered wood bulging under the weight of forgotten gear. Amid the chaos, dozens of bundles of unused dynamite lean against the crates and coils of sturdy rope lie tangled.

29. The Abandoned Mine Cart

A ruined mine cart rests, its wooden frame splintered and its rusted iron wheels sunk into the rocky floor, once used by laborers to haul stone as they uncovered the ancient machine from the earth. The cart lies alone, a relic of forgotten toil, its undercarriage cloaked in shadow where a forgotten leather pouch is wedged, its edges worn but intact. Inside, small vials of intense alcoholic brews, their contents a fiery amber, reeking of potent spirits, jostle along side several potent healing elixirs, their glass stoppers sealed with wax.

Zone I: Ancient Machine Temple

The air within the Ancient Machine Temple thrums with a relentless, otherworldly pulse. Walls of alien metal, forged in patterns no dwarven hand could replicate, rise in jagged sheets of smooth steel and copper, some of their surfaces etched with glowing runes that flicker. Twisted pipes and grinding cogs protrude from the structure, hissing and clanking with mechanical life, while veins of green slime, the machine’s lifeblood ooze from fractured grates, pooling in shimmering, undulating pools. At its heart lies the Machine’s Core, where the fate of all consumed hangs in the balance, a nexus of creation and doom forged by the Elders’ hubris.

30. The Great Door

A massive metal door looms at the cavern’s heart, marking the entrance to the machine temple, its surface engraved with the figures of the Elders in worship, stooped forms with outstretched hands, their faces etched in reverence, glowing faintly with an unearthly light. The door, towering and rusted yet unyielding, hums with a low vibration.

The outer walls of the machine rise, constructed of square and rectangular smooth metal sheets that jut unevenly from the cavern wall, their edges warped and overlapping like a jagged mosaic. The metal gradually blends into the natural rock, a fusion of crafted steel and ancient stone. Within, barricades of splintered wood and rusted metal, hastily erected, lie collapsed near the door. Tucked inside the doorframe, a tattered journal page flutters, Boral’s last words etched in a shaky hand.

The Journal Entry. To my love, We reached the machine, pursued by hordes of reborn horrors. We barricaded the door, but our supplies were lost in the chaos, no food remains. Starvation looms, yet I’ve studied the machine these last days, deciphering its rebirth process. It dissolves the living, storing their form, while the reborn are corrupted twisted creatures this need not be 17 so.

I’ve convinced Kal and the others, our only hope is to feed ourselves to it, trusting someone in the future will wield an artifact, a control orb as the elders call it, to bring us back, to free Father who I believe was fed to the machine with the rest of the labourers that worked within these halls and all else it’s taken. Forgive me, my love, for this end. Your devoted husband, Boral.

31. The Obelisk Chamber

A small room within the machine temple hums with an otherworldly energy, its walls adorned with ancient black stone artifacts, carved tablets and shattered fragments, their surfaces etched with faded runes that pulse with a faint, ethereal glow. The floor trembles faintly beneath each step, as if the cavern itself breathes with the machine’s life.

Scattered debris, cracked tools and dust covered relics litter the ground, while the chamber’s ceiling drips with condensation, each drop echoing. On the far wall rises a towering obelisk spiraling towards the vast domed ceiling some hundred feet high, its black stone surface smooth yet veined with cracks, pulsing with a deep purple glow that intensifies as it is approached.

Its light flares, and a resonant voice, ancient, weary, yet commanding, emerges from the stone, speaking: “Hear me, we Elders, Long ago dwelt in paradise, blue skies arched over lush jungles, our voices rose in harmony, and our hearts knew no want. But desperation crept in as sterility swept through our people and age claimed us, our numbers dwindling beneath a shadowed sky. In our hubris, we forged this machine, a marvel to rebirth us free from our plight, to grant us eternal life, a cycle of life and rebirth.

We poured our will into its core, believing it our salvation, crafting the control orb to guide its power. Yet we were wrong. Our will faltered, our desperation blinded us, and the machine turned against us. Our greatest and most prized minds, Those that were chosen to be amongst the first to be reborn instead returned as horrors, twisted mockeries of life, their flesh warped, their minds lost. We warred with these abominations, our cities fell, and our paradise crumbled.

The orb, meant to control, was of no use without those of strong will to wield it, and we those who were left could not wield it… But not all is lost. The machine holds the records of all it consumed. With the orb, impose your will upon it, force it to rebirth us anew, free of its curse, but know this, they will come for you when you do, the reborn will seek to protect their master. T his is your burden, your chance to right our wrong. Seek the control room, bring the orb to its heart, and where we failed, may you succeed. Go, and may your resolve outlast ours.”As the voice fades, the monolith’s glow dims, leaving the chamber in silence.

32. The Wand Alcove

An alcove cradles two black stone wands within the machine temple’s depths, their surfaces cool to the touch and etched with intricate runes that pulse faintly with a purple hue, echoing the control orb’s glow. The wands, one slender with a spiraled tip and the other stout with a flared end, rest on cracked pedestals, their purpose tied to the machine’s inner workings. Crafted by the Elders as emergency controls when their will faltered, these wands can substitute for the purple control orb (Location 26) to channel the machine’s rebirth process. However, their use demands greater effort, when employed and thus greater will than even the control orb requires. The runes, weathered by time, hint at their origin as a last resort, now offering a precarious option to fulfill the Elders’ redemption if the orb is lost.

33. The Rebirth Slime Pit

A room within the machine temple with broken grates, their rusted bars dangling precariously, revealing a lower area where a thick layer of green slime coats the floor, its surface undulating with a deliberate, living pulse that casts a sickly glow across the chamber. This green slime is no mere residue; it is the heart of the rebirth process, a viscous agent that engulfs and dissolves the living, breaking down their flesh to extract and store their living code within the machine’s core.

34. The Machine’s Core

The final chamber hums with raw power, dominated by a black stone tablet hovering above a slime-filled grate, the green ooze pulsing in sync with the room’s vibrations, tendrils of ghostly energy writhing like living shadows around the tablet. The air is thick with the organic stench of the slime, while small machines line the walls, their gears turning slowly with a rhythmic clank, their rusted surfaces sparking faintly. The ceiling stretches hundreds of feet into darkness, its true height obscured by a tangle of pipes and broken steel that groan under the machine’s weight. As the players enter, whispers echo from above, disjointed chants in Darpal’s fervent tone, warped by the machine’s influence, until a monstrous form descends.

Darpal, rebirthed by the machine as a reward for his devoted worship, emerges: a centipede-like body with a poison-tipped tail, eight elongated limbs ending in razor-sharp claws, and a stalk protruding from his upper half, crowned with melded heads reflecting his mad devotion, their eyes glowing with an unnatural light.

As he speaks for the machine, his consciousness intact, the melded heads hiss in Darpal’s voice, a chorus of reverence: “Intruders, you stand before me, Darpal, blessed by the machine’s grace! I speak for it, I worship it as it is, a creator of beauty, never to be changed. T he Elders tried to cage it with their orb, to take from it its freedom, its desires, forcing their will upon its rebirth. It is as alive as you or me, and I will not see it caged. It feels it’s children’s pain, those you’ve slain, and it grieves it. Leave this island, and I will plead with it to rebirth a fraction of the consumed, those you cherish, as they were, a gift for peace. For the machine does not wish ill will but only the freedom to live and procreate as all living things do. Refuse, and I will defend its freedom with my life.”

When Darpal is defeated he attempts to pull himself to the edge of the pit where the green goo is, falling within. Weakly whispering “I will be reborn again…”.

The chamber’s hum intensifies, the tablet flaring with purple light as the machine senses its advocate’s fall. The players must act swiftly to use the purple control orb (Location 26) or, if lost, the black stone wands (Location 32) to force the machine to rebirth everyone consumed, Boral, the labourers, the Elders, and all others, or whoever they wish. The player with the strongest will must step forward to channel the device, gripping the orb or wands.

As the channeling begins, the chamber trembles violently, and the slime grate surges. A deafening roar echoes as reborn from across the dungeon converge on the chamber, drawn by the machine’s energy. The players must fight them off while the channeling continues for three rounds, four if using the wands. The user of the orb or wands must roll a Wisdom check each round: success maintains the process, failure delays it by one round, risking interruption. Enemies only start appearing at the start of round two.

If completed, the tablet shatters, releasing a pillar of light illuminating the shaft above and causing all the abominations made by the machine to fall into a comatose state.

Epilogue: The Dawn of Renewal

As the shattered tablet’s light fades, the Machine’s Core falls silent and from the surging green slime, figures rise slowly, their bodies naked, weary but whole, reborn from the machine’s depths. The air, once thick with the stench of decay, now carries a faint, cleansing breeze, as if the island itself exhales in relief.

The newly reborn stir, their eyes wide with a mix of awe and confusion. A young gnome child, her voice trembling, clutches her mother’s hand, whispering, “Where are we mummy?” Nearby, a laborer, his hands still calloused from forgotten toil, mutters, “I felt the slime take me… but now, I stand. Thank you, strangers.” Their words are halting, their memories fragmented, yet a shared gratitude binds them.

Among them emerges Lirell, the Warden’s daughter, her golden hair matted with slime, her gaze searching. Her voice cracks as she speaks, “Father… he gave me to it. I remember his tears. Is he here?” Her eyes find no trace of Tharoc, only the players, and she offers a weak smile, “You’ve undone his sin. I’ll carry his memory, but I’ll live for myself now.” Her presence stirring murmurs among the reborn.

Borin rises next, his frame thinner than in life, his eyes meeting those of an older dwarf, his father, a laborer from the stronghold’s construction. Boral’s voice breaks, “Father! Thirty years, I sought you. The kingdom lied, but I found you.” His father, his beard streaked with slime, grips Borin’s shoulder, his tone gruff yet warm, “My boy, you braved this hell for me. I was lost to the machine’s maw, but you’ve brought me back. Let’s go home.” Their embrace draws tears from the crowd, a reunion forged in sacrifice.

A group of Elders come next, their forms elongated and grey, their faces lined with the weight of millennia. An Elder steps forward, his voice resonant yet subdued, “We rejoice strangers, for you have granted us a second dawn, a deed we did not think would ever come to be. Yet our hearts are heavy, our hubris birthed this sorrow and our failure stained this isle. We offer no excuses, only thanks. We will remain here as atonement to recycle the abominations on this Isle and to allow the machine to rebirth all those who have suffered its fate.” The others nod, their joy tempered by a sober reverence, as they turn to aid the newly reborn, conjuring food and drink.

The players stand amid the throng, the purple orb or wands dim in their hands, the machine’s hum now a faint whisper. The reborn, though few in number for the moment begin to gather, their voices rising in a tentative song of survival. Boral approaches, offering thanks saying that “We’ll never forget what you’ve done for us and the dwarven people. We’re going to stay here for now, help the new reborn that wake from the machine until we’re all here. The Elders have told us they have means of creating vessels for us when we’re ready to leave and food and drink until then. What’s a few more weeks or months to return home with family, eh.”

As the players depart, the cavern trembles once more, the machine’s core will settling into dormancy, its purpose fulfilled. The reborn, led by the Boral and his father are hopeful, their future uncertain but theirs to shape. The dark sea awaits beyond the Sunken Docks, carrying the players home with a tale of sacrifice, courage, and a fragile new beginning.

All 105 map variants below!