The Steam-Valved Caverns of Oakhaven Deep

The subterranean air tasted of sulfur and damp stone, thick enough to chew. Desperate to silence the rattling wood and iron before Tax-Guard Captain Vane rounded the limestone pillar, Captain Bramblefoot and Quartermaster Pip threw their full weight into one final, violent heave. The wedged lobster trap snapped free with a loud, echoey crack that reverberated down the entire geothermal alcove. The sudden release of tension sent Pip sprawling backward into a dense plume of hissing steam rising from a floor fissure, dropping his smuggled pouch of tools and crying out in surprise as the pursuers shouted in triumph at the sound.

While Quartermaster Pip nursed a lightly steamed elbow, wincing as he rubbed his reddened sleeve, Barnaby guided the sputtering crew deeper into the steaming maze just as Tax-Guard Captain Vane rounded the corner into the empty alcove. Vane's armored boots clang to a halt where they had stood only seconds before, his iron-helmed face tightening with grim satisfaction as he surveyed the empty, mist-shrouded passage. Brushing aside a billowing cloud of mineral steam, the tax-guard kicked a discarded turnip skin aside and bent down to retrieve a scorched scrap of dockage documentation dropped by Pip during the scramble. Recognizing the unmistakable seal of Master Portly's harbor office upon the parchment, Vane realized the outlaws were heading straight for the lower smuggler's wharf and signaled his lagging guards to double-time their descent into the dark lower levels.

Yet the crew was not about to go quietly into the damp dark. Cornered near the narrow western alcove where the path narrowed to a choke-point, they faced imminent capture as Vane's boot-heels echoed just feet away with a heavy iron pry-bar in hand. Seized by sudden inspiration, Barnaby lunged toward a crusted brass wheel set deep into the dripping rock face. With a screech of ancient, neglected metal, he spun it open, unleashing a roaring cataract of scalding subterranean steam that instantly filled the corridor. The blinding, boiling fog forced the tax-guards back hacking and coughing into the mist, buying Captain Bramblefoot, Farmer Gilly, and their limping quartermaster precious seconds to haul the awkward trap onward into the deeper, uncharted network below.