# The Realmsian Jaunt, a Forgotten Realms Story Hour (re-updated May 10th)



## NiTessine (Dec 9, 2005)

I started this campaign some three weeks ago, when only three people showed up for my seven-man Warhammer Fantasy Role-Play campaign. For the second week running. I drew some quick conclusions about this, drafted one new player immediately over IRC and then proceeded to improvise a lead-in to an adventure. Now I've got six players and I'm feeling dangerously inspired, as evinced by the existence of this story hour, those thirteen pages of adventure notes I hammered out for our second game session, as well as being daring enough to start a story hour when the game is on a Christmas break...

Here's the first part. I'll have the next one within the week. Enjoy.
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*Chapter 1: The Beginning of the End​*

Beginnings are hard. The cause of that is not the mystical difficulty some scribes, poets and self-styled bards have in marring a pure, clean paper with their ill-considered words. The true hardness lies in determining which beginning to start with.

As with all great and sweeping tales of adventure, the true beginning of affairs occurred decades, centuries, even millennia in the past. The era of that beginning ended with ascendance, which began another era, which ended in death, when another era started, like chapters in a storybook.

But here, our tale begins in a different book, in the middle of a chapter of the larger one, in the place that ought to be hallowed to Lathander for the sheer number of beginnings it has seen – the tavern.

This particular tavern was, as it happened, hallowed, but to a different deity. The Lady Luck Tavern has stood in the town of Daggerford for decades, patronised chiefly by freelances, adventurers, fortune-seekers, tomb raiders, mercenaries, sellswords, heroes, wanderers and other restless vagabonds. Afore our chosen beginning, countless adventuring bands had come together in its wide taproom, and scores have done so since.

It was the 13th day of the Time of Flowers in the Year of the Helm, 1362 Dalereckoning, when four men of different races and backgrounds met at the bar. They drank, they talked, they drank some more, they laughed, drank yet more, and at some point in the cheerful hours that followed, when Selûne was gazing down at the world and awaiting for Lathander’s change of the guard, they decided they liked each other well enough to go adventuring together. And then they drank to that.

‘Twas considered an auspicious omen and a sign of Lady Luck’s approval of their venture when, come morning, none of them exhibited any signs of a hangover or a sore head. The goddess works in mysterious ways.

On the morrow, the bold young adventurers gathered around a table. They were energised, excited, and wished to get on with their first quest together.

The brains of the outfit hailed from a local rock gnome clan. Gus was a mindmage, one of the uncommon mentalists who harnessed the power of their own mind to produce magical effects. Even with his barely three feet of vertical height, he struck an imposing figure in his midnight blue robe, with a staff in his hand and a smokepowder pistol at his belt.

The chief combatant was a shield dwarf from the northern Citadel of Adbar, one Wulgar. He was dour and grim as dwarves are wont to be, but he was a stout warrior and not without skill with his ancestral waraxe. His chest was broad, his thews were thick, and his beard was long.

In contrast to the serious dwarf, there was the Waterdhavian, Evendur Laelithar, a travelling jack of all trades. The half-elf was always ready with a quip or a joke, and when his rapier wit proved insufficient, he had a rather more concrete example hanging on his belt, a perfectly balanced foil crafted by elven forgemasters.

Finally, the group was rounded out by Dorn, a learned man, wise beyond his young years and a magister of Azuth trained in the House of the High One in Saerloon. His knowledge in matters arcane and esoteric was rivalled by few. He wielded the twin mystical powers of magic both arcane and divine, granted by his god, the Lord of Spells and Patron of Mages.

While breaking their fast, they soon found they had stumbled to the first obstacle of most starting adventurers of the voluntary kind – they did not have a quest to embark upon.

It was a quiet time in the tavern. The past tendays had seen uncharacteristically few patrons in the establishment, with the attention of fortune seekers concentrated in disturbances elsewhere in the Realms. News had come from south of an uprising of Cyricist in Mintar, and of strange events in north-western Erlkazar. In the Unapproachable East, the promise of adventure in Rawlinswood and battling against Thayans in Rashemen had rendered the lands considerably more approachable to the gold-hungry sellswords. It was not that Daggerford’s environs were bereft of opportunities for exercising the swords arm, but that the opportunities elsewhere were more interesting.

Of course, the traditional first problem of beginning adventurers ended up being solved in the equally time-honoured manner, when Gus engaged one of the bartenders in friendly chit-chat of the rumours circulating in the area.

“Well, they say Old Ioster’s cow gave birth to a two-headed calf,” the bald man answered when enquired of curious events in the past few days.
“Intriguing, though not quite the kind I am looking for,” Gus replied. “An ale for me and another for my friend, please.” The gnome placed a few coins on the bar. They disappeared swiftly.
“Here you go. Oh, there’s been grumbling in the caravan yards of bandits in the northern roads again,” the bald man added. “I hear bounty’s been posted on their leader’s head.”
“Well, that is more like it. Who posted the bounty, if I may inquire?” the mindmage asked.
“The Thousandheads Trading Coster,”
“Thank you, my good sir.”

“Well, there’s an issue with bandits ‘tween here and Waterdeep,” the gnome said as he returned to his companions with the two tankards.
“’An issue’?” Evendur inquired.
“They’re there.”
“Ah.”

*  *  *​
The caravan yard was busy, even in the early morning. The four men located the banner of the Thousandheads easily, a snaking, abstract design on a bold, blue field. The wind from the Sea of Swords made the banner, and the banners of three other trading houses and costers, flap in the wind, proudly displaying their colours for the world to see, like an army preparing to do battle.

The comparison fit in more ways than one, as among the banners also flew the black-and-blood-red battle flag of the Blacktalons Mercenary Company from Iriaebor. The merchants were evidently pouring money on both offence and defence.

“Top o’ the morning!” Gus greeted the clerk behind the desk at the Thousandheads office, and continued: “It is our understanding you’ve a bandit problem.”
The clerk, a thin, pale Illuskan fellow, peered over his desk at the diminutive man. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered how such a small person could have such a large smile.
“Yes, there’s a group of bandits calling themselves the Ramhorns raiding caravans on the Delimbiyr Route and the Trade Way. There’s a bounty of two hundred gold to whoever ends their threat.”
“Two hundred apiece?”
“Two hundred, flat.”
“Where might one go looking for these brigands?”
“We think it’s likely they’re hiding in the Fallen Hills or eastern Ardeep Forest. More likely in the hills. Easier to hide in there and less elves around. There’s a dozen old ruins they might be using as base in there.”
“Splendid. Can your coster outfit us with mounts to hasten our putting end to this threat?”
“No, but there is a caravan of the Six Coffers Trading Coster heading north at noon. See if you can hitch a ride with them.”
“Thank you, my good sir. We’ll take care of your problem. Expect us back within the tenday.”

The gnome doffed his cap and exited to the street, followed by his companions.
“Now, then…”
“We see what the others are willing to pay us for ridding them of these vermin?” Evendur finished the gnome’s sentence with an amusedly quirked eyebrow.
“Exactly, my good friend.” Gus’ grin widened. Upon noticing Dorn’s surprised expression, he explained: “They’re big name trading houses. This one here runs the route from Waterdeep to Hillsfar through Cormyr and the Dales and that one’s cutting their costs in everything including the teamsters’ rations. The two hundred gold’s a fly’s crap in the margin of their accounts book, and we can actually use the coin.” The gnome turned to look at the next banner in line, featuring seven golden discs on a field of orange. “’Sides, anyone with a banner that ugly deserves to be cheated.”

_To Be Continued..._


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## d'Anconia (Dec 11, 2005)

Sounds good so far! Really like the writing style - it turned the cliche'd start into a stirring opening scene. Rock on


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## sniffles (Dec 20, 2005)

Excellent start! You really gave the characters personalities and the setting comes across as a real place full of real people. I look forward to the next installment!


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## Imruphel (Dec 22, 2005)

Great start, indeed. I'm looking forward to following this.


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## NiTessine (Dec 23, 2005)

Okay, admittedly not quite "within the week" as originally promised, but stuff got in the way. Christmas, real life, other gaming. I'd apologise, but it'd be insincere since I've got no regrets and a new girlfriend.

Here's the next installment. I'll make no promises about the next one, but it'll probably show up in early January. Happy holidays!

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Clerk Almon Deges of the Seven Suns Trading Coster looked at the doorway through which the strange gnome had exited just moments ago and then glances back at the contract paper before him, its ink still wet. He was not quite sure what’d happened, just then. The gnome had arrived, and… had he had companions? Didn’t matter, the gnome did all the talking. Gus, said the name on the paper, in handwriting Almon recognised as his own.

He was quite certain he hadn’t been ensorcelled or charmed by magic, though his memory of the past few minutes was a bit fuzzy and he could not quite remember what the gnome had said to him that had sounded so convincing.

Almon winced when his eyes scanned over the sum jotted down on the contract paper, of which he was fairly sure he’d given a copy to the gnome. Well, at least the gold was to be paid for defeating bandits, not for anything frivolous. Perhaps he could still keep his job after his superiors found out about it.

*  *  *​
Some hours later, the four adventurers were comfortably seated in the back of a turnip wagon in the Six Coffers caravan bound for Waterdeep. The gnome had somehow negotiated them free passage to the crossroads. The going was slow, but they’d been unable to secure mounts and with Gus and Wulgar, they wouldn’t have moved much faster than the caravan on foot.

Evendur glanced at his fellow adventurers and smiled.
“So, how are we to pass the time until the crossroads? We shan’t be there until this time tomorrow.”
“We’re not going to play three-dragon ante for money, if that’s what you’re going after,” Dorn replied.
“Oh, no, not at all. Say, have you heard the one about the elf, the man and the dwarf?”
“Which one?” the priest asked blankly.
“Ah, let me tell you,” Evendur replied, smiling. He had the audience, now. “An elf, a man, and a dwarf walk into a tavern’s latrine and go about their business. The elf is the first to finish. He only dips his fingers in the water and dries them with but a single piece of paper. On the way out, he remarks to the doorman: ‘I am an elf, old and wise. Our elders have taught us to conserve our resources, that they should last to our grandchildren’. And with that, the elf leaves.

The next one to finish is the man. He uses a liberal amount of water, splashing a bit and dries off with a whole wad of paper. At the door, he mentions: ‘I am a man, young and strong. Our elders taught me that this land is to be ours, and its resources to be used by us as we see fit’. And with that, the man leaves.

The final one to leave is the dwarf, who just walks to the door, without washing his hands. He says: ‘I am a dwarf, stout and proud. My elders have taught me not to pass water on my hands’.”

A collective groan emanated from the rest of the wagon’s passengers, yet Evendur was unfazed.
“A dwarf walked _past_ a bar.”
Wulgar’s hand began to feel for an opening in the turnip bag beside him, while Gus chuckled and elbowed him.

*  *  *​
A few days after leaving Daggerford, the sluggishly moving caravan finally made it to the crossroads. A rotting body hung from a high gibbet. “BANDIT”, a sign proclaimed. Below his decomposing feet, encased in an iron frame, arrows pointed north and east. A hundred and twenty miles northwards lay Waterdeep, the City of Splendours, and in the east, 185 miles distant, was the town of Secomber.

“This is where we’re getting off,” Gus announced, and jumped off the wagon. He was followed by the nimbly moving bard and the considerably less graceful Wulgar and Dorn. They waved farewell to the driver of their wagon and at once began their long trek eastwards.

“How are we to find the bandits once we get to the Hills?” Evendur asked as they’d walked for a while in silence.
“We’re not,” Gus replied. “They’re going to find us, I’ll wager. Then we will improvise.”
Behind the gnome’s back, Evendur and Dorn shared a horrified look.

Thus, they trudged on for two days and a night, camping under a small copse of trees on the northern side of the road on the eve of the second day, their fire carefully concealed by rocks from sight of the road. First watch was taken by Gus, and as the shadows of the evening deepened into darkness of the night, it was Wulgar’s turn to stand guard, with his dwarven eyes that saw through the pitch black.

‘Twas in the early hours of moondark that the shield dwarf observed movement to the north of the camp, the reflection of a glint of moonlight. Selûne was high in the sky, but clouds obscured her light and little illuminated the nightly terrain.

Wulgar tensed, focusing his senses and peered northward. Whatever moved there was beyond the range of his darkvision. Then, as dark shapes, hunched over, and lumbering forward, they separated themselves from the gloom in distinct forms as they drew slowly nearer, trying to keep quiet. They were approaching directly, and carried weapons.

Moving slowly, Wulgar jabbed Gus and Dorn, the nearest sleepers, in the ribs with his axe.
“Orcs,” he whispered. “Sixty feet, five, approaching. They know we’re here.”
The others wasted no time in shaking off their grogginess. Evendur was stirred up in short order as well.

The orcs now spied their movement with their night sight, and deep, guttural voices rose up in a single warcry as the beasts charged, all pretence of stealth now gone. It was answered by the gravely battle chant raised by Wulgar, hefting his axe and standing to receive the leading orc’s charge. The scene of battle was now bathed in yellow light, Evendur’s attempt to lighten the mood.

The first orc crashed headlong into Wulgar, their blades biting deep into each other and sending both sprawling to the ground. The dwarven battle song was abruptly choked off and the orc roared.

A second tusker charged towards the diminutive Gus, but the gnome merely held up his empty palm up, concentrating. As the onrushing orc’s expression of rage and hatred lapsed, Gus took on an alarmed face and pointed at something behind the orc. Acting on instinct, the ugly beast took its trusted, new friend’s warning and turned around, sinking its great, curved falchion into its erstwhile raiding companion’s gut.

Dorn was hard-pressed on his own side. An orc was coming after him with gusto, the cleric only barely able to block the raining blows of a crude iron axe that were chipping his quarterstaff down to kindling. As was the way of his hallowed order, he wore no armour to hinder his casting of spells. Then, from somewhere below the cleric’s field of vision, the steel head of an axe appeared, dark stains on its surface reflecting the magical light, and sank into his assailant’s lower back. As the orc went down, howling in pain and paralysed, Wulgar clambered up from his prone position, dust and blood covering his scowling face.

“Fight on, friends! They cannot be any stronger than they are ugly!” Evendur cried out in encouragement behind his companions. Then, he was forced to attend to one more of the grey-skinned creatures, who’d crept up on their flank. Leaping back from the swinging axe, he threw a pinch of wool at the creature’s face. The spell energy burned away the wool in a bright flame, leaving the after images dancing in the orc’s light-sensitive eyes and buying Evendur a brief respite.

It was not much, but it was enough, as Gus’ new pet orc charged the dazed creature and slew with a single, diagonal stroke of the rusty falchion. As it cut down its former companion, the last thing the orc saw was a furious dwarf with a large axe appearing from behind the falling body.

Panting, Wulgar leaned on his axe.
“That fight was too close to my liking.”
“We cannot move camp in the darkness without attracting more assailants,” Evendur said, nodding.
“Shove their stinking bodies behind a rock. We’ll keep a fire going the rest of the night, keep away the scavengers,” Wulgar answered, wincing a bit as Dorn traced the lines of his wounds and cuts with a shining fingertip, leaving them closed with new and healed skin.

Gus was already sleeping, back in his bedroll.

*  *  *​
The rest of the night passed by uneventfully, and the next day, their journey finally brought them to the broken hill country that marked the former northwest boundary of the Kingdom of Man. In the hills lay many a ruin of the ancient nation, fallen to the onslaught of orcs as so many before it, as the legends told. Even in its death, however, the kingdom had dealt the orcs of the North a telling blow from which they had yet to recover in this day, centuries since.

Where the plain had been grassy and fertile along the Delimbiyr, here the land turned barren, dominated by rock and stone. There was no trail here, no tracks in the bare rocks. Unfazed, the four adventurers pressed on, entering the hill country, climbing atop the first high hillock to get a full view of the area. The landscape that spread out before them was one of monotonous grey and brown, with some clumps of scraggly hay and dry grass growing here and there among the stone.

“Well, now what?” asked Wulgar, as they stood there, silhouetted against the summer sky, wind in their hair and billowing their cloaks.
“We search,” Gus replied. “Either we will find them or they will find us.” With that, the gnome began to descend the gravel slope, sending small rockslides of pebbles down as he went.

The others shrugged and followed, scanning the surrounding hills for movement, tracks, marks, anything.

They had not walked the uneven ground for long when Evendur turned around and pointed at an outcropping not far away.
“There’s something over there.”
They looked at each other and approached the rocks, weapons out, crossbows loaded.

“That’s quite far enough, I think,” a voice called out from high behind them. As they turned to look, they saw a tall, strong, dark shape silhouetted against the sky. “Drop your weapons, lest we be forced to hurt you. You are trespassing on the land of the Ramhorns.”

“Well, seems we’ve found them,” Wulgar said under his breath.
“Or they found us,” Evendur replied.
“Should we try and fight?” Dorn asked.
“Probably an army of them hidden in here,” Gus answered.

As if on cue, over a dozen dark-clad human shapes rose atop the hillocks surrounding them, aiming crossbows.

Gus shrugged weakly and threw down his crossbow. The others followed suit, Wulgar as the last one, attached as he was to his waraxe. They were then blindfolded by the scarred and dirty bandits, and prodded and led over what felt like miles of uneven, rocky ground, up and down hillsides, and finally, as they felt by the changing of echoes and ambient lighting, into an underground cave.

Finally, the blindfold was removed, and they each saw a bare stone cell with a cot of straw for furniture and little else. They were shoved inside and the door was shut. They were prisoners.


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## Spider_Jerusalem (Dec 27, 2005)

Hello hello,

great to see another Forgotten Realms SH proudly hoisting the flag! Great start (as everyone seems to think!) and I am eager to see which way this storyline unfolds.

Your super-new reader,

Spider J


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## NiTessine (May 10, 2006)

Here we go again, the only instalment lost in the database crash. I endeavour to have another up soon, but I'm currently studying for the university entrance exams and most of my time is being taken up by English philology.

I'll be soon starting up a Rogues' Gallery thread. The party's stats will be posted there as well as some choice NPCs, and there will also eventually be a thread in House Rules where I put the rules items I've written up for the game. There's gonna be a lot of those in a couple of chapters.

*Chapter 2: The Deep Cells*​

The cells were cool and bare but for a lumpy cot of elderly straw at the back wall. Fortunately, they went against the stereotype in that they were dry.

Gus struggled against the ropes that bound him hand and foot. A block of wood stuffed in his mouth and tied in place with another length of rope forced his tongue down and his jaws apart. Apparently, his midnight robes had marked him as a spellcaster to the bandits. Of course, his own particular brand of magic was hardly impeded by such material constraints, though they were greatly inconvenient in their own way.

His speech thus impeded, he had to settle for a triumphant raising of his eyebrows when, after but a few short moments of feeling the knots with his fingers he discovered that the particularly malodorous individual who’d tied them mere minutes before hadn’t grasped the concept of a handcuff any better than he had that of personal hygiene.

After verifying that there was nothing staring at him behind the bars but an attentive Wulgar staring at him from the cell across the corridor. Either the dwarf hadn’t been bound as tightly or he had already come free of his ropes. Nimbly, Gus followed suit, wriggling the loose ropes from his wrists and ankles. Quietly, he placed the wooden gag on his cot, nodded at Wulgar, and turned to examine his surroundings.

The cell was roughly ten feet square, with walls of grey stone. The stonework was smooth and skilful, and the angles of the corners were straight. The doorway was closed off with a wooden grate of haphazard construction, barred with a primitive but effective method.

Pressing his face against the wooden bars, Gus carefully scanned the outside of the cell. To the right, a stone wall. His and Wulgar’s were the last cells in the corridor. To the left, there was another cell door some ten feet down the way. No guard, or, indeed, another living soul, was evident.

“Dorn, are you there? Evendur?” Gus spoke out aloud. Affirmative answers were sounded.
“OY! Be quiet in there, ya rats!” shouted a guttural voice. “Ya don’t want me to stand up!”

A grin split the gnome’s face, his white teeth startlingly bright in the dimly-lit cell block.
“Sorry, but might I be accommodated in another room? The curtains are the wrong colour,” the gnome called out in reply. His grin widened as he heard a grumble, the sound of moving furniture, and then heavy, dragging steps.
“Okay, which one of ya worms was it?” the voice asked in the corridor.
“Me, sir,” Gus replied.

The steps approached his cell, and were predictably revealed to belong to an exceptionally ugly half-orc, with a misshapen face and a nose that had, at some point in the creature’s no doubt colourful past, been subjected to a beating so severe it bore more resemblance to a pair of small manholes than any items normally found on a person’s face. Then, Gus reflected, he was probably not dealing with a creature intelligent enough to technically fulfil the definition of ‘a person’. Their gaoler wore only stained breeches, tied around his wide girth with a frayed length of hemp rope. He held an old cudgel in his right hand.

The gnome locked his clear, blue eyes with the murky, piggish gaze of the half-orc, who hadn’t yet even had time to be surprised that the prisoner had shaken off his ropes. A moment passed. The half-orc went “Huh?” and Gus grinned even more broadly.

“Hi there. I’m Gus,” the gnome offered.
“Korben,” came the terse reply.
“Nice to meet you, Korben. Could you unlock the door, please? I need to stretch my feet a bit.”
The half-orc, its small mind under the sway of Gus’ mental powers, complied.
“And please, let out my associates as well. We need to talk.”

One by one, the half-orc dutifully opened the cell doors, and the released prisoners gathered with their erstwhile guard into a large guardroom with a single table and a selection of closed wooden doors. Two of the cells in the block had yielded a pair of new faces, a halfling clad in leather and earth tones, and a muscular half-orc tattooed with a trio of lightning bolts on his chest. The tall, bald man glared balefully at Korben under his brow, but said nothing.

“So, Korben, know where our kit and gear were taken?” Gus asked, conversationally, sitting on the only chair in the room.
“They’re loot, they’ll be in the wares. Argan took the priest’s symbol,” Korben replied, gesturing at the grey-robed Dorn.
“Who’s this Argan? Your leader?” Gus pried further.
“Argan is the priest. Laegon is our boss.”
“Priest of whom?”
“Orcus.”
Gus glanced at Dorn, who raised a meaningful eyebrow.
“Now, Korben, we can’t go meet your boss Laegon half-dressed. Could you nip down to wherever our stuff is stored and get them for us?”
The half-orc’s expression became reserved.
“I could get in a lot of trouble for that. I’m not allowed to leave you on my shift…” he hesitated.
“Well, then… Where would the wares be?”
“You get there through the great hall. Just go down the cell block and turn left at the guard post.”
“And where can we find Laegon?”
“Turn right at the guard post, and go up the stairs.”
“I see. Where’s the exit from this place?”
“Go to the big hall, up the stairs and then right.”
“Good. Thank you, Korben. You’ve been a great help. I’m sorry to slight your hospitality like this, but I’m afraid we must depart now.”

Gus rose up from the chair, and nodded at Wulgar. The dwarf nodded back, and promptly punched Korben in the gut. It was a good, strong punch, that left from the hip and built up force like a rolling wave as it travelled up his arm and connected with the fat half-orc with a satisfying, meaty slam, followed by Korben’s groan as the air was blown out of his lungs. It did not last long, as the bald, muscular prisoner grasped the gaoler’s ugly head and gave it a sharp, sideways yank, accompanied by an audible crack.

They set the dead Korben on the chair, so as to appear sleeping to the casual observer. Wulgar confiscated the cudgel and nodded at the tall half-orc.
“That was a clean kill,” he commented.
“Yes. It is one of the twelve ways to kill a man unarmed.”
“Know the other eleven, do ye?” Wulgar queried.
“Yes, and variations.”
“Ye might yet get to give a show. I’m Wulgar.”
“Arh Garhan.”
The two shook hands.

“And who are you, then?” Gus asked, turning to the halfling woman.
“I’m Lavinia Thorngage. I’m a druid.”
“Gus.”

After introductions were over and done with, they checked out their immediate surroundings. There were two wooden doors right next to each other, and the corridor to the cell block. The cell corridor terminated in one end to a stone wall and in the other, a heavy curtain, under which light shone out.

After careful listening at the doors in Korben’s room, Wulgar opened the door on the right and glanced inside. He scowled.

“A bloody torture chamber.”

The door was shut. The door next to it led to a small chamber mostly filled with rubble, and with small, narrow tunnels just wide enough for a man to pass hewn through the stone walls. The workmanship was crude and unrefined, marking the tunnels as later additions. The sound of voices and carousing emanated from one of the tunnels. After some careful scouting, it was established to come from a great hall, occupied by several of the bandits.

“More than we can take, I’m thinking. We’ll want to play this slow and quiet,” Gus said to the others in a low voice. “And where did that half-orc go?”

*  *  *​
Arh Garhan slowly advanced down the corridor to the wooden door. After pausing briefly to listen, he continued onwards to the curtain at the end. He could distinguish two voices, apparently discussing some nuance of a game they were playing to while away the hours.

He turned to return to the others, moving slowly, quietly. Gus’ face appeared from the side tunnel leading to the gaoler’s room, with a bemused expression. Arh raised a finger to his lips, gestured at the curtain, and raised up two fingers. The gnome nodded and beckoned the half-orc to the side tunnel.

“You should not go off on your own,” the gnome admonished.
“I go where I go, little man. We should not tarry. There are two guards behind that curtain, but none I could hear behind the door.”
Gus nodded.

Feeling naked and exposed without their gear, the group quietly and quickly worked their way to the door and, after taking the precautions of listening and checking for traps, through it. Deprived as they were of their kit, though, they did move a good deal quieter than they would had Wulgar been in full armour. The dwarf and gnome led the way, followed by Evendur, who carried a torch liberated from a wall sconce. Then came Arh and the halfling. Dorn forlornly kept up the rear. Deprived of his holy symbol, the spellcaster was of remarkably little use.

Beyond, there was a narrow corridor with walls of rough stone. A side tunnel had been carved out of the rock by later and cruder worksmen, and at the end of the corridor there was a broad and imposing door of metal that looked like it’d taken quite a beating at some point in time. A cracked and bent ring of steel was set in the door.

Wulgar spat out a curse and rushed forward.
“’Tis a foul desecration!” he hissed.
“What do you mean?” Gus asked, stepping forward.
“Can’t ye see? Look, damn ye!” Wulgar said, gesturing at the door’s marred surface.

“There’s something carved here, a symbol. It’s hard to see with all the dents.”
“’Tis the Twin Axes of Clangeddin, gnome! We be in a dwarfhold of old, and this be a desecrated temple o’ the Rock o’ Battle!”

“Let’s hide in there. This crossroads is not safe,” Arh put in.

The door was examined, and in the absence of a lock, visible hinges, or any sound from beyond, given a gentle push. It did not budge.

Wulgar rolled his eyes, grasped the ring, and pulled. The door swung out soundlessly.
“First rule o’ dwarven temple architecture. Doors always open up outward. Defensibility, see?”
Gus nodded silently, and they filed in through the door, drawing it shut behind them.

As they had surmised, it was – or had been – a temple of Clangeddin, but it was devastated. The other half of the room had been elevated and a pair of stairs ran up to it. Short tunnesl ran from the elevated part of the room to left and right, both terminating in sturdy wooden doors. Carvings on the walls had been marred by strikes of picks and hammers, rubble covered the floor, and the great statue of Clangeddin himself that had stood behind the altar had been toppled. One of its arms had broken off upon tumbling from the pedestal.

The air in the room was cooler than in the corridor outside, and somehow fresher. Despite this, there was an oppressive feeling to the room, the shadows drawing in closer than they should have. Evendur’s torch did little to illuminate their surroundings, instead casting even darker shadows across the room.

“What foulness was wrought here?” Wulgar broke the silence after a moment.
“I feel anger,” Gus said. “It is heavy in this place. Displeasure. Hatred. But not toward us.”
“Interesting,” Dorn said.
“How so?” Wulgar asked.
“It’d seem you can take Clangeddin from the temple but you can’t take the temple from Clangeddin. The physical dimension is broken, but this remains yet the house of your god.”

“Well, come and help me, then,” Wulgar said, and walked to the fallen statue. With Arh, Evendur and Dorn helping, they managed to raise the heavy stone dwarf upright and back to its pedestal.

“We’ll take a short breather. I feel we’ll be safe here, at least for a short time. Then we’ll have to decide which door to pick,” Gus said, eying the two exits.

“This one is locked,” Arh whispered from the left door. “Looks to be a heavy one. Can’t be broken quietly or quickly.”
“That’s decided for us, then,” Gus said, frowning at Arh.

Wulgar knelt before the statue of Clangeddin, and whispered prayers in the language of his people under his breath. This soon faded to a background drone as Gus and Arh examined the other door.

“There’s no lock that I can see. It should open outwards judging by the placement of hinges. I cannot hear anyone in the room beyond, but the door looks stout,” Gus said quietly.
“We go in quick. Yank the door open, charge in, silence all within before alarm can be sounded,” said Arh, kneeling next to the gnome.
“What if there are more than we can handle?” Evendur asked, bowing low to join their huddle.
“That is a risk we’ll have to take,” Arh replied.

At that moment, the door swung inward noiselessly, and three mouths spoke as one:
“Merely out of curiosity… how many do you think you can take?”


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## Brakkart (May 10, 2006)

A nice start, I think I'm going to enjoy following this story hour.


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