# G. R. I. P. E.



## MerakSpielman (Jul 17, 2003)

This is my second shot at doing a Story Hour. My first one kind of fizzled 'cause I never updated it, but this time I have the advantage of being able to start at the beginning of a campaign.

Anyway, here's the first post:


*G.R.I.P.E.*​ 
*Background:*

Seven hundred years ago a group of well-meaning adventurers attempted to destroy a Doomsday Device that would have, if activated, reduced all people in the world into helpless thralls of the minions of Vecna. Unfortunately, in so doing, a magical chain reaction was unleashed that almost destroyed the very world they were fighting so hard to save. The rotation of the planet slowed down, making both day and night last a full six months. The surface world was laid waste as it was alternately cooked beyond imagination and frozen beyond belief. The oceans were destroyed. The land was laid waste. On the surface, nothing lives.

The few survivors of this cataclysm fled into the Underdark, and refer to the desperate time as the Descent. Life in the Underdark was harsh, but largely shielded from the elemental extremes of the surface. The races of the Underdark, however, did not take kindly to the intrusion.

War broke out, and continued to break out on and off for centuries. With the lack of the functioning ecosystem of the surface food became scarce. Populations plummeted from starvation and constant warfare.

Eventually, painfully, a semblance of peace and order emerged. The population reached the level that could be supported by the available resources. The people had grown weary of conflict, though their enmities lingered. People turned their efforts away from the mostly solved problem of survival and began to ponder the nature of their existence. Why had this calamity befallen them? The gods were not angry, at least so the clerics claimed. Slowly, insidiously, the belief began to spread that the source of all this despair was unchecked arcane magic. Did not the teachings of magic allow the creation of the Doomsday Device in the first place? Centuries of learning and research had led inexorably to the destruction of the surface by a single, evil mind.

It could not be allowed to happen again. Even the best-intentioned mages could contribute to a knowledge base that would allow evil to reign supreme, or destroy what was left of the world. The practice of wizardry became frowned upon. Then it slowly became taboo. Eventually, the civilized races banned it outright. The wizardly Cabals, once free to operate in public, fled into the shadows, becoming hidden, underground organizations in constant fear of being exposed and destroyed.

Throughout all these centuries, groups and organizations rose and fell with the politics of the time. One particular organization survived in secret and called itself Gathering of Resources for Intercavern Problem Elucidation, or GRIPE. At any given time, this secret society had relatively few members, but still it managed to accomplish a great deal. GRIPE members were all required to seek out the highest and most influential position they could find in their local government. From there, they would help each other – and by extension each other’s races and civilizations – by subtlety pulling strings in their webs of influence. But GRIPE existed for a higher purpose. Each member maintained an information network and kept track of anything… ominous. It turned out that quite frequently in the Underdark problems would arise that were outside the bailiwick of any given race, and were therefore left to grow. The purpose of GRIPE was to eliminate such threats before they could pose a significant threat to anybody. The cumulative effect of each member exerting their influence in their civilizations toward a common goal could be tremendous, though the races involved rarely realized they were working together.

Surprisingly, the members of GRIPE were quite varied. Many members were evil, recognizing the amount of personal power and benefit the group could bring them (if they behaved). All classes were represented - even after the downfall of arcane magic, the occasional mage could be counted as a member. The deep races were members as often as surface races. The philosophy of GRIPE was such that it recognized the value of diversity.

But still, it became apparent it was not enough. The members of GRIPE began to hear dark rumors of Things Happening. Something was moving in the shadows, perhaps a group even more secretive than itself. Divinations revealed only that Something was coming. What it was could not be seen.

GRIPE did not like anything going on of this scale that they did not know about, but the members were tied too intricately into their networks. They needed to be able to look into things personally, but their activities would surely be noticed. Chaffing at the delay, they found a solution.

Each member would find and train a worthy apprentice. This student would be taught the deepest secrets of the mentor’s profession and be trained to be trustworthy and secretive. They would be kept as much as possible out of the public view, so that when the time came for them to sally forth their absence would not be noticed. When the time came, the nature of GRIPE would be revealed to the apprentices, and they would gather as a sort of investigative team to determine what GRIPE could not. They would be the hands and fists of GRIPE in the outside world.

Before it was expected, the time came.


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## MerakSpielman (Sep 17, 2003)

You know, I really suck at this "keeping story hour updated" stuff. Honestly, I'll be posting soon. Really. I'm writing it up now. Swear.


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## MerakSpielman (Sep 17, 2003)

Session 1 (Part 1 of 2):



Out of the shadows of the small cavern, a cold female voice speaks.



“We are all here? Good.”



The speaker moves forward, pulling a brightly glowing rod from her black robes. The coal-black skin of her face is thrown into stark relief, and her crimson eyes reflect the light menacingly. She places the rod on a small boulder near the center of the room and steps back.



“We can all see in the dark, true, but it is best to meet each other for the first time with some proper light.”



Other figures emerge from the shadows in pairs. In each pair, one figure stands confident and almost radiating competence and power, and the other a sort of cautious expectation and obsequiousness. They all eye each other grimly and not a little suspiciously.



The Drow speaks again, “For most of us, we are meeting for the first time. For those of you who are new to this, this meeting is incredibly risky. It is a testament to the importance of this venture that we are willing to take this risk.”



She stands in silence for a moment as though to allow the gravity of these words to sink in.



“You have all been briefed on the nature of the organization GRIPE. We, your long-time mentors, represent the entire current membership of this group, and beyond the people in this cave, absolutely no one suspects our existence. This is essential to our plans, and though you have already heard this, I must reiterate that under NO conditions is any information about our group to be disseminated to anybody outside this group.”



She glares at the apprentices each in turn as she speaks, meeting their gazes with her chilling red eyes.



“The current members are already familiar with each other. Though it seems a bit trite, I suggest that we go around the circle and allow you newcomers to introduce yourselves.”



One of the figures gives a snort of amused disgust. The Drow raises an eyebrow at him, “Very well, Derro, if you are so eager, you may begin.”



The young Derro hesitates, but his mentor shoves him hard in the back and he stomps forward, surveying the people arrayed around him. He grins, and the others cannot help but feel that it is the grin of a predator as it contemplates the prospect of easy prey. 



“I am Strak, a Ranger. It is the job of the Derro Rangers to track down those who enter our territory, kill most of them, and take the rest back for cannibalistic ritual sacrifice. This is a job I enjoy.”



This statement unsettles many of the others apprentices in the circle visibly, though they regain their composure quickly. Strak laughs at their expressions, and returns to his place in the circle.



“Charmed,” says the Drow spokeswoman, smiling and turning to the next apprentice to be introduced.



A young kobold female jumps agilely forward, whirling a set of iron nunchukus, “And I,” she says grandly in a reptilian, high-pitched whine, “am Slash Asunder, the most marvelous Edgemaster you are ever likely to meet. I do things with weapons you could never hope to imitate.”



She gives the group around her a long, toothy grin.



Somebody calls out, “Edgemaster huh? Shouldn’t you be using, say, something that has an edge? Like a sword?”



Without the slightest hint of hesitation or annoyance, Slash responds, “Not so good sir! The title Edgemaster indicates a broad array of expertise in virtually all weapons! Do not fear, however, for I shall not hold your ignorance against you.”



She gives a short bark of a laugh and leaps back to her place, where she strikes an impressive pose and turns to look at the next speaker, who sighs and moves up.



She is clearly a half-Drow, half-Human, and her eyes flicker over the full Drow in the room, as though afraid that she is about to be judged as instantly as an abomination to the race. They merely look back at her, expressionless. She sighs again.



“I am Triesste. I’m half-Drow…”



“We can tell what you are, mongrel,” calls Strak, obviously enjoying her discomfort and evident stage fright.



“… and I explore and get things done,” she continues vaguely.



“What sorts of ‘things,’” calls Strak.



“All kinds of things. Roguish things, more often than not.” Triesste is obviously getting more than a little annoyed, and trying to keep her exact specialty private. She puts her hand on her rapier-hilt, obviously intending to look a bit intimidating, but failing miserably, she stalks back to her place.



Next to take the floor is a male Drow, unarmored, but with a set of nunchukus attached to his belt. The female Drow speaker and her apprentice, who had not registered any emotion when presented with Triesste, both looked as though they were trying to repress sneers, as though they were being addressed by a servant who has forgotten his place.



He spoke, a quiet, high, soft voice, “I am Crystal. I am an old friend of Slash, whom you have already met. For several years we traveled in a troupe together, entertaining the masses with our acrobatic talents.”



Before he can be prompted to speak further, he returns to his spot. 



Next, the apprentice of the Drow spokeswoman steps forward. She is dressed in a flowing black cloak over a simple rust-colored robe, both of which together still fail to hide her almost skeletal frame. Her black face is thin and gaunt, and she is shorter than the average Drow female. Her long white hair is drawn up into a severe bun, fastened in place with a bone-white spider-shaped clasp. She speaks quietly:



“I am Beltana Noquar.”



“And what do you do, Beltana?” calls Strak.



She looks at him across the circle and, without smiling, says softly, “I do enough,” and steps slowly back next to her mentor, who motions for the last apprentice to come up.



Another Kobold steps into the light. She is wearing proudly the holy symbol of Boccob and carries a steel crossbow. She clicks her teeth in an apparent acknowledgement of Slash, the other Kobold apprentice present, and stands up to her full three feet in height as she speaks.



“I am Zya Snaggletooth, cleric of Boccob, God of Magic,” and apparently deciding that this is enough introduction, turns around and walks back to the edge of the circle.



The apprentices all eye their new companions, some more warily than others. It is clear that, though they all know they are required to work together to accomplish certain tasks, many of them do not trust the others enough to reveal much about themselves.



“Very well then,” says Beltana’s mentor, “shall we get on with business?”




Next: 
Session 1 (Part 2 of 2): The mission is explained, the group meets a strange new foe, and a clue is discovered.


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## MerakSpielman (Sep 17, 2003)

It should be noted at this point that I will not reveal things that are not known to the entire party. For example, those characters keeping their classes secret will not have their secrets exposed, or if a character swipes something and doesn't tell anyone, it won't show up here until the secret's out.

Also, some house rules readers might want to be aware of:

Each party member has chosen a sub-race (clan, family, or tribe) that grants them a special ability. They also are each affiliated with a particular organization (other than GRIPE). For the cleric of Boccob, for example, this organization would be her temple. None of the others have outwardly stated their affiliations. These organizational affiliations provide their members with a series of unique feats, gained slowly as their members level up.

Am I making the characters too powerful? Perhaps. But all the NPCs have a subrace and organization, too, and magical items are hard to come by.

Also, I am making use of "Swashbuckling Cards." These are passed out at the beginning of each session, one to each player, and kept hidden from everyone, including the DM. They each contain a title and/or clever movie quote and allow something strange and unusual to happen. Some are mundane, such as "_Handy Rope_: You character can move anywhere on the battlefield before taking his normal action," and some are extraordinary, such as "_Excellent_: A cohort or flunky enters with good news," or "_Pillows and Hot Baths_: The next room you enter will contain comfortable pillows and hot baths. There will be no random encounters while you are in this room." These cards are returned to the deck when played and are intended to introduce a random element to the game, as well as to amuse the players by making the DM think quickly on his feet to make what happens seem reasonable. They also add a light-hearted element to a generally dark game.

Edited above segment to correctly reflect Beltana's clothing, per player request.


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## MerakSpielman (Sep 20, 2003)

Baltana’s mentor surveys the group before her. She speaks again:



“GRIPE is a society that does many things. Some might seem at first contrary to our individual outlooks,” she seems to cast a brief look at Strak and his mentor, “but we have all come to an understanding, and have agreed to abide by certain rules. Your new group is an extension of GRIPE – our hands, if you will. You act openly where we cannot. This is what you have been trained to do…”



“Excuse me!” barks a Kobold voice.



“What is it?” snaps the Drow, annoyed at the interruption.



“Well,” continues Slash, “If we are meant, as you say, to be members of this GRIPE thing, don’t you think we should all be aware of these rules that you mention? Aren’t we bound by them too, if we’re members?”



A faint shadow of a smile flickers in the corner of the Drow’s lip as she says, “Quite right, Kobold. The rules of GRIPE are as follows, “First, members do not act against other members. This includes anything from sabotaging business interests to outright physical attacks. Second, members will, if it safe to do so, assist other members in their ventures. Third, members shall not reveal the existence of GRIPE to anybody not a member of the group. If you are placed in a position where you believe you will be unable to keep information about GRIPE from anybody outside the group, you will do whatever it takes to avoid doing so, even if it includes your own death. The overarching goal of GRIPE is to preserve social stability in the Underdark by consolidating resources that would, without our influence, never come together. Different members of the group, of course, do this for different personal reasons.”



Slash nods, paying close attention to every word, “Is these written down anywhere? I mean, don’t you have like a written code of some sort… ”



The Drow cuts her off, angry, “Have you not been paying attention? Nothing about this group is ever to be written down. There is no permanent record of us, or any of our activities, nor will there ever be! Our safety lies in our secrecy. Our civilizations would not understand how what we do secretly is not a betrayal of their trust in us. We would be cast out, scattered, and killed if we were to be discovered. Do you understand me?” Slash, chagrined, nods and tries to regain her composure.



“Then, if I may continue. A few weeks ago some of our sources indicated a certain secret shipment was to be made. We do not know where it is from or where it is going to, only that several of the methods we ourselves use to keep things quiet were tapped by an individual or group as yet unknown to us. This is dangerous, and could hint that there is something large moving just out of our sights. This vague, but potentially huge threat has been hinted at elsewhere, but this was our first lead. We were unable to track the actual location of the shipment, but suspected it was headed into Human territory.



The Drow goes on, “You are all wondering why you had to travel so far from your home kingdoms to this isolated area on the edge of the surface dwellers territory. The reason is this: we have recently intercepted intelligence that a hidden human outpost in this area has intercepted what they believe to be a smuggling shipment. As you well know, it is illegal for the humans to build a military outpost this far from their borders, so this information was not easy to come by. We think this supposed smuggling shipment is in fact the mysterious shipment we desire to examine.



“Your first mission, then, it to travel to the human outpost, infiltrate it, and investigate the shipment. Information of particular value includes the nature of the shipment, the source of the shipment, and its destination. Do not get captured. Maintain the group’s secrecy.



“This is also, if you have not already figured it out, a sort of test. Some of us,” she looks pointedly at the Derro, “do not believe you can function together as a team. This mission, if successful, will prove them wrong.”



The Drow looks at the faces of the apprentices, seeking signs of confusion, annoyance, or anger. Apparently satisfied, she speaks again, “There is something else about this outpost that warrants our attention. It is rumored that the commander possesses one of the ancient Amulets of Sending, given by the Human king as a gift some years ago. This is how the commander maintains contact with the Human kingdom, and how you, if you acquire it, will maintain contact with us. I hope I make myself clear?”



The group nods. Some of the more roguish of the lot are smiling a bit, but Triesste looks a little nervous. 



“Here is a map to the entrance of the outpost,” the Drow concludes, handing it to Beltana, “We will wait here for your report. You may begin.”



The mentors, as one, slip back into the shadows, leaving their newly created group of followers looking at each other. They approach each other slowly, and Beltana holds out the map for them all to see.



“Just a couple hours walk from here,” barks Zya quietly, “Good.”



“Let’s go then,” suggests Crystal.



With no further ado, and seeking to please their mentors, the group heads off, following the map. The conversation is limited to immediate practicalities, “Is it this turn or the next?” “Watch the ledge,” and similar mundane comments. The tunnels through which they travel are cramped and devoid of any signs of life or moisture. With their darkvision, the party has little trouble finding its way, though they have to climb up and down several steep, rocky areas. None of the group feels lost or confused in the tunnels. The Underdark is their home, and all they have ever known. Even without the map, they all know they would be able to retrace their steps precisely.



After three hours of marching through the tunnels, they arrive at a blank, stone wall, identical to the other miles of wall in the region.



“This is it,” announces Triesste, who is holding the map at this point, “There are instructions here on how to open the secret door.”



“Very thorough, our teachers, are they not?” smiles Slash toothily, “One wonders as to the sources of their information.”



“They have good reasons for hiding what they hide and revealing what they reveal,” says Crystal, “We can trust them.”



“I was not suggesting otherwise. I’m just curious, and naturally so, I think.”



“What should we do now? We need a plan,” mutters Triesste, “We can’t just walk in there and start asking questions.”



There is a pause while the group thinks. Strak is examining the rocky ground for signs of tracks, but says nothing.



“I’ll go in,” says Crystal, “and scout around a bit. At least we’ll have a picture of what we’re up against.”



“Better you than me,” grunts Strak. Crystal throws him a dirty look and motions for Triesste to hit the trigger to open the secret door. Everybody else backs up so as not to be in view of the inside. Remembering with amusement that humans cannot see in the dark, they all find hiding spots out of the range of torchlight and wait.



Triesste triggers the secret door by twisting a small bump in the wall counter-clockwise. Next to her, a segment of the wall smoothly swings inward. Inside, an unlit passage is visible, stretching out of sight.



Triesste backs away into the shadows as Crystal moves cautiously into the opening. He can hear nothing, and sees nothing other than the crude stone passage stretching away in front of him.



_“No guards?”_ he thinks, as he edges his way in, _“What kind of an outpost is this?”_



He slips further into the passage, trying his best to stay hidden, even in the pitch blackness. He carefully scrutinizes floor, walls, and ceiling as he goes, knowing that it is unusual for such an entrance to be unguarded in some fashion. This thought makes him pause. He peers down the hall, but can see nothing after his darkvision ends. If he can’t see any humans, they certainly can’t see him, he figures.



“Come on in,” Crystal calls faintly to his companions, “This much is safe at least. I need somebody who can search for traps.” Slipping out of the shadows, the rest of the party enters the passage. Triesste steps forward, “I’ll check.”



“Careful you don’t set ‘em off and kill yourself now, mongrel,” Strak cackles softly.



Triesste looks as though she’s about to retort, then changes her mind and turns her attention to the hallway, “Stay a good distance behind me, just in case.”



She edges forward, scrutinizing the corridor with a trained eye. After about sixty feet, she stops. _Did I see that right? I could have sworn… Ah, yes!_ She motions for the others to join her. “There is a pressure plate here. I can’t tell what it does, but I suggest we all edge our way around it against the wall.”



“It can’t be too bad of a trap,” comments Crystal, “It’s right here in the main entrance. They’d be bound to trigger it accidentally themselves.”



“It might be an alarm,” suggests Zya. With no clear consensus, the group carefully moves past the pressure plate and continues down the passage, Triesste leading. 



The corridor turns out to be almost two hundred feet long, and widens at the end to terminate in a solid set of stone double doors. They do not have a lock, but are closed.



“This is me again,” says Crystal, edging forward in the darkness, keeping close to the walls. Reaching the doors, he grasps the iron handle and pulls. The stone door is quite heavy, and he has to put his weight into it to get it to open.



Beyond the door is a guardroom. A map of the vicinity lies on a table in the middle of the room, showing what look like patrol routes. Several chairs are scattered around the room, and a weapons rack stands against the wall, holding several shortspears. There is a window in the north wall, opposite the entry, but blocked with sturdy bars. Passages lead east and west.



There are no guards. Crystal sees bloodstains on the floors. Hurriedly, he motions his companions to enter. “Looks like somebody beat us here, folks.”



“What do you mean,” asked Zya, “who?



“Isn’t it obvious? They intercepted a secret shipment. Whoever sent it must have tracked them down to insure that it stays secret.”



“If that’s the case, there won’t be much here for us to find,” mutters Strak. They search the room, but come up with nothing interesting. The window to the north looks into a larger chamber, obviously set up as a temple to the Human god Hieroneous. Interestingly, they can make out a secret door at the far end of the temple, hanging open by a single hinge. Strak looks for tracks, and though he finds some, they all look the same – booted, Human-sized feet.



They decide to investigate the east passage, and find themselves in a large, long room, obviously once having been a natural cavern, but crudely enlarged and squared off. There is a crevasse in the south-east corner that smells like a privy. Sacks and crates of various supplies line the walls.



Just as the party is about to split up and search the room, they hear a shuffling and moaning from behind one of the crates. A human soldier staggers into view, armed with a longsword and wearing a chain shirt emblazoned with the insignia of the army of Silleria. The party pulls out their weapons and prepares to defend themselves. The soldier lifts his blade and stumbles toward them. They can see that his face is twisted with what looks like an expression of incredible agony. His movements are unnatural.



Crystal calls out, “Put down your weapon and surrender! You are outnumbered.”



The soldier speaks. His voice is guttural and forced, but his words are clear, _“Kill… me…”_



The companions look at each other.



“All right,” shrugs Strak to the soldier, “suit yourself,” and he charges, striking at the soldier with his rapier. The blade sinks into the skin of his arm where the sleeve of the chain shirt ends. A sickly fluid oozes forth, not blood, but something putrid and yellow.



The soldier looks at Strak, raising his sword, _“Save… yourselves…”_ he croaks, and strikes. Strak dodges the blow.



Slash, Triesste, and Crystal join the fray, slicing at the soldier with their blades and trying to break his ribs with their nunchukus. Zya hangs back, waiting to see if the group will need her clerical magic. Beltana, with a thoughtful look on her face, casts a spell. There is no obvious effect, but she mutters, “Interesting…”



Before the soldier can get in another strike, the combined might of the companions facing him brings him down. He falls to the ground, groaning, _“Thank… you…”_ and dies.



“What the Hells was the matter with him?” asks Triesste.



They examine the body, taking a couple wood pieces he has on him. There is clearly something very wrong with the soldier. He no longer has blood - only the foul yellow substance. Upon closer inspection it seems that there are some sort of fine tendrils infesting his body. Occasionally they stick out of the skin, looking for all the world like tiny roots. The tendrils are everywhere, even visible wrapping themselves around his eyeballs. His skin has a faint, sickly yellow cast to it.



“I don’t recognize it,” says Zya, examining the tendrils.



“Nor I,” says Baltana softly, not going near the body, “But I would suggest you keep your distance. Whatever has infected him might be contagious.”



Everybody jumps back in alarm. “Why do you say that,” yips Slash. Beltana shrugs.



“She has a point,” says Zya, “He was healthy once. Now he isn’t. What’s to say it can’t happen to us?”



“I’m not liking this place,” mutters Triesste, “Not one bit.” They search the room, finding nothing of interest. The supplies are only of value if they have a way to transport them, and they don’t. Near the north end of the long room is a passage leading west, and another leading north.



They head north. The passage turns out to be short, only thirty feet long. It ends with two doors, one on the left and the other on the right. Arbitrarily, the party decides to go right.



They find themselves in a small room, apparently the water supply for the garrison. Clear water trickles out of a crack in the wall and into a small basin. From there, it flows down into a basin large enough to hold several people. There is another crack in the wall of the basin allowing the water to flow out and never reach above a certain level.



Floating face-down in the large basin is another soldier, this one unarmed and unarmored. Now that the party knows what to look for, they can see more of the same tendrils infesting his waterlogged body. The water in the large basin looks and smells stagnant, despite the constant in-flow of fresh water from the small basin.



Zya loads her crossbow, “Stand back,” and fires a bolt directly into the floating figure’s head. The body spasms, lashing out with its limbs, but finally subsides, dead.



There is nothing of interest in the water-room, so the party investigates the other door. “Locked,” says Crystal, trying the handle. Everybody’s level of interest is suddenly increased. “Who can pick it?”



“That’s me again,” said Triesste, moving up and pulling out her tools.



Triesste has to make several tries before she finally gets the lock open. With a shove, she pushes open the heavy door, revealing an armory. There are several chain shirts and long swords hung on the walls, and another rack of shortspears. Nobody seems interested in these. Rather, their attention is drawn to a single small, steel chest in the corner. “Also locked. Triesste?” 


The half-Drow hunches over the chest, running her hands around it gently, “I don’t think it’s trapped.” She seems to be enjoying proving herself useful to the party. It takes several minutes of trying for Triesste to get the chest open, but finally, with a click, the lid pops up.


Inside, the party discovers five flasks clearly labeled “Alchemist’s Fire,” two vials of a clear, syrupy liquid, and a masterwork spiked gauntlet.



“Wow, hardly anybody makes those things,” barks Slash excitedly, pulling the gauntlet out of the chest, “Good thing I like using them,” and she pulls a regular spiked gauntlet out of her pack, compares the two, and, grinning, stashes them both.



Crystal looks annoyed, “I think we’re going to have to have a little talk about treasure distribution, Slash,” he says, “That gauntlet is valuable. It might be of more use to the party if we sold it.”



“Let’s discuss this later,” says Zya, “just get the stuff that looks useful or valuable and let’s move on.”



“Wait, I want to at least see if I can tell what those potions are,” says Crystal, picking one up and working out the stopper, “It they’re healing potions, we might need them later on.” He takes a small sip and immediately gags, trying to spit out the liquid.



“What? Poison?” asks Zya, alarmed.



Crystal shakes his head and re-stoppers the vial. He points to his mouth and sticks out his tongue, the skin of which seems to have hardened into complete rigidity. 



“Interesting,” murmurs Beltana, “A substance that hardens skin on contact? Offensive or defensive, I wonder? And does it wear off?”



Crystal is having trouble speaking with his hardened tongue, but stashes away the vials for later investigation. The party distributes the alchemist’s fire between Zya, Crystal, and Triesste, since they say they are reasonably good at throwing weapons.



Returning to the long storeroom, group heads west, finding themselves in the temple they saw from the guardroom. There is a passage across the room from them leading further west, as well as the open secret door to the north. Beyond the secret door can be seen a set of rough-hewn steps leading down. Triesste wants to go down the stairs, but the rest of the party overrules her. “One level at a time,” they tell her.


Moving across to the west passage, they find another long room, almost a mirror image to the storeroom on the other side of the complex. This room, however, is outfitted as a barracks. Bunks line the western wall, an iron footlocker at the foot of each. More immediately pressing on the attention of the party, though, are two more of the strangely infected soldiers shambling towards them, again uttering tortured phrases and wielding long swords.



The party fans out, preparing weapons. The soldiers are approaching the people closest them, with no attempt at strategy. Melee is joined. Beltana tries another spell, but it also has no affect. Her expression becomes one of curiosity. One of the soldiers manages to wound Strak somewhat, but the Derro shrugs it off and slices off the soldier’s head with his counterattack. Meanwhile, Slash and Crystal are busy bludgeoning their opponent. Finally, the other soldier falls. Zya hurries over to Strak, “Do you need healing?” “No.”



Searching the room and the bodies, the companions discover a total of twenty-four wood pieces which they take) and lots of uniforms and personal effects (which they leave). There is a passage that connects back to the original guardroom, so, with no remaining options, the group gathers and prepared to go through the secret door in the temple. About this time, Crystal notices that his tongue is softening and he is regaining his power of speech.



The group heads down the stairs. Before long, they open out into an office/bedroom of some sort. A desk is against the north wall with a book open on it. A bed and a wardrobe stand on the west wall. There is a passage to the east. Before they can properly array themselves, the group is attacked by another strangely infected human, this one wielding a mace and wearing a silver amulet.



“Take him down,” shouts Crystal, “I think that’s the Amulet of Sending we’re after!”



Planning to take down the creature quickly, the companions soon discover that this new foe is not as much a pushover as the solders they faced upstairs.



Muttering guttural incoherencies, the soldier swings his mace with devastating effect into Crystal, who crumples to the ground motionless. Zya growls a low curse and leaps forward to heal him. Strak has his rapier out, trying to get in a few good hits on the soldier, who was evidentially the commander of the garrison.  Beltana hangs back, seeming to wait for a chance to do something useful. Slash whirls her nunchukus with lethal precision, hitting the commander solidly in the side of the head.



Off balance from the blow, the commander’s next attack lacks enough force to damage Strak. Zya begins to cast _Cure Light_ on Crystal, having determined that he was still alive. Strak, having shrugged off the feeble attack, whirls and jabs his rapier directly into the commander’s neck. Twitching, as if unable to accept that he has taken a mortal wound, the commander feebly tries to lift his mace. Yellow goo erupts from his mouth as he collapses to his knees, then falls over, dead.



Crystal was sitting up, mostly healed, “Good job. Let’s see what he has on him.”



They remove the amulet, which Zya confirms as having a strong magical aura. They also take two small iron keys from his belt. Strak goes to the table and does something unspeakably biological to the holy book, ruining the other’s plan of taking it to sell it. He chuckles and says that he doesn’t like Hieroneous very much. The party then turns to the only exit other than the stairs from the room: a hallway east.



“Let’s go!” says Slash, “We’ve got to be almost done with this place now!”



Indeed, she turns out to be correct. The winding passage ends at a sturdy, locked door. Though Triesste is eager to try to pick it, the others decide to try the commander’s keys first. Indeed, one of them fits the lock, and with a gentle click, the door swings open, revealing a chamber of utter carnage.



The bodies of what must have been the rest of the garrison lie here haphazardly, some clearly infected with tendrils and some not. All are dead, and the room stinks of blood, puss, and, surprisingly, a strangely alluring, sweet, flowery scent. On the far side of the room is a large packing crate, constructed from a metal framework with cloth (treated with some sort of hardening agent) wrapped tightly around to form a sturdy container. The lid is open, and a huge plant can be seen emerging from the interior. It has thick, green tendrils, each tipped with a large, incredibly beautiful yellow flower. As the companions enter, the flowers turn and orient to point directly at them.



“We seem to have found the source of the problem,” mutters Strak, “Let’s see what we can do about it, eh?”



He leaps forward, rapier flashing.



“No!” cries Crystal, “Keep away from that thing!”



Before anybody can help, the flowers pointed at Strak emit streams of yellow powder directly at his face. Just in time, Strak leaps aside, swearing, and the yellow dust settles to the floor.



“Get back here,” calls Crystal, “We’ll use that Alchemist’s Fire we found. There’s no need to get close to that thing. Strak returns, looking a bit shaken from his near-miss, but nodding agreement.



Crystal, Triesste, and Zya ready Alchemists fire vials and hurl them as one into the center of the deadly plant. The flowers spray the flasks with yellow dust before they land, but to no avail. The flasks shatter and drench the plant in flame. Writhing, the plant tries to escape, thrashing its tendrils around and shooting off random puffs of powder around the room, but to no avail. It cannot leave the packing crate.



“Again!” shouts Crystal, and another volley of flasks is hurled into the inferno. The plant is now totally engulfed in flame, and its flapping tendrils serve only to wave the fire higher. Moments later, it collapses, the tendrils falling loosely to the sides of the crate, dead.



Judging that the corpse of the plant is not a danger, the companions search the room, taking several wood pieces from the fallen solders. The crate itself is utterly non-descript, but the lid, set casually against the wall, has a shipping label affixed to it. The address is given as “Ziffendell Manor, New Fifechester.” To everybody’s annoyance, there is no return address. Beltana cuts some of the less-scorched pieces of tendril and flower into a pouch, “It might be useful to have a sample,” she comments softly.



There seems to be nothing left to do in the garrison. The party leaves via the same passages from which they entered, and begins their march back the cave where their mentors are waiting.



Next time: The companions report to their mentors, a journey is begun, and a random encounter almost kills two characters but it's their own damn fault.


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## Emerald (Sep 21, 2003)

I play Beltana and it was my swashbuckling card that helped in the fight with the plant.  It caused the opponent to make a mistake, so it fired its spores in the wrong direction.  Also, I helped in the fights with my sling, I am not that worthless.  

I think this is a cool idea, I hope the story is kept up with.


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## Ave Rage (Sep 21, 2003)

Nice cast of characters and story plot.  

A little hard to see a kobold as a 'tough guy' but I'm sure once he womps on more people I'll come around.


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## MerakSpielman (Sep 23, 2003)

Session 2 (part 1 of 2)



The companions take the shipping label from the crate and search the complex, but they discover nothing further that they want to spend the time and effort to haul away. All the weapons and armor are doubtless valuable, but far too heavy to transport en masse. “If only we had some sort of pack animal,” muses Zya, but there’s nothing she can do about it at the moment. Satisfied that they have been thorough, the party treks back to the cavern where they first met.



Their mentors are waiting, dark cloaked and mysterious. They are sitting around the lighted rod in the center of the room, deep in conversation. They break off as their apprentices return.



Beltana’s mentor, apparently their agreed-upon spokeswoman, asks brusquely, “What news?”



Their report is short and to the point. They take out the amulet, plant clippings and shipping label. The mentors examine each in detail.



Zya’s mentor speaks for the first time, holding the amulet, “This is genuine. It allows one use of the standard _Sending_ spell once per week. Take turns, and do not forget.”



“This is not a plant I recognize,” says the Drow woman, “But I will research it. As for that, she waves her hand at the label, which Triesste’s mentor is examining it, “It holds no clues other than its words. Your course should be obvious to you. See what you can learn. Unless you have further questions, we will leave you now.”



Nobody speaks. The mentors return the items to the party. The Drow woman picks up her glowing rod and stashes it in some hidden pocket in her robes. Suddenly relying only on darkvision, the companions watch their mentors wordlessly slip away in different directions, enveloped by the enclosing darkness.



A few moments pass. They have, as it were, been officially unleashed. Before they go, the party decides to settle some business. The topic of treasure distribution has come up, and they debate the different ways of going about it briefly. Ultimately, they decide on the following policy: A) Treasure is to be divided as equally; B) Special or magical items are considered to be party treasure, belonging to nobody in particular. If somebody wants to claim one for themselves, they must give the party compensation equal to the item’s value. Essentially, items are either purchased from the party pool by individuals, or sold and the value distributed evenly. C) Exceptions to B may be made if the party unanimously agrees that an item is valuable enough in the hands of a particular party member to warrant it being given to them free of charge.



Slash makes meticulous notes of these proceedings. Currently, the items considered to be party treasure include the masterwork spiked gauntlet and the 2 vials of mysterious substance (hereafter, and possibly erroneously, referred to by the party as “_Stoneskin_ potions”). _(OOC: It has been pointed out to me by Emerald that during the game I did not describe the shipping crate as being crafted of cloth coated in a “hardening substance.” I detailed this in the story hour when I realized the crate could not be made of wood. If I had mentioned this, she says the party would have assumed that the vials contain an alchemical compound used to accomplish the cloth-hardening effect. As it is, they do not assume this.)_



“All right, then,” says Crystal, once the treasure-division issue has been settled, “There remains the small matter of a cover story. We are an odd group to be traveling with each other without a very solid reason. Especially…” He looks pointedly at Strak.


“You can say it,” grunts Strak, “Derro don’t normally associate with outsiders. At least, not longer than it takes us to fillet them. I don’t know which is harder to explain – me, putting up with you lot, or you putting up with me.”



Triesste chimes in, “We could say that you were lonely and you’re paying us to pretend we’re your friends.” She is still nettled about him referring to her as “mongrel” all the time.



Strak begins to retort, then muses, “You know, people might actually believe that… _mongrel_. But then you’d have to all act friendly to me, and I’m not sure I could stand it for long.”



“Likewise,” mutters Triesste.



“Oh don’t be silly, you two,” laughs Slash, “The answer is obvious. We’re a troupe of traveling entertainers! I know Crystal and I can play the part, since it’s something we’ve actually done together in the past.”



“And what is our method of performance?” inquires Strak.



“Why, acrobatics and weapon-tricks of course!” the Kobold whirls her nunchukus expertly and does a back flip, “If anybody asks, those of you who aren’t good performers can be our managers.”



After further discussion, they agree that this is probably the best plan. Thus prepared, the companions set out for New Fifechester, a journey that, according to their map, will take almost two weeks and take them through the Nexus, the Crossroads, and the Human city of New Sillar. 



_(OOC: I spent considerable time figuring out how I wanted to do cross-country travel in the Underdark. I eventually made a map, about 30 squares by 40, where each square is 20 miles on a side. It is assumed that the entire place is riddled with natural caverns. It takes a day to travel one square. If the party is following an established path, this is easy and automatic. If they are traveling off-road, they must make a Wilderness Lore check in order to find a route into the next square. Depending on the terrain, this check is “easy” (15) “difficult”t (25) or “friggin’ hard” (35). Success means they travel to the next square, failure means they spend a day searching for a route. This avoids the tedious mapping of individual tunnels and reflects the number and nature of natural obstacles. They are permitted to hire guides, if they wish, to possibly speed the process. Only the secret DM map has the Wilderness Lore DCs marked (via different highlighter colors) for the different squares, though with proper research this information might be revealed to the party. If the map seems small, only 600 by 800 miles, remember also that this is the Underdark, which means I have three dimensions to work with. I have made 4 levels of map, totallying 3200 squares, or 1,280,000 square miles. The party is currently in the Upper Underdark. The other levels are: Middle Underdark, Lower Underdark, and the Depths. As of this time real-time, they have yet to explore off road at all.)_



_Session Two to be continued after these messages…_


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## Look_a_Unicorn (Sep 26, 2003)

More More More 

Also you might want to update your sig so it's not pointing to the old enworld.cyberstreet addresses.


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## MerakSpielman (Sep 30, 2003)

Look_a_Unicorn said:
			
		

> More More More



Anything for a fan! Give me half a second...



> Also you might want to update your sig so it's not pointing to the old enworld.cyberstreet addresses.



 The only two that're not correct are my old story hour and my old PbP EoM game, and I don't think anybody will want to respond to those anyway after all this time.


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## MerakSpielman (Sep 30, 2003)

Session 2 (part 2 of 2)



The tunnels twist and turn haphazardly, but this is terrain to which all members of the party are accustomed. Soon, they have found their way to the nearby road. This was one of the CanterWays, established by Canter, the famous cleric of Fharlanghn, in the years after the Descent. These roads were clearly marked, and free for the use of all travelers. Without the CanterWay network, the surface races would not have gotten back on their feet as quickly as they had. This particular road was established to connect the Human kingdom of Lower Silleria with the United Clans of the Dwarves. Canter made sure to run his roads through tall, open caverns, widening the way if required with his clerical magic. 



The companions can all see signs of heavy traffic, though at the time their tunnel intersects the road there are no other travelers visible. Turning to the north, they begin the long trek into Human territory, hoping they won’t be stopped and interrogated by patrols. The journey proceed quietly, with little conversation, except between Slash and Crystal, who spend a good deal of the time going over their weapons/acrobatics act in low voices. 



Though there is no day and night underground, or even on the surface these days, the companions are still slaves of their internal sleep cycles. Like all intelligent creatures, they had since childhood known instinctively when enough time had passed awake, and when it was time to sleep. Though the terms no longer had any meaning in terms of light and darkness, the time of rest was still referred to universally as “night.” 



And so the party spent their first night together in a small cave adjoining the main road. They did not build a fire, for wood was far too precious to burn. During the long chill of the sunless winter, travelers brought sacks of coal and braziers with them to heat their food and hands. Now, though, it was half a year before such precautions would need to be taken. It was almost stiflingly hot, and would remain so for several months without reprieve. It does not occur to the companions to complain about this, for this is the way the cycles of weather have been their entire lives. 



In the morning, they consume a scant breakfast of crackers, jerky, and strips of dried fungus, and continued on their way. They pass occasional travelers on the CanterWay, but there is no communication. A standard survival trait in the Underdark is, and always has been, to keep your nose out of other peoples business. They pass members of most of the dominant races, most traveling in groups of their own kind, and most also leading teams of pack lizards laden with trade goods. 



After another night and day of this sort of travel, the companions reach the Nexus. This is the one area of the Underdark where naturally occurring caverns provide easy access to all the different levels. Essentially, it was tightly-knit region of easy to travel vertical roads. The Nexus, the companions all knew, was the focal point of all inter-level trade, and by common custom, it was considered off-limits to hostility, even during times of war. The Nexus was far too important to the welfare of all civilizations to be jeopardized. Even long-standing racial enemies refuse to be drawn into any sort of serious conflict in the Nexus.



The CanterWay skirts the edge of the Nexus, but goes close enough to provide easy access to cross-level travelers, and then turns sharply to the west, heading directly into Lower Silleria. The number of travelers the companions pass increases.



Several days later, they are well within the sphere of influence of the Humans, but have encountered no annoying patrols of local soldiers. Soon, the Crossroads comes into view. The cavern is small relative to those housing most cities, and is dominated by three large buildings, a trading post, a huge inn, and a bath house. A small shrine to Fharlanghn is nestled off in one corner. A popular stop for many travelers entering and exiting the Human kingdom, the Crossroads can always be depended on to be crowded, if nothing else. The party, though, decides that they have no real reason to stop and presses straight through, continuing their journey.



From here, it is a journey of several more days to the capital city of New Sillar, the greatest city in the Upper Underdark, according to the Humans. Again, the party elects not to stop, traveling by side tunnels around the city until they re-intersect the CanterWay on the other side, and continue their journey.



Ten days have passed since their meeting, and the travelers are now nearing their destination: New Fifechester. Just when they are becoming certain that their journey was to be uneventful, they came under attack.



Suddenly, stepping out from rocks and side passages, a troop of goblins surrounds the party. They’ve clearly been waiting for an opportunity when their victims would be alone on the road, and their purplish-green faces slaver with delight as they behold their catch. There are eight goblins total, each with a short bow leveled at somebody’s heart. They each have a short sword strapped to their belt as well. It is clear from their mannerisms that they do not expect a serious fight.



Out of range of their darkvision, a hidden goblin calls out from behind the party, “You are outnumbered! Surrender, and we will let you live.”



Strak grins, and wordlessly the companions pull out their own weapons, readying for battle. Somewhat surprised, the voice from down the passage calls again, “Have it your way, then.” An arrow flies from his direction, missing everybody so badly the companions are not certain for whom it was intended. More or less simultaneously, the goblins and their prey leap into action. Crystal and Slash fight side-by-side, nunchukus whirling with bone-breaking precision. Strak charges a goblin, thrusting with his rapier, and seems annoying when it misses cleanly. Zya fires her crossbow, wounding a goblin slightly. Beltana casts a spell, and one of the goblins nearest her, which no companion has yet engaged, falls instantly asleep.



The battle continues without pause, more arrows flying from the hidden leader, and both sides taking heavy injuries. Beltana casts another spell, and a goblin turns and flees, but he returns moments later, eager to continue the fight. Zya is forced to stop firing her crossbow and go to the aid of Slash, who is fighting two goblins simultaneously and barely managing to avoid their attacks. Finally, Strak let’s out a shout of triumph as he cleanly impales his opponent, and Crystal, having flanked one of Slash’s goblins, hits it hard over the head with his nunchukus and watches as it crumples limply to the ground.



With these developments, the tide of battle turns. The companions, no longer each engaged by an enemy, begin to gang up several to a goblin. Strak strides over and casually executes the one that fell asleep. Finally, when only two of the things are still standing, the leader, still hidden down the passage, shouts something and they turn and flee.



“Like hell they’re getting away from me,” snorts Strak, taking off after them with blood dripping from his wounds.



“Wait! Come back!” shouts Crystal, “Damn! I better go after him.” He follows Strak, leaving the others to clean up.



Strak, with his short legs, quickly loses sight of the goblins, but not before he notices that the two survivors split up down opposite side passages, apparently to throw him off the scent. He laughs internally – apparently these goblins don’t know that hunting down and killing creatures is his specialty. This is fun! He turns down one of the passages, following a goblin.



Crystal catches up with him, “Strak, they’re too fast. You’ll never catch them.”



“I know what I’m doing. They must have a hideout nearby where they’ll return to lick their wounds. I intend to track them to it.” He continues dashing down the corridor and Crystal is unable to engage him in further conversation. Cursing, he follows.



They arrive at an intersection, and Strak stops suddenly to examine the hard stone of the floor. He seems to take forever, but suddenly exclaims in triumph and takes off down the left hand tunnel. In spite of himself, Crystal finds himself getting caught up in the thrill of the hunt. As they come to another intersection, he doesn’t try to change Strak’s mind, knowing it will be pointless. Strak spends a very long time examining the floor, but Crystal, rather than getting impatient, begins to feel a sort of suspense. Would they find the goblins? How long would it take? Would they surprise them? It all seems suddenly very exciting to him.



It takes Strak over an hour of examining the floor on his hands and knees, nose and eyes a fraction of an inch from the rock, to be sure he has picked up the trail. Finally, he notices a slight scuff, fresh, as if caused by a pebble lodged in a boot. He bursts into motion again, racing down the corridor with Crystal trailing behind.



There are several more intersections like this, and the chase drags on for three hours – then four – most of the time spent at intersections while Strak patiently examins the surface, until finally the pair finds themselves outside a poorly made secret door. Even had the tracks not led to it, Crystal was sure he would have noticed it had he passed this way casually. It looks like it opens by simple pushing – no latch, catch, or key required. Grinning, Strak pushes it open silently and slips into the space beyond.



The hallway continues straight in from the door for about twenty feet, then turns abruptly to the right. The flicker of torchlight can be seen. Crystal sneaks in behind Strak, amazed that they have actually found the hideout. Edging quietly forward, the two peek out quickly around the corner, glimpsing the other side briefly before withdrawing. The passage continues around the corner for about thirty feet and then opens into a small cavern. A torch is wedged in a crack in the wall at the entrance to the room. Crystal, whose darkvision is superior, can see a goblin in the room, keeping watch. He can’t tell if the goblin saw him, but there are no shouts of alarm. The pair move back to the secret door and put their heads together to converse very quietly.



“What’s your plan?” asks Crystal, “I saw one on guard, but we know there’s another grunt and the leader in there. We can’t sneak in with that torch right there.”



“I say we get their attention with a noise and kill whoever comes to investigate.”



Without further ado, they try it. Strak makes a small, strange noise and the two ready their weapons and wait for an inquisitive goblin to poke around the corner. None appears. Strak makes the noise again. No response. Annoyed, he peeks around the corner again, and barely gets his head back out of the way in time to avoid three arrows aimed straight at him.



“I think they know we’re here,” he whispers covertly to Crystal, “New plan” loudly, “Get ‘em!” and he charges around the corner.



Cursing again, Crystal runs after, “Get ‘em? _That’s_ your plan?”



Another volley of arrows flies at them, one striking Crystal in the arm. Then melee is joined. The goblin leader is visible for the first time, bow in hand, short sword at his side. He looks healthier and tougher than the other goblins. He directs his underlings to attack with hand signals and aims his bow again, again at Crystal, but the arrow misses. The leader seems quite willing to let his grunts do the work of actually being in melee. As the fight rages on, he fires another arrow, hitting Crystal again.



Weakened from their prior combat, the two companions are having a bad time of it. Focusing their efforts on one goblin at a time, they manage to bring them down, but then a final arrow from the leader lodges in Strak’s neck. Gurgling, he goes down. Crystal lunges at the leader, nunchukus whirling ominously, and the leader drops his bow and whips out his sword. The resulting battle is fierce. Bones break and blood flows. Crystal is injured nearly to the point of unconsciousness, but fights on. The two opponents are not evenly matched – the leader seems to have the advantage, and presses it ruthlessly, but Crystal, more thorough luck than skill fends him off and gives as good as he gets. Finally, it becomes clear that the next combatant to damage the other will be the victor, and the two battle furiously, knowing what is at stake. 



They both know they’re not going to die, they can’t die, but it turns out that the goblin is dead wrong. Crystal smashes the side of the goblin leader’s head with the nunchukus, and something _cracks_. The leader goes down, a look of astonishment on his face. Quickly, Crystal turns to Strak, still lying on the floor next to the goblin grunts, his blood mingling with theirs in a dark pool. He is still alive, and Crystal hurriedly binds the wounds. Once his companion’s life is no longer in danger, he searches the room.



He is not disappointed. A small steel chest sits in the corner, overlooked during the action. It’s locked, but the dead leader has the key on him. Opening it, Crystal looks inside and smiles. These goblins must not have been totally incompetent raiders after all…





_Next, Session 3: The party arrives in New Fifechester, has a brief internal scuffle, and finds many important clues._


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## MerakSpielman (Nov 20, 2003)

It's about time I updated this. If we met to play this campaign more often, I'd be dreadfully behind. As it is, I'm only one session behind after this update:


Session 3​ 

Crystal rejoins the rest of the party, dragging a half-conscious Strak.



“Bloody Drow. Get off me, will you? I can walk, honestly. Save my life, will you then? That implies that it _needed_ saving, and I resent that.”



“So?” asks Slash as Crystal deposits Strak on the ground.



“They’re dead. All of them.”



“Good. Looks like they did a number on you two.”



“Nothing we couldn’t handle, but it looks like they haven’t always been such incompetent raiders. See?” And he opens up a fold in his cloak and spills out a collection of items onto the cold stone. There is a small pile of wood coins, to which Zya adds what she has found on the nearby bodies, as well as two slender potion vials and a tightly rolled scroll of parchment. 



Zya picks up the scroll and examines it. “Divine,” She announces, “I’ll figure out what spells later.”



Beltana picks up the potions. No labels, of course. Shrugging, she sets them back into the pile.



“Party treasure,” says Slash, “We should get those identified and figure out who wants them. Same with the scroll.”



“But only Zya can use it,” observes Crystal, “We might as well just give it to her.”



“We should sell it and divide the proceeds if she doesn’t purchase it out of the party treasure pool,” says Slash, “What’s the point of spending so much time working out an agreement if we just turn our backs on it the first chance we get?”



The party discusses the matter, and eventually they decide to let Zya keep the scroll without payment. Zya manages not to express a firm opinion on the subject, saying only that she’ll take it if they don’t want to sell it. Beltana says nothing, but watches the proceedings with interest.



The next day, the party reaches New Fifechester. None of them have been there before, but as the Canterway draws near there are clear signs indicating which way to go. The main Way continues on to the west, but a side way leads south, straight into the city. Just as in the cities with which the individuals were each familiar, they could smell the city far before they heard or saw it. A large number of people living in close proximity underground develop a particular smell, not particularly strong or foul, but unique. This leg of the Canterway is well traveled, and the party passes a number of travelers going the other way.



Finally the path leads into the city, becoming a road weaving its way between buildings in a small cavern. This cavern is clearly not the entire city, since few caves were large enough to house a city in its entirety. The road goes perhaps fifty yards before turning and heading east into what the companions assume is a larger cave. A guard in half-plate armor stops the party before they get ten feet into the cavern.



“Please state your business in New Fifechester.”



Slash steps forward, “Sir, we are a troupe of traveling entertainers, hoping to bring a bit of joy and excitement to your humble city!”



The guard eyes the group with professional suspicion. Mixed-race traveling companions are rare, but not so rare as to demand specific questioning. Shrugging, he makes a note on the parchment he carries.



“You will need to obtain a Performing License in that building,” he points, “in order to ply your trade legally. For a group of your size it will cost twenty wood pieces per week. You will be allowed to set up in any unoccupied space in the market. Please set down your possessions and stand over there so my men can inspect them for contraband.”



Surprised and a bit started, the party looks at each other, then, apparently deciding they haven’t done anything wrong (yet) and don’t possess anything illegal that they know of, they drop their packs and stand where the guard indicated. Several more guards approach and begin systematically going through their possessions, checking every flap and pouch.



“If you don’t mind me asking, sir,” says Slash tentatively, “what kind of contraband are you looking for?”



The guard captain, who is surveying the search, answers, “Illegal drugs mostly.”



“What sort of drugs?” asks Zya, remembering that they have several unidentified vials lying about in their bags, “What would they look like?”



The guard captain launches into a description of the various outlawed substances, seeming to enjoy educating the outsiders. “Well, there’s Agony. It’s the distilled, magically collected essence of a creature that has been slowly tortured to death. It’s a dark red, thick fluid. And baccaran, of course. It’s yellow, and kept as either a paste or a powder. Devilweed is probably the least bad of the lot, and looks almost like tobacco. Luhix, on the other hand, is the very worst. They say it grows on the Abyss, and is applied into self-inflicted wounds. It’s a flour-like powder that glows green. Dreammist is actually a poison, but addicts put it into boiling water and inhale the vapors. It looks like thin, finger-long leaves. Mushroom powder is grainy and blue, and has a reputation of being commonly abused by wizards. Redflower leaves looks like red leaves, and is used to cheat in martial competition. Then there’s sannish, but it’s easy to spot since the blue color stains the lips. It takes months to fade. Terran Brandy is the magically captured essence of dying Fey, and is abused by all stripes of spellcasters. Vodare is a bitter brown powder, commonly mixed with ale to cut the taste.”



(Note: The characters would probably know most of this, but since the players didn’t know anything about the drugs, I decided to have the guard be helpful rather than suspicious of their interest in the matter. The players took copious notes during this exchange.)



The party stands, thinking, and Zya finally says, “A lot of those seem to derive from plants. How are they…”



The guard answers, “We don’t know. Only the druids know how to grow plants on a large scale. We’ve inspected their gardens – with their permission of course – and found nothing amiss.”



“So you’re having trouble with drugs in town, then?” asks Triesste.


The guard looks at her levelly, and says firmly, “No.”



Strak lets out a low cackle, “Of course they’re not. That’s why their checking our bags, ‘cause they’re having no trouble at all.” The guard glares at him.



“If you require a map, you can purchase one over there,” the guard indicates a booth, “Your possessions have been determined to be free of contraband. Please enjoy your stay in New Fifechester.”



The party retrieves their things and Triesste purchases a map from the booth. Finding an out-of-the-way corner, they peruse it. Roughly, the city occupies four larger caverns and several smaller ones. Two of the larger caverns are labeled as Industry and Commerce. The other large caverns seem full of residences. A narrow river or stream runs through several caverns, becoming a large pool in the commercial district.



“What’s the plan?” whispers Triesste, “Where do you think Ziffendel Manor is?”



“Probably here,” Crystal points at the southwest large cavern, “the residences are larger. The rich people probably live there.”



“What, are we just going to march right up to the door?” asks Slash, “What would we say? ‘Um, a crate of killer-zombie-plant was to be shipped to this address, do you know anything about it?’ That isn’t exactly subtle.”



“Works for me,” shrugs Strak.



“We should probably keep up the appearance of an entertaining troupe,” suggests Zya, “This open place in the Commercial district looks like a market. We can set up there, and while Crystal and Slash perform, the rest of us can be poking around, finding out what we can find out.”



Nobody has any objections to this plan.



“I’m going to see what I can see around his manor,” Beltana says quietly and moves off.



Strak and Triesste move off to the side and start conversing in low tones. Slash and Crystal begin to set up an area for their act. Zya goes off to inquire about Lord Ziffendel in the bad section of town.



A few minutes later, since they don’t really have much in the way of supplies with which to set up, Crystal and Slash announce their weapons/acrobatics spectacle in loud voices. A few curious townsfolk pay attention, but a crowd fails to collect around them. Nonplussed, they launch into their routine, leapfrogging, doing handstands, and whirling their nunchukus impressively throughout. All in all, it’s an interesting performance, but most of the townspeople don’t seem particularly impressed. The bowl they put out collects a couple wood coins, but at this rate they will have to work hard just to break even on the cost of the entertainment license. Slash gives no indication that she is performing to anything other than a huge crowd of appreciative royalty, but Crystal looks a little disappointed.



Zya returns, having discovered only the usual grumblings one expects poor people to mutter about the rich.



Meanwhile, Triesste and Strak’s conversation has become more and more animated and noisy. Finally Triesste says loudly, “Oh yeah? Well your mother was a Drow!”



“You _dare_?” Growls Strak. Without hesitation he punches Triesste in the face. She stumbles backward, blood welling from her nose. A moment later, she launches herself back at the Derro, but gets thrown aside. Cursing, Triesste pulls out her crossbow and aims it at Strak. The bolt narrowly misses his head, flies up in a perfect arc to near the ceiling of the cavern, and clatters against the stone wall of a shop on the other side of the small lake.



“Okay, now _that’s_ going a bit far,” says Zya, running up, “Fistfights are one thing, but you could have killed him with that…”



Strak draws his rapier, “You will regret that, mongrel,” and he moves up and slaps Triesste across the face with the flat of the blade. A pink welt springs up almost instantly on the half-Drow’s cheek and she cries out in pain. Strak smiles, “I’m going to enjoy this.”



Triesste draws her own rapier and thrusts directly at Strak’s chest. It is obvious that if the strike connects she will cause serious damage, but the Derro’s blade slaps hers aside casually.



The townspeople seem unsure what is going on. Is this part of the weapons act? Another wood piece clinks into the bowl.



Strak slaps Triesste again with the non-lethal side of his rapier, this time on the other side of her head. Triesste is caught off-guard, having expected her last blow to skewer her small opponent, and sees interesting sparkly things pop up, accompanying the stabbing pain. She falls, her head hitting the stone with a loud crack. She is unconscious, a pool of blood forming under her nose. The townspeople lose interest and wander off.



A few minutes later Triesste stirs, groaning, and sits up holding her throbbing head. “Let that be a lesson to you, half-breed,” says Strak, smiling, “not to insult or attack your betters.” It is uncertain whether Triesste even hears him as she tries to get the pounding behind her temples to settle down.



Beltana returns. She gives a little smile as she interprets Triesste’s condition and Strak’s smugness. The robed Drow gestures the group to her and walks off to the side, out of earshot of casual listeners. She speaks.



“I have spoken to Lord Ziffendel and received an invitation to return whenever I like,” she says casually. The others try to interject with questions, but she ignores them, “He is a senile old fool. I do not believe he had the wit to secretly arrange the delivery of that crate. However, there is definitely something suspicious going on in the Manor. He was married, an arranged marriage of course, to a young woman from New Sillar about ten years ago. She only got pregnant recently, but the baby was stillborn and she returned to New Sillar to be with her family in her time of grief. This was about six weeks ago.”


The others start talking, speculating, and scheming all at the same time, but again Beltana cuts them off, “I’m not finished. Another member of the household is also missing. Hubris, his name is, Lord Ziffendel’s pet cleric of Pelor. He arrived from New Sillar shortly after the woman. He left here shortly after she did. He did not tell Lord Ziffendel where he was going. He has been gone longer than is usual for his business trips. There has been no communication. It does not take a genius to come to a reasonable assumption here. Lord Ziffendel suspects nothing. He is worried that Hubris might have had an accident. He believes me to be a cleric of Pelor myself. I can return when I like just so he has somebody to talk to.”



The party thinks over this information. Zya says, “Okay, the obvious assumption is that Hubris and Lady Ziffendel were lovers, perhaps even back in New Sillar before the arranged marriage. He travels here to be with her. Years pass. He impregnates her, the baby isn’t really stillborn, and they run off to be with each other. Mom, Dad, and child. That all sounds reasonable. But what about that crate? Lord Ziffendel didn’t arrange it, unless he’s faking senility,” Beltana snorts as Zya continues, “so that leaves Hubris and Lady Ziffendel. If they’re lovers, I can see them attempting to kill her husband, but there are simpler ways then arranging a top-secret shipment of killer zombifying plants.”



Beltana shrugs, “That mystery remains unsolved.”



Zya replies, “I want to go with you when you return. If you can convince him a Drow is a cleric of Pelor, he shouldn’t be that surprised to see a kobold.”



Beltana shrugs again, “All right. I was planning on returning tomorrow. I see no reason why you can’t come.”



“I wonder,” says Crystal, “if Hubris was really a cleric of Pelor at all? If _you_ could convince him, he probably could be made to believe anything.”



Pondering their new information (at great length) the party finds an inn and spends the night uneventfully. In the morning, Beltana returns to Ziffendel manor with Zya in tow.



A servant opens the door. Recognizing Beltana, he gestures them in. Eyeing the pair with obvious distaste, he hurries off to inform Lord Ziffendel that he has visitors. Soon, the two find themselves in a small sitting room with the frail old Lord himself. He looks like he could keel over dead at any time and can barely hold his head up and speak coherently. He cracks a toothless smile when Beltana enters, and wheezes, “I was wondering if you would return! I so enjoyed our conversation yesterday. And who is the little one?”



“This is Zya,” says Beltana, “another acolyte from the temple of Pelor. How’s your leg?” Zya is amazed at the change in Beltana’s voice. She no longer sounds annoyed, aloof, or quiet. She oozes genuine concern, interest, and friendliness. She looks directly into Lord Ziffendel’s eyes and smiles gently as she talks.



“Oh, fine, fine. You fixed it up just fine. Good as new. So you’re from the temple, too, are you? Did you ever meet Hubris?”



“No,” Zya almost yipped nervously.



“A pity. He was a wonderful man, just wonderful. You’d like him.”



The conversation continues for several minutes. Zya asks a few questions, but no new information comes up.



Finally, at what seems an opportune moment, Zya says, “At the temple we hear many things. I have often heard of the impressive chapel you have here at your manor.”



Ziffendel beams, “It _is_ nice isn’t it? Wait, you haven’t seen it have you?”



“No, but I would dearly love to do so.”



Ziffendel rings a little bell and the servant who had answered the front door appears.



“Please show our guests the chapel.” “Yes, my Lord.”



Ziffendel stays in his chair, looking at nothing, while the servant leads Beltana and Zya down a hallway to a door emblazoned with the sun-symbol of Pelor. Pushing it open, he gestures for them to enter.



It is well appointed, with banners and murals depicting scenes from Pelor mythology. The altar and its appointments look unremarkable, and several candles are burning in sconces around the room. There is seating for perhaps ten people and one of the ubiquitous braziers provides warmth. Everything looks like it should. 



They made admiring noises at the decoration, then Zya turns to the servant, “I would dearly love to be able to meditate in this wonderful chapel.”



“Go right ahead,” the servant says, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, “I’ll wait.”



“Well, I could be a while, and I don’t want to keep you from your work…”



The servant glares down at her, “My Lord is senile, not me.”



“Fair enough,” she mutters under her breath.



She makes a show of sitting to meditate, but is peering around the room intently. Suddenly she reacts as if surprised, stands up, and says, “Come, I think it is time for us to make our farewells.”



The servant leads them back to Lord Ziffendel, who is nearly asleep. 



“My Lord,” says Beltana, “Your chapel is indeed impressive. I assure you the temple will look into the matter of your missing cleric.”


He looks up at them, eyes slowly focusing, “Oh, yes, of course. You will let me know if you discover anything, won’t you?”



“I’ll contact you in person if we hear anything.”



Zya and Beltana return to the others. Crystal and Slash are again putting on a performance in the marketplace, with no better luck than yesterday. When a free moment presents itself, they all gather around Beltana and Zya.



“Anything?” barks Slash.



“No,” says Beltana, “He didn’t say anything we didn’t already…”



“I found out something,” says Zya, “The chapel is phony. It’s not consecrated or hallowed.”



They turn to look at her.



“Are you sure?” Asks Crystal.



“Is that odd?” Asks Triesste.



“Yes, I am sure,” growls Zya, not explaining how she knows, “and yes, it is odd. All new chapels to Pelor are dedicated in a ceremony involving the nearest High Priest. It’s an expensive, time consuming ritual and includes the _Hallowing_ of the new chapel.



“Keep up the performance,” advises Beltana, “I’m going to see if I can get access to the Civil Records. Things like marriages, births, and deaths should all be recorded there.”



“I’m going to go inquire at the Temple of Pelor,” says Zya.



There is a brief discussion. Crystal and Triesste want to join Zya so they could ask any questions they think of that perhaps she might not. Nobody wants to go with Beltana to the Civil Records building. 



The Temple to Pelor is at the opposite end of the commercial district. It is an imposing structure with a white marble façade. Steps lead up to a broad main entrance, which itself is dominated by a very large brazier shaped like the sun and filled with brightly glowing coals. A pair of white-robed acolytes flank the entrance. Zya approaches to speak with one of the acolytes. Crystal and Triesste hang back, listening. 



Unfortunately, little is learned during the conversation. The acolyte wouldn’t bring a high-ranking individual unless Zya could demonstrate a real need. He answered her questions somewhat primly, assuring her that all chapels to Pelor were sanctified soon after construction and the caretaker-priest would inform them if something went wrong. Hubris was educated in New Sillar and sent here to serve Lord Ziffendel as a resident cleric. This is not unusual, all rich people like to have their own cleric. His paperwork was in order when he arrived, showing that he was a legitimate priest of Pelor, or else he would never have been allowed to serve Lord Ziffendel in that capacity. Then Zya makes the mistake of asking whether that paperwork can be forged, and the acolyte stiffens, “I rather resent that question, Kobold.” She can’t get anything else out of him.



They gather up Strak and Slash and returned to their inn-room to wait for Beltana. She arrived about an hour later, smelling of book-dust. She was sporting a small, satisfied smile.



“The marriage between Lord Ziffendel and the maiden Tiny Krum is legitimate and on record,” she informed them, “There is not, however, any record of a recent death in the household. I checked, and stillborn children are always given a name and a proper burial. Their records are very thorough, and if a child had been stillborn at that manor, it would have been recorded.”



They debate this and decide that they will have to explore this mystery to its conclusion. They do not know how the deadly crate ties into the affair, but it is clear that something sinister is lurking underneath what would otherwise appear to be a simple romance story. They decide that, in the morning, they will travel to New Sillar and find Lady Ziffendel.





_Next Session: A pointless random encounter, New Sillar, and Meeting the Krums._


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## Look_a_Unicorn (Nov 20, 2003)

Great update 

How often do you guys play? It HAS been a fair while since your last update, I would have thought you'd be further behind... (not complaining, just surprised)


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## MerakSpielman (Nov 21, 2003)

Good question. Most groups have a problem where everybody wants to play and whoever ends up DMing gets burnt out. It's a pretty busy job, after all, and it's hard coming up with ideas. Our group has the opposite problem. We're currently running four different campaigns with four different DMs. It seems that everybody has an idea for a campaign these days. 

So we rotate - every week, we do a different game. So on average we play my campaign once a month. In practice it ends up being even less often, since inevitably we can't play some weekends and the whole schedule gets bumped one week forward. Sometimes it could be as many as 6 weeks between sessions. 

This rate should speed up since one of our DMs is taking an extended hiatus from DMing. Her world proved to be larger and more complicated than she had anticipated, and somehow she ended up with the largest group of players. She plays Slash in this campaign. So, with one campaign fewer going on, we'll be playing my campaign once every 3 weeks from now on.

It's good to know the work I put into typing this is being apprecieated! Thanks for reading and posting, Look_a_Unicorn.


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## BSF (Nov 24, 2003)

Merak, nice stuff.  I am guessing this is the same group that you referenced in a post a while ago about gaming with a group of women?  It sounds a lot like this is going to go to where they are investigating Tiny Krum and trying to determine if she looks like a woman that just lost a child.  

Any chance I could get you to elaborate a bit on the Swashbuckling cards?


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## MerakSpielman (Nov 24, 2003)

Not only that, they try to determine, by looking at her, if she is currently caring for a baby personally... That was the night none of the other men could make it. Come to think of it, that was the last night we played. Egads, has it been _that_ long?

The swashbuckling cards are great fun. I assume you read the bit above, but in case somebody else missed it:







> Also, I am making use of "Swashbuckling Cards." These are passed out at the beginning of each session, one to each player, and kept hidden from everyone, including the DM. They each contain a title and/or clever movie quote and allow something strange and unusual to happen. Some are mundane, such as "_Handy Rope_: You character can move anywhere on the battlefield before taking his normal action," and some are extraordinary, such as "_Excellent_: A cohort or flunky enters with good news," or "_Pillows and Hot Baths_: The next room you enter will contain comfortable pillows and hot baths. There will be no random encounters while you are in this room." These cards are returned to the deck when played and are intended to introduce a random element to the game, as well as to amuse the players by making the DM think quickly on his feet to make what happens seem reasonable. They also add a light-hearted element to a generally dark game.



I'm attaching the .doc file for the cards. I formatted them better, printed them on cardstock, and put a stylized dragon on the back for actual use. I have no idea who came up with them, but I originally found them posted here at EnWorld.


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## BSF (Nov 24, 2003)

Huh - Pretty interesting.  I am assuming that your card is only valid for that session and that all cards are reshuffled before the next game?  Also, do you deal out cards for the BBEG's?


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## MerakSpielman (Nov 24, 2003)

They can keep their card for the next session if they want to, but how long are you going to hold on to a card that you never get to play? There are some cards that could have a stunning and irrevocible impact on the game (The BBEG, instead of dying, repents and joins your side), but the opportunities to play them are so few and far between... And are you really certain you _want_ him on your side?

No, the BBEGs don't get cards. The cards, extra sub-racial abilities, and organization feats might be a bit unbalancing in favor of the PCs, but other than the cards, all the NPCs have the same benefits. Plus, the average level of a random NPC in this particular underdark is 5th... It's a harsh place.


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## Look_a_Unicorn (Nov 24, 2003)

MerakSpielman said:
			
		

> Good question. Most groups have a problem where everybody wants to play and whoever ends up DMing gets burnt out. It's a pretty busy job, after all, and it's hard coming up with ideas. Our group has the opposite problem. We're currently running four different campaigns with four different DMs. It seems that everybody has an idea for a campaign these days.



Yeah I know both problems, the DM running the campaign I story-houred here for a while has only just come back from about 6 months off (admittedly he had his final year project to do as well).
However, my brother is also running a campaign I'm playing in, so the campaign I want to run is sitting in the backburner until one or both other campaigns are concluded!



			
				MerakSpielman said:
			
		

> It's good to know the work I put into typing this is being apprecieated! Thanks for reading and posting, Look_a_Unicorn.



hey, my pleasure .


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## dpdx (Nov 25, 2003)

Okay, I recognize Silleria and the Amulet of Sending as hallmarks of a MerakSpielman campaign. Nice story hour!


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## MerakSpielman (Jan 23, 2004)

OK, here's the next update. I promise to keep it more up to date from now on, but remember, we don't play this game too often.


Session 4​

They set off the next morning for New Sillar. Slash observes that their performances didn’t even come close to earning enough wood to pay for the entertainment license. This is the same road they took on their way to New Fifechester, and there is very little of interest to see. The journey will take eight days to complete. It does not occur to the companions to complain about the dullness of the journey, or the blandness of the fungus-jerky rations. This is nothing more or less than they would expect.



Midway through the third day, Triesste calls for a sudden halt.



“I see something. On the ceiling. Looks like a bump of rock but it’s not… I saw it move.”



“This can’t be good,” mutters Crystal.



“I’m going to take a shot at it,” the half-drow replies. Nobody objects. She levels her crossbow at the dim, shadowy shape and fires. Almost instantly the creature bursts into motion, scampering along the ceiling towards to party. “I can’t tell if I hit it, but I definitely got its attention!”



As the travelers prepare for battle, the creature attacks them with two long, claw-tipped tentacles. They slash through the air at Crystal, who narrowly avoids them. Weapons drawn, the party faces their adversary. It’s moving so quickly that even with their darkvision they have trouble making out exactly what it looks like.



“You’d do well to leave us alone, whatever you are,” shouts Triesste, “You’re badly outnumbered!”



To everybody’s surprise, the creature responds by turning tail and scurrying away from them, fleeing as fast as it can.



“Damn,” growls Strak, “I was looking forward to that fight. Why’d it attack us if it didn’t plan on going through with it?”



Zya muses, “Maybe it didn’t realize how many of us there were. Or perhaps it planned on grabbing one of us and running off to eat at its leisure. Whatever its reasoning, it’s gone now.”



Warily, the party continues on their way, expecting another attack, but they see no sign of the creature.



Finally, weary from the long walk, the group arrives at the gates of New Sillar, capital of the human kingdom of Lower Silleria. There is a guard there in the yellow-and-gray livery of Silleria, but he seems flustered and distracted, hardly glancing at the group as he approaches them and calls out a warning.



“Travelers! The city is experiencing some trouble at present. If you want to go on in, fine, but things are a bit hectic.”



The party stops, “Why, what’s going on?” asks Crystal.



“Vistraks. We call ‘em Filcher’s around here, though. We’ve been hit by a plague of them. The buggers can swim through stone like it was water. They’ve been stealing things left and right.”



“Can’t the city guards do anything?”



“We do our best! But they only stay out of the stone for a few seconds, long enough to grab something, then they sink back into the floor and vanish. But, much as I hate to say it, they’re not the real problem.”



“What is?” inquires Triesste.



“Looting. There’s been a rash of petty theft, since nobody can be sure who or what took it. Everybody and his neighbor are stealing little things here and there. It’s all we can do to maintain the semblance of order. We’ve really got our hands full.”



“What do these… Vilstraks… Look like?” asks Beltana.



“’Bout six foot tall, if they didn’t hunch over like they do. Skinny. Weak-looking. Gray skin. No clothing. Bug heads.”



Triesste looks disgusted, “Bug heads? Gross.”



Crystal addresses the guard, “Thank you for your warning. We will be on our guard, but we have pressing business in this city.”



The guard waves them inside, then rushes off to tend to other business.



“They didn’t even bother to search our packs,” Slash says, “Curious.”



Entering the city proper, the party sees nothing really out of the ordinary, but the people all seem worried, and there is little conversation as they hurry on their way. The guards patrol in groups of four, with the royal crest of Silleria emblazoned on their breastplates. They look better equipped and better trained than the guards in New Fifechester. The travelers, despite being a somewhat unusual group, are largely ignored. They obtain lodging at a squat stone inn near the entrance to the city and peruse a map Triesste purchased from a vender outside.



“Well,” muses Zya, “All the manors are over in that section,” she points, “So the Krum manor shouldn’t be difficult to find. We need a good story to get us inside, though.”



“How about messengers?” suggests Crystal, “We could be delivering a message from Lord Ziffendel. I’m sure his interest in his wife’s condition would seem legitimate.”



“Good thinking. But we can’t all go – it doesn’t take many people to deliver a message and some of us,” she looks pointedly at Strak, “are a bit lacking in social skills.”



“I’ll go,” says Beltana, “I spoke to Lord Ziffendel personally, saw the house and servants, and whatnot, so I can be a bit more believable.”



“Then I should go too,” agrees Zya, “That’s probably enough. We don’t want a crowd – too suspicious. How about the rest of you?”



“I want to go check into the bad side of town,” says Crystal, “Check out the rumors, see if I can make any contacts. Any of the rest of you want to come along?” Strak, Triesste, and Slash all agree to go with Crystal.



They leave the inn, Beltana and Zya heading north-east to the wealthier section of town, and the rest of the party traveling north-west, into just the opposite sort of district.



Several minutes after separating, Slash starts to get pensive. Separating from the rest of the group, she walks on the other side of the street, weaving in and out of the foot traffic. Crystal looks over at her with a knowing smile. 



Triesste frowns, “What’s she doing?” 



“You’ll see.”



A few minutes later, a shout erupts from the opposite side of the street, “Thief! Guards! Stop, thief!”



Triesste stammers, “What? She didn’t…”



Strak lets out his harsh laugh, “Oh, I’ll be she did.”



Crystal motions them to keep moving, “I’m sure she’ll catch up with us… best not to act as though we know anything about what’s going on.”



Sure enough, about ten minutes later, Slash rejoins the party, breathless. As there are no guards following her, the others don’t bother mentioning her little excursion. Strak, however, keeps chuckling under his breath.



Shortly thereafter, the group arrives at a dingy tavern in the dingy part of town. Rowdy humans are shoving and laughing everywhere, but they manage to find a table at which to sit. The furniture stinks of spilt, rancid ant-mead, but the patrons don’t seem to care.



“Remind me again what we’re doing in this place,” mutters Triesste distastefully.



“What, what’s wrong with it,” asks Strak. He rudely grabs the arm of a passing serving-girl, “Get us some mead.” 



She pulls her arm back, looking distastefully at Strak, “That’s a wood each, Derro, but it comes with some food. _Your_ kind has to pay up front.” Everybody shells out his or her wood and the girl hurries off towards the bar.



“Excuse me,” says Crystal, “It’s time to dig up some information.” Without even waiting for his mead to arrive, he stands up and walks up to the bar, gesturing the barkeep over to join him in hunched conversation. After a minute or so, the barkeep points to a man sitting at a table in the corner and the others watch as Crystal goes over to talk with him, though they can’t make out the conversation. The man in question is large, dark skinned, and well cloaked. Crystal tries to engage him in conversation, but seems to be getting nowhere. Finally, the man expresses a bit of interest and asks him a question, eyebrows raised. In response, Crystal spits into the man’s tankard. The dark man stands up violently, then laughs and says harshly:



“Ok, little Drow, you made your point. Buy me a fresh tankard and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”



But Crystal rebuffs this offer, “Buy your own drink, human. I’m here on business.”



The big man’s face reddens with anger, “You deny me this? Prepare for pain!” and he whips out a short sword from under his cloak. There is a sudden flurry of activity as people scurry to clear the general area. Crystal pulls out his nunchukus, looking irritated and more than a bit scared. The man is easily double his weight, and it all looks like muscle.


Suddenly, Slash is there, whirling her own nunchukus expertly as she leaps onto the table in front of the man, “Now, now, big fellow, there’s no need for this to come to blows,” the kobold begins, “I’m sure we can all put our weapons away and settle this like…”



She is cut of as the burly man sweeps her off the table with his left arm. There’s a chuckle, and everybody turns for a moment to see Strak, still sitting at the group’s original table, leaning back in his chair and sipping the just-delivered mead.



“Oh, no, don’t stop now, this is just getting good,” he calls out.



Triesste analyzes the situation. They don’t want to be too conspicuous – a bar fight is not what the group needs. If violence is out… and Slash already tried diplomacy… well, there is only one thing left for her to try. She grabs the three remaining tankards off the table, dumps the mead out on the floor, and begins to juggle them. Everybody in the tavern looks at her in amazement. She is so hideously poor at juggling that it’s almost comical. She keeps dropping one or more of the pewter tankards and having to scramble to pick it up again. It’s clear that the comedy is due entirely to incompetence, not artifice, but she carries on. Even the burly man, previously about to run Crystal through with his blade, is staring in bemused amazement. Finally, the laughter starts, honest-to-goodness, why-are-you-making-such-a-fool-out-of-yourself laughter. Even Crystal’s opponent becomes caught up helplessly, sinking back into his chair, tears of mirth beginning to form in the corners of his squinting eyes.



Strak looks disappointed, “Spoilsport.”



“Let’s go,” says Slash, getting up from the floor, “I think we’ve gotten as much investigating done as we’re going to tonight. I hope Beltana and Zya had better luck.”



----



Meanwhile, Beltana and Zya have reached the Manor District. The buildings here were not carved from local stone, but from more expensive, imported stone. Though none of the stone used is particularly rare, a wide array of colors are represented. Each manor is different, seeming custom built, but most are at least two stories high. The overall effect of the different shapes and colors is strangely beautiful in the light of the divinely-enchanted lampposts. 



The pair asks for directions and finds their way to the Krum manor, built against the side of the cavern. They observe it silently for a few minutes, seeing if they can notice anything out of the ordinary. Specifically, they check for any signs of a young baby, but they see and hear nothing out of the ordinary. They meet in a huddled conference for a minute before approaching the front door.



“So exactly what is our story?”



“Her husband misses her and is wondering when she’ll return. We’re just messengers.”



“Keep an eye out for any clues that the child is present. That’s a mystery I would prefer to have solved.”



“Agreed.”



They smooth their rumpled clothing and knock on the door. A wizened servant answers.



“Yes?” He looks suspiciously at the Drow and Kobold on the doorstep.



Beltana speaks: “We bear a message for the Lady Ziffendel from her husband.”



“Very well,” he holds out his hand.



“Sir, the message is of a private nature. We are instructed only to relay it to the Lady herself, and to not leave without her response.”



The servant looks irritated, “Very well. I suppose you had better come inside. I will inform Tiny.” He slowly moves off, leaving the companions in the small foyer.



“He refers to her somewhat informally,” comments Zya.



“He’s so old he probably thinks of her as a child. He’s probably been since long before she was born.”



Very shortly thereafter, a woman arrives, with the old servant hovering a few paces behind. She is relatively young, slender, and quite pretty. She is dressed in black, apparently mourning the “loss” of her child. 



She speaks, calmly: “Please, come into the sitting room,” and leads them into a small chamber, elegantly appointed with small, tasteful decorations that in no way appeal to the aesthetic preferences of either Drow or Kobold. She gestures for them to sit, though she remains standing.



“What news from my Lord?”



“Lady, your husband has grown sad and lonely in your absence. He wishes to inquire as to how much longer you will be away.”



She mutters, “I’m surprised the senile old fool has even noticed I’m gone.”



Beltana and Zya are started at the sudden venom in her voice. The servant doesn’t even blink.



“Return to my _Lord_, and inform him that I am not yet recovered from my grieving. I need to stay with my family, in my ancestral home, a while longer. I wish his health were such that he could travel to join me, but alas, it is not to be.” She dismisses them with a wave of her hand and stalks out of the room, leaving the thin, metal door swinging slowly on its hinges behind her.



“Er, well, then,” stammers Zya, “Thank you. We’ll deliver your message.”



The servant leads them back to the front door. A pretty maid is there, dusting the odds and ends in the hallway. She turns to them, beginning to beam cheerfully, noticing the visitors aren’t humans, and not managing to pull it off.



“You’re the messengers from Lord Ziffendel? Of course you are! You know, it’s traditional to offer people on official business a bit of hospitality. You’re leaving in the morning, so you’ll stay the night here, of course. I’m afraid you’ve missed supper.” She looks at them expectantly.



“Well, of course we’ll stay here, if that’s all right,” Beltana responds.



“Nonsense, you’ll be no trouble at all! I just need to get your room set up… Won’t take long.”



“No hurry,” interjects Zya, “We have an errand to run first in the city. We’ll be back shortly.”



Beltana and Zya return to the inn to report to the others. Slash and Strak are busy with some sort of contraption involving a looped rope on the floor.



“Filcher trap,” explains Slash, “See?” she points to a large shiny gem on the table, “It’s glass. Bait, you see. When the filcher comes up through the floor to get it, it gets caught in the loop.”



“Maybe we can catch one and, heh, _use_ its abilities for ourselves,” grins Strak.



They wait patiently, holding the end of the rope expectantly as Beltana and Zya begin their report on what happened at the manor and their brief meeting with Tiny Ziffendel.



“So did she look like she had just lost a child, or was taking care of one?” asks Triesste.



“How on earth would you be able to tell?” chuckles Crystal.



“Well,” muses Zya, “She was wearing black for mourning.”



“Did it look like she had just changed into those clothes after you arrived, but before she appeared, just to fool you?” Triesste inquires.



“How on earth…” begins Crystal again.



“No,” says Beltana, “Her hair accessories matched her dress, and the buttons and laces were all carefully done up. There was too little time for her to change into that outfit. Ultimately, I don’t believe she has been caring for a child.”



This time Crystal just raises his eyebrows questioningly.



Beltana sighs, “I am Drow, but I know the ways of women-kind. She did not appear overly tired. She did not have bags under her eyes. She did not have, if you’ll forgive the term, that certain ‘glow’ about her that human mothers get. Her breasts did not appear engorged. If she was producing milk, as she would have been in the latter parts of pregnancy, it has since dried up from lack of nursing.”



They all look at her.



“Well, I wasn’t born yesterday. You don’t live a century as a female and not learn these things.”



Zya continues the brief story.



“… and so we’re going to be spending the night there. Perhaps we can snoop around a bit, find something out. I’m not holding out much hope, though.”



Everybody agrees that they didn’t have any better plans, so the Kobold and Drow soon find themselves walking back to Krum Manor. The old servant answers the door again.



“I’ll show you to your room,” he says, somewhat stiffly and with a distinct note of disapproval, “this way.”



They follow him up a grand marble staircase, down a hallway, and to a sturdy metal door. 



“You will, of course, be expected to remain politely in your room until the morning. Good night.”



They enter the room and shut the door. Compared to the luxury of the rest of the manor, the room seems distinctly… spartan. In fact, shadows on the wall indicate where hangings and paintings have recently been removed. There are two small beds, a table, an oil lamp, a standing mirror, and a narrow, curtained window overlooking the street by which they arrived.



“I think they stripped the room of valuables in preparation for our visit,” comments Zya, sighing heavily, “Why on earth wouldn’t they trust a Kobold?”



“Stay awake. No matter what he said about staying here, we need to get some information tonight.”



“Right.”



So they wait, awake, in the darkness. It doesn’t occur to either of them to light the lamp on the table, since they can both see perfectly well in the darkness. The general noises and bustle of the household slowly dies down into the sleepy silence of night.



“You know,” says Zya, after an hour or two, “I was really hoping to hear a baby crying. I’m beginning to think the child isn’t here after all. Perhaps…” she stops and listens, “Someone’s coming.”



Soft footsteps approach their door, and then there is a faint knock.



Beltana moves to answer the door. The Lady Tiny Ziffendel stands there in her nightgown, which is, like her dress earlier, totally black.



“Let me in! I mustn’t be seen!” Beltana moves aside and the Lady hurries into the room, pulling the door shut behind her.



“Do you mind if I light this?” she indicates the lamp, “I can barely see,” she fumbles in her nightgown’s pockets for a tindertwig and lights the lamp. Finally, she turns to face the companions. She seems pale and is trembling slightly.



“So, er, um…” she is clearly struggling to find the appropriate words, “My… husband…he is in good health?”



“He is,” answers Beltana quietly.



“And his servants? Everybody is well?”



“We saw only one servant. He seemed to be handling himself all right.”



“You know… I hate for my Lord to be lonely, with nobody to talk to late at night… You know, he is very good friends with his cleric, Hubris.”



Zya and Beltana exchange a quick glance. Where is she going with this?



“Well, he did mention that they are good friends…”



“And how is Hubris,” she exclaims, “He’s there, is he not? Keeping my Lord company?”



“No, no he is not. He left several weeks ago.”



“When?” there is a sudden urgency in Tiny’s voice, “Exactly when did he leave?”



They give her the date. The Lady quickly makes a few calculations on her fingers. Finally, she collapses, sobbing, onto the bed.



“Oh, _gods_, I knew something would happen. He should have _been_ here by now.”



Zya and Beltana exchange another glance as she continues sobbing into the pillow.


Finally, Zya speaks, “You… you were expecting him?”



Tiny looks up, eyes wide, “No! I mean…” her hand flies to her mouth, “Oh, what have I _said_? I… I can trust you to keep this quiet, can’t I? Please tell me I can trust you?”



“You can trust us,” Beltana reassures her. She has taken on the persona she wore when she visited Ziffendel manor with Zya: soft, compassionate, caring. Zya knows that this act will drop the moment Tiny is out of earshot.



“I… I desperately need a messenger. If he was late, I’m supposed to send him a message… Oh, but I _can’t!_ The ring… the ring…”



“What ring is this?”



The Lady pulls out a kerchief and dabs her eyes, trying to calm herself long enough to speak coherently, “He… he gave me a ring… I was to include it with any message I wrote, to insure it was really from me and that he could trust what it says. I’d ask you to be my messengers, since I can’t ask anybody in my household, and I can’t even leave without an escort, and…” tears form at the corners of her eyes, she dabs them and continues, “But it’s no use… even if you agreed to do this, I’ve… I’ve lost…”



“You’ve lost the ring?” Beltana asks gently. 



“Y… yes… Actually, it was stolen. The… the filchers… one of them came and took it. My bureau is of stone, and it just rose up out of the floor, reached right through the bureau like it wasn’t there, and vanished again. I… I didn’t dare scream, or tell anybody, since nobody knew I had it…”



Beltana reaches out and pats her hand consolingly, “I understand, Lady. Isn’t there some way you could, say, buy a similar ring and…”



“No!” she exclaims sharply, “Well, the thing is, there’s an engraving on the ring. Words, written on the inside.”



“What does it say?” asks Zya.



“It’s a message… of a personal nature.”



“Ah.”



“But suppose,” Beltana says carefully, “suppose somehow you got your ring back…”



“Oh, I’d do _anything_ to get it back! Could you find it? If you could I’d give you anything I have in return. I’d be so happy! I’d… but there’s no way… The filchers…”



“I promise you, Tiny,” soothes Beltana, “We will try our hardest to find your ring, and to reunite you with Hubris.”



Tiny bursts into tears again for a few seconds, then manages to say, “I never thought I’d be able to say this to a Drow… I’ve been told they’re all mean and nasty and would make me a slave if I talked to them… but, _thank you so much_. If you could do this for me, I’d be eternally in your debt. I absolutely _must_ know what’s happening with Hubris.”



“What does the ring look like?” asks Zya.



“It’s gold, and set with an onyx. You already know it has engravings on it. Now, if you please, I need get back to my room before my maid notices I’ve left. Again, thank you.”



She closes the door behind her.



“Well _that_ was interesting,” Beltana says coldly, “I think we need to find this ring.”



“We’ll talk to the others in the morning,” Zya agrees.



They sleep.





_Next: The quest for the ring._


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## MerakSpielman (Apr 14, 2004)

MerakSpielman said:
			
		

> I'm attaching the .doc file for the cards. I formatted them better, printed them on cardstock, and put a stylized dragon on the back for actual use. I have no idea who came up with them, but I originally found them posted here at EnWorld.



Though this campaign is now sadly defunct, I'm going to go ahead and post the new version of Swashbuckling Cards for anybody who wants it. I changed a couple things to make them 3.5 friendly.


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