The Demise of the Duergar Lab

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The Demise of the Duergar Lab

The Aftermath of the Lab

Checking the Lab

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The Demise of the Duergar Lab

Mutt Bromwell

Cast a Spell (Vicious Mockery)YOUR VISAGE IS SO HIDEOUS, THE LAST TIME YOU HAD A PORTRAIT DONE IT REQUIRED NEITHER HAMMER NOR NAIL AS IT HUNG ITSELF. 

Dragonborn Fungal Horror Save Throw (Save vs. Vicious Mockery)The Dragonborn Horror resists the effects of Mutt's insult, its blind rage undeterred by the bard's words.

Mutt delivers a scathing insult infused with magical energy, but the Dragonborn Horror resists the spell’s effects, remaining unshaken by the bard's mockery. Mutt shrugs, muttering, "Tough crowd."

Move: Mutt moves 10 feet, repositioning from T25 L25 to T25 L35.

Move: Mutt takes another 5-foot step, moving from T25 L35 to T25 L30.

Fizzbum Lilypad

Move: Fizzbum repositions, moving 10 feet from T30 L15 to T30 L5.

Class Feature (Wild Shape)Fizzbum reverts from his wolverine form back into his gnome self. Adjusting his robes and hat, he grins confidently and quips, "Alright, back to brains over brawn. Let’s end this madness."

Use an Object (Antitoxin)Back in his gnomish form, Fizzbum quickly uncorks an antitoxin vial and drinks it. Grimacing at the bitter taste, he feels a cooling sensation combat the fungal corruption in his body. The greenish hue fades from his skin as the remedy works. Straightening up, he smirks and mutters, "Much better. Now let’s finish these walking compost heaps."

Uptharr

Move: Uptharr moves 5 feet, stepping into position from T20 L15 to T15 L10.

Melee Attack (Duergar War Pick) "By the light above and the strength within, this day shall be your last!  Uptharr steps forward and swings the Duergar war pick at the Dragonborn Horror's exposed Chardalyn core. The pick lands with a crack, dealing 13 points of damage. Divine Smite surges through the core, adding 24 radiant damage, for a devastating total of 37 points. The creature visibly weakens as Uptharr proclaims, "The light will always pierce the shadows!"

Dorf Thimblerigger

Melee Attack (Precious)"Time to go night-night ugly! " Dorf swaps places with Uptharr, raising Precious and slamming it into the Dragonborn Horror’s Chardalyn core. The core shatters in a brilliant explosion of corrupted light, dealing 32 points of damage. The Dragonborn Horror collapses lifelessly, ichor spilling from its chest. Dorf, panting, growls, "And stay dead."

The Aftermath:

The Dragonborn horror collapses with a thunderous crash, its corrupted form finally succumbing to the relentless onslaught of the Howlbears. Its hollow eyes dim, and the unnatural fungal growths that twisted its body go still. The lab falls eerily silent except for the heavy breathing of the party and the faint dripping of some unidentifiable liquid pooling on the floor.

The aftermath of the battle is gruesome. The shattered remains of the Chardalyn cluster still pulse faintly with dying energy, casting a faint, reddish glow that illuminates the grotesque scene. The room reeks of decay and scorched fungus, a sickly combination that clings to your senses. The experiment tables are littered with broken glass, shattered jars, and the remnants of twitching, malformed creatures that are now lifeless.

The shelves along the back wall remain cluttered with vials and tools, some still intact. The four doors—two on the north wall and two on the south—stand ominously shut, their surfaces scarred and rusted. The faint scrape of metal that had emanated from one of them earlier is now silent, adding an unnerving stillness to the room.

Uptharr rests his mace on the ground and surveys the chamber with grim determination. His voice carries a solemn tone, heavy with concern. “The beast is slain, but we must tread carefully. There may yet be more dangers lurking behind these doors—or worse, remnants of the Chirurgeon’s foul work.”

He casts a wary glance at the shelves and tables. “Let’s search this place. Perhaps we’ll find something to help us cleanse this keep or clues to the Duergar’s vile plans. But stay alert, friends—this evil may still have its claws in this place.”

Lab Contents and Treasure List

1. Potions and Elixirs

   • Potion of Healing (2): Standard potions to restore hit points.

   • Potion of Resistance (Necrotic): Grants resistance to necrotic damage for 1 hour.

   • Experimental Elixir: effects will need to be identified (Arcana DC 15).

2. Tools and Items

   • Chirurgeon’s Infused Scalpel: A razor-sharp surgical tool. (already held by Mutt)

   • Runic Etching Kit: A small case with etching tools and chalk, useful for crafting or studying magical runes.

   • Duergar’s Journal: Filled with notes about experiments, (must be able to read Undercommon)

3. Chardalyn Shards (Damaged)

   • 3 small Chardalyn shards (still usable, the rest of the shards are destroyed)

4. Vials and Substances

   • 4 vials of unknown fluids: (Requires Arcana DC 15 to determine)

   • 2 jars of fungal spores: Corrupted spores, dangerous if released. May have alchemical uses.

5. Miscellaneous

   • A strange crystal key, its surface etched with tiny runes, found in the Chirurgeon’s pocket.

   • Syringe of unknown fluid: Found in the Chirurgeon's pocket

1000 XP Awarded - Level up

Treasure Added

Stars Awarded

10 Minutes have passed

Current Time: 4:36 PM

Date: Fourthday , 24 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 55°

Current Phase: Exploration

The Aftermath of the Lab

The Howlbears stand amidst the wreckage of the Duergar laboratory, the air thick with the metallic tang of spilled blood, the acrid stench of fungal decay, and the faint hum of dissipating corruption. The shattered remnants of the Chardalyn cluster still glimmer faintly, while the Dragonborn horror lies lifeless at their feet. The room, once a site of unimaginable horror, now feels disturbingly still.

Azalie drops to the floor with a heavy sigh, her arms resting on her knees, head bowed. “I…I am sorry I wasn’t much help out there,” she murmurs, her voice tinged with self-doubt. Her fingers tighten around her worn bow as she inspects it for damage, the battle’s toll evident in every scratch and frayed string. Calling Mellon to her side, she forces a half-grin. “At least none of us died, right? Maybe I just need a better bow.”

Mutt walks to her side, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. His smile is weak, but his tone carries warmth. “Any fight you walk away from more or less intact is a win in my book. The great thing about the Howlbears is that when one of us falls down, the others are there to pick them back up.” His words linger as he probes his own wounds, wincing slightly. Glancing around the room with a mix of shock and disgust, he mutters, “How do we keep finding ourselves in places like this? I thought that frost giant’s cave was the worst, but this…”

Fizzbum, coughing up green phlegm, spits onto the ruined floor and wipes his face with a bit of clean cloth. Looking down at the remains of the Chirurgeon, he growls, “You made some bad decisions, Mr. Doctor Dwarf. Nature always finds a balance, and I’ll make sure the evil you did gets repaid with life and healing.” With that, he carefully collects vials and syringes from the Duergar’s corpse, glancing at the shattered Chardalyn cluster to ensure its corruption has dissipated. After a moment’s concentration, he sighs in relief, sensing the dark influence has waned.

“Anyone still need an antitoxin?” Fizz offers, moving to bandage Dorf’s wounds. He then nods approvingly at Mutt’s ritual casting of Tiny Hut, muttering something about the value of a good rest.

Dorf, still gripping his shield, gives Azalie a firm pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ve all missed a shot or two in battle. But we don’t give up ‘til they aren’t moving.” With a grunt, he wipes down Precious, resetting its fire attack and polishing the blade until it gleams. Positioning himself near Azalie, he readies his weapon and shield, his eyes darting to the unopened doors.

Azalie, her spirits bolstered by the support of her companions, stands and places a hand on the lifeless wrist of the Dragonborn. “Do you guys think this is just the beginning? If they’ve created this thing, imagine what else they could do. Trolls, animals—entire villages would be wiped out by this witchery.”

Her voice grows firmer as memories of the people they’ve fought to protect flash through her mind. Scramsacks, the jovial tavern owner. The sheriff who entrusted them with the town’s safety. With a renewed sense of purpose, she declares, “I feel like we’re the only ones who can stop this. The Howlbears have triumphed over every obstacle. Are you with me?”

Before anyone can reply, Uptharr’s booming voice breaks through, full of conviction. “Well said, Azalie! The horrors we’ve seen here are not the work of mere mortals; they are an affront to all that is good and just. I say we press on, for Helm has guided us this far, and his light will not falter now!”

The moment of camaraderie is interrupted by a faint, eerie creak from behind the doors on the northern wall. The Howlbears’ eyes dart toward the sound, a grim reminder that the lab’s secrets are far from fully uncovered.

Unexplored doors stand as both promise and peril. Whatever lies beyond could hold answers—or more nightmares.

The Long Rest:

As the Howlbears settle amidst the aftermath, the tension begins to fade, replaced by the aching fatigue of battle.

Mutt takes a deep breath, pulling out his spellbook with weary resolve. “Alright, everyone,” he says, voice calm but firm. “I’ll cast Tiny Hut so we can get some much-needed rest. Let’s not take any unnecessary risks.”

He finds a relatively clear patch of floor near the center of the room, away from the shattered Chardalyn cluster and the grotesque tables. Kneeling, he begins tracing sigils in the air with deliberate care. The arcane symbols shimmer faintly, lingering in the air like whispers of light as he murmurs the words of his spell. The atmosphere within the room grows quieter still, as if even the remnants of corruption hesitate to disturb the ritual.

The Howlbears watch in a mix of silence and anticipation. Uptharr, his flail resting against his shoulder, gives a small nod of approval. “A noble and wise choice, Mr. Mutt. Helm’s light shines through those who understand the need for prudence.” He positions himself near one of the doors, standing watch as the arcane dome takes shape.

The spell completes with a soft pulse, a shimmering dome of faintly glowing energy surrounding the group.

Inside the protective dome of Tiny Hut, the Howlbears find a temporary haven, free from the oppressive chill of the Duergar lab. The air within is warm and clean, a stark contrast to the stench of decay that pervades the keep beyond. The translucent walls of the dome shimmer faintly, a barrier against the horrors outside, giving the group a faint view of the dark and twisted laboratory while ensuring nothing can penetrate their sanctuary.

The floor within is smooth and dry, the stone softened slightly by the magic of the spell. Though it offers no luxuries, the sense of security it provides is priceless. The soft glow of the dome illuminates the interior with a dim, comforting light, casting shadows that flicker gently along the walls.

Each member of the party claims a spot to rest, laying out bedrolls and unpacking rations. Despite the tension, a sense of camaraderie fills the space. Azalie sits near the edge, her back against the dome, absently inspecting her bow. Dorf props Precious against his pack, muttering something about how even a magic hut can’t replace a proper hearth.

Fizzbum, ever the busy gnome, sets up a small area to tend to everyone’s injuries, using bits of cloth and salve to patch up lingering wounds. The smell of herbal tinctures momentarily replaces the acrid scent of the lab.

“It’s not much,” he says with a small grin, “but this hut feels like a palace compared to the outside.”

Mutt sits cross-legged in the center, ensuring the dome remains stable, his spellbook open beside him. Despite his weariness, there’s a calm focus about him, a quiet determination that matches the warmth of the hut.

Uptharr keeps his flail close at hand, sitting tall near one of the edges as if ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice.

He looks around the space with a faint smile. “This is good, friends. Rest well, for the battles ahead will not offer us such comforts.”

The Howlbears settle in, the soft hum of the dome’s magic filling the air. The horrors of the lab feel distant, held at bay by the spell, allowing the group a much-needed respite to gather their strength for whatever awaits beyond.

Azalie, still holding her bow, leans against the dome’s edge, inspecting the worn weapon with care. Her resolve burns quietly beneath the surface as she reflects on her earlier thoughts. “We’ll get through this,” she says, almost to herself. “We always do.”

Dorf, meanwhile, props Precious against the dome wall and rolls his shoulders with a grunt. “Tiny huts are nice and all, but I’ll be dreaming of a real bed. Preferably one that doesn’t smell like death and fungus.”

Fizzbum, after ensuring the corruption has truly dissipated, busies himself checking on everyone’s wounds, bandaging where needed and offering antitoxin. He finally allows himself to sip a healing potion and leans back with a tired smile. “This hut’s as good as any grove I’ve slept in. Well done, Mr. Mutt.”

The rest is uneventful. Despite the oppressive atmosphere of the lab and the grim reminders around them, the Howlbears find their spirits renewed. Hours pass, and the toll of battle gradually fades, replaced by a growing determination to uncover the secrets of the Duergar keep and stop whatever evil lingers.

As the dome dissolves with the first motion of the group rising to prepare, a faint sound breaks the silence. It’s distant, muffled by the thick stone walls, but unmistakably human: a weak, desperate cry for help.

“Someone…help…please…”

The voice is hoarse, barely audible, and seems to come from behind one of the south doors. It stops and starts, as if the speaker is struggling to find the strength to continue.

The Howlbears exchange glances, the weight of exhaustion replaced by sharp alertness.

Uptharr tightens his grip on his flail. “It seems our task here is not yet complete. Whoever lies beyond that door calls out for salvation. If we are to be true to our cause, we cannot leave them.”

The faint cry echoes again, tugging at the group’s sense of duty.

The Prisoner:

The faint call for help grows clearer as the Howlbears step out of the protective warmth of the Tiny Hut.

Mutt’s brow furrows as he gestures toward one of the southern doors. “It’s coming from there,” he whispers, moving cautiously. With a practiced hand, he kneels and begins to inspect the door for traps. After a few moments, he exhales and stands. “It’s clear. Whoever’s behind there doesn’t sound like Duergar. I say we see who it is.”

Uptharr nods solemnly, stepping forward with his flail still at his side. “Aye, if there’s a soul in need, we cannot turn away,” he declares, his deep voice resolute. Gripping the door’s handle, he pulls it open with a grunt, revealing a small, dimly lit chamber beyond.

The room smells of mildew and fear, with flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the stone walls. Against the far wall is a crude iron-barred cell. Inside, a battered half-elf sits chained to the wall, his head rising weakly at the sound of the party’s approach. His rags hang loosely on his gaunt frame, and his wrists and ankles are raw from the tight shackles. A nearby table holds an array of surgical instruments, stained and sinister in their purpose.

The half-elf’s dull eyes widen as he sees the party, and a flicker of hope ignites in his expression. “You’re not... them,” he gasps, his voice hoarse and trembling. “Please, you’ve got to help me. They were going to turn me into... into one of those things!” His gaze darts to the twisted tools on the table, and he shudders violently. “Please, don’t leave me here!”

Azalie steps closer, her face softening. “You’re safe now. We’re not going to leave you.”

With Uptharr’s strength and Mutt’s careful precision, the lock on the cell is soon broken, and the half-elf collapses into their arms as they help him free from the chains. He stumbles but steadies himself, gratitude pouring from his voice.

“Thank you, thank you. I thought I was done for.”

The half-elf rubs his wrists, his bruised face lighting up slightly as he takes in the Howlbears. “My name’s Orin Kalladris. I’m... I was part of an adventuring group sent to investigate thefts in Easthaven and Caer-Dineval. It led us here, but... we didn’t stand a chance. The Duergar—they overpowered us, dragged us into this nightmare.”

His voice falters, his gaze falling on the remains of the Dragonborn horror in the main chamber. His face twists in sorrow. “That... that was Revar. He was my friend, my ally. They turned him into that... abomination.” He bows his head, his voice heavy with grief. “The others... I can only assume they suffered the same fate. I’m all that’s left.”

Azalie places a comforting hand on his shoulder, her voice firm. “You’re with us now. We’ll make sure none of this happens to anyone else.”

Orin looks at her with gratitude before turning to the others. “If it’s not too much trouble, may I join you? At least until we get back to one of the Ten-Towns. I’ve... I’ve nothing left.”

Uptharr steps forward with a reassuring grin, his voice booming with camaraderie. “Aye, Orin! You’re no longer alone. The Howlbears will see you safe, and you’ll stand as one of us—for as long as you need.”

In a nearby crate, Orin finds his belongings—a simple set of adventuring gear, along with a small satchel containing two healing potions and

two antidotes. After doning his gear, and getting his things he looks to the party,

“These should help,” he says, handing the potions to the party with a grateful nod.

As Orin adjusts his gear, the Howlbears gather near the remaining doors of the lab. The silence in the room is almost as oppressive as the horrors they’ve faced. Four doors remain unopened, each a mystery waiting to be solved. The choice of where to go next now lies with the party.

Note: I have placed game in Long rest mode. You all have been healed to 100% health and can memorize or change your spells. Please do this before my next post.

I have left some treasure representing the potions given to you by Orin.

A New Character has joined the party!

8 hours have passed

Current Time: 12:36 AM

Date: Fifthhday , 24 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 55°

Current Phase: Long rest

Checking the Lab

The Howlbears' Recovery and Orin's Oath

Retro: The Tiny Hut and Reflection

As Mutt finishes the intricate gestures and chants, the Tiny Hut flickers to life, its translucent dome dulling the horrors outside. Inside, a warm, quiet sanctuary envelops the Howlbears, shielding them from the grotesque remnants of the battle. Mutt leans back, his face breaking into a weary but triumphant grin. He’s spent nearly a year perfecting this spell, and now, within its protective walls, he feels a rare sense of accomplishment.

“This is... wonderful,” Azalie murmurs, curling up in her designated spot. “You’re like a turtle with his house on his back.” Her words bring a small chuckle to Mutt, who strums softly on his lute, his fingers moving instinctively over the strings.

Fizzbum, meanwhile, wipes green phlegm from his lips, muttering to himself about balance and nature. He carefully examines the potions, vials, and other mysterious items recovered from the lab,

Fizzbum carefully picks up the vial of red fluid, holding it to the dim light of the lab. The liquid swirls thickly inside, its deep crimson hue almost pulsating, as though it has a life of its own. He tilts the vial, observing how the substance clings to the glass, its texture slightly thicker than water. He sniffs the air cautiously near the cork but doesn’t detect anything distinct. Muttering a quiet incantation under his breath, he waves his hand over the vial, hoping for an arcane revelation, but nothing definitive emerges. With a sigh, he sets it down alongside the others.

“No idea what this one does either,” Fizzbum admits, his brows furrowing. “Looks dangerous, though. Red usually means trouble—or power. Either way, probably not for sipping.”

Fizzbum holds the vial of yellowish fluid up to the dim light, swirling its murky contents and sniffing cautiously. His brow furrows in concentration as he examines the liquid for any magical auras or alchemical hints that might reveal its nature. Despite his keen interest and experience with such substances, the fluid’s properties remain a mystery. With a sigh of frustration, Fizzbum sets the vial down carefully.

“I can’t quite pin down what this is, either” he mutters. “It’s definitely not something I’d drink—or use—without knowing more. Might be worth saving for later… or tossing into a fire to see what happens.”

Fizzbum turns his attention to the final vial of green fluid, its luminescent glow casting eerie shadows on his face. He shakes it gently, watching the liquid shimmer with faint magical energy. The gnome leans in, sniffing the air near the vial and holding it close to his staff, hoping the resonance might provide a clue. Despite his careful analysis, the exact properties of the green fluid elude him. He exhales in mild frustration and sets it down beside the yellow vial.

“This one’s just as puzzling,” he mutters, scratching his head. “Looks potent, whatever it is. Could be poison, could be a cure, or it could make things go boom. Either way, I’d handle it with gloves and a long pair of tongs.”

Fizzbum holds the syringe of green fluid at arm`s length, his lips pursed in concentration. He turns it slowly, the viscous liquid within catching the light in eerie, iridescent swirls. “Alright, Mr. Syringe,” he mutters, “let’s see what secrets you’re hiding.” He murmurs an incantation, his fingers tracing runes in the air as he attempts to discern the syringe’s purpose or contents. But the magic reveals nothing concrete. The fluid seems to resist identification, its composition too complex—or too corrupted—for Fizzbum to decipher. Letting out a frustrated sigh, Fizzbum sets it down carefully on the table. “Whatever’s in there... it’s not talking to me,” he says, shaking his head. “Could be medicine, could be poison, could be... well, anything. Best not to test it on ourselves unless we’re desperate—or feeling lucky.”

his curiosity momentarily piqued before drifting off into thoughts about shields made of fireflies.

Dorf methodically cleans his weapon, Precious, polishing the blood and ichor away as he hums a tune.

In one corner, Uptharr kneels, his hands clasped in prayer. His voice is soft, a steady murmur to Helm, offering thanks for their survival and guidance for what lies ahead. Azalie listens to his prayer, feeling a quiet sense of reassurance, though her thoughts stray to the horrors they’ve seen and the toll it’s taken on them all.

The Howlbears take their time to rest and reflect. As sleep or trance overtakes them, the stillness of the Tiny Hut offers a momentary reprieve from the chaos.

Back to the Current Scene.

The Howlbears gather their gear, the tension of the past hours lingering in the cold air of the lab. With Orin now among them, they prepare to investigate the remaining doors. Mutt steps forward, his eyes scanning the party.

“Be ready, all,” he says firmly, his tone leaving little room for argument. His gaze lands on Orin. “And you—remember what I said. Pull your weight, and we’ll make it out of here together.”

Orin nods, his voice steady despite the weight of his grief. “Understood. I owe you my life. I’ll prove myself.”

Azalie leans toward Fizz and Dorf, her voice dropping to a whisper. “This could get interesting,” she murmurs, her eyes flicking between Mutt and Orin.

The Northern Door

Mutt leads the way to the nearest unopened door on the northern wall. With a sharp motion, he signals for quiet.

“Let’s check it thoroughly first,” he says, his voice low.

Orin steps forward making an arcana check, his fingers tracing faint patterns in the air as he examines the door for magical traps. "I am not detecting any obvious signs of magic here.”

Mutt kneels by the door, carefully inspecting the edges, hinges, and handle for mechanical traps. (Investigation: 19) His trained eye detects no wires, pressure plates, or hidden mechanisms. “It’s clear,” he announces, stepping back.

Uptharr, Mace in hand, approaches the door. “I’ll take it from here,” he says, his voice steady. He grips the handle and swings the door open with practiced ease.

Inside, the room is small but meticulously organized. Shelves line the walls, holding crates, bags, and a scattering of adventuring gear. The light glints off the hilt of a shortsword leaning against a crate, and a faint hum of magic seems to emanate from a wand resting atop one of the shelves.

Fizzbum’s eyes light up as he steps inside, his curiosity piqued. “Oooo, shiny things!” he exclaims, moving quickly to inspect the gear. He notices a Bag of Holding, along with equipment and weapons, some, that clearly belonged to Orin’s fallen companions. Orin hesitates, his hand hovering over the items as grief flashes across his face.

“These were Revar’s,” Orin says softly, gripping the shortsword. “And the others… They’d want us to use these to stop what the Duergar started.”

The Southern Door

The party moves to the final unopened door, this one on the southern wall.

Azalie steps forward this time, placing her hand against the door and tilting her head to listen. (Perception: 16) The room beyond is silent, save for a faint dripping sound. “No movement,” she says, glancing back at the others.

Orin steps up once more, murmuring incantations as he checks for magical traps. He turns to Mutt and shakes his head. “Clear again.”

With no sign of traps, Uptharr again takes point. “Helm guide us,” he mutters before pushing the door open. The room beyond is dimly lit, cluttered with tables and shelves overflowing with broken glass, rusted instruments, and disassembled machinery. The air is heavy with the scent of decay and rusted metal.

Fizzbum steps forward, his eyes darting across the room. “Hmm, most of this is junk,” he says, poking at a shattered flask with his staff. But tucked among the debris, he finds a small stash of intact vials and a few surgical tools. “Not entirely useless,” he mutters, setting the items aside.

Treasure Found

• Bag of Holding

• Small Bag of Holding

• +2 Shortsword (Orin’s companion’s weapon)

• +1 Chain Shirt

• Wand of Magic Missiles

• Potion of Greater Healing (2)

• Unknown Potions (3)

• Jars (10)

• Assorted coins and gemstones

• Pantry Items

  • Snowcap Butter (4)

  • Eggs (12)

  • Salt (16)

  • Sugar (9)

  • Redcap Mushroom (6)

  • Vegetables (8)

  • Frostveil Thyme (3)

  • Embermoss (5)

  • Ice Berries (6)

• Various intact vials and minor tools from the southern room

  • Alchemists Fire (3)

  • White potion with gold flecks (1)

  • Hammer (2)

  • Knife (3)

  • Mining Pick (2)

  • Shovel (2)

  • Leatherworking Tools (1)

  • Bomb Casing (2)

  • Grinding Stone (1)

  • Runewood Trunk with Crystal lock

60 Minutes have passed

Current Time: 1:36 AM

Date: Fifthhday , 24 , Alturiak , 1742

Temperature: 55°

Current Phase: Exploration

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