# The Golden Key: From the Casebook of Nigel Spenser (Updated 9/16)



## Kid Charlemagne (Jul 21, 2005)

*Daily Telegraph, January 6th, 1888*

*British Museum Burglarized!*
Public Outraged!  Police Baffled!
_Young Librarian Beaten Within An Inch of His Life; Stolen Book "History of John Uskglass" Thought To Be Forgery_
------------------------------------------------------
Britain Loses to Wales in Football, 2-1; Ensorcellments Suspected
------------------------------------------------------
Fir Bholg Protest At Irish Embassy Turns Violent; Sidhe Envoy: "Well What Did You Expect?"
_Peaceful Picketing Interrupted By Arsonist With Alchemical Fire, Elves Blame Dwarves._
------------------------------------------------------
Artificer's Guild Denies Hiring Sherlock Holmes To Investigate Missing Wizard
------------------------------------------------------


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Jul 21, 2005)

_London, 1887
221B Baker Street_

The young man shifted nervously on his feet.  He had been ushered into the sitting room by a kindly old woman, the landlord, he had deduced, but now he had stood in front of the two older men for what seemed an interminable period of time.  He knew that in fact, scarcely thirty seconds had passed, but it had never occurred to him just how long thirty seconds could seem, leaving aside certain coursework in his first year or two at the university.

One of the two men sat in an armchair, the slightest hint of a grin beginning to play across his face as he looked first at the young man, then at his companion, who was engrossed in the afternoon newspaper.  He made no sign of acknowledgment, and finally the man in the armchair could stand it no longer.

"I'm sorry, dear boy," he said, as if apologizing for his friend.  "What did you say your name was?"

"Spenser," the young man replied.  "Nigel Spenser."

At this, the other man crisply flipped down the top half of his paper.  He took in the young man's appearance in a quick glance, and gave a small, dismissive snort.

"So, Mr. Spenser, you have decided to take it upon yourself to make my lodgings the very first stop after your graduation from Oxford.  I am certain that I can see no reason for this.  Perhaps you could explain."

Nigel was caught off guard by the man's instant, yet accurate stating of his recent activities, but only for a moment.  He smiled a wide grin.

"That's very good, Mr. Holmes.  Quite excellent, in fact.  I see that Doctor Watson does not exaggerate in the slightest when he describes your deductive powers."

"Doctor Watson is an exceedingly painstaking chronicler.  But my question, you have failed to answer it."

"My apologies.  As you have rightly guessed, I am recently graduated from Oxford.  This morning in fact.  I took the first train to London in order to present myself at your door and offer myself as your assistant."

He stammered for a moment and continued.

"I have made an intense study of the history of crime, as have you.  I have degrees in history and in chemistry, and have had some small success in minor matters at school…"

Watson rested his chin upon his hand and grinned, watching Holmes for his reaction.  Holmes, for his part, stared intently at Nigel, sizing him up.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Spenser," he replied.  "That is Spenser with an 's', I presume?  I have no need for an assistant at this time, nor do I anticipate a need in the future.  What assistance I require is ably provided by Doctor Watson.  Perhaps you might find opportunities with Scotland Yard.  I understand certain insurance companies employ detectives as well.  Lloyd's of London is well known for that sort of thing.  With your high marks in school, you could certainly find employment there."

Nigel started again as Holmes seemed to pull facts about him out of thin air. Then his grin returned.

"Of course.  You saw the seal denoting my academic honors on my degree."  Nigel was clutching his graduation papers like a dying man clinging to a raft, or a witch doctor to his totem.

Holmes afforded him a small smile.

"Quite right."

He flicked the newspaper back up to resume reading.

"Good day, Mr. Spenser."

Nigel was stunned, suddenly speechless.  Doctor Watson showed him downstairs to the door, continuing to apologize for Holmes' brusqueness.

"I'm afraid Holmes can be a little harsh with visitors at times, Mr. Spenser.  You should pay it no mind.  He really does have very little need of help; I often wonder if I'm truly helping him myself."  He showed Nigel the door, and shook his hand as he left.  Nigel took it, in a kind of sleepwalker's daze.

As the door shut, it seemed as if he came out of a dream.  He started towards the street, then turned on his heels as if to return to the apartment, and then came to a full stop again on the sidewalk.

"Hmph.  Well."

"That was silly of me!" He finally declared to no one in particular.  "And why should the great Sherlock Holmes take me on as an assistant, after all?"

A street vendor looked up at him, as if the question had been asked of him.

"I oodn knooow," he offered, unhelpfully.

"I have no real experience.  Nothing to recommend me besides my marks in school.  And what good are marks in school?"

"Nayver poot mooch stok in graydes meself," the street vendor ruminated.

"Lloyd's of London.  That's not a half bad idea, even if I say so myself," Nigel said, his grin returning.  His hand went to his pocket, and pulled out a newspaper advertisement.  Lloyd's of London, it read, seeks Talented Investigators For Important Work.  He glanced at the notice, and then stuck it back in his pocket.

He walked down Baker Street to where it met Paddington Street, several blocks down, and hailed a hansom from there.

He did not look behind him, but if he did he would have noted that his progress down the block was being watched intently from the window of the sitting room of 221B, Baker Street.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Jul 21, 2005)

*The Golden Key*

_Lloyd's of London
January 7th, 1888_

Nigel Spenser paced, bowl pipe in hand.  It was not out of nervousness, but rather out of an inability to contain his natural energy.  He did not much like sitting and waiting, and he had been waiting in the meeting chambers of Lloyd's of London for twenty minutes.  By contrast the young, somewhat severe appearing woman nearest to him was sitting in her chair, absolutely still.  She wore the outfit of a fencing instructor under her long coat, and bore a rapier openly in its sheath at her side.  Nigel noted that her ears were slightly pointed, betraying elvish blood, while her eyes were almost lizard-like… Kobold?  Nigel wasn't certain.  Small talk while waiting had revealed her name was Orla, and she was indeed a fencing instructor.

For what it was worth she was one of the least unusual of the six "independent agents" that had assembled in the meeting chamber.  Nigel had been in London for six months, since his graduation from Oxford the spring before, and had in that time seen Daoine Sidhe, Kobold, Orkling, and Fir Bholg in the city, yet he could not recall having seen such an motley assemblage in any one place.  Nor had he seen such a large assemblage to investigate what was essentially an insurance claim.  _An odd claim it must be,_ Nigel thought.

Sitting at the table was a powerfully built man with dark hair and a thick handlebar mustache.  His name was Sandor Kertesz.  He was, of all things, a performer in P.T. Barnum's Circus, which was in town at the moment.  A knife-thrower.

The young lady standing behind him appeared the very model of a modest English gentlewoman, apart from the telltale signs of the elfborn.  Amanda Higgins-Rafferty was her name.  She wore a long velvet coat, and carried a large case containing God knows what.  Nigel had not the nerve to ask.

At first Nigel had mistaken the next person for a slender young man, but he had quickly realized that it was a young woman, dressed in the suit of a fashionable gentleman.  Nigel was reminded of George Sand, the scandalous French novelist.  Her name was Catherine Cavanaugh.  She was quite tall, thin, blond, and clearly to-the-manor-born.

The last fellow in the room was perhaps the oddest.  He was a tall man by the name of Artimis Swain, of sleek build and olive complexion, and had apparently decided to go for an appearance right out of the Arabian Nights.  He wore billowy trousers that did not entirely conceal the tatoos that covered his legs.  He was bare-chested – sheer lunacy in the London winter, Nigel thought, leaving aside the questionable fashion – and he wore a collar around his neck from which hung a half-cape.  He looked like nothing more than a Djinn from a storybook.  Nigel resisted the sudden urge to ask him for a wish.   

A tall thin man in his mid-forties bustled in to the room.  He was quite bald, with sideburns so long that it seemed he was trying to make up for the lack of growth above his ears with the growth below.  He looked at the assembled agents, and seemed to lose his train of thought at the sight.  He composed himself quickly, with an air of modest disdain.

"Ahem.  My name is Thomas Peabody."

"I believe you were working for Williams?"

Orla was the first to answer.  "Yes.  But not together."

"I see."

"Well, let's get right on to it, then."  Peabody placed a folder on the table.

"The claim we would like you to investigate is that of a Leo Melthorpe.  A locksmith.  His offices are not far from here, in fact.  His shop was broken into three nights ago, just as he was closing, and he was savagely beaten by an assailant with a…"

He squinted again at the report.

"..Umm… a table leg, apparently."

"What was stolen?" asked Nigel.  "Is the policy claim for the entire shop, or a particular object?"

"The policy only covered one item in the shop.  A key."

Orla looked up.  "How old is the policy?"

"Forty years, about.  It was purchased by his father, Godwin."

Peabody harrumphed.  "I'll be honest with you.  We'd like to not have to pay out on this policy.  We want you to go to Mr. Melthorpe's shop, find out what you can, and recover the key.  Needless to say, our customer's reputations are very important; we would like this matter to stay out of the papers, and out of the hands of the police."

"About our fee…" Sandor began.

"Oh, very well, very well," Peabody replied.

Nigel Spenser allowed himself a small smile.  He always enjoyed the little game the "independent agents" and the representatives from Lloyd's played when it came to fees.  The fee finally was negotiated at £350 apiece.  Considerable, especially considering that with six agents, that came to over £2,000.  Nigel quietly calculated figures in his head.  If they were willing to pay that much to try and recover the key, the policy was likely to be in the tens of thousands.  All that, for a single key.

Finally, Peabody left.  The others gathered around the folder with the information they had to go on.  Nigel looked for any sign of the text of the actual policy.  As he expected, it was not there.  They were to know only as much as was needed to execute their duty.

As they got ready for the short jaunt over to Melthorpe's shop, Nigel took careful note of his compatriots' preparations.  It was not unknown for unusual cases such as this to run into "challenges."  Artimis Swain bore a spear, and a rapier at his side.  The rapier was not an unusual weapon for London, but the spear was a tad unique, Nigel thought.  Catherine – or "Cass" as she quickly indicated she preferred – brought out a longsword from a case, and expertly hid it behind the long suit coat that reached to mid-calf on her tall, lanky frame.

Amanda apparently had an axe, while Orla already bore her rapier openly.  Nigel set his doctor's bag upon the table, and pulled out a shirt of fine steel chain, and an intricately carved box etched with Fir Bholg runes.  He opened the box, revealing two matching Fir Bholg hand axes of exquisite craftsmanship, and stowed them under his frock coat.

Can never be too careful in London these days, he thought to himself.


----------



## ragboy (Jul 21, 2005)

Writing is crisp and well-edited - Check
Story is unique - Check
World is a little off kilter - Check

Subscribed! 

Keep it coming.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Jul 22, 2005)

Thank you!  Credit has to got to eris404, who is the DM of this game - I am merely a player, Nigel's player to be exact.

The setting is, as you say, slightly off kilter in a lovely way.  I think it is really merely an excuse for eris404 to do her spot-on cockney urchin voice.

Update on the way!


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Jul 22, 2005)

Leo Melthorpe's shop was a short walk from the Royal Exchange.  As they approached, the Lloyd's agents could see that the front window of the shop had been shattered, as if from a heavy blow.

Artimis Swain looked at the ground outside the shop, ignoring the small crowd of street urchins who had come to gawk at the crime scene.

"From outside.  Probably a weapon of some sort."

Inside the shop, Nigel could see the form of the man he presumed to be Mr. Melthorpe, sweeping up debris and scattered bits and pieces from the floor.  He was a roundish man, in his late thirties, with curly dark hair and a bushy mustache.  One side of his face was purple and black from a severe beating.  With a detached gaze, Nigel watched for any signs that the man was faking his injuries.  Quite the contrary, he decided.  He was hurt even worse than he seemed.

Melthorpe flinched as he heard the bell over his door signalling their entry.  Nigel immediately tried to put the man at ease.

"We are very sorry to disturb you, Mr. Melthorpe, but we are investigators from Lloyd's of London.  We are here to speak to you about your claim."

Melthorpe released his white-knuckled grip on his broom.

"Oh, thank you, you've come!  I will do anything I can to help you in your investigations!"

"Perhaps you could answer a few questions?" Orla asked.  "We don't want to take up too much of your time."

Melthorpe waved them over to a couple of chairs towards the back of the shop, antique furnishments that had been cruelly cut open, and their stuffing pulled out.  Nigel and Orla sat down, while Cass and Amanda stood silently, watching over the small shop.  Artimis remained outside, looking at the narrow alley and exterior of the shop.  Sandor stepped into the back to look at the back door for signs of entry.  The back door was in perfect condition.

"Could you tell us exactly what happened, Mr. Melthorpe?"

"Dear.  Well, I had closed up the shop and gone home the other day, when I received an urgent message from an old associate of mine, a Mr. George Hunt.  He is a fellow locksmith.  The letter asked me to return to my shop at about seven, to meet a customer."

"Who delivered the message?" Orla asked.

"A young child, a little ragged thing.  He just gave it me and left; I had never seen him before."

Sandor looked out at the small crowd of urchins outside, and stepped out of the shop.

"Shortly after I arrived, a very rough-looking Orkling came in.  He didn't say much of anything, just 'Where is it?' and brandished a… a table leg.  Wrapped round with iron bands.  I said I had no idea what he was talking about, but it was no use."

"And he beat you until you gave him what he was looking for?" Nigel asked.

"He beat me after I gave it to him!"  Melthorpe wailed.  "It seemed as if he did it just for his amusement!"

"And just what was it he was looking for?"

"A key.  It was in the safe, along with some money."

"Can you describe the key?  Forgive my saying so, but considering this policy, it must be very valuable."

Melthorpe buried his head in his hands.  "It is made of gold, quite old, about two inches in length.  It bears a symbol of a raven in flight."

"Where did the key come from?" Nigel asked.  "I understand the policy was taken out by your father some forty years ago.  Do you know where he got it?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't."

Orla spoke up.  "Just what does this key open, to make it so valuable?"

Melthorpe's eyes widened.  "I…  I can't say.  If it gets out, I'll be ruined!"

"If you don't tell us, and word gets out, the same will apply," Nigel countered.  "We are not the police, Mr. Melthorpe.  Our job here is to safeguard the property and reputations of the customers of Lloyd's of London."

"So what lock does this key open?"

"You don't understand!"  Melthorpe replied.

"It opens _everything._"


----------



## el-remmen (Jul 22, 2005)

Keep up the good work!


----------



## eris404 (Jul 22, 2005)

Kid Charlemagne said:
			
		

> Thank you!  Credit has to got to eris404, who is the DM of this game - I am merely a player, Nigel's player to be exact.
> 
> The setting is, as you say, slightly off kilter in a lovely way.  I think it is really merely an excuse for eris404 to do her spot-on cockney urchin voice.
> 
> Update on the way!




Aw you make me blush!    The story hour is really good so far - it's a little hard for me to believe it's actually my campaign.  

PS - I hope you write down some of the quotes - the players in our group are hilarious and I hope it translates well. 

PPS - I love doing the cockney voice.  More urchins on the way!


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Jul 22, 2005)

Orla leaned forward.  "What exactly do you mean?  It's a skeleton key of some sort?"

"No, no…  Well, yes, I suppose, after a fashion…"

"It's enchanted," Nigel replied, more statement than question.

"Yes.  It is capable of opening any lock that it is touched to, any kind of lock that I have ever attempted to open."

"Who knew of the key, and more specifically, who knew of its properties?" Nigel asked.

"Very few.  My shop assistant knows of its existence, but not of what it does.  I try not to use it very often, in fact I haven't used in almost two months."

"Where was that?  And I'll need the name of that assistant; we'll have to ask him some questions, as well."  Orla jotted the details in a notebook while Nigel stood up and paced around the back of the shop.  He noticed the cash register, and hit the lever opening it.  The till was full.  Curious.

"Do you mind if I look through these files, Mr. Melthorpe?" he asked, indicating a filing cabinet.  Melthorpe nodded his assent.

"Adrian Poole is his name, I'm sure he had nothing to do with it; he's been with the shop since my father's days.  And the last time I used the key…  that would be at the British Museum.  They had an unusual old book with a very strange lock on it.  They couldn't figure out how it opened.  They've been a good client over the years, some of the more unusual jobs that I've done."

"Who was present there?" Orla asked.

"The curator was there, and a young man."

"And his name?"

"Gerald Whisk.. wait, no…  Wist.  Gerald Wist."

Nigel thumbed through the files in the cabinet.  He noticed right away that one file was not neatly placed as were all the others.  He pulled it out, and examined it closely.  It was a bill of sale, and Nigel was just about to put it back when something caught his eye.

"Do you have the letter you received luring you here?"

Melthorpe nodded, and pulled it out from his jacket.  Nigel examined it, comparing it to the bill of sale.  Then he smiled a wide grin.

"I can at least put your mind at ease that your friend, Mr. Hunt had nothing to do with this," he stated plainly.  "Observe here, on this bill of sale.  There are impressions, here, over the signature, which happens to be that of George Hunt.  The size and shape of the impressions, and of the letters themselves, match perfectly with the signature on the letter you received.  This bill of sale was used as a template to forge the signature on the letter."

"Your attacker, can you give us a description of him?"

"He was an Orkling, tall, very large… olive skin, long hair, tied back like a sailor.  Rather shabbilly dressed.  He had a single tusk sticking out of his mouth, very odd.  It was capped in iron."

Orla grinned.  "I'm sure he'll be hard to find."

The investigators examined the rest of the shop for any other clues.  The found a small leather pouch inside one of the torn up chairs, filled with small diamonds.  Melthorpe identified them as being part of his savings; the Orkling thug had apparently stolen several others, but had missed this one.  They thanked the locksmith and stepped out in the street where Artimis and Sandor waited.  Sandor was interrogating the urchins, amusing them by juggling several of his vast collection of knives.  The children were clearly enjoying it, swarming around him.

"The children saw the Orkling arrive," the knife-thrower explained.  "He threatened them to keep them quiet."

"Well, that worked," Orla quipped.

"I gave the older boy one of my knives.  One of the smaller ones."

"Lovely.  Arming the urchins," Cass muttered.

Sandor turned to Nigel.  "I saw no marks to indicate that the shop was broken into.  His story seems to hold up."

"But if no one broke in," Nigel said, "how did the forger get Mr. Hunt's signature?"

"Time to go see Mr. Poole, I think" Orla replied.  "About the key, does that symbol mean anything?"

"The raven in flight?" Nigel asked.  "Yes, I think it does.  The raven is the symbol of the Raven King."

"Who is that?" Artimis asked.

"He's a sort of mythical former King of Northern England," Nigel explained.  "A powerful wizard.  The folks in the north are fond of reminding others that they do not truly consider Queen Victoria to be their Queen.  The Raven King rules the north, even though he disappeared four hundred years ago.  Victoria is merely a steward."

Meanwhile, Amanda sized up Sandor.  "Just how many knives do you carry, anyway?"

Sandor opened his jacket.  Glittering steel covered nearly every square inch.

"Twenty.  Well, nineteen, I just gave one to that boy."

"Hmm.  I count two empty sheaths," Amanda responded.

Sandor stared at her, then inventoried his armaments.  "Basszameg," he swore, looking around for the now-long-gone children.

"Fooking urchins."


----------



## Fimmtiu (Jul 23, 2005)

Kid Charlemagne said:
			
		

> "Fooking urchins."




You, sir, are an excellent storyteller. For God's sake, don't stop!


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Jul 25, 2005)

Adrian Poole proved to be an easy nut to crack.  The cracks appeared when Orla told him his employer had been savagely beaten, and he crumpled when Nigel brought up the subject of the police.

"I didn't mean for him to be hurt!  Not that he doesn't deserve it, with what he's paying me!" Poole seethed.  "I was approached by a man from the tavern across the street.  A tall man, nicely dressed, dark hair with grey streaks.  A flashy sort of fellow.  East ender.  Offered me 500 pounds."

A small commotion from the back of the building interrupted their conversation.  Sandor and Artimis had attempted to sweet-talk the servants at Poole's boarding house, and after some initial success, found themselves being chased out of the kitchen by a woman with a broom.

"How were you to receive your money?"

"I was to meet him at the tavern, at seven o'clock."

"We will need you to make that appointment," Nigel said sternly.  "If we can get back the key, none of this has to come out in the open.  What is the man's name?"

"I never asked."

The doorbell rang, and Poole's landlady, a rather severe woman named Miss Tess, opened the door. Artimis and Sandor were at the door, trying to act as if their entire misadventure in the back of the boarding house had never occurred.  She seemed disinclined to allow them entrance, but Artimis passed his hands over one of his tattoos, and she fell straight away into a deep slumber.  He caught her as she fell, and sat her down in one of her foyer chairs.

"That would be our cue to leave," Orla said.  "You'll need to stay with us for the moment, Mr. Poole."

Poole nodded dejectedly.

Cass and Amands followed behind Poole as they began to leave, but stopped as Artimis held up his hand to stop them.  "Wait.  There's someone outside, they've followed us," he said, without once looking behind him into the street.

"No, it's alright," he continued after a brief pause.  "I think it's one of the children."  He turned on his heels, and strode out of Miss Tess' boarding house, into the London winter.

As the others left, they found that Artimis had been right.  A small, dirty elvish girl waited for them outside.  Her tattered dress did not conceal that she was missing her left arm, from what ravage of poverty they could not guess.  Artimis held up his arm, and from the peak of a house overlooking them, a hawk flew down, and landed on the offered perch.

"Good girl," Artimis murmured, offering the hawk a small bite of food.

"Lor," the little girl exclaimed.  "Is 'ee yoors?"

"I suppose you could put it like that," Artimis replied, letting the little girl gently pet the bird's wing.  Sandor knelt by the girl.

"Mary, isn't it?  Why did you come here?  Do you know something about the Orkling we were talking about earlier?"

The girl nodded.  "Devin didn't want any of us to say anything.  'Ee's afraid.  But we saw that tusky fella with another man there before.  An' I know who brought that man the letter.  It was Dorian, 'ee one 'at was there, too.  Ee's sick, Dorian is.  Fever, 'ee got."

"So you've seen the Orkling before?"  Sandor asked the little elven girl.

"Oh, yes.  Dorian follows him 'round all over.  Dorian's an Orkling, too," she explained.

"The man you saw the Orkling talking too, was he a well-dressed fellow?" Nigel inquired.

"Oh, yeah," Mary responded brightly.  "He real flash!  Name's Balthazar, Devin calls him 'the Weasel.'"

"And he's friends with the big Orkling?"

"Nah, not really.  He doesn't let 'im and 'is friends come 'round there much."

Sandor sent Mary back on her way with thanks, a few coins and a piece of candy, and the investigators decided to bide their time for the next several hours at a pub whle they made plans for their course of action.  Orla left in order to find an old friend who she thought might be able to help them find the Orkling.  When she got back, Artimis was starting to get a little tipsy.  Cass inspected his drink.

"What are you drinking there?" she asked, eyeing him cautiously.  She sniffed at his drink.  "Tea?"

"I like tea!" Artimus proclaimed loudly, standing up so all could hear.  Cass looked at Nigel with a questioning look.

"I'm sorry I bought him the tea," Nigel said.  "How was I to know?" 

He turned to Orla.  "what did you find out?"

"His name is Iron Tusk," Orla explained.  "He's a dockworker, and he's part of a gang called the Green Daggers.  He hangs around a place called the 'Jolly Roger' or 'Hangman's Noose' or something like that.  That's where he got his new favorite weapon.  The table leg.  He got into a fight there, broke a table up, and beat a man to death with it."

"New favorite weapon?" Amanda asked.  "What was his old favorite weapon?"

"A cricket bat.  So what do you think about Balthazar?  Is he a Green Dagger?

"I hope not," Nigel said.  The others looked at him curiously.

"I know a little about the Green Daggers," he explained.  "They're small-time, but they're well-connected.  Mostly brute force kinds of work, but they are just a small part of a larger criminal organization.  A very dangerous criminal organization."

"What, is Iron Tusk a Sicilian Orkling?" Artimus asked.

Nigel shook his head.  "London's criminal underground is made of many small groups, but the great majority of them are controlled by one man.  A criminal mastermind."

"Well, out with it!" Orla exclaimed. "Who?"

"Do you not read?" Nigel replied, exasperated.  "Have you never seen the exploits of Mr. Holmes, nor read the accounts written by Doctor Watson of their cases?"

From the looks on their faces, he surmised they had not.

"His name is Moriarty.  Professor Moriarty.  The Napolean of crime."


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Jul 27, 2005)

_Death and Taxes_

The name of Sherlock Holmes foremost rival drew looks just as blank as those a moment before.  Nigel decided that his new allies were hopelessly uninformed, and prepared for Poole's meeting with Balthazar the Weasel at the tavern by Melthorpe's shop in the financial district.

The place was called "Death and Taxes," and the sign outside bore the image of the Grim Reaper, bearing a scythe in one hand and a sack of coin in the other.  The place was long and narrow, in the cellar of a building and reached by a narrow stair.  The bar reached nearly the entire length of the establishment, and was lit dimly by gas lighting, giving the place the scent of burning oil.

Sandor and Nigel entered first, seperated by a few moments.  Nigel ambled down the bar and found a spot where he could order an ale, and observed the crowd.  It was an odd mixture of clerks just off work and rougher clientele with seedier plans for the evening.  Nigel paid no attention as Sandor entered shortly after him.

Balthazar was easy to pick out.  He was having a loud, boisterous conversation with an elf with silver hair.  Occasionally someone would approach, and that person and Balthazar would have a quiet discussion.  This happened a couple of times within the first few minutes that Nigel watched.

Sandor stood at the end of the bar nearest the door, and found the barman.

"Do you have any wine?" the knife-thrower asked in his accented English.  "I only see beer-drinkers here."

The barman looked over to where Balthazar and the elf were sitting.

"Kiervan!" he yelled out.  "Is there any wine in the back?"

The elf turned to look over at Sandor, and strode over to speak to him.  It was clear that Kiervan was the best-known person in the tavern, and he greeted Sandor with a wide smile and a clap on the shoulder.

"A true gentleman!" he exclaimed.  "Of course I have wine!  Most of the clientele here prefer their beer, but I keep a bottle or two for discerning customers."  He vanished into the back of the bar, and emerged a moment later with a dusty bottle of deep red wine.  He poured out a glass for each of them.

Sandor swirled his glass and took an appreciative sip.  "Ah, this is more like it!  It is like the wine in Hungary, bull's blood, we call it."

Kiervan raised his glass.  "Then a toast," he said.  "We are both Travellers, far from our own lands.  You drink to Hungary, and I shall drink to Ireland!"  He drained his glass, and poured another for himself, and for Sandor.

Nigel was mortified at Sandor becoming so friendly with the apparent owner of the tavern where Balthazar plied his trade, but his attention was immediately drawn back to business by the entrance of Adrian Poole.  The poor shopkeep looked about ready to pass out.  He stole a glance at Nigel as he walked past.

Balthazar noticed Poole instantly and waved him over to the small table where he sat.  Nigel dropped a few shillings on the bar, and walked along the bar until he was very near to Balthazar, hoping to approach him before he was noticed.  He was not so lucky.

"We're having a private conversation," Balthazar indicated as Nigel came near.

"I'm afraid I will have to butt in," Nigel said, stepping up to the table with Poole and Balthazar and leaning in close as his previous visitors had.  "Mr. Poole.  Mr. Balthazar.  I need some information about a certain subject."

"A key."

Poole backed away from the table.  At the bar, Kiervan instantly noticed something was up.  Orla had entered the bar and begun walking towards Balthazar and Nigel, but kept her distance.  Sandor's hand went to his vest where his knives were hidden.  Balthazar held his hand up to Kiervan, indicating that everything was under control.

"I understand you have no love for the Green Daggers," Nigel said.  "Neither do I.  All I am interested in is the location of the key that was taken from the shop.  I am not the police, I don't need to convict anyone, I just need to find the item in question."

"Love for the Green Daggers? Ha.  I just like keeping my various extremeties attached to my torso."

"Then maybe you can answer a couple of questions.  Did you hire Iron Tusk to do the job?"

Balthazar raised an eyebrow.  "Iron Tusk came to me on this job."

"He was behind the job?" Nigel asked.  "He doesn't seem the mastermind type."

"In truth," Balthazar agreed.  "But so it is.  He was quite desperate to get the key.  I merely arranged for things to be set in motion."

Back at the bar, Sandor was watching intently the older man and the young investigator as they talked urgently.  The danger of things getting out of hand had lessened, and he leaned back on the bar, and let his hand drop from his vest.  He took a quick glance around to make sure everything was going well, and noticed Mary, the elf-urchin, at the top of the stairs leading down into the tavern.  She beckoned to him urgently.

Sandor stood up straight again, and waggled his eyebrows at Nigel.  The young investigator took note, and offered his hand to Balthazar, who took it.

"I'm glad this conversation went the way it did," Nigel said.  "I was concerned the outcome might be quite different."

"I'm just a businessman," Balthazar responded.  "I have no concern for what happens to Iron Tusk now.  My business with him is done."

Nigel exited the Death and Taxes to find the others with Mary.  The little girl looked up at them sadly.

"Dorian, ee's getting sicker," she said.  "Can you 'elp 'im?"

"He's the only one who knows where Iron Tusk lives," Orla said.  "Where is he?"

In answer, the little girl took of down the alley.  Nigel, Orla, Artimis, and Sandor followed, while Cass and Amanda escorted Poole home, to ensure his safety.

Mary led the four down a number of narrow alleys through the London fog.  Finally, they came to a dead end alley where a small orkling boy lay on a mattress of old boxes and burlap sacks.  Artimis knelt by the child, and pushed the hair back from his eyes.

"Dorian?" he asked.  "How do you feel?"

Dorian opened his eyes, and Nigel could see that they were cloudy, like those of a blind man.  "I dunna feel very good," he said, quietly.  

His turned towards Artimis' voice, but it was clear he could not see him.  Nigel knelt by the boy.

"Dorian, what is wrong?"

"It's the blinding sickness," Mary said.  "Lots of the big orkling's friends have got it, up at their 'ouse.  They say its the water."

Dorian nodded gingerly.

"Mary, do you know where Iron Tusk's house is?" Nigel asked.  The little girl shook her head.

"Dorian," Nigel turned to the boy.  "Where do you get water at?"

"The well by Iron Tusk's house," the boy replied.

"Can you tell us where the house is?" Orla asked. 

"It's by the river," he replied.  Nigel shook his head.

"We'll never find it with just that to go on."  He stood back up and paced along the alley.

Artimis had moved into action.  He pulled a variety of herbs and poultices from a pack, and began putting them together, getting Orla and Sandor to help when he need extra hands.

"The blinding sickness is definitely spread by contaminated water," Artimis said.  "It can also be associated with the close presence of the undead."

After an hour or so of ministrations, Artimis stood up and brushed off his hands.  "He'll be all right.  The worst of it is over, but he'll need to rest."

"How long until he can take us to Iron Tusk's house?" Nigel asked.

"His vision is not likely to clear up for at least a day or two," Artimis replied.  "He was very sick."

"We cannot leave him here," Sandor declared.  "It is not safe, or healthy."

"We have no where we can take him," Nigel replied.  "We have no one to look after him."

"We can take him to Tsara," Sandor replied.  "She will look after him.  She is at the circus."

"Very well," Nigel responded, lifting the small orkling boy into his arms.  "Then we will have to find Iron Tusk on our own."


----------



## Ziggy (Aug 1, 2005)

Excellent start. 

I just love the setting, especially the mix of Raven King (from Strange & Norell), fantasy and Holmes. And the writing is excellent, will definitely be following this onwards.

.Ziggy


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Aug 1, 2005)

Thanks!  I've got probably two more updates to get us up to the end of Session One, and then we're looking like we're playing again in a couple of weeks, so more updates will follow after that.


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Aug 2, 2005)

I'd just like to chime in and add my praise for the start of this storyhour. As Ziggy said, the blend of D&D, "Jonathon Strange & Mr Norrell" and Holmes is inspired. And a nice adaptation of "Mad God's Key" as well, I believe.

Another storyhour added to my list to keep an eye on ...   



			
				Kid Charlemagne said:
			
		

> "New favorite weapon?" Amanda asked. "What was his old favorite weapon?"
> 
> "A cricket bat.




A bit of a shame that he didn't stick with his old favourite: Brits of a certain age would have gone slightly misty eyed at a wild man running around hitting people with a "clicky ba".



> The setting is, as you say, slightly off kilter in a lovely way. I think it is really merely an excuse for eris404 to do her spot-on cockney urchin voice.




Well so long as it doesn't sound like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins ...   

One minor quibble:



> Daily Telegraph, January 6th, 1888
> 
> British Museum Burglarized!




Not even the Telegraph would use a vulgar Americanism like "Burglarized"!


----------



## eris404 (Aug 2, 2005)

HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> I'd just like to chime in and add my praise for the start of this storyhour. As Ziggy said, the blend of D&D, "Jonathon Strange & Mr Norrell" and Holmes is inspired. And a nice adaptation of "Mad God's Key" as well, I believe.




Shhhh! They're not supposed to know that last part!   




			
				HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> A bit of a shame that he didn't stick with his old favourite: Brits of a certain age would have gone slightly misty eyed at a wild man running around hitting people with a "clicky ba".




That one broke, unfortunately.



> Well so long as it doesn't sound like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins ...




I hope not -  of course, since our group is mostly Americans, nobody's perfect.


----------



## Herremann the Wise (Aug 3, 2005)

Hi Kid Charlemagne and eris404,

Every so often, a story hour comes along that you just know is going to be something special. This one is certainly one of them.

The writing is clear, descriptive and thoroughly entertaining while the story (praise to eris404 and the whole party) is completely engaging. I simply read it from start to finish which is something I almost never do with most story hours.

I'm truly looking forward to more of this strange but wonderful London you have all created.

[sits down with popcorn down here in Sydney, Australia, fires up the satellite link to you guys up North and awaits the next direct feed]

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Aug 3, 2005)

HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> Not even the Telegraph would use a vulgar Americanism like "Burglarized"!




Well, we are (mostly) vulgar Americans.

That's mostly Americans, BTW.  We're _totally_ vulgar.

Update in 3... 2... 1...


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Aug 3, 2005)

Tsara was a halfling, a performer at Barnum's Circus, and she clearly had a mothering side to her.  She took Dorian in with scarcely a second thought.  

"He can sleep in my bed," Sandor told her.  "We'll check back later."

"Now how are we going to find this Iron Tusk fellow?" Orla asked Nigel.

Nigel nibbled on a scone that Tsara had given him.  "What was it your friend said about his hangouts?  I know a good portion of London like the back of my hand, but the pub name you mentioned didn't ring a bell."

"He said it was something like 'The Jolly Roger' or 'The Hangman's Noose'," Orla replied.  "Something pirate-related, or executioner-related, I suppose."

Nigel closed his eyes tightly for a moment.  Then a grin broke across his face.

"'Hangman's Noose', my foot!" he exclaimed.  "I know what it must be.  'Vain Robert's Gibbet' is a tavern right by the Thames.  It's a dockworker's pub, very working-class.  Run by a women named Elizabeth Talbot, if I remember correctly.  She's a widow.  Her husband was a sailor, and was swept overboard in a storm. "

Nigel led Orla, Artimis, and Sandor down to the docks.  It had gotten quite late when they finally found themselves outside of Vain Robert's Gibbet, but find it they do.  At first glance, it appeared closed, but close watching revealed a dim light moving within, indicating not everyone has put in for the night.

"Should we just watch, or knock?" Nigel asked.

"What do you know of her?" Orla asked.  "Is she likely to be a Green Dagger?"

Nigel shook his head.  "She's somewhat known for watching out for the sailors down here.  A good sort, from all accounts."

"Then I say we knock," Sandor said.  "But you should do the talking.  You look more respectable than the rest of us."

Nigel and his companions approached, and Nigel knocked quietly on the door.  He could hear footsteps from inside the tavern, and finally a small door over a peep hole was drawn back, and a quiet voice could be heard.

"We're closed," the voice said.  "You can come back tomorrow."

"Forgive us, Mrs. Talbot," Nigel quickly replied, "but we are looking for a fellow who was involved in a beating a few days ago, and thought he might have been seen in this area.  His name is Iron Tusk."

The peep hole closed, and a moment later, they could hear a bar being drawn back from the door.

Elizabeth Talbot stood in the darkened doorway, and beckoned them to enter.

"Come in," she said.  "Are you hungry?"

The foursome entered, and quickly assented to their hostess' offer.  Elizabeth Talbot was a strikingly beautiful woman, entering her later thirties.  She was also a gracious hostess, and offered them food and drink.  Sandor let the hospitality go to his head, and kissed her hand with a rather grandiose style.  Mrs. Talbot humored the Hungarian with a grin.

"What has that awful man done now?" she asked.  "He's nothing but trouble, that Iron Tusk."

"He beat a man rather severely several days ago, and stole several items from a shop," Orla replied.  "Does he ever come here?"

"Ever?" Mrs. Talbot responded with a sarcastic tone.  "Every day, more like.  Always coming here, hanging out with his thugs, and harrassing me."

Sandor leaned over to Artimis.  "How could an Orkling even think he could interest a woman like that?" he whispered.  

"It's truly amazing," Mrs. Talbot continued, not having heard Sandor.  "My dear husband was an Orkling, and yet you could not find two people further part in qualities."

Sandor turned red, which was luckily not noticeable in the darkened tavern, and Artimis stifled a chuckle.

"We'd like to come back here tomorrow," Artimis said.  "We need to see what he's up to, where he goes."

"That is fine by me," she said.  "If you'd like, you can stay here for the night.  I have boarding rooms upstairs, there are a few that are open."

Again, Mrs. Talbot's offer was accepted with gratitude.  The rooms were sparse but clean, and the next morning, the investigators made plans to seek out the Orkling thug.  Nigel and Sandor walked the docks in the morning, looking for Iron Tusk, while Orla and Artimis stayed at the tavern in case he showed up there.  When Nigel and Sandor returned at noon, having learned only that Iron Tusk was supposed to be working at a particular dock, but had not shown up, the pairs switched places.  Sandor helped Mrs. Talbot in the kitchen, amusing her two adorable Orkling daughters with knife tricks and offering what assistance he could.  Nigel went up to his room and watched the docks from the window.

As nothing seemed about to happen, Sandor went upstairs and caught a quick nap.  Finally Artimis and Orla returned, having seen Iron Tusk, who finally had shown up to his dock job.  Artimis's hawk, Kendra, perched outside, and kept an eye on Iron Tusk unobtrusively.

Finally, Artimis stirred.  "He's coming."

Nigel stood up and looked out the window of the tavern.  Orla settled into her chair, and loosened her rapier, preparing for, if not hoping for, a fight.  Artimis ran upstairs to wake Sandor.

"Get up!" he yelled at the sleeping knife-thrower.

Sandor snored.

Artimis shook his shoulder.  "Iron Tusk is almost here!"

Sandor rolled over, and pulled his pillow over his head.

Artimis stared at the sleeping man, and inspiration struck.

"Showtime!"

"What?" Sandor bolted upright like a man prodded with a hot iron.

"Iron Tusk.  Downstairs."

He was already in the tavern by the time they got downstairs.  To Mrs. Talbot's relief, no harrassment was forthcoming.  Iron Tusk seemed in good spirits, and in an apparently non-violent mood.  He drank his ale, ate his provender, and left at closing time.

Kendra followed him from overhead, while Nigel, Orla, Sandor, and Artimis left by the backdoor and followed at a safe distance.  Nigel and Artimis, being the quieter of the four, followed more closely, while Orla and Sandor stayed a block or so behind.  Iron Tusk led them through the docks until he finally came to a stop at a brightly lit three story house.  

A scandalously clad woman answered the door, and gave Iron Tusk a hug that was more than friendly.  The sounds of music and laughter could be heard from within.

"Umm," Sandor said, nervously. "What now?"

In answer, Artimis grabbed the knife-throwers arm, and dragged him, protesting, to the door.  He knocked sharply.  The scandaloulsy clad lady answered again, and after a moment, Nigel and Orla saw the two men enter.

"Lovely." Nigel said.  "Artimis and Sandor are now investigating a house of ill repute.  Meanwhile we'll be standing out here…"

"For about five more minutes," Orla finished, with a sly grin.

Nigel paced.  

"This is no good.  They're taking too long.  Probably forgotten what they went in for."  He looked at the house, and the narrow alleys to its side and rear.  He turned back to Orla.

"Iron Tusk could get out of there any number of ways.  The alleys are narrow, he could jump from one roof to the next.  There could be access to the sewers.  He could sneak out a side door."

Finally, his nervous energy got the best of him.

"Here, keep an eye on this," he said, dropping his doctor's bag on the cobblestone street.  He looked up at the roof of the building next to the cathouse, and began to climb.

"What are you doing?" Orla protested.

"Getting a better look," Nigel shot back, scaling the building with more ease than Orla would have given him credit for.

Nigel reached the second floor, and avoided a window with a light behind drawn curtains.  As he reached the edge of the shingled roof, he caught a glimpse of a shadow above him.  A booted foot stepped to the edge of the roof, just by Nigel's outstretched hand.

"Been following me all night, ye have," Iron Tusk growled.  "What'cher gonna do now you've found me?"


----------



## sniffles (Aug 3, 2005)

This is excellent! And at last I've found a story hour I can get in on at the ground floor, so to speak. Now I'm just envious of the setting - I've wanted to play in a steampunk campaign for years but most of my group aren't interested and we've got no room in the schedule.  

I'm curious, what rules are being used for the non-standard D&D stuff - locomotives, firearms, and the like?

I look forward to the next installment.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Aug 3, 2005)

We're using Iron Kingdoms firearms rules, though none of us are the gun types, really.  This is the second campaign eris404 has run in this particular universe (previous  one was set in 1875), though the first was before _Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell_, so no Raven King stuff in that one...  I'm worried to death that our actions in that game (and specifically mine) may come back to haunt us in this one.

From a player's perspective (and I'll let eris404 add detail if she chooses), the tech is somewhat behind actual Victorian times as a result of the existence of magic.  I'd say firearms are 50-75 years behind what they'd be in real-life 1888.  No (or few) six-shooters, and things like that.

We haven't run into anything yet that involves more elaborate steam power, so I don't know what rules we'll be using if that comes up.

We're actually hewing pretty close to standard D&D, merely set in an unusual setting and flavored-up to feel Victorian.  Eris404 has a neat concept with "Urban Barbarians" that makes perfect sense when you think about it.


----------



## eris404 (Aug 3, 2005)

Kid Charlemagne said:
			
		

> This is the second campaign eris404 has run in this particular universe (previous  one was set in 1875), though the first was before _Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell_, so no Raven King stuff in that one...  I'm worried to death that our actions in that game (and specifically mine) may come back to haunt us in this one.




heh.   



			
				Kid Charlemagne said:
			
		

> From a player's perspective (and I'll let eris404 add detail if she chooses), the tech is somewhat behind actual Victorian times as a result of the existence of magic.  I'd say firearms are 50-75 years behind what they'd be in real-life 1888.  No (or few) six-shooters, and things like that. We haven't run into anything yet that involves more elaborate steam power, so I don't know what rules we'll be using if that comes up.




The only thing I have to add about that is that I was more interested in ease of play than accuracy of certain things. Historical figures and events (or "fluff") are one thing, but translating "realistic" firearms into d20 rules is another thing entirely. KidCharlemagne's setting uses the _Iron Kingdom_ rules for firearms and I play a gun mage in that setting, so I went with what I knew already. 

In the first campaign, I did have steam engines (locomotives) that were powered by captured elementals. This was pre-Eberron, so I might actually have an excuse now to buy that setting and plunder it shamelessly for such things. I love anything that has to do with clockwork, cogs and robots, so I can't resist putting in some magical clockwork here and there, though I'm not sure that I'll be using the warforged.



			
				Kid Charlemagne said:
			
		

> We're actually hewing pretty close to standard D&D, merely set in an unusual setting and flavored-up to feel Victorian.  Eris404 has a neat concept with "Urban Barbarians" that makes perfect sense when you think about it.




Again, I wanted to stick with what I knew - I love D&D, I just wanted to do something a little different with it. It's pretty easy to change the window dressing and make all the familiar things seem different.

I just wanted to add that I feel a little flattered by the attention this thread has gotten. The writing is all KidCharlemagne's, so I can't take any credit for that, but I'm glad that people like the setting enough to post comments and questions.


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Aug 4, 2005)

Kid Charlemagne said:
			
		

> Well, we are (mostly) vulgar Americans.
> 
> That's mostly Americans, BTW.  We're _totally_ vulgar.




I would expect nothing less.

**Wanders off to don tweed suit and gaze lovingly at an ancient map from the days when the sun never set on the British Empire and bounders from the colonies knew their place ... **

 

Seriously, I remain very impressed with everything about this storyhour - setting, characters and the writing. I look forward to more about all of it.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Aug 12, 2005)

Nigel took a swipe at Iron Tusk’s ankle, hoping to topple the burly Orkling, but he deftly lept back and scampered to the peak of the roof.

“Let’s see if ye can catch me,” Iron Tusk growled with an unpleasant grin.  He disappeared onto the opposite side of the peaked roof.

Nigel swore under his breath, and clambered up the rest of the way onto the roof.  When he reached the peak, Iron Tusk was just reaching the edge of the roof.  He lept casually the ten feet to the next roof and stopped at the next peak, looking over his shoulder at Nigel.

Kendra let out a cry from above.  From the street below, Orla saw IronTusk on the roof and began to climb up after the Orkling and Nigel.  Sandor and Artimis came running out of the brothel moments later.

“He’s on the roof,” Orla cried, from about the second floor of the building.  She was not as good a climber as Nigel, and her progress was slower.

Artimis and Sandor ran along the alleyway, trying to keep an eye on Iron Tusk as he lept from roof to roof.  Nigel drew his two hand axes, and began to make his way down the slop of the first roof.  A shingle came loose under his foot, and he fell, sliding towards the edge and a thirty foot drop.

With barely a moment to spare, Nigel drove one of his axes into the roof of the building, like a mountain climber on a glacier.  The axe stuck, and his momentum halted just before he would have gone over the side.  He stood back up, and gingerly jumped to the next roof.  Having found his footing, he managed the next jump fairly easily.

Sandor watched Iron Tusk make another leap, and hurled a dagger in his direction.  It clattered off the stone wall, missing by inches.  Artimis advanced to the next building.  Orla finally pulled herself up onto the first roof, but she was three houses behind Iron Tusk and Nigel.

Nigel lept onto the next house, and here it looked as if Iron Tusk was going to make a stand.  The Orkling was working himself into a seething,angry, rage, and switched his table leg from one hand to the other, grinning madly in anticipation as Nigel clambered up to meet him.  The two faced off against each other, straddling the peak of the roof.

“Now, I’m gonna take ye down a peg or two, little man,” Iron Tusk grumbled.  “I’ll…._yawn…_”

Iron Tusk let out a deep yawn, and fell fast asleep in mid-sentence.  Below him in the alley, Artimis passed a hand across one of his tattoos, and grinned a satisfied grin.

Iron Tusk hit the roof, and went sliding down to his own thirty foot drop.  Nigel reached out, and with a single blow from his axe, drove the axe head through Iron Tusk’s wool coat, and into the roof.  Iron Tusk went flying off the roof, and the wool coat tore, but not completely.  It held, and the Orkling was suspended thirty feet off the ground, held up only by his own ratty overcoat and Nigel’s axe.  The table leg clattered onto the cobblestones below.

Nigel sat at the very edge of the roof, cross-legged, with one hand on the haft of the axe.  He waited for Iron Tusk to wake up, patiently.  Orla made it to the roof opposite, and groaned in disappointment, having been looking forward to a good dust-up.  Sandor and Artimis waited below, in case the Orkling fell.

Finally, Iron Tusk stirred, suddenly thrashing about wildly as he got his bearings.  A faint tearing sound from his coat caught his ear, and he realized his predicament.  It did nothing for his mood.

“I’d suggest you not struggle too much,” Nigel said calmly, his hand placed gently on the haft of the axe holding Iron Tusk’s coat, and by extension, him, in place.  “It’s quite a ways down.”

“I don’t care!” the Orkling yelled.  “I’ll kill ye!  Every last fooking one a ye!”

He thrashed about some more, trying in vain to reach the eaves over his head, but his coat was bunched up under his arms, and he couldn't reach far enough.  

"We don't particularly care about you," Orla said, matter-of-factly.  "We're just interested in recovering some things you've stolen."

"So why are young hanging out here instead of at your house?"

Iron Tusk seethed, practically foaming at the mouth.  "Dunna wanna get sick, do I?  Bloody hell!"

Sandor shrugged.  "Can't argue with his logic," he said to Artimis.

"We know you paid Balthazar to get Melthorpe into his shop after hours," Nigel said.  "But who paid you?  And why?"

"What the fook do I care why?" Iron Tusk howled.  "Cyranthus wanted that key and book, and I just do what I'm told!"

His belligerence was starting to take a toll on him.  The thrashing slowed, and Iron Tusk stopped trying to reach behind his head for the roof.

"Where's he?" Nigel asked.  "And what did he want with the key…  and book?"

"Hell if I know.  Probably at the house.  He gave the stuff to a priest, one of those freaks that follows the Five."

"Where is the house?"  Nigel moved the handle of the axe slightly, and Iron Tusk's coat ripped a little bit more.

"Highgate," Iron Tusk answered.

Nigel looked down at Artimis and Sandor, and they nodded.  He backed off from Iron Tusk, and let the Orkling gain his bearings.  Iron Tusk climbed down the wall of the building, found his dropped table leg, and slipped away into the night.  Nigel and Orla climbed down to join Sandor and Artimis.

"What is this 'Five' he spoke of?" Sandor asked.

"It's a really old religious sect, maybe Fey-related," Orla replied.  "I don't know much, it's not really my thing.  It's a group of gods, they're known as The Five, or The Family."  

"Let me see." Orla closed her eyes in concentration.  "Daughter of Spring, Mother of Summer, Son of Autumn, Father of Winter, and The Bastard.  They don't have names, they're just known as 'The Daughter' and so on."

Nigel wasn't paying attention to Orla's explanation.  He was searching the alley for something.  Finally, he stopped with a cry of discovery, and dug into a trash pile, pulling out a fish skeleton wrapped in newsprint.  He shook out the bones, and straightened the paper out on the cobblestones.

*British Museum Burglarized!*
*Public Outraged!  Police Baffled!*
*Young Librarian Beaten Within An Inch Of His Life; Stolen Book "History of John Uskglass" Thought To Be Forgery*
_Scotland Yard remains at a loss to explain the mysterious break-in at the British Museum this past weekend.  Gerald Wist, museum librarian, was beaten severely by an intruder who left with a recently discovered manuscript, "The History of John Uskglass," which purported to be the history of the legendary Raven King, but which Museum authorities had believed to be a forgery..._​
"You know," Nigel ruminated.  "I think I really should have seen that coming."


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Aug 12, 2005)

And that brings us current to the end of Session One, with Session Two this Saturday!  Off to Highgate, a district of London known for hills, and for Highgate Cemetary.  I'm sure that last bit isn't important at all...


----------



## Arrgh! Mark! (Aug 14, 2005)

This is so incredibly cool.


----------



## Matchstick (Aug 14, 2005)

As a long time admirer of KC's work, I'm not at all surprised at how much I'm enjoying these stories.  Take a great chronicler and let him write in an interesting and compelling setting and this is a sure fire winner. 

Excellent stuff eris and Kid.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Aug 14, 2005)

Hey, Matchstick, good to see you again! And welcome, Argh! Mark, as well Glad you're enjoying it...  We just had our second session, which included a new PC joining our intrepid band, some fighting, some investigating, and a PC running down the streets of London with a stirge sticking out of his neck...

EDIT: Went back and edited in a few names changes - Cyranthus' name spelling, it's Gerald Wist, not Simon, etc.  Nothing major.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Aug 22, 2005)

_The Sick House_

Flagging down a hansom at such a late hour proved a challenge, but eventually one was found.  The investigators determined that their next step should be to visit Iron Tusk's house – or perhaps to be more accurate, Cyrathus' house.  First, however, Nigel insisted on returning to his rooms in order to pick up some more items of use.  The cabbie was none too thrilled at the long, roundabout route he was being asked to take his fare.

"This ain't the way to Highgate, guv'nor," he insisted.

"I'll just be a moment," Nigel replied.

Finally, the building were Nigel kept rooms loomed ahead in the foggy darkness of London.  Nigel hopped out of the hansom, and then stopped dead at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Out of the murky mist stepped a man in a dark overcoat, dressed as a physician, or perhaps an undertaker.  The stranger stopped a few steps away.

"Forgive me for startling you," the man said.  "Peabody from Lloyd's sent me, to see if I could assist in your investigations.  I assume you are Mr. Spenser?  My name is Henry Holmes.  Doctor Henry Holmes."

Nigel's looked at him curiously.  "Holmes?"

"No relation," he responded. "I get asked that a lot."

"I'm an American," he continued, as if his accent weren't evidence enough.

"Well, I suppose we could use the help," Nigel said.  "Especially a doctor's help.  We've apparently got some sick folk on our hands."

Nigel introduced Dr. Holmes to the others, who explained their current situations, and then ran upstairs for a few moments.  When he came back down, he was carrying two bundles, one about five feet long, and another half that size.  He climbed back into the hansom.  Dr. Holmes climbed up next to the cabbie, and began asking questions about Highgate, and about the Family.  The cabbie was quite well-informed, in the manner of a man used to talking about London, and knew quite a lot about the old religion.

"Yoo see," the cabbie explained, "the Church of Holy Family is something the Raven King brought from Faerie.  Eech of the Family has their holy animals and such.  The Father's is the owl, the Mother's is the rabbit, the Son's is the fox, the Daughter's is the robin, and the Bastard's is the raven."

"I see," said Dr. Holmes, encouraging him to continue.  He rubbed his hands together to keep them warm in the chilly London fog as the horse's hooves clattered monotonously.

"Now, there are two groops 'oo worship the Family," the cabbie said.  "Yoo've got the Quintarians, 'oo think all five o' the Family are holy, and yoo've got yoor Quatarians, who think that only four are.  Yoo see, the father of the Bastard is a demon."

"That must make Christmas awkward," Dr. Holmes replied.

"Aye.  The Quatarians think the Bastard is a demon 'imself.  They've been known to jump Quintarians and coot off their thoombs to make a point of it."

"Lovely," the Doctor replied.

Highgate Cemetery loomed in the darkness ahead of them, with a sign helpfully proclaiming that visitation hours were from sunrise to sunset.  The five investigators disembarked from the hansom, and paid the cabbie an extra few schillings for his trouble so late at night.

Nigel unwrapped his bundles, which turned out to be a longbow and a quiver of arrows.

"Big game hunting?" Orla asked with a smirk.

"Can never be too careful," Nigel said, testing the bowstring.  "Besides, it's a traditional English weapon.  I was on the archery team at Oxford."

Orla rolled her eyes, and the five began looking for the Green Dagger hideout.  After an hour or so of looking, they had narrowed the choices down to one likely suspect.  It was an old dilapidated mansion, with a small carriage house attached, with large stable doors drawn shut.  A good number of the windows on the first floor were boarded up, and Sandor found the few that weren't to be so dirty that nothing inside could be made out.

Over the carriagehouse, a single flickering light could be seen.  Nigel decided to risk climbing up to the second floor to try and peer inside.  He started up the wall, but his foot slipped on the drain pipe, and he went totally still, waiting and hoping no one inside had heard.

The light moved closer to the window near Nigel, and then drew back quickly.  Nigel dropped to the ground near Sandor and cursed under his breath.

"I think someone saw me," he said.  "I saw a face."

"Well, might as well go in if they know we're here," Doctor Holmes said, and with that he stepped up to the front door.  He pounded on the door.

"Health department!"

Artimis stepped up to the stable doors, and slid them open with some effort.  It was totally dark, but he could hear the noise of wings flapping, like pigeons disturbed by the noise.  He peered into the darkness, but couldn't clearly make out anything.

Sandor and Nigel joined Holmes and Artimis at the front of the house.  Orla drew her rapier.

"This isn't quite how I hoped this would go," she said.  "The entire Green Dagger gang is probably on the other side of that door waiting for us."

"Wait," Doctor Holmes said, and pulled something out of his pocket.  It was a small rat, whom he set down near the door.  It wriggled under the front door, and after a moment the Doctor smiled.

"It's clear," he said, and threw open the door.  Orla and Nigel stepped inside.

The room was dark, and filled with debris.  Doors stood to either side, and directly in front of the front door was a set of double doors.  They once no doubt were quite impressive, but time and age had taken their toll.  Now, their only decoration was a pair of crudely painted green daggers, one on each.  The Doctor spoke a few words under his breath, and then the lantern that they were using for light lifted into the air of its own accord and floated into the room.

With a gesture, Doctor Holmes directed the lantern.  Orla stepped to the left hand door, and opened it.  It opened into a hall, and the first door gave off an odor of death and decay so strong she dared not open it.

"Next door," she said to Nigel, and cautiously stepped into the hall.  Holmes' rat scurried down the hall ahead of her and around the corner.

Sandor tried the double doors, and on opening them just a fraction of an inch, heard the sounds of claws skittering across a bare wood floor.  He slammed the doors back shut, and quickly lashed them shut with a small length of rope.  Something smashed against the doors from the other side, and the doors bulged outward, but the rope held.

"Dogs!" Sandor yelped.  "Big dogs!"

Artimis had had enough of trying to see the source of the flapping noises in the carriage house.  He spoke a word, and the shaft of one of his arrows began to glow.  He fired it into a rafter in the center of the room.

He now had a better look at the source of the noise.  There were six small flying creatures, each the size of a small hawk.  Their wings were bat-like, and they had beaks that looked like long, bony syringes.

"Oh, dear Lord," the Doctor proclaimed.  Inside the house, the lantern fell to the floor as his concentration shifted.  It landed upright, but went out, throwing the room into darkness.

The creatures flew out at Artimis and Doctor Holmes.  One landed on Artimis and jammed it's needle-like beak into his shoulder, drawing a great gulp of blood out.  Another landed on the Doctor, and thrust it's proboscis into his neck.

Artimis and the Doctor both responded with encantations, barely cast through the pain and blood.  Several of the foul vermin fell fast asleep, but of course neither of the two that were attached to them.  The one on Artimis took flight only to be replaced by another.  Orla ran out of the house, and skewered one with her rapier, and Nigel shot an arrow clear through the one that had just detached from Artimis, showering Doctor Holmes with Artimis' blood.  The Doctor fled, stumbling down the street with the bat-like thing sticking out of his neck.

Nigel drew back an arrow, but held to see if someone else could better help the Doctor.

Sandor stepped out of the house, and weighed his options.  He didn't like the idea of trying to strike the thing off of Doctor Holmes with one of his knives, but took careful aim and tried anyway.  The dagger flew wide and to the right.

Nigel let his arrow fly, and it struck the creature full in it's torso, tearing it off of Holmes' shoulder and neck.  The Doctor held his hand to his neck as he collapsed against the wall, nearly unconscious.

Artimis helped him stop the bleeding, and the returned to the house.  The hall Orla had seen merely went around the corner and into the stable.  Another door opened into a dining room, and Nigel saw a glint of light through a painting on the wall.  He stepped up to it, and found that it concealed a door, and through the cracks of the door he could see several Orklings sleeping, their breathing raspy and shallow.

They tried the right-hand door, still avoiding the double doors which were still being shaken and rattled by the dogs beyond them.  Orla advanced cautiously, carefully examining the floorboards as she approached a door on her left.

"I don't think we're likely to find any traps in here," Nigel said.

Orla opened the door, and stepped into the small room beyond.  A heavy spiked ball, like the end piece for a flail fell down from above the door way and smashed into the fencer's head, drawing blood.

She glared back at Nigel.

"Umm," he stammered.  "Scratch that last bit."


----------



## Amy (Aug 29, 2005)

HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> One minor quibble:
> 
> 
> 
> Not even the Telegraph would use a vulgar Americanism like "Burglarized"!




Hmm, how about "burgled"? Now _that's_ a Britishism.

--Sandor the Knife-Thrower


----------



## eris404 (Aug 29, 2005)

YAY! Amy/Sandor!


----------



## Eridanis (Aug 30, 2005)

Subscribing so I can read this later. If it's Kid Charlemagne, it's got to be good!


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Aug 30, 2005)

Nice to see you, Eridanis! And welcome to the thread, Amy (and to the boards)!

I hope to get a new update up later this evening, in which we take stuff from bad guys, and then give it back, and we learn that Nigel is hiding something.  Later on, we will learn that Artimis is hiding several somethings, and Doctor Holmes has a whole closet full of skeletons, but that's further into the future.


----------



## eris404 (Aug 30, 2005)

Kid Charlemagne said:
			
		

> I hope to get a new update up later this evening, in which we take stuff from bad guys, and then give it back, and we learn that Nigel is hiding something.  Later on, we will learn that Artimis is hiding several somethings, and Doctor Holmes has a whole closet full of skeletons, but that's further into the future.




Sheesh, you make it sound so...tawdry.


----------



## sniffles (Aug 31, 2005)

Mmmm... skeletons.....   

Eagerly awaiting the next installment.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Aug 31, 2005)

Phew, long update - by my standards at least!


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Aug 31, 2005)

Orla's stare cut right through Nigel.  A quick look in the room revealed that it was a storeroom, which was quickly ransacked for its contents.

"Shouldn't we take care of the thugs in this place first, and then loot?" Doctor Holmes asked.

"If you plunder first," Orla replied, "We don't have to stop when we flee."

Artimis Swain decided that the dogs behind the door needed to be addressed.  Sandor was skeptical.

"I can make them see reason," Artimis explained.  "I have a way with animals."

He stepped back into the foyer, and untied the rope, and opened the doors just a bit to see.  Sandor shook his head and turned back to the storeroom.  He paused as he heard the sounds of growling, followed by the slamming of a door, and then a  large impact.

Artimis lept into the hall, and slammed that door shut behind him, moving a chest of drawers in front of it to further block it.

"Those aren't dogs," he explained, the color drained from his face.  "They looked like someone had peeled the skin back from their faces!"

"See, next time you will listen to me," Sandor explained.  They turned their attention to the others.

The storeroom gave up a grappling hook, some rope, two vials of Alchemist's Fire, and two vials of an indeterminite clear liquid.  Orla found a nice rapier which she stowed in the folds of her cloak as a backup to her own blade.

With bags filled with other people's possessions, the investigators addressed a pair of double doors across the hall from the storeroom.

Sandor knelt by the right hand door.  "I smell smoke," he said, puzzled.

Doctor Holmes narrowed his eyes and breathed in the vapor from under the door.

"It's an alchemical smoke," he said.  "Probably meant to obscure our sight once we open the door."

"So you're saying we're about to face a fight?"

"Likely."

"Perfect," she said, drawing her rapier.

Nigel and Orla threw open the doors into the room.  They were greeted by a wall of smoke which billowed towards them.  No sign of fire presented itself, and Nigel drew his axes and advanced along the right-hand wall while Orla took the left.  Sandor, Artimis, and Doctor Holmes cautiously stepped in behind them.

Nigel could tell that the room was higher in the center.  It appeared to be two stories, with a balcony above that wrapped around the entire room.  He could not yet see a stair, and so he continued his approach along the right-hand wall until he could barely make a shape out, ahead of him and above.  An eddy of smoke curled like a snake as a crossbow bolt cut through it, striking Nigel in the shoulder.

To his left, he could barely make out a shape that he thought was Orla rushing through the smoke, leaving a swirl of choking vapors behind her.  The smoke was beginning to settle, and Nigel could begin to see the stairs, and he reacted quickly, dashing up them, not far behind the fencing instructor.  The stairs climbed the far end of the room and then split, with a subsequent stair to both the left and right.  The wooden stairs creaked under the strain of their advance.

Orla came face to face with a pale-haired, rapier-wielding man on the left-hand side.  A quick jab sent him running down the balcony, fleeing for his life, though he drew blood from Orla as well.  Nigel came face to face with his assailant on the right hand side, a dark-haired woman with a crossbow.  She let another bolt fly, this one flying wide, past Nigel's ear.  Nigel stepped forward, and the steps under his feet gave way.  The last four steps collapsed, leaving a four foot gap.  Nigel regained his balance nimbly, and adjusted tactics quickly.  He let fly with both axes, throwing both at once.  One thudded into the wall behind the woman, but the other hit her squarely in the side.

Artimis and Sandor advanced down the center of the room towards the stairs, while Doctor Holmes approached along the left-hand wall.  The dark-haired woman facing Nigel fled, cutting a rope tied to the wall as she ran.  The rope was all that was suspending a chandelier previously unseen in the smoke and darkness, which plummeted toward Artimis and Sandor.  The investigators dove to either side, and Doctor Holmes stepped out from under the balcony, targeting the woman with an incantation.  She collapsed as she ran, fast asleep.

Orla had stopped to quaff a healing draught before pursuing the rapier-weilding man, and he took advantage of the lead gained to dash through a door, and an audible locking noise could be heard from the other side.

Nigel weighed his options.  The second floor of the house, he had seen from outside, was divided into two sections.  Between the two ran a short walkway, almost like a widow's walk.  The man must be making his way across there to the other side, where it was likely he would have a better defensive position.

Nigel summoned up his strength, and lept the gap, up and across the last four steps that had fallen to the floor below.  He snatched both his axes, one from the wall and one from the floor, and ran across the balcony until he reached the opposite side, near where Orla was.

A window was there, one that looked onto the widow's walk, and Nigel threw himself through it.  He saw that he had guessed rightly, as the man was rushing across the walkway to a door that would lead him to the second floor of the coachhouse.  Nigel picked himself up off the peaked roof where he fell, blood streaming from myriad cuts from the window glass.  He watched helplessly as the man reached the door.

Behind Nigel, Sandor calmly stepped through the shattered window, and threw one dagger at the fleeing man.  It flew true, and caught him in the middle of the back. He dropped, his hand almost to the knob of the door.

The investigators gathered up their fallen foes, and examined them.  The pale-haired man, who appeared to be elfborn, was not mortally wounded, and the dark-haired woman was merely asleep.  Orla grabbed the pale-haired man's rapier.

"Just how many of those can you use?" Artimis asked.

Orla ignored him.

"I will help with tying up ze lady," Sandor suggested helpfully.

A quick search of the two turned up an unusual dagger, and some bolts that appeared to be enchanted.  The dagger bore a coat of arms, three red griffon heads on a black field, with an horizontal gold band dividing the field in two.  The blade of the dagger was made of an iridescent metal, which Doctor Holmes suggested was an electrum and mithril composite.

The woman was beginning to wake.  Doctor Holmes knelt by her side, and pulled out his bag.

"I am a doctor," he explained.  "Allow me to cast a curative spell on you."

She nodded, nervously looking up at Nigel and Orla.

The Doctor finished his incantation.  He grinned a devious grin.

"I've charmed her.  And since she thought she was being helped, she was unable to resist it."

Orla looked down at her.

"Are you Cyranthus?"

"No."

"Is he?" 

"No…"

"Great," Artimis said.  "We're not done here yet."

They left the two tied up, and crossed the walkway.  Sandor decided to try to climb around to the coachhouse window while Orla and Nigel simply kicked down the door.  They found several more deathly ill Green Daggers, some of whom appeared to already be dead.  There seemed to be no door out of this room, but Nigel and Orla both knew there must be one.  

As they searched, Sandor, tried to pry the window open.  Finally he just decided to smash it with the butt of a dagger.  His first blow was not solid, and a voice came from inside the room.

"If you must enter, at least do not destroy any more of my home!"

Sandor could hear the window latch drawn back, and he opened the window.  He carefully climbed in and let his eyes adjust to the darkness.

Two small figures watched his movements like hawks.  They were halflings, armored and armed, and they appeared to be identical twins.

"Uh, ve are with the health department," Sandor explained unconvincingly.  "We are here to help, yes?"

A match was struck in the darkness behind the twins, and a candle flared up.  It's light revealed an elf, pale of hair and thin of figure, dressed in a sleeping gown and hat.

"Yes, of course," he answered condescendingly.  "I'm sure you are."

"Yes," Sandor continued.  "You have some very sick people here.  We can help."

"Why don't you tell me what you want," the elf replied, sounding very tired.

"He's not entirely misleading you," came a voice from the darkness, behind the elf.  Nigel and Orla had finally found the secret passage that led to the room, and entered, followed by Artimis and Doctor Holmes.

"We do have a doctor with us.  We really don't care about you or your minions.  Our only concern is with certain items you've acquired.  We might be able to come to some sort of arrangement."  

"I presume you are Cyranthus?"

"Yes.  And who told you where to find me?"

"Iron Tusk.  He was quiet helpful."  Nigel stepped foreward into the candle light.

"I'm sure he was," Cyrathus replied wearily, settling down into a leather armchair.  He looked up at Nigel, and he started, suddenly wary and alert.

"Wait!" he cried out.  "I know you!  This is some kind of game!"

Nigel recoiled, going pale.  He clenched his fists, and met Cyranthus' gaze with a steely resolve of his own.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Tell him – tell him we're paid up!"

"I said I don't know what you're talking about."

Cyranthus relaxed, and sank back into hs armchair with a slight grin playing across his lips.

"So what are you here for?"

Orla took her eyes off of Nigel and turned to the elf.

"A key, and a book.  You had them stolen, and gave them to a priest.  He probably told you he would help you.  Doesn't seem like it worked, does it?"

Cyranthus could hardly disguise the disgust in his voice.  "No, it certainly did not.  The priest told me he could save us."

"We can help," Nigel said.

Cyranthus turned back to him, his wariness gone, but the grin grew wider.

"You really do look just like him," he said, almost taunting him.  "You have his eyes."

Nigel grew silent again, and stepped back into the darkness.

"Can you tell us anything about this priest?" Sandor asked.

"He was a man in his late twenties, dark hair, brown eyes, " Cyranthus replied.  "English.  Very cultured.  He wore a black robe, a priest of the Raven, I think that means."

"How long before he came to see you did your men get sick?" Doctor Holmes asked.

"Perhaps a week."

"Anything else?"

Cyranthus paused for a long while before answering.  "Yes.  Two things.  His name was Altamaic.  And more oddly…  His robe was too short."

"What?" Orla asked.

"It was a good six inches too short.  He seemed a cultured sort, so it was odd his robe didn't fit well.  It didn't really occur to me at the time, but now, it seems strange."

Artimis stepped forward.  "I have helped your men as much as I can.  I think they will get better.  We will return tomorrow evening to check on them, and to see if you have remembered anything more."

As Artimis turned to leave, Sandor grabbed his elbow.

"This means I am going to have to give back ze dagger, yes?"  Artimis nodded.

The investigators left one by one.  Nigel was last, unnoticed in the darkness of Cyranthus' room.  Finally he turned to leave as well, but stopped at the door to the secret passage.

He paused for a long time, and then turned back to the elf.

"I would appreciate it," he said in calmly measured tones, "if you didn't mention this to my father."

Cyranthus wry grin returned.

"Perhaps, we can come to some sort of _arrangement_," he replied.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Sep 14, 2005)

A short update, perchance?


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Sep 14, 2005)

Thomas Peabody whistled a jaunty tune to himself, sitting at his desk in his posh office in Lloyd's of London's offices at the Royal Exchange on a fine, sunny, winter morning.  He was balancing ledgers, and he found doing so to be immensely relaxing, especially when he was using the black ink to mark payments and amounts owed to Lloyd's.  Being exceptionally miserly with Lloyd's accounts, he invariably used far more black ink than red.  He turned a page and continued on his merry task.

A knock came at the door, and his secretary leaned into the office.

"Orla Taoiseach here to see you, sir," he explained, unnecessarily, as Orla strode into the room neither needing or waiting for an introduction.  Nigel Spenser waited just outside the door, leaning on the door frame as Orla presented herself before Peabody.

Peabody scarcely looked up, dipping his quill in ink and making notations and hardly acknowledging the fencing instructor's presence.

"Yes, Miss Taoiseach?  Is there something I can help you with?"

He could hardly have sounded less helpful if he had tried.  Orla smiled, and pulled out a small notebook of her own.

"Actually, yes," she replied.  "This matter of the golden key has begun to become rather expensive.  I've had to use up a number of mystical ointments, salves, and potions, and I think Lloyd's of London should reimburse me for those expenses.  An expense account, to be blunt."

Peabody didn't even look up.  "If I recall correctly, and I almost always do, we came to an agreement on the amount you were to be paid.  It is not my business if your budgets do not add up, Miss Taoiseach."

Orla's eyes narrowed.  Nigel stepped in before she could respond.

"Let me ask you this, Mister Peabody," he began.  "Does Lloyd's have any accounts with the British Museum?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Peabody answered, still not looking up from his books.

"It is possible that the matter of the key may be related to another matter, that of an old manuscript stolen from the British Museum at around the same time.  _The History of John Uskglass_."

Peabody looked up at Nigel and Orla.  He looked past them to his secretary, and gave him a nod.  The young man vanished down the hall, and soon returned with an account folder.  Peabody looked through the folder, and a scowl crossed his face.

Orla grinned.  "Since the two cases are apparently related, it would make sense to fold them into one team's responsibilities.  For a suitably increased fee."

Peabody squinted at her over his spectacles.

"Perhaps.  Three hundred pounds more."

"Four hundred."

Peabody groaned.

"In advance, of course.  Plus an expense allowance.  I assume that Lloyd's has accounts with the Artificer's Guild?"

Peabody took his head in his hands.  "How much?"

"Oh, I think around five hundred should do."

"Each."

Peabody glared at Orla.  He simply nodded his assent.

"Oh, and also.."

Peabody twitched slightly.  Nigel stepped up and took Orla's elbow.

"Declare victory and move on, Orla," he whispered in her ear, as they left.

Peabody composed himself, and opened the top right drawer of his desk, pulling out a fresh bottle of red ink.

He hated winter in London.


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Sep 14, 2005)

I'm caught up again. (I think I'm trying to read too many storyhours ...  :\ ).

Anyway, still really enjoying this Kid C. A highly original setting and good solid writing. Keep it up, I'm looking forward to more.


----------



## Wraith Form (Sep 15, 2005)

Kid Charlemagne said:
			
		

> "If you plunder first," Orla replied, "We don't have to stop when we flee."



Spoken like a true hero.

This SH is awesome.

I'm so frikkin' mad/jealous (or even mad-jealous!) that I can't be a player in this group.  This is terrific.

P.S. - Little one-armed urchin Mary....based on Loo from _Fray_?


----------



## eris404 (Sep 15, 2005)

Wraith Form said:
			
		

> P.S. - Little one-armed urchin Mary....based on Loo from _Fray_?




Not intentionally, at least not by me (though I do like Whedon).  I got Mary and the rest of the Street Urchins from a d20 product - off the top of my head, I think it was _En Route_ or one of the other books that have a bunch of small encounters. I ditched the encounter the children were a part of, renamed them appropriately and are simply using them as NPC informants/contacts. Where the original author got them from is anyone's guess.  

EDIT: And thanks!


----------



## Wraith Form (Sep 17, 2005)

eris404 said:
			
		

> EDIT: And thanks!



It's much deserved....wonderfully written, interesting setting, amusing character quotes..!  Heck, you even forced me to look up a reference I'd never heard of ("Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell")....!

Eris404, would you mind if I emailed you to ask some questions about your game?  I'd like to grab some ideas and start a game of my own based off this...!  (It might include spoilers, so I figure something off the boards would be appropriate in case your players read this.)

My email is "wraith_form@msn.com" (obviously without the quotes) if you want to contact me.

Thank you, again, for enjoyable reading and a great deal of inspiration for a game of my own!


----------



## Wraith Form (Sep 17, 2005)

One question I can ask immedaitely is, Do all the players (and the DM) use UK accents during the game?  Or do you hand-wave the accent part for those who aren't as good at "silly voices"?


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Sep 17, 2005)

Eris404 has a really good cockney urchin voice, as I've said before.  She slips in and out of accent when playing most other NPC's.  I tend to slip into a British accent when playing Nigel, though it sometimes comes and goes.  Sandor's player does an excellent job of a Hungarian accent, including the occasional Hungarian curse.  Artimis, as you will soon discover, is not from the British Isles, and his player doesn't adopt any accent for him.  Orla's player doesn't do accents either, and neither do any of our cast of somewhat rotating extra players (Cass, Amanda, and Dr. Holmes - who at least has the excuse that he is an American anyway).


----------



## Wraith Form (Sep 17, 2005)

Kid Charlemagne said:
			
		

> Thomas Peabody whistled a jaunty tune to himself, sitting at his desk in his posh office in Lloyd's of London's offices at the Royal Exchange on a fine, sunny, winter morning.
> 
> *** SNIP ***
> 
> He hated winter in London.



Love it, love it, love it.  Don't stop.  (_further quasi-orgasmic sounds ensue_)


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Sep 17, 2005)

Another short update...


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Sep 17, 2005)

The Church of the Holy Family's main temple was a large, round building in a walled compound just across the square from the British Museum.  Orla, Sandor, Doctor Holmes, and Artimis Swain stood in front of the main door, which was open.  Within they could see a large fire pit in the center of the of the building, and four priests tending the flame.  They hesitated before entering.

"How are we going to locate this Altamaic fellow?" Sandor asked Orla.

"I'm not sure.  There must be dozens of priests in this place," she replied.  "Where do we start?"

"We start with the acolytes of the Raven," Nigel said, arriving slightly late on the scene.  "Altamaic is a young man, of below average height."

Artimis turned and raised an eyebrow.  "Alright, I get that he's below average height.  We knew that.  But how do you figure that he's an acolyte?"

Nigel grinned and held up a newspaper.  "I've been asking all the news vendors in the square here if they remember someone from the Church getting mugged sometime in the past week.  As it turns out, our boy Altamaic was mugged about five days ago.  An acolyte of the Raven, as confirmed by that fine credit to the British broadsheet industry just over there."

He pointed and waved to one of the news vendors, who waved back.

"I'd say less than half actually read the papers they sell, but that one there remembered the story.  Sadly, there isn't much beyond that.  I suggest we go in."

The five investigators entered the Church and spread out, asking questions and delving into the Church and it's beliefs.  None of them were particularly familiar with the Holy Family, and luckily the priests were all too happy to explain their faith.  Soe quick questions confirmed that the Church here was of the Quintarian sect, holding all five of the Family in reverance.

A young acolyte named Cyril ended up being all too happy to lead them to Altamaic.  He was in the acolytes' dormitory on the Church grounds, and aquiesced to show them the scene of the crime.  Altamaic was a short, young man of about sixteen, and his replacement robe was not nearly as nice as his old one must have been.

The shrine ot the Raven was in a separate building, a squat stone structure known as the Bastard's Tower.  It was windowless, and illuminated only by a central fire pit and candles arrayed all about the place.  There were no paintings, only carvings.  The most prominent of these was a carving of the Bastard himself, a tall, horned figure.  Behind him appeared to be an army of demons, and his arms were outstretched, though whether to hold them back or command them was an open question.

Doctor Holmes opened the questioning.  "When were you attacked?"

Altamaic held his head low.  "It was around the beginning of my vigil.  Two in the morning, about."

"What do you remember about the incident?"

"A fellow entered, and said a few words.  I didn't understand what he said, but all of a sudden I couldn't move a muscle.  He came up to me and struck me across the back of the head with his cane."

"Do you remember anything else?"

The boy shook his head.

"No."

"How about the man who attacked you?  What did he look like?"

"He was dressed very nicely.  Tailored clothes, dark suit.  Overcoat.  He had a hat and cane.  Maybe thirty?  Dark hair, dark eyes."

"Human?"

"Oh, yes."

Nigel approached a priest of the Raven tending the shrine.  "We're investigating the attack that took place here last week," he explained.  "Do you mind if we ask some questions?"

"Not at all," replied the priest, whose name was Sebastien.  "Anything we can do to help."

"I know that priests can sometimes have very unusual powers, and this is a big Church," Nigel said.  "Have you or the other priest done any sorts of readings or divinations to discover who is responsible?"

Sebastien paused, and looked first at Nigel, and then at Orla, Artimis, Sandor, and Doctor Holmes, who were still questioning Altamaic.

"Our Oracle did just what you are asking about," he replied.  "In fact she had a terrible premonition just the day before the attack.  She felt that the Church was under a terrible threat of danger…"  His voice tailed off.

"And there is something more, I take it?"

"Yes."

"She said that people would come to our aid.  Five of them, one for each of the five members of the family.  She said they would come to the aid of one of our own."

Nigel swallowed hard.  "Oh, dear."


----------



## Wraith Form (Sep 17, 2005)

Based on this Story Hour (and book reviews) I bought "Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell".

My wallet dislikes you, although all the rest of me is giggling (a bit too) hysterically.

Thanks!


----------



## Wraith Form (Sep 17, 2005)

Wraith Form said:
			
		

> One question I can ask immedaitely is...



Next question(s): what is the average age of the group?  It also sounds like you have a mix of males and females as players (not characters), yes?


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Sep 17, 2005)

Let's see...  I'm the oldest at 39, and Orla's player is the youngest, at 28, IIRC.

The core of this group is two male players (myself and Artimis' player), a female DM (eris404) and two female players (Orla and Sandor).  Doctor Holmes is played by our male Irish cop friend, and Cass and Amanda are both played by women when they're present, which isn't often.

Oh, and there'll be another PC joining soon, another occasional player.  Male PC, female player.  We're really quite the unusual group with all the women, actually.


----------



## eris404 (Sep 19, 2005)

I go away for two days and all the good stuff happens. 

As for accents, I love doing them, but I also find them tiring for some reason. I try to use them as often as I can. I know people can find them annoying, but it also helps people to stay in character, even if not everyone does it.

Because we have so many women in our group, this was the campaign I was originally going to run for our female-only gaming group (I posted about this on the boards a couple of months ago). But being the attention hog that I am, I sold it to our whole gaming group.   

Wraith Form-  Not to hijack KidCharlemagne's thread too much, but some other books that I have liberally stolen from include:

The Curse of Chalion - Lois McMaster Bujold (that's where the Holy Family comes from)
His Dark Materials trilogy - Philip Pullman
Sabriel - Garth Nix
The Crimson Petal and the White - Michel Faber 
The Devil and the White City - Erik Larson 
Newton's Cannon - J. Gregory Keyes
The Alienist - Caleb Carr


----------



## Wraith Form (Sep 20, 2005)

eris404 said:
			
		

> Wraith Form-  Not to hijack KidCharlemagne's thread too much




Yeah, I'll try to direct questions to you via email.



			
				eris404 said:
			
		

> The Curse of Chalion - Lois McMaster Bujold (that's where the Holy Family comes from)
> His Dark Materials trilogy - Philip Pullman**
> Sabriel - Garth Nix
> The Crimson Petal and the White - Michel Faber
> ...



That's a lot of books I've never heard of, lol...  The asterisked items are the ones I'm actually familiar with (but haven't read--sigh).  Except _The Alientist_, which was a hella good book that I adore (being all serial-killer obsessed as I am, lol).  You do know there's a sequal of sorts to Carr's book, yes?  (_The Angel of Darkness_)


----------



## sniffles (Sep 20, 2005)

Ooh... suspense! I can't wait.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Sep 28, 2005)

A quick update, and a note - eris404 has started posting a Story Hour that she's written of the game that I am currently DM'ing.

The Ambergate Chronicles 

Check it out, and let us know if you like it!


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Sep 28, 2005)

Nigel composed himself.  _This is nonsense_, he thought to himself.  _An Oracle, prophesizing that five people would come to the aid of the Church of the Holy Family.  And if it were so, it certainly wouldn't be us_, he thought, looking over his shoulder at Orla, Doctor Holmes, Artimis, and Sandor.

"Did you do any other divinations?" he asked.  "Did you learn anything more, uh, specific?"

"Yes," Sebastien said.  "We were quite concerned that the Quatarian sect might have had something to do with this.  We learned, however, that they did not.  We learned that the attack was directed at Altamaic specifically, and was targeted for a reason other than being the the acolyte on duty that night.  We know they did not steal anything beyond his robe, and we know that the attacker means no further direct harm to the Church of the Holy Family."

"Well, that's good, then," Nigel replied uncertainly.  "Did the Oracle say anything further regarding the five who would come to help?"

Sebastien hesitated.  "I'm not sure I can reveal that.  I am not certain that I believe that your and your friends are the five prophecied."

Nigel walked over to Doctor Holmes, and looked on as Orla and Sandor spoke with Altamaic.  Artimis had wandered off somewhere, and was nowhere to be seen.

Doctor Holmes flipped open a small notebook, filled with notations.  Nigel could certainly tell from the handwriting that he was a pharmacist by profession; either that or a madman.  Somehow the Doctor could make out the scratchings.

"Let's see," Doctor Holmes began.  "The name Altamaic is something he took upon joining the priesthood.  Family name is Meyers.  Father works for the Bank of England, something to do with imports and exports."

"He's been volunteering for the latest shifts, by the way."

"I see," Nigel said, with a grin.  "And why might that be?"

"A woman, of course," Orla replied, walking up.  "Gwyneth, specifically.  Long dark hair, green eyes.  An older woman, apparently.  All of twenty-two or so.  Very flash, as they say.  East Ender.  Always enjoyed spending time with Altamaic in the Church's menagerie."

"They have a menagerie here?" Nigel asked.

"Yes, they keep sacred animals," Sandor replied.  "Artimis went that way as soon as he heard about it."

They made their way towards the menagerie.  Along the way, Orla filled in more details.  Altamaic and Gwyneth would exchange messages by leaving them under a rock by the back gate; he didn't know where she lived or much about her; they had only been seeing each other for about two weeks.

The Church's collection of animals was extensive.  Each of the five members of the family had their sacred animals, in most cases more than one.  Artimis was making friends with several of the dogs, which were apparently sacred to the Son.

"She was fond of the puppies, apparently," Orla said, rolling her eyes.

"Laddie here remembers Gwyneth," Artimis said, standing up and brushing the dirt from his trousers, and indicating an irish wolfhound.  "She apparently wore quite a bit of perfume."

"I see," Nigel said, silently counting on his fingers.  "How many days has it been since the attack?  I wonder if Laddie could catch any scent after this much time?"

"It's possible," Artimis responded, starting to open the kennel.  Sandor stopped him.

"You cannot simply take one of the holy animals," he protested.

Artimis looked confused.  Orla took matters into her own hands, and went looking for one of the priests.  She cornered a young priest of the Son, and explained the situation.

"We're hoping to track down the person responsible for the attack on Altamaic," she said.  "If we could just borrow Laddie for a few hours, it might be an immeasurable help."

"I'm not sure that would be possible," the young man stammered.  "I, uh, I'll have to check with my superiors."

He left the five investigators there to wait while he went back to the main Church building.  It seemed like an hour until he returned.  Orla could not read the expression on his face as he approached, he seemed slightly bewildered.

The priest went to the cage, let Laddie out, attached a leash, and handed it to Orla.

"There," he said.  "He is a gift to you."

"What?" Orla replied, caught completely by surprise.  "We only need to borrow him for a few hours!"

"We insist.  He can serve us best by helping you."

"Very well, then.  To whom do we owe this great honor?"

The priest looked confused.  "The Oracle, of course."

"Of course," Orla muttered.  "Well, let's get cracking."

Laddie proved to be quite an adept tracker, led by Artimis.  He caught a scent of Gwyneth's perfume just outside the Church compound's walls, and followed it unerringly down the London streets, despite all the olfactory competition.  Nigel noted that the trail was leading them back towards Highgate.

Finally, Artimis and Laddie lost the trail.  Laddie was distracted by a fish-monger not far from Highgate Cemetery.  He seemed unable to regain the trail.  Nigel stopped, and looked down the streets in each direction, getting his bearings.  He stepped up to the fish-monger.

"Sir, I'm looking for a young lady that might frequent these parts.  She's pretty, in her twenties, long dark hair, green eyes.  Does she sound familiar?"

The fish-monger shook his head.  "Cood be any noomber of folk," he replied.

"Her name is Gwyneth," Sandor offered.

"Oh, Gwyneth!  She a pretty bird, she is.  She lives in the ol' mansion just down that way," he said pointing down the street.

Th investigators looked down the street, and groaned as with one voice.

The mansion he was pointing at was the Green Dagger headquarters they had just broken into the night before.


----------



## Fimmtiu (Sep 28, 2005)

*facepalm*

Sounds like your group could really use an Urban Ranger (from _Unearthed Arcana_).


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Sep 28, 2005)

> "Very well, then. To whom do we owe this great honor?"
> 
> The priest looked confused. "The Oracle, of course."




Of course ... why take any decisions for yourself when you have divine guidance on tap.   

Nice stuff again Kid C. Keep it coming.

Interesting to see the list of books that eris4004 has borrowed from. My kids have been at me to read the _Dark Materials_ trilogy and the _Sabriel/Lirael/Abhorsen_ trilogy for quite a while. So now maybe I'll give in ...

That's after taking a look at eris's Ambergate storyhour of course.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Sep 28, 2005)

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> *facepalm*
> 
> Sounds like your group could really use an Urban Ranger (from _Unearthed Arcana_).




Umm... [Nigel raises his hand timidly]...


----------



## Wraith Form (Oct 1, 2005)

HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> Of course ... why take any decisions for yourself when you have divine guidance on tap.
> 
> Nice stuff again Kid C. Keep it coming.
> 
> ...



Currently plodding through the hardcover of "Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell"...a little light reading, lol  (I've seen phone books that were smaller)


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (May 12, 2006)

"Nine o'clock in the morning, must be time to beat up the Green Daggers again," Artimis deadpanned.

Orla tugged on Nigel's coat sleeve.

"Look over there," she said softly.

Nigel looked in the direction she was pointing.  Iron Tusk was slipping down the alley just down the road from the Green Dagger headquarters.  Orla, Nigel, Artimis, and Sandor followed; Dr. Holmes returned to Lloyd's of London to inform Cass and Amanda of their whereabouts.  The Orkling headed directly north, to the wall surrounding Highgate Cemetary.  He clambered over the wall, and dropped ungracefully on the other side.

Nigel took Laddie around by the main gate a few blocks away, but the others climbed the wall after Iron Tusk.  They met up just inside the wall.

"How embarrassing," Nigel said.  "Was Cyranthus just feeding us bad information, or are Gwyneth and Iron Tusk double-crossing him?"

"I do not know," Sandor replied.  "But we seem to have found our friend's destination."

The Hungarian pointed to a large mausoleum.  The four investigators took cover by a hedge, and watched as the Orkling entered through the main entry of the tomb.

"Well, good," Orla said.  "Things are looking up.  It's not like they could get much worse.

"What's Laddie getting into there?"

The wolfhound had started growling at something under the hedge, which Nigel took at first to be a rabbit or mouse.  Then he realized Laddie was struggling and biting at the sleeve of an old coat.

What was odd was that the coat appeared to be fighting back.

"What have you got there, boy?" he asked.

And a small child's chemise wrapped itself around his neck and started choking him.  

It took a moment or two for the others to realize that they were actually in danger.  Sandor was particularly perplexed, until a ratty pair of trousers tried to put him into a scissors lock.  

Artimis passed his hand over one of his tattoos and spoke a word, and a pale green ray shot at the chemise wrapped around Nigel's throat.  Nigel ducked out of instinct, and it flew over his head.

Nigel pried the chemise off of himself and tried to hit with one of his axes, to little effect.  Sandor ripped the trousers off of himself, and pinned them neatly to the ground with a pair of thrown daggers.  Nigel chopped them up into bits, and Orla slashed the chemise that had attacked Nigel with a couple of deft strokes.

Nigel regained his composure.

"Next time you feel the need to express your opinions about our changing fortune," he said, "Please consider it carefully!"

"What is this," Artimis exclaimed, incredulously.  "The cemetery of misfit clothes?"

"Shhh," Sandor whispered.  "Iron Tusk again."

The Orkling stepped out of the tomb, and around the corner.  He was only gone for a few seconds, and returned quickly, closing the door after himself again.

"What was that?" Nigel asked as they closed on the mausoleum door.
Sandor stepped around the side of the building.  "Call of nature, I think."

"Whose tomb is this?"  Orla asked.

The name above the door read "Chenowith."  The coat of arms matched that of the dagger that they had taken from Gwyneth, and given back.  Sandor's mood brightened.

"Ah!" he exclaimed.  "This means I will get to take that dagger back again!"

"Just don't say your luck is changing," Artimis said.  "We might get attacked by an armoire."

Nigel opened the metal door.  Several steps led down to a hallway extending forward from the entrance.  Iron Tusk was no where to be seen.  The hall stretched about forty feet, and at the twenty foot mark, a side hall led to the right.  On the left hand wall was a carving of a face.  Water poured out of the mouth of the face, and into a channel which ran down the center of the right hand wall, and into a small pool in a dead-end chamber.  There, they found carvings of a host of demons, and a man with his arms outstretched.  The Bastard, and once again, it was impossible to tell if he was commanding them or holding them back.

"This place is dedicated to the family," Nigel said softly.  "That is the Bastard, and the carved face is the Father, I think.  These other carvings," he said pointing to several niches with statues, "would be the other members."

They advanced down the hall, and entered a rectangular room with a low, murky pool and two side passages.  Each passage led into a smaller sepulchre.  Each contained three sarcophaguses.  Iron Tusk was nowhere to be seen, and there seemed to be nowhere for him to have gone.

"I guess this is the last of the Chenowiths," Orla said.  "Seems August first, 1760, was a bad day to belong to this family."

"What do you mean?" Sandor asked.

"Look."

In the right hand sepulcher were:

_"Lord James Chenowith," born January 11th, 1717, died June 4th, 1784.
"Lady Mary Chenowith," born May 3rd,1720, died March 15th, 1752.
"Margaret Chenowith," born September 18th, 1741, died August 1st, 1760._​

And on the left hand,
_
"Faith Chenowith", born September 21st, 1745, died August 1st, 1760.
"Lord James Chenowith, son and heir," born April 10th, 1749, died April 1st, 1818.
"Richard Chenowith," born April 1st 1762, died August 1st, 1760._​

Each of the stone coffins had been opened.

While Orla and Sandor searched the sepulchers, Nigel had rolled up his pants legs and climbed into the murky water of the low pool in the central chamber.  It was only about a foot deep, but covered in muck.

"You wouldn't catch me dead in that water," Artimis said, looking on disapprovingly.

"How bad can it be?" Nigel answered, not as confident as he tried to appear.

"I could go on and on," Artimis replied.  "But I can at least do this."

He spoke a word and passed his hand over his eyes.  He looked at the pool, lost in thought.  Finally, he pointed.

"There."

Nigel moved the spot Artimis indicated.  He reached out, and then thinking better of it, drew out an arrow and felt around for something.  He encountered resistance, but as he lifted it, he could feel the arrow head tear into it.  He muttered a curse under his breath and lifted it out as quickly as he could while still being careful in case anything was fragile.  

He laid what appeared to be a shiny, rubbery pouch on the flagstones.  The arrow had poked through the skin of the pouch, and the contents were soaked.  Nigel quickly knelt down and picked them out.  There was a leather pouch, filled with what was now muddy sand, two glass vials, one containing a colorless liquid, the other a gold liquid, an intricately carved stone about two inches in diameter, and a note that was completely soaked, the ink running off the page.

Nigel laid out the note and tried to read it.  He had gotten it just in time; it was still legible.

_V.,
As promised, here is the key as well as a few gifts in honor of our meeting.  We are impatient to discuss with you the terms of our business, and await you in the Grand Hall.
I._​

"I wonder what that pouch was made of," Orla mused, indicating the torn, rubbery, bag.

"Kraken skin," Artimis answered, absent-mindedly, turning the carved stone over and over in his hands.  "It's ideal for keeping things perfectly dry.  So long as you don't poke it with sharp objects."

"Who is 'V'," Sandor asked.  "'I,' could be Iron Tusk."

"Perhaps," Nigel responded.  "Hard to say.  I'd rather know where they went."

"I think I might know," Artimis said.  With a sigh of disgust, he stepped into the pool, and to a carving in the wall.  He placed the carved stone into a spot where the design had been broken.  It fit perfectly.  He pressed on it, and a door, previously unseen, opened.  A set of roughly carved steps led down, through a widened natural fissure.  The sounds of running water could be heard.

Artimis stepped through the door and down the steps, followed by the others.  The steps led to a landing above a wide cavern.  They could not see the farthest side, but they could see that just below them, a waterfall issued forth from the cavern wall, falling down into the chasm below.

:"Fifty feet, maybe, from the sound of it," Artimis guessed.

A narrow fissure led out from the landing area, and seemed to circle the central chasm.  After a short while they found themselves at another landing.  Another fissure led into the cavern wall.  

"Do you hear something?" Sandor asked.

"Something squeaking, like an old machine, or something," Nigel conjectured.

"More than one thing," Artimis said.  "And it's getting closer.  Quickly."

"Look lively," Nigel shouted.  "Whatever it is, it's almost here!"

And then the rats came.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (May 12, 2006)

The rats poured out of the fissure like someone had turned on a spigot.  There were perhaps two dozen of them, each as large as bull terrier, and they swarmed towards the investigators with no regard for their lives.  Nigel shot one with his bow, which he then dropped as he drew out his Fir Bohlg hand axes.  Orla and Sandor moved to either side of the fissure the rats were pouring out of, and began picking them off slowly.

Artimis skewered one rat, and lept over another to reach Nigel, who had been bitten multiple times.  Soon, they had carved up the vermin thoroughly, and the squeaking noises had subsided, though not completely.  Artimis reached inside his pack and pulled out a small lizard, which he lifted to the roof of the fissure.  The lizard darted down into the darkness.

"What is that?" Sandor asked.

"Seth." Artimis replied.  "A lizard for indoors, a hawk for outdoors.  He'll scout out the rest of this noises."

"How much more of a menagerie do you have?"  Orla asked.

Artimis didn't answer.  After few moments, he started down the way the rats had come.

"I think its clear now," he said.

They made their way down the narrow fissure for the length of about a hundred feet, and the fissure opened into a larger, more finished chamber.  Crates and boxes were stacked all about the room.  Seth the lizard lept off a stack of boxes onto Artimis shoulder and crawled back into his pack.

Nigel cracked open one of the boxes.  Inside were some packages of dried food, a tin of biscuits, and some bottles of cheap beer.

"Supplies," he said.  "Food, and so on.  Not sure for who, though."

Something stirred at the far end of the room.  A couple of large, shambling shapes came into view.  They were rat-like, but these were the size of a large dog or wolf.  Their fur was spotty and sparse, with scaly skin underneath.  Nigel pulled out his bow again, and nocked and arrow just as they came at them.  Orla sidesteppd one and skewered it, enough of a blow to kill one of the terrier-rats.  It kept coming.  Sandor threw a knife, which bounced off the scaly hide of the other.  Artimis threw a spell at the one on Orla, and it shrunk back from her and retreated.  The other, seeing its ally fleeing, fled as well.

Orla pursued it down a hall at the other end of the chamber, only slowing when she realized no one was following her.  The rat-thing, or another just like it, had stopped and turned to face her.  She stopped, and challenged the creature.

"That's it" she said.  "Just come a little closer!"

The rat-thing glared at her, it's beady red eyes glowing in the faint light.

"Mallo," it hissed at her.  "Tu mallo!"

"What in the…?"  Orla said, as she backed off, returning to the chamber where the others waited.

"It said something to me," she told them, bewildered.  "I'm not really sure what it said to me, but it was definitely talking!"

"I think we should return to ze outside," Sandor said.  "Talking rats as big as cattle, is not good thing."

"They weren't that big," Orla replied.

"He's right, though.  I'm used up most of my magic," Artimis replied.

"Maybe we can find out some more about this Chenowith family," Orla said, hopefully.

Nigel reluctantly agreed.  They made their way back up through the fissure to the ledge where they had fought the first wave of rats.  Artimis stopped, and looked over the ledge down at the water below.

"Wait," he said.  "I want to see what's down there."

He took a rope and handed one end to Nigel.  He dropped the other end over the side of the ledge, thirty feet down to the water.  He unfastened the collar that anchored his curious half-cape, and set it aside.  Orla stared, and nudged Nigel.

"Are those…  gills?" she asked.

Artimis pulled off his boots, and they could clearly see webbing between his toes, like an amphibious creature.

"Nigel," Orla said with a grin, "looks like you're not the only one with a secret."

Nigel smiled wanly.

"Some secrets are easier to hide than others," he replied, as Artimis dove off the ledge and into the water, with perfect form.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (May 12, 2006)

"Aaaaahhh!"  Artimis roared in pain.

Orla ran to the edge of the ledge.  "Are you alright, Artimis?"

Artimis thrashed about in the waist-high water for a few moments.

"Yes, I'm alright.  A little bruised and banged up, but I'll survive," he answered.  "Why didn't somebody check the pool for depth?"

"You're the expert on water," Orla responded.

Artimis was standing in a pool of water roughly fifty feet from one side to the other.  He had stopped thrashing at the water in frustration, but the water was not becoming still.  The surface roiled as something moved beneath the surface and all around him.

"Artimis," Nigel said.  "Something's not quite right down there."

"You don't say!" Artimis replied.  "The water is only three feet deep!  I think…"

"Wait a minute…

He looked all about him as multiple things started to break the surface of the water.

"Get me out of here!"

He leapt for the rope he had the forethought to throw down before diving into the pool.  Behind him, a score or more glittering, skeletal forms rose up from the murky water, and began to advance on him.  Nigel and Sandor grabbed the rope and hauled Artimis up from the pool below, just past the grasping skeletal hands of his pursuers.

Artimis rolled onto the ledge, breathing hard.  He had several severe-looking bruises from his ill-advised dive, but none of the skeletons had managed to draw blood.

"Does anyone have a healing potion or something like that?" he asked.

"I do," Orla replied tentatively.  "These things cost money, you know," she added.

"Money?" Artimis responded.

"Money, yeah," Orla replied.  "You know, makes the world go 'round, you use it to pay for things?  Did you hit your head?"

"Oh, I see," Artimis replied.  "That sort of thing isn't terribly important where I come from."

"You don't have money where you come from?" Orla asked, skeptically.  

Artimis shook his head.  "No.  Where I come from, if I want gold or silver, I just go out and take what I need.  Where I come from, that sort of thing can be found anywhere I care to look.  We don't value it highly.  If it's money you need, look at this," he said, pulling a rolled up coil of vellum from his pack.  "Plenty of it there, I'd expect."

Orla took the proffered scroll, and unrolled it.  Nigel and Sandor moved closer, looking over her shoulder.  

It was a map of some kind, but the strangest one Nigel had ever seen.  After a moment he realized it was a map of the western Mediterranean Sea, from about the coast of Crete in the east to the straits of Gibraltar in the west, but the map included almost no detail about areas on land, instead substituting cryptic notes about the lands surrounding the sea.  The coasts, on the other hand, were nearly perfectly drawn, and numerous underwater hazards were noted with unerring accuracy.  An "x" was clearly noted in the sea south of the French-Italian border, not far from a trio of islands, two large and one small.

"I got this from a sailor here," Artimis said, pointing out an area on the map.

"That would be France," Orla said.

"Right.  Whatever."  Artimis seemed not to even recognize the name.  "My people do not care greatly for gold, but if a ship crashes that has some more important meaning, we do take note."

"And this," Nigel pointing the "x" marked on the map, "is such a ship?"

"Yes.  It was a ship belonging to an important man.  He ruled all of this, once," He gestured vaguely at the land north of the Mediterranean.  "I forget his name.  He was traveling along here."

He traced a line from the trio of islands towards the French coast.

"He made the journey safely, but he had a second ship that was carrying the bulk of his treasures, and that was caught in a storm here," he pointed to the "x."

"It did not make it to port."

"What are these islands, here?" Sandor pointed to the trio of islands.  Orla looked at the map for a moment, thinking furiously.  Artimis shrugged, either not knowing or caring.  Nigel stared off, a far-away look in his eyes.

"That southern one is  Sardinia, I think," she said, thinking back to her lessons before she dedicated herself to fencing.  "The northern one would be…  Corsica, I think?  

"I have no idea what that smaller one is though," she said, pointing to the much smaller island, between the northern end of Corsica and the Italian coast.

"Elba," Nigel stated flatly.  "The small one is Elba."

"That's where the ship came from, isn't it, Artimis?"

"Yes, that's right," he replied.

"Wait," Orla said, her head spinning.  "Wait.  I know that name.  Elba.  Are you trying to tell me that this wreck…"

"Napoleon." Nigel stated again.

"The man who ruled all that land was Napoleon, and you're saying that that 'x' marks a vessel full of his treasure?"

"That was his name!" Artimis exclaimed.  "He was important, right?"

"You could say that," Nigel replied.  "I think you'd best take good care of that map, if you think it's legitimate."


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (May 12, 2006)

The investigators tried their best to sneak out of the darkening cemetery.  They made it almost all the way out before being accosted by Mr. Morley, the watchman.  Orla and Nigel managed to convince the elderly fellow that they had lost track of time and become lost, and he soon warmed up to them and began to spin tales of the cemetery and its silent denizens.

"There be lots of ghosts in the cemetery," he explained.  "Mostly children, for some reason.  T'were a big infestation of 'em 'bout two years ago, but they've quieted down since."

"Any stories about that mausoleum?" Orla asked, indicating the Chenowith tomb, barely visible in the gloom.

"Oh, aye," Morley replied.  "T'were lots of bad luck for that family, if I recall.  The one Lord were killed by his own horse, another struck by lightning."  

"That's one o' three tombs that were here before they built the rest o' the place."

"Really?" Orla perked up.  "What about the others?"

"Me assistant would know more.  Gilley's 'is name.  He's off now, but he'll be around in the morning."

"Well, that's interesting," Nigel said as they exited the main gates of Highgate Cemetery.  "Tombs older than the rest of the place.  Worth investigating, I'd say."

"I want to talk to this Gerald Wist fellow," Orla said.  "I think we've taken long enough before learning more about this book that Iron Tusk stole."

The others concurred, and in the next day's foggy winter morning, they assembled outside the British Museum.  It did not take long to locate Gerald Wist.  He was happy to hear that someone was looking into the theft, though unsure of what the investigators could do.  He still bore signs of the violent assault to which he had been subject.

"I've given all of this information to the police," he explained.  "I'm not really sure what else I can tell you."

"Well, let's begin with the book," Nigel responded.  "'The History of John Uskglass,' locked with a magical lock, and purported to be a forgery."

"Why do you think that?  And who is the author, anyway?"

"Well, the author was Vittorio Mateo.  That was really the first tipoff.  This isn't really his sort of subject."

"Who is Vittorio Mateo?" Orla asked.  "What was his sort of subject, as you say?"

"He wrote quite widely, but his preferred subject matter was planar cosmology.  He was a reknowned scholar of the 14th century, and that was the second tipoff.  You see, 'The History of John Uskglass' contains a number of copper plates…"

Sandor interrupted.  "There were copper plates in zis book? Zis seems odd."

"No, not copper plates, per se," replied Wist, reaching for a text to use as an example.  "What I'm referring to is the engravings that were reproduced in the book.  They were done by etching into copper plates, and then used to create the pages that had pictures.  In Mateo's time, they would have used wood cuts.  The paper of the book matched Mateo's time but the engravings were 15th, maybe 16th century, long after he died."

"Why do you think it was stolen?" Sandor asked.  "Where did you get ze book?"

"The book was donated to the museum by Lord Segundus, and elderly local wizard.  He had inherited it from Mr. Norell."

"Who is he?" Artimis asked.

"Mr. Norell?"  Wist seemd surprised at the question.  "He was a very famous wizard in Napoleonic times.  He disappeared some time after that.  But to answer your question, I really don't understand it.  I don't think the person who stole it really knew what he was doing, to be honest.  There were several extremely valuable texts that were untouched.  All that was taken was 'The History of John Uskglass'.  I mean, for God's sake, Mr. Norell's spellbook was sitting right here!  And it was left untouched!"

Wist shook his head in amazement.

"Who was the thief?"  Nigel asked.

"I never saw him.  He came up on me from behind, while I was examining the book."

"Aren't there guards here?" Sandor asked, bewildered.  "How did they get in?"

"There is a night watch.  Two guards on duty.  They saw nothing until they found me."

Determining that Gerald Wist had nothing further to tell them, and was hiding no nefarious deceptions beneath his bruised countenance, the investigators returned to Highgate Cemetery equipped with rope, lanterns, torches, and spikes, in search of Vincent Gilley, assistant to Mr. Morley.  

They found him with a sketchbook, drawing the designs found on some of the older headstones in the graveyard.  He was a young man of some education, in opposition to Mr. Morley's more workmanlike disposition.  He was pleased at the investigator's interest in the history of the cemetery.

"The older tombs?  Yes, there are three or four very old tombs, a couple dating from the Picts," he explained.  "The oldest are just barrows, really, quite crude."

"What about the Chenowith Mausoleum?" Artimis asked.  "Sounds like there's a story behind that one."

"Ah, yes, there is indeed.  From what I understand, the Chenowiths were a powerful family in Wales.  The story goes that the Lord was hunting foxes, and happened by a pool of water he had not seen before that day.  He met a woman there, and the stories say he either killed her, or was cursed by Faerie."

"His wife later died in childbirth, and he passed away in the late 1700's. Torn apart by wolves."

"Wolves?  Ugh," Orla says.  "Bad luck for him."

"Yes," Gilley answered with a wry grin.  "Especially as there haven't been any wolves in England since the 17th century."


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (May 13, 2006)

Well, I'm on vacation this week - heading to Savannah, Georgia to see the family (we're not originally from there, but one of my brothers lives there).  This means I'm spending a lot of time in airports today (4 hour layover in Charlotte, NC - woo!) with little or nothing to do.

The good thing is, that gives me some time to work on updates!  I finished one on the flight from Chicago to Charlotte, and I plan on getting another done on the flight to Savannah.  Add one more possibly while on the ground in Charlotte, and another one the way back on Thursday, and I will have at least three, maybe four updates.  I will certainly finish _The Golden Key_.  I may be able to start the following episode, which I have yet to title.  I can only get so far on that since I don't have all my notes with me.

Without further ado, here's an update!


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (May 13, 2006)

For their second excursion into the Chenowith mausoleum, the investigators were joined by Amanda and Cass.  With the strange rats and who knows what else in the caverns under the tomb, they wanted as many swords as possible.

“I think the women in this group are more dangerous than the men,” Nigel remarked to Artimis.

“That’s true of most species,” Artimis replied.

“So what do you think Amanda and Cass do when zey are not delving into tombs with us?” Sandor asked Nigel.

Nigel reflected for a moment.  “Well, Cass is obviously from old money, despite the penchant for men’s clothing.  Of course, odd behavior is just one piece of evidence pointing in that direction.  From some of the things she’s said, he has a good grasp of English law.  She’s worked for the courts in some capacity.”

“Amanda is easier to figure.  The last name Higgins-Rafferty and her looks give her away on that count.  Her mother is Miranda Rafferty, one of the great dames of the London theatre.  The father’s side is a little more difficult to figure.  Miranda Rafferty never married, but has been linked to a number of famous and powerful men.  I’m going to go out on a limb here, as she has none of her mother’s natural Irish accent, and suggest that her father may be the well known professor of lingusitics, Henry Higgins.”

“Amanda is herself an actress, like her mother.  Not so successful yet, I understand.”

Sandor and Artimis appeared suitably impressed by Nigel’s deductions, and as they were approaching the mausoleum, moved ahead to look for signs of any of the Green Daggers.

“How did you figure out all of that, Nigel?”  Orla asked.

Nigel grinned. 

“Mostly, I just asked them when we first met.”

The mausoleum was the same as when they left it the night before.  There was no sign that anyone had been in or out.  They used the stone key to open the secret door into the caverns below.

They made it as far as the storage room before the rats came again.  This time they were more prepared, and the battle was quickly joined.  There were three rat-things, each the size of a large dog, with patchy fur growing over scaly skin, and with spiny ridges along their backs.

Amanda fired an arrow from her longbow, missing the lead rat, as Artimis passed a hand over one of his many tattoos, casting an ensorcellment of some sort.  From his muttered curse, it appeared to fail.  Cass pulled an old single-shot pistol from her holster and fired, hitting one rat in the side, sending it scurrying backwards.

“Maybe ve can speak to it?” Sandor asked skeptically.

“Speak to it with your knife!” Artimis replied.

The rat that was shot by Cass made an odd convulsing, hacking noise, like a cat about to cough up a hairball.  It vomited a stream of foul-smelling green acid at Sandor, Orla, and Nigel.  Orla and Sandor were nimble enough to avoid the disgusting liquid, but Nigel was burned on his arm, and yelped in pain.

Another stream of acid was directed at Amanda, Artimis, and, again, Orla.  Orla pirouhetted to avoid this as well, while Amanda and Artimis were each burned.  Orla tried to skewer the rat, but her rapier was turned away by its scaly skin.

Nigel fired a shot from his longbow, hitting the lead rat, then dropped his bow and drew both of his Fir Bohlg handaxes.  Amanda also attempted another shot with her bow, and missed again.  She, too, threw her bow to the side and loosed her great axe.  She grinned wildly as she prepared to wade into the midst of the beasts.

Artimis cast another enchantment at one of the rats, and a green ray shot from his hand, missing its target once again.  Cass moved to a safe point, reloading her pistol, as Sandor flung two daggers, one finding its mark.  

The rat that engaged Orla lept up at her, biting her deep on her side, while the lead rat attempted the same with Nigel, who stepped back out reach of the thing’s sharp teeth.  Orla’s rapier found purchase this time, however, and the rat attacking her screamed in pain.  Nigel was not so lucky, as both of his axes were turned by the creature’s hide.  

Amanda lept up to the lead rat, and took one strong swing at the foul beast.  It’s head came clean off it’s shoulders, and it fell.  Artimis had had enough of attempting to affect the rats, and cast a spell on himself.  Kendra the hawk swooped down and drew blood from one of the remaining two creatures, and they fled, haivng lost their leader.

“What in the devil’s name are these things?”  Orla exclaimed.

“I christen them ‘Scaly Spiny-backed Death Rats’,” Artimis replied.

“Raticus Maleficus?” Orla answered with a grin.

“I’m not sure that’s proper Latin,” Nigel said.  “In any case let’s get them before the get too far.”

The rat-things had vanished into the tunnels at the far end of the chamber, but had not been gone long.  Laddie picked up their scent quickly, and happily bounded ahead, pulling Nigel along behind him.  The investigators quickly found their footsteps drowned out by the sound of water.  The tunnel they were headed down ended at the bottom of the waterfall.  The rats were almost halfway across the shallow pool, and Nigel’s lantern revealed the ruins of some sort of structure beyond.  They could make out columns in the mist beyond.  

They ran out into the waist-deep water, chasing the rats.  Artimis held back momentarily.

“Uh, guys,” he began, gesturing towards the pool.  “Don’t forget to look out for the…”

The water around the investigators began to roil and boil, as something – multiple somethings – began to rise up out of the murky water.

“…skeletons…”


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (May 14, 2006)

The skeletons that had earlier menaced Artimis rose up from the water, blocking off the investigators from their prey.  Up ahead, Orla could hear a man’s voice, but could not distinguish the words. She tried to move past the walking dead blocking her path, but found it tough going.  They had less bulk to create resistance in the water.

The skeletons seemed to be covered with a sparkling, mineral-like sheen.  The began to spread out across the pool, moving mindlessly towards the investigators.

“Ignore them as best you can!” Nigel cried out.  “If we can get past them, they’ll lose interest in us!”

“Um, will that lose interest in us?” Orla replied, pointing.

A small lizard-like creature with bat wings swooped out from behind the waterfall, its tail twitching in anticipation of a fight.  Its wingspan was about eight feet, and it sported sharp claws and some rather jagged, unpleasant looking teeth.  Its scales were shiny black, and a ridge of spines ran down the length of its back.

“Is that a…” Amanda began.

“…Dragon,” Artimis finished.  “Yes, I think so.  Small, probably very young, but definitely a dragon.”

Nigel drew an arrow from his quiver, this one adorned with crimson fletching.  He had purchased it from the Artificer’s Guild with just this sort of incident in mind.  As he let the arrow fly at the dragon, it burst into flame, and struck the creature solidly in its chest.  The other investigators moved around the skeletons, trying to keep them at arm’s length and, for the most part, succeeding.  Nigel fired another arrow at the dragon, missing this time.  

The winged beast flew towards Amanda and Sandor, hovering momentarily as it breathed a blast of acid at them.  Amanda avoided the worst of it, but Sandor was hit full on, and screamed out in pain.  The skeletons moved in to surround the two, and to their surprise, the dragon as well.  Both the dragon and the investigators, it seemed, were one and the same to the skeletal dead.

Amanda brought her axe down hard on the skelelton blocking her path to the waterfall, and as she clove its head in two, it exploded into a shower of bony shards.

“Aaah!” Sandor cried again.  “Do not do zat again!”

Artimis by this point had made it to ruins on the opposite side, having avoided wasting time with the both the dragon and the skeletons.  The small winged beast swooped away from the skeletons, and approached him.

Artimis picked up a small piece of wood he found laying on the stone floor.

“Here, boy,” he called out.  “Here, boy!  Fetch!”

He tossed the stick out into the darkness of the ruins.

The dragon cocked his head to one side, hovering in place right by him.  Then it breathed a spray of acid all over him.

“Drat,” Artimis said.

Orla and Amanda had finally made it to the ruins, and with the dragon paying more attention to Artimis than perhaps was due, managed to block off its retreat.  A penetrating thrust from the elfling fencing instructor, and another strong blow from the axe-wielding sometime actress brought the creature down in short order.

“Actress, huh?” Orla remarked glibly.

“My mother always said I should have something to fall back on,” Amanda replied, patting the head of her great-axe.

Orla turned to Nigel.

“That was a dragon,” she stated.  “You know what that means.”

“There’s someone powerful enough down here to have a dragon as a pet,” Nigel responded.

“No,” answered Orla.

“It means treasure!”

However, search as they might, they found no gold coins or shiny gems in the columned ruin.  A dejected Orla led the investigators further into the ruins.  After a short the ruins became more complete, their walls painted black and adorned with swirls of paint, forming abstract shapes in black, grey, and light blues.  At last, their path was blocked by a heavy oaken door.

Orla examined the portal, looking for any evidence of danger, and Amanda kicked it open.  A wave of magical energy washed over the two of them, spreading a sense of dread, of defeat and impending doom.  Orla shook her head as if to clear it, and stepped into the room.  Amanda, clearly less sure of herself, timidly looked in after her.

The room beyond the ensorcelled doorway was large and elaborate, lit by candles and adorned with more spiralling abstract paintings.  It was dominated by a large, cyclopean statue with a table in front of it, cluttered with various strange-looking objects.  There was no one to be seen.  There was a door on the far wall, beyond the looming statue.

“We should follow as quickly as we can,” Nigel said.

“But some of these things could be helpful to us when we catch up to those rats,” Orla replied.  “We don’t even know if anyone else is down here.”

“Someone latched that door there,” Artimis replied.  “The rats were distinctly lacking in the opposable thumb department.”

Orla’s argument won out, though, and the investigators approached the table cautiously.  Artimis declared it to be free of apparent magical hazards.  He pointed to some of the bizarre bric-a-brac.

“That necklace, with the skulls, is magical.  Those three small crystals as well.  Let’s see, the book, there, no not that one, the older looking one with the Latin title.  That gold helmet, though, I don’t get anything from.”

Nigel looked at the helmet.  As it turned out, it was not a helmet at all.  It was sealed and the interior appeared to be filled with clockwork mechanisms.  He turned to the books, and one of them proved to be modern in provenance, titled “Of Mechanisms and Clockwork.”  The other non-magical book was blank, and also appeared to be recent vintage.

The magical one was much older, and in Latin.  Artimis declared it to be full of written-down visions, but could determine nothing of its purpose.

“There’s something under the table,” Cass said, pointing.  Whatever it was was the size of a small chest, and covered by a dark cloak.  Artimis stepped back and looked at it.

“Don’t touch it,” he said, and passed his hand over another of his tattoos.  He made a gesture with his hand, as if flipping an invisible page in a book, and the cloak flew off of the object.

It was a skull, apparently that of a dragon.  It measured about five feet from nose to the end of its horns.

“I hope that means we’re not going to see Mommy Dragon here,” Amanda said.


----------



## eris404 (May 14, 2006)

Wow, nicely done. And while on vacation, too! 

See you in a couple of weeks, Kid!


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (May 18, 2006)

The investigators cautiously approached the door on the far wall.  Amanda was still suffering the adverse effects of the previous door’s magical protections, and no amount of cajoling could convince her to advance beyond this one.  Reluctantly, Cass led her back out of the mausoleum, leaving Artimis, Orla, Sandor, and Nigel to examine the portal.

“Do you this zis one is also trapped?” Sandor asked.

“Only one way to find out,” Artimis answered, as he flung the door open.

Either this door was not magically trapped as the previous one, or they shook off its effect.  It is also possible that the investigators did not notice it, as immediately beyond the door, they were faced with a prepared force.  

Iron Tusk stood about thirty feet back, twirling his iron-bound table leg in his hands with a menacing smirk.  Near him stood Gwyneth, the girl from the Green Dagger house, rapier at the ready.  She locked eyes with Orla and pointed her rapier at the fencing teacher.  Behind them stood two other figures.  One was clearly a priest of the Bastard, and was wearing a dark cassock.  He was young, and sported scars on his cheek.  The other was a tall, thin man, nearing seven feet in height, wrapped up in odd, buckled armor that sported an iridescent sheen.  Nigel doubted that he was human.  He was armed only with a curious-looking, thin dagger.

There was no need for talk.  Orla immediately advanced on Gwyneth, and the thief-girl parried her first lightning fast strike.  The priest stepped back from the fray, and pointed a wand in Orla’s direction.  A tiny burst of energy shot out hitting her.

Iron Tusk drew out a flask of oil and applied it to his table leg while working himself into a mad frenzy.  Nigel did not like the looks of that, and fired his longbow at the Orkling, hitting him solidly in the leg.  Iron Tusk seemed scarcely to notice.

The iridescent-armored man made a quick gesture, and a rainbow-like burst of colors fanned out over the investigators.  None of them succumbed to its hypnotic effects, and Sandor and Orla moved into position to flank Gwyneth, and Orla drew blood.

The young priest blasted Orla once again with his wand, staying away from the melee.  Iron Tusk howled in primal fury, promptly tripped over a rock and dropped his table leg, and howled once again in primal frustration.  Nigel took advantage of the opening, striking the Orkling twice with his axes.  He drew copious amounts of blood, but Iron Tusk was in no state to care.

Gwyneth laughed at Sandor and Orla, and struck at her fellow fencer, finding a gap in Orla’s defenses and landing a grievous blow.  The fencing teacher, already heavily wounded from the priest’s magical attacks, dropped to the ground, bleeding and unconscious.

The tall, iridescent-armored man stepped in near Nigel, and lashed out with his dagger.  The blade was made of some sort of flexible metal, and it wrapped around one of the detective’s hand axes, and pulled it free of his grasp.  Iron Tusk used the distraction to recover his table leg and brained Nigel across the back of his head, and Nigel reeled from the impact, badly hurt.

Nigel stepped back, and Laddie moved in on Iron Tusk, defending his master.  Nigel looked at the wand of cure light wounds, and thought it would be best to get as much healing as possible.  He drank the healing potion he had stashed away instead.

Artimis intoned a brief incantation, and moved towards Orla.  Gwyneth and the priest could see him, but some magical protection prevented them from interfering as Artimis prepared to heal her.

The tall man struck at Laddie with his dagger, while Sandor flung two knives at Gwyneth, both flying wide of their target.  Iron Tusk closed on Nigel and swung a mighty blow, narrowly missing.  Nigel responded with an axe strike, and drew a spare axe for his off-hand.

Artimis cast a healing spell on Orla.  The bleeding stopped, but she did not regain consciousness.  The priest of the Bastard, sensing a small break in the battle stepped up behind Iron Tusk, and cast a healing spell of his own.

Nigel threw caution to the wind, as he and Laddie advanced on Iron Tusk.  Nigel swung with each axe, landing strong blows with each hand.  Iron Tusk reeled, but still menaced Nigel, who was badly hurt.  Laddie ducked in under his rage-weakened defenses, and bit hard into his thigh.  Iron Tusk’s eyes rolled back into his head from the pain, and fell to the floor.

Artimis looked over at Gwyneth.

“Well, if it worked before…”

He passed a hand over one of his tattoos, and pointed at Gwyneth.  She fell fast asleep.  Artimis chuckled.

The tall, iridescent-armored man seemed utterly unconcerned at the shift in the battle.  He dispassionately gestured at Nigel, and a green ray shot from his hand, striking him in the chest.  Nigel felt the strength in his limbs draining away, and nearly fell to his knees.

Sandor threw a knife at the tall man, and it found purchase in his shoulder.  There was no reaction.

“Eez that thing even human?” he yelled.

Nigel healed himself of some his wounds using his magical wand, though his strength still did not return.  He threw the wand across the room to Artimis, who caught it on the fly, and used it on Orla.

The fencer’s eyes slowly opened, and she sprang to her feet.

The tall man was cut off from retreat, but it did not concern him.  He lept onto the wall, and scampered up it like a spider.  He began crawling across the ceiling towards the dark end of the chamber.  Artimis sent Kendra up to harrass him, and the strange fellow fell from the ceiling and dropped twenty feet, landing with a crash.  He did not move.

The young priest ran for his life.  Laddie and Orla gave chase, blocking his retreat.  Nigel grabbed Iron Tusk’s table leg, and charged after him.  The young man’s eyes bulged as he sa his end coming.

“I surrender!” he yelled, tossing his wand to the side.  “I don’t want to die!”


----------



## Matchstick (May 19, 2006)

*Yikes!*

Threw the wand across the room!?!?!

Phew, that was taking a bit of a chance!


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (May 19, 2006)

Good stuff Kid C. Looks like that was nicely climactic, close-run fight at the end there.



			
				Kid Charlemagne said:
			
		

> One was clearly a priest of the Bastard, wearing a dark cossack. He was young, and sported scars on his cheek.[/QOUTE]
> 
> OK ... but what did the priest look like?
> 
> Sorry, I couldn't resist.


----------



## eris404 (May 19, 2006)

HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> OK ... but what did the priest look like?
> 
> Sorry, I couldn't resist.




Hey now - he's still on vacation. Give the man a break here.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (May 19, 2006)

Matchstick said:
			
		

> Threw the wand across the room!?!?!
> 
> Phew, that was taking a bit of a chance!




This was a _close_ fight.  Orla went down, Nigel was at 1 hit point at one point, and pretty low a couple of others.  Then we hit a lucky streak - Nigel almost taking Iron Tusk down, and then Laddie doing the last 2 HP or whatever to finish him off; Artimis getting Gwyneth (who was not all that hurt, IIRC) with the sleep spell, etc.  We felt the lack of Amanda and Cass - Amanda especially; both their players were unable to attend the session when this last fight took place.  I'm sure eris404 would have boosted the fight up in some manner if they had been there, and it would have been just as deadly.

We still have no idea what the buckle-armored guy is.


----------



## sniffles (May 19, 2006)

HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> Good stuff Kid C. Looks like that was nicely climactic, close-run fight at the end there.
> 
> 
> 
> ...


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (May 19, 2006)

sniffles said:
			
		

> HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
> 
> 
> 
> ...


----------



## Hairball (May 19, 2006)

Kid Charlemagne said:
			
		

> We still have no idea what the buckle-armored guy is.




He's a bit flatter than he was before.


After falling 20' that is...



Awesome story hour BTW.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (May 29, 2006)

Orla stepped up to the young priest.

"Now would be a good time to talk," she stated plainly.

"But I don't know anything!" he shrieked.

Orla placed the tip of her rapier under his chin, and lifted it up so that his eyes met hers.

"I thought you said you didn't want to die."

"Alright!" he cried.  "I'll tell you what you want to know."

"Who is your master?"  Orla asked.  "Where is 'The History of John Uskglass' and the golden key?"

"I was hired by a man named Veldargo," he answered.  "The book and key…"

"…are right here," Artimis finished, handing the book to Nigel as he examined the golden key.  He cast a quick spell, and his eyes narrowed.

"It's not magical."

"It's magic was drained by opening the book," the priest answered.

"The copperplate engravings are gone," Nigel said, leafing through the 'History of John Uskglass.'

"Did Veldargo remove them?"

"Yes," the priest replied.  "They were all that he was interested in from the book"

Orla had lost interest in book and key.  She walked over to Gwyneth, fast asleep on the cold stone floor, and nudged her none too gently with her foot.

"Wakey, wakey," she said.  "Get up!"

Gwyneth stirred, and struggled against her bonds.  Sandor had tied her up, again.

"Oh, you're very brave, kicking me when I'm all trussed up like this!" she sneered.  "Give me a sword and we'll see if you still like to act all high and mighty!"

"I've been thinking about that," Orla said.  "Untie her, Sandor."

With a flick of her sword, the fencing teacher flipped Gwyneth's rapier to her feet.  She smiled as Sandor cut the ropes tying her up.

"I do not zink zis is a good idea," Sandor cautioned.

"You've been all patched up," Gwyneth said.  "What about me?"

Nigel tapped her on the shoulder with the wand of healing.

"Better?"

She nodded.

"En garde!" Orla advanced on her opponent, but Gwyneth parried the blow.  They exchanged ripostes for a few moments, testing each other.  Then, Orla slipped in under Gwyneth's guard and drew blood.  The advantage was short lived, as Gwyneth's counter-stroke cut deeper.

The two duellists circled each other like sharks.  Orla was faster, and classically trained, while Gwyneth displayed an opportunistic style, waiting for mistakes from her opponent.  Orla was not one to make mistakes.

A lightning fast stroke avoided Gwyneth's parry and drew blood.  Gwyneth tried to step in and disarm Orla, but failed and left herself open for another nick on her arm.  Gwyneth was badly off-balance, and Orla capitalized with a thrust that cut deep into her side.

"No!" cried the priest, trying to stand up.  Nigel pushed him back to the ground.

"Gwyneth!" Nigel shouted.  "You're clearly losing!  Drop your sword, and we'll take you into Scotland Yard."

"Never!" she shrieked in reply, spitting out blood as she held her side.

She went on the defensive for a few moments to catch her breath, and even Orla couldn't get past her blindingly fast defense.  Then Gwyneth tried to disarm Orla again, failing once more.  Orla wasn't able to take advantage of the opening this time, and slipped on the stone floor, almost dropping to one knee.

Gwyneth sensed an advantage and advanced, throwing caution to the wind.  She thrust madly at Orla, but the duellist was too fast.  She parried the blow, and her counter strike passed entirely through her body, just beneath the ribcage.  The point of Orla's rapier protruded from Gwyneth's back, and the young Green Dagger gasped once, and died.

The young priest covered his eyes, as Artimis kneeled to see if Gwyneth was beyond healing.  She was.  Orla wiped off her blade and turned to the priest.

"Why did you do this?  What was in it for you?"  she demanded.

"We were paid well.  We made a lot of money…  and…"

He stared at Gwyneth's dead body, choking back a sob.

Orla blinked.

"Oh, for god's sake!" she said.  "Men!"

"Where is Veldargo now?" Nigel asked.

The priest gestured towards the darkened end of the cavern, where he had been trying to flee.  "He went down that way before we fought.  He's gone."

Nigel and Laddie disappeared into the darkness of the cavern, Nigel's lantern slowly dimming as the passage slowly turned.  A few minutes later, he returned.

"There's no exit that way," he said.  "Not now.  There's a solid granite wall blocking the passage."

Artimis scowled.  "What did the caretaker say?  Several old tombs predated the cemetery."

"The Pictish tomb!" Orla exclaimed.

The investigators rounded up all the items of note in the two final chambers, and started out of the caverns as quickly as they could.  The avoided the skeletons again, and entered into the tunnels beyojnd that led back to the storeroom where they had initially fought the strange rats.

As they passed an unexplored side passage, Orla stopped.

"Wait a minute," she said.  "I have an idea."

She darted down the hall.  Nigel and Artimis looked quizically at each other, and followed.  The found Orla at the end of the passage, not far away.

"I knew it!"  she cried.  She shined her lantern on what she had found.  

A few hundred coins were piled up in a sort of nest, along with a small, beautifully crafted chest.  Sandor opened it, and inside, laying on a a red velvet cushion, were a fine spyglass, a gold compass, and a gold watch.

"A starter treasure kit," Artimis quipped.  "So that's how they got the dragon to guard the way in, amongst other things."

"What do you mean?"  Sandor asked.

"Remember those rats?  I think they were crossbreeds.  Part rat, part dragon."

Orla winced at the idea.  "We need to get going," she said.

They emerged from the Chenowith mausoleum without incident, and found the Pictish tomb.  Nigel had recovered some garments from the caverns that the priest said belonged to Veldargo, and Laddie quickly picked up a scent leading away from the tomb.  It led to the cemetery wall.

From beyond the wall, they caught a scent of smoke.

Nigel climbed up the wall, and found himself on familiar streets once again.  They were scarcely a block from the Green Dagger house.  Bells were ringing, and Londoners filled the streets, passing buckets of water down the cobblestone alleys.

Veldargo had covered his tracks well.  The Green Dagger headquarters was in flames.  Nigel cursed under his breath.  They had recovered the book and the golden key, but they were missing the key pages, and the key was drained of all magic.

Nigel sat on the wall, and watched the house burn to the ground.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (May 29, 2006)

Thus ends _*"The Golden Key."*_  Soon to be followed by _*"The Mystery of the Origami Golem."*_


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (May 30, 2006)

Kid Charlemagne said:
			
		

> Thus ends _*"The Golden Key."*_  Soon to be followed by _*"The Mystery of the Origami Golem."*_




Looking forward to it already.   

The (lack of) resolution of "The Golden Key" of course reflects the Dragon module it was taken from. Does "The Mystery of the Origami Golem" continue with the same plot? If not, I'm curious as to how the players reacted to not fully solving the Golden Key issue.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (May 30, 2006)

I don't mind a setup for a recurring villain, myself.  The next story does not carry on the same plot, but Nigel is doing some things in his downtime to keep his eye on this situation (as I'll point out in the next update which I'll post shortly).

As a player, I _know_ that something must be up with the 'History of John Uskglass,' - mostly because of the name Vittorio Mateo coming up.  This is the second campaign in the Victoria setting, and Mateo figured in that one as well.  Nigel & Co. would have little reason to be overly concerned, but as a player, certain things catch my ear and make me wonder if they're innocent color, or clues to an ongoing thing.

So I'm sure we'll get back to this plot point at some juncture.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (May 30, 2006)

*Interlude*
_London, England
January 9th, 1888_

The knock at Nigel Spenser's door was barely audible, more like a scratch at the door than a knock.  Nigel grinned, and opened the door.

" A couple of solid applications of knuckle to door is the generally accepted method, Artimis," he said.

"Come in!"

Artimis Swain was wearing his usual high collar, hiding the gills that would draw attention to him, even in London, where Orkling, Elfborn, and Fir Bholg walked the misty cobblestoned streets.  He set his spear just inside the doorway, and looked as though he were going to say something.  He stopped as he gazed at the wall of Nigel's drawing room.  Nigel had covered it in corkboard, and small slips of paper were pinned all over it in an apparently haphazard application.  The lower part of the wall was covered in slips, while the upper half was barely covered in more than a few places.  At the very top was an old photograph of a professorial-looking man in his twenties or thirties in a fine frock coat and top hat..

"What is that?" Artimis exclaimed.

"Ah!" Nigel cried.  "I'm starting a project.  A categorization of all the tendrils of crime that emanate from this man."

Nigel pointed to the dissaproving looking fellow in the old photo.

"And that is?" Artimis asked, skeptically.

"The infamous Professor Moriarty, of course," Nigel replied.  "I'm rather annoyed at the fact that this Veldargo chap escaped us, but that's water under the bridge.  There's no sense in fretting over it.  Instead, I plan on taking action to uncover him, and in the process, start this project.  I've been planning on this for some time."

"I'll add to this as I learn new connections that lead back to the Professor, while keeping an eye on those elements of his criminal enterprises that someone such as Veldargo might need."

"But we know nothing of Veldargo," Artimis pointed out.

"Absolutely true," Nigel said.  "But we know that he wanted some engravings out of a book purportedly penned by one of the great wizards of the 14th century.  We know he himself has access to magicks that allowed him to put up a solid wall of stone in our path when we tried to follow him.  If he's looking to sell the engravings, I'll be keeping an eye out on fences known for trafficking in magical works.  If he plans on using themselves for some ritual or something along those lines, it might be a little more difficult.  I'll keep an eye on sages and scholars who are known to be experts on Vittorio Mateo, or who are known for working with the seedier wizards of our fine city."

Nigel grinned and looked at his handiwork.  It was spotty at the moment, but he could see the gaps and had ideas on how to fill them.  He snapped his fingers.

"I almost forgot!" he exclaimed.  "I received a letter that might interest you."

"I received a letter as well," Artimis replied.

"Was it from Scotland Yard?"

"No, it was from a friend of mine."

"Oh.  Well, take a look at this one," Nigel said, handing over an envelope embossed with the seal of London's reknowned Scotland Yard.

_Dear Mr.  Spenser,

Please allow me to introduce myself and forgive the impertinence of writing to you without the benefit of formal introduction. My name is Inspector Bennett, of the Met. Police of London, and I am writing to you upon the recommendation of Mr. Peabody of Lloyd’s of London, who speaks highly of your abilities and discretion.

As you may have read in the newspapers, there has been a number of appalling attacks, dare I say murders, in recent weeks, all upon the finest of society and perpetrated by, in my professional opinion, the same bloodthirsty maniac. As you can imagine, this has caused something of a panic and the good citizens are demanding private protection for their families. London being a rather large city and the size of the police force being what it is, we simply do not have the personnel to guard every citizen individually all whilst tracking a crazed and dangerous murderer. Therefore, I am offering to temporarily appoint you and whatever fellows you deem brave and trustworthy as constables until such time that the criminal is caught and brought to justice. With the department budgeting being what it is, we would be unable to compensate you directly, but the families, being of the best sort, are prepared to reward you handsomely for your service.

If you are interested in such matters, please come at once to No. 4 Whitehall Place with your most dependable and honest colleagues to take your oath of service and receive your assignments.

Best Regards,

Inspector Charles H. Bennett_​
"Interesting," Artimis said.  "Take a look at this.  I think we might be able to work on this after we help Inspector Bennett."

_Dear Mr. Swain,

I hope this letter finds you in excellent health. I also hope that you do not mind that I leave this message in the capable hands of Miss Beck, a most charming and gracious hostess. Please give her my thanks and warmest regards.

I have left this letter on what would have been my third visit, and I am somewhat concerned that I have failed to meet with you yet again and I fear that some misfortune has befallen you. It would greatly put my mind at ease to receive some word of your disposition, should a visit in person prove too bothersome. I hope I am not intruding upon matters of your private life and pray that you understand that I ask after you only as a concerned friend.

I must admit that I am quite anxious to show you some rather odd facts that my research has uncovered. I have been faithfully searching for traces of the artefacts of which we have spoken on many occasions. I have continued my interviews with sailors and fishermen, but unfortunately, I have not found substantial proof any such objects existing in England. However, one old fisherman of the name Harold Goodman did tell me an interesting tale. He comes from a small village in the North called Shoalbury, a town which until recently survived mainly on the fishing trade. The locals have discovered an oyster bed that produces red pearls exclusively. This in of itself is unusual but not unheard of, though red pearls are rather rare, and Mr. Goodman swore that no oyster bed had existed in those waters previously and that the bed had sprung up “overnight.” It could be merely a “fish tale,” if you forgive the phrase, but I thought I should at least mention it to you in case it had some larger significance to you.

Also, I made an interesting discovery in regards to the map you showed me and have found two stories as to where it leads. Both stories involve shipwrecks, though hundreds of years apart. The first story was recounted to me by an English sailor in H.M. Navy, a man named Balliwick (I apologize that I do not have his Christian name, but he was rather incoherent as he was intoxicated). According to Mr. Balliwick, his grandfather served under Lord Nelson during the war with France, and that a French vessel was mysteriously lost in that region, perhaps during a storm. As you can imagine, he told a tale of Napoleon’s fabulous wealth lost to the sea, but ripe for the picking for some brave and adventurous soul. 

The second tale I found in a book whilst researching an unrelated topic. I was translating an ancient book of accounts written in a rather dry style by a merchant named Miles Caperoys and was surprised to find in the midst of his figures and inventory a rather fascinating account of his ship being overtaken by Barbary pirates en route to the Kingdom of Jerusalem. During this struggle, the ship was accidentally sunken by the attackers, who had merely intended to take the ship as spoils, and the merchant was taken as a hostage briefly until ransomed by Christian knights.

Is it possible that not only is your map real, but that it leads to one of these ships? Or is it merely a product of the fertile imaginations of sailors who for hundreds of years heard tales of sunken ships laden with gold and treasure? I can not be certain on either account, but I shall continue my research and search for the Truth nonetheless.

Yours,

Dr. Randolph W. Spivey_​
"This has to do with the map you showed us, correct?" Nigel asked.

"Exactly.  Are you interested?"

"Of course!"

"It occurs to me," Artimis said, "that to search for sunken treasure of this sort, we're likely to need some resources.  A sizeable ship, a crew, etc.  We'll most likely need some backing."  

"The sort of backing that rich people who look to hire people to protect them could provide," he finished, gesturing towards Nigel's letter.

Nigel grinned again.  "Shall we meet at Scotland Yard in the morning, then?"

"I'll see you then," Artimis responded.


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (May 31, 2006)

Kid Charlemagne said:
			
		

> As a player, I _know_ that something must be up with the 'History of John Uskglass,' - mostly because of the name Vittorio Mateo coming up.  This is the second campaign in the Victoria setting, and Mateo figured in that one as well.  Nigel & Co. would have little reason to be overly concerned, but as a player, certain things catch my ear and make me wonder if they're innocent color, or clues to an ongoing thing.
> 
> So I'm sure we'll get back to this plot point at some juncture.




OOC knowledge is always good!   

Of course playing with an established group and a GM who you trust to get back to the storyline will mean that you can accept a temporary mystery. I guess I asked mostly 'cos I've considered running the same adventure, but as it's aimed at first level types, I wonder how players will react to starting with an adventure in which they "lose" (or at least don't wrap things up completely).


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (May 31, 2006)

HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> I wonder how players will react to starting with an adventure in which they "lose" (or at least don't wrap things up completely).




It's alway tough as a player to know exactly what to do in those situations.  There's a tendency to latch onto a challenge and pursue it doggedly.  On the other hand, if you think it's over you might totally let it go.  You have to rely on DM cues to figure out what path to take.

All I know is that if involves Mateo, I need about 12 more levels.


----------



## eris404 (May 31, 2006)

It is taking all of my willpower not to post something snarky about Vittorio Matteo.  


Spoiler



Try about 20 levels, Kid. ;-)


Just wanted to say thanks again for the story hour - you're doing an excellent job and it's always fun to see how the campaign looks through someone else's eyes.


----------



## Hairball (Jun 2, 2006)

Okay, I've got some questions:

Did you let Iron Tusk die or was he turned over to Scotland Yard?

Did Lloyd's have to pay off on the insurance policy for the key?

What was under the buckled armor? Daoinne Sidhe? Drow Elf? 

What was up with the iridescent armor the the funky daggers?

How did you cook the dragon steaks?


Again, great story hour.  Looking forward to the next installment.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Jun 2, 2006)

Hairball said:
			
		

> Okay, I've got some questions:
> 
> Did you let Iron Tusk die or was he turned over to Scotland Yard?




He bled out during the fight.  Nigel would have dragged him in, but considering how Iron Tusk tormented that poor widow, he's not upset that he wasn't able to be saved.



			
				Hairball said:
			
		

> Did Lloyd's have to pay off on the insurance policy for the key?




They paid off on the key and the book.  



			
				Hairball said:
			
		

> What was under the buckled armor? Daoinne Sidhe? Drow Elf?




We're not sure.  He kind of dried up and got all dessicated.  Nigel delivered the body to a friend of his who works in the morgue at Scotland Yard in hopes that he could figure out what he was, or at least provide a conversation piece... 



			
				Hairball said:
			
		

> What was up with the iridescent armor the the funky daggers?




Hmmm...  The irridescent armor had a funky magic property which slips my mind at the moment.  The dagger was a specially made thing that gives bonuses to disarm attempts.  I kind of skipped over the "treasure division" portion of the session.  I'm starting to think Nigel is going to start a collection of adventuring mementoes; I can't recall if we sold the Dragon skull or not.  The Artificer's Guild will purchase things like that, so we may have.



			
				Hairball said:
			
		

> How did you cook the dragon steaks?




This is Victorian England.  We boiled the heck out of it.  



			
				Hairball said:
			
		

> Again, great story hour.  Looking forward to the next installment.




Thanks again!


----------



## eris404 (Jun 2, 2006)

Kid Charlemagne said:
			
		

> Hmmm...  The irridescent armor had a funky magic property which slips my mind at the moment.




Not a magical property, but it did smell like saliva.


----------



## sniffles (Jun 5, 2006)

eris404 said:
			
		

> Not a magical property, but it did smell like saliva.



EW!!   

Kid Charlemagne and eris404,you're both doing a great job of capturing the feel of a Victorian mystery. I don't know if the two letters are transcriptions from something eris404 wrote, but they're very well done. Just like real British writing.


----------



## eris404 (Jun 5, 2006)

sniffles said:
			
		

> EW!!
> 
> Kid Charlemagne and eris404,you're both doing a great job of capturing the feel of a Victorian mystery. I don't know if the two letters are transcriptions from something eris404 wrote, but they're very well done. Just like real British writing.




Aw, thanks, Sniffles! I did write them, for better or for worse (I probably missed some British spellings/grammar in there somewhere) - I love giving out handouts like letters, maps, drawings, excerpts from books, whether its something I've written or something from a real book (which does come up in a later adventure). The really nice thing about this setting is that it's very easy to find good handouts. The last time I ran this campaign, I used drawings from Hieronymus Bosch.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Jun 18, 2006)

_No. 4 Whitehall Place, London, England
January 10th, 1888_

Scotland Yard was a bustling place on the most ordinary of days.  London was a hotbed of crime, and the number of inspectors and constables working there filled the place almost to bursting.  Every significant robbery, mugging, and kidnapping occuring in the city of London was handled there.

Inspector Charles Bennett was busier than most.  Murder was a nasty business, and there had been four of them in the past three weeks, as well as a half-dozen associated missing persons.  His hair was tousled from his pulling at it, and he was only roused from his dark speculations by a knock on his office door.

"Come in," he rumbled.

"Pardon me," answered Nigel Spenser.  "Inspector Bennett?  The seargent at the front desk said we could find you here."

"Yes, yes.  I'm very busy, I'm afraid…"

"We may be able to help," Nigel replied.  "You sent me this letter a few days ago, in regards to certain killings happening in the city."

"My name is Nigel Spenser, and these are my colleagues.  We're interested in helping."

"Spenser?  Ah, yes!  Of course!  Forgive my earlier reticence, I've been working late nights lately.  Please come in, and I will give you the facts of the matter so that you may understand what it is we'd like to ask of you."

Nigel came in and sat down in front of Bennet's desk, followed by Artimis Swain.  Sandor Kertes and Orla Taoiseach stood, flanking the office door.  Amanda Higgins-Rafferty sat daintily on a chair by a chalk-board covered in a rough neighborhood map, apparently the area where the killings had taken place.  Cassandra Cavanuagh leaned against a cabinet in the corner of the office.

Inspector Bennett blinked the fatigue out of his eyes.  London was such a strange place these days.

"Well, as you may have read in the papers, there has been a few killings recently.  We've kept the press away from it for the most part, but that won't last."

He stood up and walked to the chalkboard.  "The attacks have all taken place within a roughly eight block radius of this section of Swan Street.  It's a fairly well-to-do neighborhood."

"We've been asking for help in guarding certain families that have asked for help.  We're simply too taxed to provide personal security, and we don't have the budget to add more staff.  The families, however, are willing to pay for the assistance."

He rummaged through some folders on his desk.

"The family I'd like to assign you to is the Dromidal family.  Lady Adriane has been most vocal about needing protection, and in fact her son-in-law was one of the victims, so we are especially concerned that the madman might return to the Dromidal House."

Nigel leaned forward on Inspector Bennett's desk, supporting his chin with his hands, his fingers knitted together as he looked at the case files.

"Inspector," he asked, "could you give us the particulars of the attacks?  It might help us execute our duties more effectively."

"Of course, that seems sensible," he replied, returning to his desk and rifling through his folders.  He arranged them in chronological order, and began.  Nigel pulled out his notebook, and began jotting down details in a precise, small script.

_Three weeks ago:  Archibald Pickwill (missing) – attorney.
Sixteen days ago:  Thomas Turner (murdered) – husband of Lady Adriane Dromidal's granddaughter, found with his throat cut in the sideroom of the Dromidal House.
Two weeks ago:  Elizabeth Gorman (murdered) – throat cut in her own house.
Two weeks ago:  Angela Gorman (missing) – went missing that same night.
Twelve days ago: Edith Lovely (missing) – society matron, well-respected and wealthy.  Some blood and struggle evident at scene.
Nine days ago:  Michael Hastings (murdered) – throat cut in kitchen of his inn
Nine days ago:  Agatha Hastings (missing) – missing at that same time
One week ago:  Vivian Knots (missing) – famous actress, disappeared after a cast party following an appearance in a play.  This one is being kept secret to avoid press.
Five days ago:  Julia Pimm (murdered) – scarlet woman, throat cut.  Furthest from Swan Street – found one mile away.
Four days ago:  Cole Charleston (missing) – young man, "popular" with the local ladies._​
"Did the killings take place at a particular time of day?" Orla asked when Bennett was finished.

"Between the hours of eleven at night and three in the morning."

"Was anything taken from the crime scenes?" Nigel asked.

"No, apart from any struggle that might have taken place, nothing was disturbed."

"So no souvenirs," Artimis remarked.

"Any other connections between the victims?" Cass asked.  "Was Pickwill the attorney for all of them, for example?"

"No," Bennett replied.  "Although they do all move within the same social circles, and live within this eight block radius of Swan Street.  With the exception of Julia Pimm, of course.  She's the outlier."

Further perusing of the files revealed no clues, and the investigators made their way to the Dromidal House, escorted by Inspector Bennett.  He appointed them temporary constables of the Metropolitan Police so that they could have a measure of official endorsement, and presented them with badges.

"I'll make the introductions, and if Lady Adriane agrees, you can begin work immediately," he explained.

The Dromidal House was a large, imposing mansion that had seen better days.  While still in solid structural condition, the paint was peeling in a few places, and the grounds had been allowed to get the better of whatever gardener the Dromidals employed.  Inspector Bennett opened the squeaking iron gate that opened onto the street, and led the investigators to the front door.

A woman's voice could be heard inside, yelling loudly

"May!  Get up here!  Now!"

Bennett rang the bell and the voice stopped yelling.  He pointed at the yard while they waited for what seemed an unusually long time.

"The family fell somewhat out of favor when Lord Dromidal passed on," he explained.  "Lady Adriane is…"

"FARNSWORTH!  Get the door, you dottering…!"

The door opened.  A wizened, ancient butler waved the into the foyer.  A young, pretty woman in her late twenties came running in from the back of the house.

"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed. "I'm so sorry about the wait.  How good to see you again, Inspector Bennett."

"This is Cecilia Turner, Lady Adriane's granddaughter," Bennett said, in explanation.

"Inspector Bennett!" a voice came from above them, on the second floor landing.  They turned to see who it was.  Nigel noted that it was the same voice that had been screaming at Farnsworth and the unseen May, but that she had turned on the charm for her visitors.  

The voice came from an elderly woman, in her seventies.  She was dressed in a gown that would have been fashionable perhaps in the 1850's, but was hopelessly dated now.  Amanda noted that she was rather overly made up, as well.

"What a _fine_ group of guests you have brought to my humble abode," Lady Adriane said.  "Cecilia, why don't you take our guests into the drawing room while I finish getting ready?"

"Of course, grandmother."

They had scarcely left the foyer when Lady Adriane's voice rose to a screech once again.

"MAY!  _Now!_"

Artimis remained at the door between foyer and drawing room, and saw a small, Japanese woman rushing up to the second floor, muttering to herself.  

"Must be May," he thought to himself.  "Or Mai, to be more precise."

He joined the others as Cecilia was talking.

"…Five hundred pounds, per person, per week, does that sound acceptable?" she was saying as she brought out a chequebook.  "You may stay on the third floor, and grandmother would like you to be as quiet as possible on the second floor, where our rooms are.  There's no need to be constantly checking those rooms, I should think."

They accepted the terms, and repaired to their rooms on the third floor, which was little more than an attic.  They divided up the times that they would watch.  Nigel, Cass, and Sandor would watch during the day, and Orla, Artimis, and Amanda would watch at night.  The day crew began to make the rounds, familiarizing themselves with the house and grounds.  

Nigel wound his way through the dining room, the foyer, and finally the sideroom off of the dining room, where  Thomas Turner, Cecilia's husband had been found murdered.  There were a few pieces of antiuque furniture, and on one wall was a large shield with the Dromidal device.  Opposite the shield, on the outside wall, was an elaborate stained glass window, apparently depicting the late Lord Dromidal in the guise of a knight, in full armor, sword and shield.

He came back into the dining room, and something moved, just at the edge of his vision.  Nigel shook his head to clear it.  He approached where he saw the movement.  It was a closed china cabinet.  He peered in, and could see clearly where the sugar bowl had moved perhaps six inches from where it had been.  He could see the trail it had left in the dust on the cabinet shelf.

"What in the blazes?" he asked himself, not sure of his own eyes.  The sugar bowl seemed innocent and innanimate enough now.

Meanwhile, Cass had walked out onto the grounds.  The inside of the house was far better maintained than the outside, she noticed.  There was a fountain in the backyard, and a wall and hedge surrounded the estate.  There was a gate out onto a service road in back.  She returned to the house and entered by the back door, just alongside the kitchen.  She heard a slight crunching noise underfoot, and kneeled to see what it was.

It was a small, brightly colored origami crane, now crushed and bent.  Cass straightened it out, and put it in her pocket.


----------



## HalfOrc HalfBiscuit (Jun 21, 2006)

Nice start to the new adventure. Looking forward to how this unfolds.



			
				Kid Charlemagne said:
			
		

> "…Five hundred pounds, per person, per week, does that sound acceptable?"




Crikey, I should say so!! 500 pounds would have a been a decent annual wage in (RL) Victorian England, never mind a weekly wage.   

Seriously, I understand the simplicity of not trying to replicate real costs/income, and I take it you've gone for a straight 1 gp = 1 pound? Out of curiousity though, can I ask, have you gone for 20 shillings (sp) to the pound and 12 pennies (cp) to the shilling, or has the UK gone decimal 100 years ahead of time?  (it would have made my childhood maths classes simpler if we really had!   )


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Jun 21, 2006)

Yeah, we're going for a straight 1 pound = 1 gold conversion, and decimal.  Though really, we could easily go 20 shillings to the pound and more or less ignore pence altogether. But we're never forget ---> lazy american here.


----------



## eris404 (Jun 21, 2006)

HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> Crikey, I should say so!! 500 pounds would have a been a decent annual wage in (RL) Victorian England, never mind a weekly wage. Seriously, I understand the simplicity of not trying to replicate real costs/income, and I take it you've gone for a straight 1 gp = 1 pound?




Well, that's D&D economics for you. The flavor of the setting might be a little different, but at the end of the day, it's still D&D. 



			
				HalfOrc HalfBiscuit said:
			
		

> Out of curiousity though, can I ask, have you gone for 20 shillings (sp) to the pound and 12 pennies (cp) to the shilling, or has the UK gone decimal 100 years ahead of time?  (it would have made my childhood maths classes simpler if we really had!   )




NO. Besides just being easier to use the decimal system, the older exchange rates brought back bad memories of 1st Edition currency. There are many things from 1st Edition I have fond memories of and the currency is not one of them.


----------



## Hairball (Sep 11, 2006)

Bump.

Hi guys, any more updates?


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Sep 11, 2006)

Hairball said:
			
		

> Bump.
> 
> Hi guys, any more updates?




I was just thinking about this this past weekend - we played Saturday.  I'm only actually about 4 or 5 sessions behind the current game; we only play about once a month.  The last two sessions saw a spectacular running fight to kick off what will be the next adventure after the _Mystery of the Origami Golem_ is solved; that new adventure will be _The Flight of the Queen Victoria_.  I think I can probably get an update or two written up this coming weekend, as I have no gaming going on at all.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Sep 17, 2006)

The next morning, Nigel put all thought of the odd behavior of the sugar bowl out of his mind.  Such a thing could not have happened, he decided.  A trick of the light must have been the cause of his momentary confusion.  He descended the stairs to the Dromidal's kitchen, poured himself a cup of tea, and returned to the third floor where Orla, Artimis, and Amanda were waiting, yawning, having been up all night watching the house during the wee hours.

"You'll never guess what I saw last night," Orla began.

"Oh, dear," said Nigel.  "What?"

"A floppy woman's hat."

Nigel paused.  "Is there any particular reason that such an object would be worthy of bringing to our attention?"

"When it suddenly appears out of nowhere, yes."

"Start from the beginning," Nigel replied.

"I was in the sideroom, where Mr. Turner's body was found," Orla began.  "I had walked through the room several times, and was about to start down the hall towards the kitchen when something caught my eye."

"A fine example of London haberdashery?" asked Amanda.

"Well, I'm not sure how fine it was," Orla replied.  "But there it was; a floppy, dark woman's hat.  And it hadn't been there just a couple of seconds before when I passed the writing desk it was sitting on.  I poked it with a pair of scissors.  Nothing.  I poked it with my hand…  nothing.  So, I…"

"You didn't," Cass said, reprovingly.

Orla's face flushed red

"I, uh, put it on.  And it vanished."

"Poof."

Amanda shook her head.  "Things like this never happen to me.  Of course, I wouldn't have put on the haunted hat."

Nigel cleared his throat.

"I saw something odd during my rounds yesterday evening before we changed watches."

He told them of the ambulatory sugar dish.

Seeing that his fellow investigators seemed increasingly skeptical of both Nigel and Orla, Artimis pulled something out of his pocket.

"I, on the other hand, have something of a little more substantial nature.  Or at least, something that actually physically exists, which is a step up."

He displayed a plain white handkerchief, and unfolded it.  Hidden within was a single, unblemished, human tooth.

"I was on the third floor watching from a window when I saw Mai leave the house in the dark of the night.  She went out to the fountain in the garden, and was working there for a few minutes, digging a small hole in the ground.  I waited until she was done, and went to where she was digging.  It was easy to find.  I dug down myself, and found this."

"Alright," Nigel said, "but what is it?  I mean, what is its significance?"

"Maybe some sort of controlling magic?" Orla offered.  "Are any of the household missing a molar?"

"I don't think so," answered Artimis.  "I think I would have noticed.  But I think its clear Mai is up to some kind of magic.  The only question is to what end?"

"We'll want to keep Mai in our sights, then.  Make sure she isn't up to any mischief," Nigel said.

"She won't have the time to be," Amanda replied.

"Why is that?"

"Because she'll be busy all day cooking.  Lady Dromidal has gotten it into her head that all the excitement warrants having a dinner party this evening.  She's invited guests and everything.  The butler was just mentioning it to Mai downstairs.  She was cursing up a storm.  Or at least I presume she was cursing up a storm, I suppose she could have been reciting Biblical passages in Japanese, for all I know.  Vehemently."

Nigel was looking out the window, and something caught his eye.  He peered intently at the street outside.

"We should let Scotland Yard know," Orla said.  "They might know something about Mai."

"We'll have the chance," Nigel said, as the doorbell rang below them.  "That's Inspector Bennett there."

The investigators hurried down the stairs, joining the Inspector and Cecilia in the dining room.

"We have good news," Nigel said.  "We are making progress in our investigations."

"My news is not so good," Bennett replied.  "There has been another murder."


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Sep 17, 2006)

"His name was Stefan Klimt.  Austrian by birth, he's lived in London for some time now.  He's an art dealer, and owns an art gallery in a fashionable part of town.  Mostly deals in French painters, the kind where they splash paint up on a canvas and call it art."

Inspector Bennett continued as they entered the Klimt property.  "He is apparently wealthy, but robbery does not seem to be a motive.  There is no sign of forced entry, and nothing is obviously missing, though it will take a little time to be clear on that point."

Inspector Bennett, Nigel, Artimis, Orla and Sandor came around the back of the house; a large, tasteful home in the French style, and came upon a small cadre of detectives milling about the crime scene.  Stefan Klimt's body lay face down on the ground, directly under a balcony.  Cass and Amanda stayed behind to guard the Dromidal house and keep an eye on Mai.

"He fell from up there," Bennett indicated.

"Was he pushed?" Orla asked.  "Are you sure it wasn't an accident?"

"Well," Bennett replied, "the knife in his back does suggest murder."

As he waved off the throng of constables surrounding the body, they could now see clearly that Klimt had not met with an accident.  A knife protruded from the space between his shoulder blades.  He wore a dressing gown and slippers.  Nigel entered the house and ran up the stairs to the balcony above, followed by the others.  He stepped out of the French doors onto the balcony, which were still open.

"If he was standing here, the murderer must have been right behind him in this room," Nigel mused.

"No," Sandor shook his head.  "There."

He pointed directly behind Nigel in a straight line to a wardrobe.  The door was ajar.

"Ah.  So the killer lay in wait here, and then killed Klimt when the opportunity presented itself."

They stayed for a few hours, looking for further clues, but as none seemed to be in a hurry to present themselves, they returned to the Dromidal house around noon.

After an afternoon punctuated by the occasional outburst from Lady Dromidal, and Artimis interrupting Mai on occasion to suggest she serve raw fish instead of the scheduled ham and potatoes, guest began to arrive for dinner.

Much to Nigel's relief, the guest list turned out to be rather small.  Lady Dromidal did not have a great many friends, not being at the top of the social list for some years now.  The first to arrive was Miss Guesenholt and her nephew, a young man of about twenty-five named Ned.  The other guest was a rather obnoxious fellow by the name of Stewardsfield, who Lady Dromidal clearly intended as a potential match for her daughter.

This seemed to irk Orla, and not to please Cecilia, either.  As the dinner progressed, Orla missed no opportunity to dig into Mr. Stewardsfield.

Nigel scarcely noticed.  The vague sense of discomfort that had been with him since he noticed the odd behavior of the sugar bowl the previous night was growing ever more pervasive.  He felt some sort of presence in the room beyond those seated at dinner, but could not put his finger on it.  The room seemed to darken, and the candles flickered, but no one else seemed to notice.  It wasn't until Cecilia rose abruptly from the table, practically in tears, that he realized that Oral had been asking about a particularly gruesome painting hanging on the wall opposite from her.  He turned slowly to look at the painting, and saw only a blank wall, filled with hideous yellow wallpaper.

_Something must be causing this to happen,_ he thought to himself.  _We are all experiencing different hallucinations and hauntings…_

Nigel carefully drew a wand from inside his coat.  It had been one of his first purchases upon successfully solving his first case for Lloyd's of London.  He surreptitiously passed it over his food.

_Nothing,_ he thought.  _The food is not poisoned in any manner._

What Nigel wanted to try next he could not manage without creating a stir at the table.  He rose from his chair, and walked over to Orla's side, taking her arm gently.

"I apologize for my friend's behavior," he explained.  "She's had a bit much more to drink than she should."

He led her out from the room and into the hall.

"Pull yourself together," he whispered urgently.  "Something is going on!"

'Yeah, that Stewardsfield is a prick!"

"I think Cecilia took offense at your baiting him.  You should go apologize."

Orla stuck out her tongue at Nigel like a five-year-old, spun on her heels, and marched upstairs.  Nigel shook his head to clear the cobwebs.  He felt like he had drunk a whole bottle of wine, but his glass was only half-empty.  Orla's, for that matter, had scarcely been touched.

Nigel waited before returning to the dining room.  He had been working on some small tricks of a magical nature, things to aid in his investigations.  He had one such in mind, a simple incantation to reveal the presence of evil, and he cast it now, as quietly as he could.

He stepped back into the doorway of the dining room.  It seemed clear that dinner was over, and the guests were getting ready to make a hasty departure.  Nigel felt a strong impression, like the beginning of a migraine headache.  It was as if he were seeing stars, or…

_Yes.   Something evil is present here in this room._

The presence resolved itself into two separate forms.  Nigel forced himself to continue concentrating until one of the two presences, it became clear, emanated from beneath the floorboards.

Nigel turned towards the other presence to identify its location, and then suddenly dropped the spell, in shock.

It was Lady Dromidal.


----------



## Fimmtiu (Sep 18, 2006)

The plot thickens! Not unlike oatmeal.

You know, Lady D might just be garden-variety small 'e' evil. The sort of person who kicks puppies, say, but not necessarily involved with a murderous plot. Or was it an overwhelming aura?


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Sep 18, 2006)

Fimmtiu said:
			
		

> The plot thickens! Not unlike oatmeal.
> 
> You know, Lady D might just be garden-variety small 'e' evil. The sort of person who kicks puppies, say, but not necessarily involved with a murderous plot. Or was it an overwhelming aura?




As I recall, it was not an overwhelming evil, by any means.  I think the other aura was stronger, or at least in retrospect, I think it would have been.  In reality, I think I forgot to ask...  

BTW, I fell short of my plan, I had intended to write one update each day this weekend (Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday), but only wrote two.  I'll try and do one more this week.


----------



## eris404 (Sep 18, 2006)

Hey, Kid, these are great! I actually laughed outloud at a couple of parts. Do you write down exactly what Marsha says or did you just approximate it - either way, it sounds exactly like some things she would say in character (Marsha plays Amanda).

Two points though:

1. Cecilia is Lady Dromidal's granddaughter (You had daughter in one post).

2. Actually I remember that you did ask about the strengths of the "evils" because I actually had to look up the description of the spell to make sure. You are correct - Lady Dromidal's aura is very weak, especially in comparison to the second aura.


----------



## Kid Charlemagne (Sep 18, 2006)

eris404 said:
			
		

> Do you write down exactly what Marsha says or did you just approximate it - either way, it sounds exactly like some things she would say in character (Marsha plays Amanda).



I do write down some bits - like Inspector Bennett's remark about the knife in Klimt's back suggesting murder, but lots of times I'm approximating the conversation.  I find that it's fairly easy for me to write in Amanda/Marsha's voice for some reason.


----------



## Hairball (Oct 5, 2006)

Sorry it took so long for me to reply.  Many thanks for the updates.  Lots of fun as usual.


----------



## jcfiala (Nov 1, 2006)

I just started reading this Story Hour, and I love it!  I look forward to seeing more.


----------



## Wraith Form (Jan 12, 2007)

jcfiala said:
			
		

> I just started reading this Story Hour, and I love it!  I look forward to seeing more.



What he ^ said.  Bump--?!


----------

