# MerakSpielman's Story Hour (A Kingdoms of Kalamar campaign)



## MerakSpielman (Nov 8, 2004)

This is my third attempt at a Story Hour. The first one fizzled because I was too lazy to continue, even though I didn't start the story until the climatic final dungeon of the campaign. The second fizzled because the group split up, and I couldn't bring myself to keep writing the few sessions I hadn't written yet when I knew the story would just stop in the middle.

Likewise, following the long-standing tradition, this Story Hour will have its own problems. I started writing it shortly after the campaign started, about 8 months ago. I just about wrote up the first session, then I got lazy and didn't write any more. 

However, I'd like to get back into it, and just about the only way for me to do it is to post the bit I have written, give a quick sum-up of major events that have occurred in the meantime (I can't manage more than that - my memory is spotty for specific details), and then keep writing the story from where we are now.

This campaign takes place in the Kingdoms of Kalamar campaign setting. I started off using a couple modules from the Lands of Mystery series, but I found them stale and started spicing them up until they were unrecognizable, and now I'm pretty much on my own. I'm fairly liberal about changing things I don't like about the world, and ignoring aspects with which I am not familiar.


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## MerakSpielman (Nov 8, 2004)

Here is a map of Tellene - the world of the KoK setting: Link


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## MerakSpielman (Nov 8, 2004)

It was a dark and stormy night.

Rain sluiced off the dilapidated roofs and into the garbage-strewn gutters of Bet Seder, cleaning away the accumulated filth of the last week. This occasional cleaning was only a temporary solace – the filth would be carried out to the sea, only to return with the tide again and again.

But for now, the rain kept the smell at bay, and most of the beggars had sought dry corners and were not visible to the traveler. This was good, for he would almost certainly have emptied his purse of his own free will, trying to better their meager lot one silver at a time. As it was, he only had just enough to pay for a few nights’ lodging.

He sought an inn, someplace he could dry his clothes, and perhaps find a bed without too many vermin. As he passed beneath a street lantern, somehow miraculously having avoiding being extinguished by the weather, it could be seen that he wore a pale blue robe and bore a staff topped with a curious symbol: a “*y*” atop a shimmering rainbow. He was a cleric of the Lord of Silver Linings, and these accoutrements were the symbols of his faith. A weather-worn pack was slung over one shoulder, and when a gust of wind threw back the corner of his robe the glint of metal could be seen. The Lord of Silver Linings was a merciful and compassionate god, and his clerics followed his example. This did not mean, though, that they were not fit to defend themselves should the need arise.

His name was Lysorn Raelthais, and he was young, and he was naive, and he walked with a purpose.

Finally, the young man found what seemed to be a reasonable establishment. The sign above the door depicted a fat, content halfling with a flagon in one hand and a pipe in the other, reclining on a beer keg. Above him was carefully inscribed the name of the inn, written in Kalamaran (the language of this region): The Jolly Halfling.

He stepped into the common room with what he imagined was dramatic intent – he did have a Purpose after all – but amounted to little more than a half-hearted stumble as he shook the water out of his robe. He was soaked. 

The place was nearly deserted. Most people, Lysorn supposed, were taking shelter at their homes. It wasn’t really _that_ late; the weather made it seem darker than the hour. 

A seat was available near the fire, a fact for which the weary cleric was both amazed and relieved. Muttering a prayer of thanks to his god he sank into it, the wet cotton of his robes squishing out rivulets of water in a most undignified fashion. He knew it would feel like ages before the warmth penetrated the robe and the chill scale armor he wore beneath, but already he felt better, as though one stage of his journey had been completed. 

This later turned out to be true, but at the moment he didn’t really know where his journey was leading so it was very hard to judge.

“What’ll you have?” asked a serving woman in thickly accented Merchant’s Tongue, as she bustled by. The common room was nearly empty, but the pretty young Dejy had the air of somebody who was almost too busy to be bothered.

“What do you have?”

She rattled off a list of drinks, and Lysorn picked the one that sounded the least expensive. Luckily for him the Lord of Silver Linings did not forbid the imbibing of alcohol, not to excess at least. He hardly tasted it, though, so occupied was his mind.

He had been schooled and trained as a cleric for five years at the Church of Everlasting Hope in Segaleta. They had taught him the ways of mercy and compassion. Before he joined, he had been filled with relentless anger, a brooding coal waiting to be fanned into flame by the slightest remark, a chance glance. But now he had the skills to accomplish what he sought, and he was no longer driven by anger. He trusted the Lord of Silver Linings, and had faith that if he followed the tenets of his new belief, he would be led on the path to that which he desired above all else. He had to find them. Lysorn remembered a man’s green eyes, a woman’s auburn hair…

His drink was nearly empty. The Dejy woman returned to refill it, but instead of wandering off to do her work, she pulled up a seat and joined him, pouring a glass of her own.

“I’m off,” she said, matter-of-factly, “And you look like you could use some company.”

Lysorn blinked, saying, “Oh, no, I don’t mind. I could use somebody to…” then he blinked, a realization filtering through his distracted thoughts, “Oh! You don’t mean, I mean, I’m an honest cleric, and I wouldn’t want to…”

She looked at him curiously for a moment, then burst into laughter, “Relax, Peacemaker. I’m not _that_ sort of barmaid,” she pondered for a moment as he relaxed, taking a sip of her drink, “Though now that I think about it, I’m probably the only one in the city who’s not. I’ve only been in Bet Seder for a few days, and I’m already sick of it. My name is Dust Thirdmoon, of the Chord tribe.”

“I am Lysorn Raelthais, a Gentle of the Church of Everlasting Hope.” Now that he was sure it wouldn’t be construed as flirtatious, he allowed himself a closer look at her. Dust was clearly Dejy – her tanned skin, dark eyes and hair, and accent made that quite clear. He could also see under her loose-fitting clothes that she was thin, almost waiflike, in a way that bespoke poor health. No, not quite poor health, she was obviously a healthy woman, she was just _frail_. She was still pretty, though, in her own way.

“So what brings you to this wretched place, Lysorn of the Church of Everlasting Hope? There honestly isn’t much to recommend it.”

“I’m looking for someone, ultimately. Have you seen a woman, probably twice your age, with auburn hair and green eyes?”

Dust laughed, “This is a city of seventy thousand people! I must see dozens of people matching that description every day!”

“Never mind… never mind,” Lysorn muttered, “If you’d seen you, you’d remem…”

“That said,” Dust interrupted, “I think I’ve seen her.”

“What? When? Where?”

“I said I think I’ve seen her. About four months ago. In a tiny tavern a hundred miles north from here.”

“Why… I mean… What makes you think…”

Dust shrugged, “She got drunk and was telling me her life story. She didn’t say much, but was sobbing in her beer about a baby she was forced to abandon years and years ago.” She paused to take a large gulp from her own frothing cup.

“That was me!” the cleric exclaimed. “I figured,” muttered Dust, but Lysorn was rushing forward, “It must be a sign! The exact thing I’m looking for! Tell me about yourself. What’s a Dejy doing in Bet Seder? You said you were new here.”

“I’d like to say that’s a long story,” Dust sighed, “but it’s not really. The Chord tribe is still nomadic, clinging on to the old ways, despite Dejy everywhere abandoning them. I was married five years ago,” she broke off at Lysorn’s blink of surprise, “Oh, yes, we marry young. I was lucky, though, and the man chosen for me was brilliant, and handsome… a respected hunter and warrior. I was chosen as a match because of my magical abilities – do not look so surprised, gentle cleric, but yes, I am a sorceress. Wolf – my husband – died in an accident, or so it was said. I tell you this in confidence,” she leaned a bit closer and spoke more softly, “but I suspected foul play. I feared that something sinister was happening, and that whatever it was, it would not spare me. So I left the tribe – in order to maintain my freedom and advance my abilities. When I am ready, I will return and seek the truth.”

As she spoke her eyes darkened and her tone grew grim and serious. Breaking the mood, the young Dejy chuckled, “In my tribe my… abilities… were looked upon with a mixture of respect and suspicion. Now, I make my way in the world as a barmaid, and I do not dare practice my talents openly, lest it become easier for them to find…”

“Dust Thirdmoon?”

Both Lysorn and Dust turned. The inquiry had come from a strong, handsome woman standing by their table. She was dressed in furs and armor, had an unstrung bow tied to her back. The worn handle of a sword at her waist peeked out from behind her worn cloak. Her height, stockiness, and cheekbones marked her as a Fhokki – the people beyond the mountains to the northeast, to whom civilization had come painfully, if it had come at all.

“And what if I am?” Dust replied somewhat bitterly, barely glancing at the newcomer.

“My name is Raven Southwind. I have a message for you from the Chief of the Chord. Are you Dust Thirdmoon?”

“You must know, or you wouldn’t have bothered coming up to me like this,” Dust sighed, “I am she.”

“I’m happy to have found you at last, Dust. I am one of a trading mission between my tribe and your own. Your chief could not spare any of his own warriors to find you, and so he implored me to help him.”

“And what does the Chief say?”

“Your period of mourning is over. You are to return to the tribe and marry your new husband. I am to ensure your safety until you are again under the protection of the Chord.”

“What, are you taking me prisoner or something?”

“Of course not. I am an honest woman, Dust, and you have done nothing wrong as far as I can see, even had I the authority to arrest you, which I don’t. I presume you were going to return to your tribe eventually, yes?”

Dust nodded.

“Then it is my job to ensure that nothing happens to you until that time.”

“And what did my Chief offer you for this duty? What is the price for the allegiance of a Fhokki tracker?”

Raven stiffened slightly, “Do not insult my honor, Dust Thirdmoon. It is no simple thing that drove me to follow you these hundreds of miles.” She looked Dust in the eye, “It is a matter of love. I met a hunter of your tribe, and we would be together forever, but the Chief would have none of it unless I proved myself worthy by completing a task. If I arrive at the Chord camp with you, safe and sound, he will allow us to marry. He told me of your magical talents, and I am aware that, even were I to try to take you by force, which I will not, I cannot be sure of my ability to do so. So I will follow you as a companion, not a captor, until such a time as you return to your people and I can be with my love.”

Dust held Raven with a steady gaze, “I’m not going to be able to get rid of you, then, am I?”

“No. But it need not be cumbersome. Our peoples are not so different. I’m sure we can find common ground to become friends, with time.”

Suddenly Lysorn burst out, “This is it! I understand! I’ll help you, Dust. It’s fate. Destiny. I traveled to Bet Seder because I know how many people there are here who need help, and I knew I would find myself with somebody who needed my skills. And then, straight away, I met you, with news of my mother, and… and…” he trailed off, red with excitement.

“Destiny is it?” Dust asked, amused.

“Laugh if you want to, but I believe in it,” Lysorn replied, nonplussed, “My quest is to find my parents – who twenty-two years ago abandoned me at an orphanage. The Lord of Silver Linings will guide me to them, I know, if I hold true to the lessons he has taught me. It stands to reason that, by following as closely as I can the life of a cleric of the Lord of Silver Linings, that he will be pleased and draw me, seemingly by chance, closer to my goal. Already I can see that it is working.”

Dust looked at Raven, then at Lysorn. The cleric was positively buzzing with young enthusiasm. 

The Dejy sorceress sighed, “In the space of a half hour it seems I have become no longer alone,” she muttered, “You both seem like good people, and I would be honored to have you with me. But I do not intend necessarily to return to the Chord immediately. I will stay here, for a few days at least, working and earning enough money to last a while.

“There’s an Inn nearby – the Sleeping Sands. Let’s go there and sleep on it, and if we still want to be together in the morning, then so shall it be.”

The rather suddenly-formed trio turned to the door, Lysorn gathering up his staff and pack from next to the table.


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## MerakSpielman (Nov 8, 2004)

Outside, the rain had slowed to a faint sprinkle, but the sky was still overcast, the reflected glow of the city creating a weird universal half-light across the port district. 

“Which way?” Lysorn asked Dust.

“Just a few buildings down. That way,” The Dejy sorceress replied, “Look, you can see the glow from the win…”

A noise coming from down a nearby alley made her stop mid-word. Heavy shuffling and heavy breathing. Somebody was coming. The beggars and other assorted wretches should be wherever it was that they sheltered during the night. It could be a prostitute, hoping for a bit more business before dawn, or perhaps a cutpurse, or something more sinister. Hands tightening on his staff, and his mind racing through the few, simple spells he had prepared, Lysorn turned to see.

A man was stumbling down the narrow alleyway toward the group, his feet constantly getting tangled in garbage and his face, or what could be seen of it, contorted with pain. He seemed to be carrying some sort of bag or satchel. “Help…” he cried pitifully, “please…” 

That was all the encouragement Lysorn needed. Thoughts of danger were swept clear of his mind as the plea for help triggered his deeply-trained compassion. He rushed forward, past the tribal women who seemed frozen in place. 

“Sir? What is wrong? I am a cleric. I will help you.”

“Lysorn, you idiot, what are you doing? He could be anybody.” Dust’s protests were ignored.

The man recognized Lysorn’s robes with a look of sudden hope. “_Selandi!_” the cleric recognized the Brandobian name for his deity, “Please, you must help,” the man rasped in broken Kalamaran, “an unspeakable evil has landed… in this city… must be stopped. Take this case,” he pushed the satchel into Lysorn’s arms, “It contains… potent items… which will… need… to vanquish the unholy one. Call upon… the Gods and… the crossbow… fire it into the black heart of evil. _Your aim must be true_. Seek the Sirocco… the Sirocco’s Kiss… at nine… that is where it dwells… arghhh…”

His body went limp. Lysorn hastily discarded the satchel and tried to catch the man before he fell. The young cleric lowered him as gently as he could and rummaged in his pack, pulling out a standard healing kit. Dust and Raven crowded around, trying to see what he was doing. Lysorn fumbled around for a few moments with the contents of the kit, then turned his attention to his patient. His face fell.

“I’m too late. He’s dead.”

The man was already stiffening, his face contorted in a permanent expression of pain. Lysorn reached up and closed his eyes. Then he spotted something. Perplexed, he reached around the side of the dead neck and withdrew a tiny dart.

“Poison,” he spat, discarding the dart with distaste, “I’m surprised he got as far as he did. He looked up at Dust and Raven, who were already rummaging through the satchel. Raven whistled.

“This is a piece of work this is,” she commented, drawing something from the pack. It was a crossbow, beautifully wrought out of what looked like very expensive wood, “What else is in there?” The Fhokki ranger asked, as Dust peered into the satchel.

“Some bolts. Nice-looking ones, too I’d say,” she pulled them out, “And a few rolled-up scraps of parchment.”

Lysorn became interested, “Parchment? Maybe it’s a note or something.” Dust had unrolled one and looked at it, “Looks like magical mumbo-jumbo to me,” she announced.

“Magical? I’d better confirm that.” The cleric cast a quick spell, the women watching with mild interest. A few seconds passed. And a few more. Finally, he announced, “I don’t believe it. It’s all magical. The scrolls, the bolts, the crossbow, everything.”

They exchanged glances. Slowly, they came to the dawning realization that they were standing in the open in a crime-ridden city, with potentially very valuable items out in plan view, and a dead body at their feet. They quickly stashed the items. Lysorn looked down at the dead man.

“I suppose you think this is all another sign?” Dust asked.

“Of course. Here we are, just having formed a partnership, and one minute later we’re warned about some evil that needs to be stopped. What else but a sign?”

Dust sighed, “Lets go to the inn and talk about it.”

“I can’t just leave him here. I’d better take him to the guards. They’ll give him a proper burial.”

“I suppose you want help dragging him.”

“Well, if you wouldn’t mind…”

It took their combined efforts to drag the corpse all the way to the local guard post. They had to go right past the Sleeping Sands Inn, and another few hundred yards further for good measure. The guard post Dust led them to turned out to be more of a headquarters, with uniformed guards in rusty armor lounging about in the broad main room, some sleeping, some drinking, and some making halfhearted efforts to stand around looking professional. One of these last spotted them and came over.

“What’s your business, people?” His Kalamaran was a lazy drawl.

Lysorn began to explain in a rush, “we found this man and told us a message about evil invading the city and then he died and…”

“You got yourselves a corpse, then?” The guard did not seem even marginally interested in the clerics’ hasty story.

“Well, yes, but you see…”

“Good job. Corpses can’t be left to rot. Great to get them off the street. Here’s the standard five coppers for civic duty.” He signaled one of his underlings who, after a moment of trying to ignore his superior, got to his feet and dragged off the corpse of the mysterious stranger. Lysorn stared after them in horror. The guard turned to him.

“What, you still here? Not like you’re anything special you know. That’s the seventh corpse tonight, and they all got their coppers, just like you. You want more coppers, bring in more corpses.”

“You mean, you just pay anybody… you don’t check…” Lysorn was almost spluttering. Raven and Dust were watching with amusement. They didn’t speak Kalamaran, but were getting the general gist of the conversation.

“What are you blathering on about? It’s all explained on that poster, plain as day. They’re up all over the district. Lysorn scanned the large print at the top of the poster. It read “Coppers for Corpses!” He couldn’t bring himself to read more. Slightly green, he turned to the women.

“Let’s go. I’ve seen enough.”

Back out on the street, the young cleric burst out, “I could have been anybody! That man could have been anybody! They didn’t even ask any questions. For all they knew I killed him myself.”

“You can’t be that surprised,” Dust said quietly, “to find indifference and corruption in this cesspool of a city.”

“But they’re city guards! They have an obligation, a duty, to protect the city… to mete out justice. To… to…”

Raven put a hand gently on the cleric’s trembling shoulder, “Not everybody believes in ideals the way you do, Lysorn.”

The cleric did not speak the rest of the way back to the Sleeping Sands Inn, though he occasionally broke out in fits of trembling.

The room they rented was reasonably clean and well-kept, and they passed the rest of the night, and a few hours of the next morning, in relative comfort.

-

The impromptu band had a council the following morning, huddled around a tiny table in the Sleeping Sands’ nearly deserted common room. 

“We need to figure out what that man was talking about,” Lysorn insisted, “We’re meant to help him – to finish whatever it was that he died doing.”

Raven and Dust looked at each other, and finally Dust shrugged, “All right. Why not? I was getting bored waiting on tables.”

Raven smiled, “I’m going to accompany you until we return to your tribe, Dust. This sounds like fun to me.”

“Great!” Lysorn looked excited, “What was it he said? ‘Seek the Sirocco’s Kiss at nine?’”

“Yeah, I think that was it. Nine in the morning or nine in the evening?”

“And what’s a Sirocco? And what is it kissing?”

A moment of silence.

“Well,” Dust said, “There’s nothing to do but ask around, I guess. Let’s go find out what we can and meet back here in an hour.”

_An hour later_

“I think I might have a lead,” Raven announced, “I met a sailer who thinks that the Sirocco’s Kiss is the ship they used to build the Temple of the Stars.”

Lysorn looked surprised, “Really? The God of Travel? That’s a pretty harmless deity, from what I remember, unless you’re on a ship whose captain doesn’t donate to his temples regularly. I wouldn’t think to find some sort of hidden evil there.”

“It’s worth a shot,” insisted Dust.

And so they went out into the stinking streets of Bet Seder. Lysorn looked forlornly at the beggars and street cripples they passed, and then at the pathetic few coppers in his pouch.

“You can’t help them all,” murmured Dust, and he sighed agreement.

The Temple of the Stars was only a short distance from the Sleeping Sands Inn, but it took nearly ten minutes of pushing through the crowded streets to get there. The Temple was designed to look like the aft section of a sailing ship, though its boards were obviously taken from many different vessels. Perhaps twelve feet above the door were mounted half a dozen different figureheads, and from the roof of the temple rose two great oak masts, complete with sails, rigging, and crows’ nests. The brilliantly yellow sails were emblazoned with black images of sailing ships, themselves with beautifully embroidered silver sails. 

The front doors of the impressive structure were propped wide open, but Lysorn stopped to read a plaque by the door.

“Behold the Temple of Saint Mokotu the Moon Mariner, favored of Rostak the Voyager, God of the Stars and Travel. Such was the faith of Mokotu that he sailed to the edge of the world, and followed the stars of the Wavecrusher’s Harpoon to the moon Pelesond, where he resides to this day. This Temple is erected on the very space where he prayed to the Voyager for guidance before he set forth on his journey.”

“So in other words,” Dust whispered to Raven, “He prayed here, set off for Pelesond in a _boat_, and was never heard from again.”

Raven stifled a disrespectful chortle.


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## MerakSpielman (Nov 8, 2004)

And I'm afraid that's the sudden break - yeah, before we get to any real action or anything. Give me a day and I'll write up the summary of what has happened since then.


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## MerakSpielman (Nov 9, 2004)

This sum-up is much less narrative and brief than the above posts. It will continue like this until we catch up with current events.


The party discovered at the Temple that the Sirocco’s Kiss is a ship. The priest is familiar with him because he religiously donated at the Temple whenever he was in Bet Seder, hoping to increase his odds of an easy voyage.

The party proceeded to the docks, and interrogated a foppish dockmaster, getting nowhere. Dust _Charmed_ him, and that got them their information quickly – the Sirocco’s Kiss was in port. He also cheerfully provided them with the dock number.

The party found the boat, but is overcome with paranoia and do not directly investigate. They set up observation in a warehouse directly opposite the craft and observed the comings and goings of the crew and passengers. The crew seemed normal enough, but the passengers all wore cultish red outfits with a cat symbol on the chest. The cultists frequently left the ship and vanished into the city in small groups, following a regular pattern.

Raven slipped off to follow a batch of cultists, but had little luck figuring out what errands they were running, and was eventually spotted and forced to give up the attempt. Meanwhile, Lysorn grew weary of all the sneaking around and went directly up to the ship to inquire. However, his skill at bluffing is nonexistent, and though the exact words of his inquiry have been lost to the mists of time, he might as well have gone up and asked flat-out, “Hey, is there anything suspicious or evil going on here?” A cultist demanded he leave, which he did, but not before casting a _Detect Evil_ and picking up a number of auras from inside the hold, including one particularly strong one. He returned to the stakeout.

After Raven returned, they analyzed their notes and, assuming all the cultists were evil, determined how many of them there were total, and when there would be the fewest of them on board. Not seeing any other real options, they decided to assault the ship. Lysorn was all for ending evil purposes, but reluctant to engage in actual violence, but finally he acquiesced. Dust, frail from months of depression and mourning, was worried that she would fall dead before she got anything useful done, and opted to sit on the next pier over, pretending to fish, and then rushing in to aid her friends after the first blows had been struck.

No one was on deck, so Lysorn and Raven decided to try to be stealthy, though Lysorn was particularly poor at it. Two narrow sets of stairs led into the hold, and they crept across the gangplank and up to the nearest one. Lysorn decided to go first. To his horror, in the hold he saw an array of four cultists, armed and ready for combat. Even more terrible, on a throne behind them, sat an eight-foot-tall humanoid tiger. There were silks and throw cushions everywhere. The cultists charged and Lysorn turn and ran back up the stairs to the deck. The fight erupted, Dust running over to see if she could help out. 

Lysorn managed to douse one of the cultists with Alchemist’s Fire, inspiring him to leap off the boat into the harbor water. Raven quickly dispatched another, and when Dust arrived her _Burning Hands_ spell injured the remainder.

The humanoid tiger, thankfully, remained below decks.

The remainder of the battle was short and bloody. Lysorn busied himself with curative spells as Raven finished off the remaining two cultists with some nice sword-work. The cleric was shaking and said that he used the Alchemist’s Fire out of desperation – and he swore to never deliberately harm another human being again. He lamented his lack of discipline. Meanwhile, Dust noticed the cultist who had gone overboard, swimming desperately to a ladder on the dock. Out of idle curiosity, in the middle of Lysorn’s lament about harming people, she cast _Daze_ on the swimming fellow to see what would happen. The cultist slipped below the surface of the water – to Lysorn’s horror – and failed to return.

The trio then cautiously investigated the ships hold, aware that the creature down there was probably a terrible foe, and that Lysorn had already exhausted his meager supply of healing magic.

The creature was nowhere to be seen. After much paranoid skulking, they became convinced that it truly had vanished, and wasn’t hiding or invisible somewhere in the room. They searched the floor for secret trapdoors (but neglected to search the walls ) and decided the creature (which pretty much every D&D player would recognize as a Rakshasa, but they didn’t) must have used magic to flee. There was a pair of chests flanking the throne, which they cautiously opened. The first contained a scattered pile of coins and a small jar containing a blue, ointment-like substance. The second chest contained a terrified Halfling child, barely two feet tall. 

At first convinced that the child was the tiger-man in a magical disguise, the party interrogated the poor boy, causing him to break down in tears. Realizing their error, they lightened up and managed to convince the boy that they were friends and could help them. The boy told them that he had been captured by slavers a year ago, and recently purchased by the cultists to serve drinks and clean. He begged the party to help him find his way back home – a village called Popowan.

The party then left before the cultists who were ashore at the time of the attack could return, hiding once again in their convenient warehouse. The cultists returned ahead of schedule, and by their careful count it seemed they had an additional person amongst their number – though the tiger-man was nowhere to be seen.

....


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## MerakSpielman (Nov 11, 2004)

The party decides they’ve had enough of this cult, and hope that by stealing all their money they’ve crippled the group. They inform the city guard, who could really care less, of the situation.

Asking the Halfling boy where he’s from always produces the same result: “Popowan! I want to go home!” The party has no idea where this is, so they consult a cartographer and he tells them it’s a small, isolated village in western Pekal, the country to the north of Tokis and with which Tokis is currently at war. The trio decides they don’t have much else to do so they tell the kid they’ll take him home and set about planning their journey.

The party got a job escorting a caravan of weapons and other supplies north. Nobody seemed to much mind that the mercenaries were dragging a halfling child with them. The journey proceeded without serious incident, and several days later the party was on their own again on the border of Tokis and Pekal.

Soon after, having crossed the river, they encountered a group of pilgrims – hopeful wizard apprentices actually – and agreed to escort the eager youngsters to Baneta, where apparently the great wizard Lakaran the Twisted was holding a contest to determine his apprentice. It was rumored that hundreds of hopefuls had already arrived in the city – and the Lakaran’s choice wasn’t going to be made for another month.

Days of travel passed, and the party managed to fend off a few minor encounters with brigands, before they finally reached colorful Baneta, City of the Whale. Bidding the apprentice hopefuls good luck, the trio hired a boat to take them upriver to Kalokapeta, having judged (incorrectly, I think) that the river voyage and subsequent journey southeast to Popowan on the shore of Lake Tali would be quicker than simply traveling north from Baneta.

The party quickly realized how expensive long boat rides can be. Staying at inns up to this point, coupled with the boat fare, nearly exhausted the funds they had acquired from the cultist’s chest, most of which had turned out to be copper and silver. Counting their meager funds, they reckoned that they had enough money to stay at inns until they got to Popowan, but after that they were going to be practically broke. It was mentioned that perhaps the family of the Halfling boy would provide them with some sort of reward.

After arriving, the party wasted no time experiencing the wonders of Kalokapeta, a free city on the intersecting border of three of the Young Kingdoms, and headed straight out the south gates, realized they had to squander a few more silver to ride a ferry back across the river, and grumblingly continued on their journey.

(at this point it is worth noting that the players began to notice the odd naming convention used for the towns in virtually all of the old Kalamaran Empire. Pretty much every town and village has –ido or –idu as a suffix. On their way to Popowan (one of the few exceptions), the party passes through Fidoka’omidu, Birido, Dinimeka’ido, and Gorido. Much later, when they travel to Bet Rogala, they pass through Favido, W’pawido, Karidu, Lebolegidido, and Worido. This spawned an endless series of inside jokes about the authors running out of ideas, and I can at this point hardly mention the name of a village without triggering laughter on their part.)

Little did the party know, at this point, how many times they would be trudging along this short stretch of dirt road between Kalokapeta and Popowan.

Several days later they arrived at Popowan, a typical small rural village where they could see several halflings and humans going about their business. The child they were escorting (whom I seem to have utterly neglected to ever actually name) became very excited. He led them quickly to a house on the edge of the small village – more of a mound than a house really – where they knocked politely. There was no reply.


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## MerakSpielman (Nov 11, 2004)

Note:
I really like the Lysorn character, and it is with deep annoyance that I must report that, after the very first session of the game, his player mysteriously vanished, and we never saw him again. We got one email that he would be unable to make it next week, and subsequently all of our emails to him went unanswered. He never even came back to pick up his PHB, which he had left with us for convenience. We've postulated a thousand theories, but have no real answers to this mystery. However, I had built immense plot arcs around the initial Dust-Raven-Lysorn trio and their somewhat detailed backgrounds, and I was loathe to simply drop Lysorn from the game entirely. After the first session, he effectively became an NPC do-gooder, a walking pacifictic band-aid. Even the players who have joined in the meantime have grown kind of fond of him. 

In the next post, the PCs will encounter some more PCs, as we add three new players to the group. Afterwards, these will be the names to remember:

Raven: Fhokki Ranger, 
Dust: Dejy Sorcerer,
Lysorn: NPC. Human Cleric,
Alron: Halfling Rogue,
T'Angel: Fhokki Druid, and
Astoria: Raenarian Paladin.


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## Droid101 (Nov 12, 2004)

Gotta watch out for those mysterious "tiger-men."  Never know what they got up their sleeves.


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## MerakSpielman (Nov 12, 2004)

They went to go see the Mayor, the Halfling child worried and crying faintly as they left his home.

The “Mayer,” it turned out, was simply the local priest, a friendly halfling who explained what was going on. While delighted to have the child returned to the community, he admitted that they had been having some problems lately. “We’re overrun with idiots! People, ordinary, productive citizens, keep wandering back into town drooling and incoherent! They’re totally unable to explain what’s been happening to them. We’ve lost dozens of people to this mysterious affliction. Alas,” he looks at the child sadly, “his own mother is afflicted. She’s being cared for by relatives in a different house. This child will be easily housed – half the halflings here are all related to each other in some way, and they all help each other in times of need.” “What about his father?” Asks Lysorn, worried, “Is he still around?” The mayor looked troubled, “His father left to try to find his son after he was taken by the slavers. We never heard from him again, and fear the worst.”

Having left the child in the care of his relatives, the party considered their options. “We have to help them!” insisted Lysorn. “Something is plaguing these villagers, and it would be wrong to just leave.”

Dust and Raven reluctantly agreed, and the group formulated a plan. Deciding that the afflicted idiots were the victims of some sort of intelligence-draining affect, they reasoned that the appropriate _Restoration_ magic would cure them. Their plan was to get a single villager cured, so he could relate what had happened. Both Lysorn and the local cleric were unable to cast such magic, however, and it looked disturbingly like a simple _Lesser Restoration_ would be insufficient for the task (presuming the afflicted were reduced to 1 INT, a _Lesser Restoration_ might not increase their INT sufficiently to get useful information out of him). However, the price of a full Restoration was generally 280gp, which was severely beyond their ability to pay. The party returned to the mayor, hoping the town could front the money, but he said it was impossible, “We’d love to cure somebody and get to the bottom of this, but we’re a poor, small village. I doubt that sum exists here, even were we to pool all of our cash, and even were we to do that, it would destroy us. I appreciate your help, though, and hope this doesn’t discourage you too badly.”

Grumbling, the party decided to try to find some way of making money, and made a few Gather Information checks. They come up with two primary prospects. First, there are rumors of a mysterious barrow mound in a cemetery perhaps two miles from town. However, unlike most mysterious barrow mounds, there are no rumors of undead, no noises in the dark, and nothing happening on the full moon. In fact, the primary reason the PCs decide the mound is mysterious is that the villagers mention it as a local landmark, and then proceed to adamantly declare how pointless it is to investigate. Second, an elf is in town with a proposition: several years ago an elven hermit lived on the shores of Lake Tali, where he crafted an unusually fine single-seat sailing boat and spent his twilight years sailing around and generally enjoying himself. Then he got caught in a sudden squall, his boat sank, and he was killed. The elf with which the party spoke was willing to pay 200gp for the recovery of the boat, which itself contained some excellent and valuable examples of woodcarving.

The party opted to attempt to retrieve the boat. They talked to the local fishermen, who directed them to the location of the wreck, at the bottom of 30 feet of water, about 200’ from shore, half a mile north of Popowan. Having paid a couple silver, the fisherman was quite willing to act as a ferry out to the wreck, but once there, the party had a bit of a problem. How to retrieve the boat?

Returning to shore, they ponder their options and decide their best bet is to buy a bunch of rope, swim down and tie the rope to the boat, and trail the rope to shore where they could pull the boat to land.

(at this point we, in traditional geek-fashion, used the Pythagorean Theorem to determine the length of rope required. If the length of one side of a triangle is 200’, and the other side is 30’, it turns out the hypotenuse (the distance along the lakebed) is 200.224 feet.)

The party purchased sufficient rope (250’) and proceeded with their plan. The friendly fisherman took them to the wreck, where Raven proceeded to strip down naked and swim down to it, carrying one end of the rope. The fisherman goggled, remembered his wife, swallowed, and pretended he hadn’t noticed. Apparently the Fhokki have different social mores.

However, there was a complication. Just as Raven was tying the rope onto the exquisite little sailboat, she was attacked by a giant snapping turtle, which (understandably enough) perceived this soft, squishy pink thing floundering in the water to be some sort of prey animal. Trailing blood from a viscous gash in her side, Raven swam desperately for the surface. The turtle got in another good bite before she made it to the boat, clinging desperately to the few hit points she had left. Lysorn quickly cured her of some of the damage, but the battle wasn’t over yet. The turtle came up and capsized the boat, spilling everybody into the water. 

Years later, the story was still told in Popowan of the Naked Warrior, clambering to the top of a capsized fishing boat, and wielding the sword she had managed to grab before all her other equipment was lost. Valiently she stood, water glistening on her skin, blood flowing from a hundred wounds, attacking the tremendous horde of giant turtles in a desperate, futile attempt to save her friends, who were being torn to pieces around her. But miracle of miracles, her skill won the day. Without armor or aid of any kind, she single-handedly slew hundreds of the foul beasts. More seedy versions, told in the back of the alehouse after many rounds of brew, included minute descriptions of the warrior’s physical characteristics.

The battle over, Lysorn and Dust out of spells, and their lost equipment retrieved from the lakebed, the party finally ties the rope to the boat and strings the other end to a sturdy tree on shore. Evening was coming on, so after delivering the carcass of the giant snapping turtle to the villagers, the party opted to wait until tomorrow to actually haul the boat to shore, and on the short of the lake, they slept.

-

They were awoken shortly before dawn by a villager, running through their camp, shaking them awake. “Wake up, guys, there’s slavers in town! About a mile east! They have some people in a cage, and we’re worried they’ll come after our kids again!” The villager, having in his own way asked the adventurers for aid (as he had been instructed by the mayor), dashed off to the safety of his house.

“I suppose Lysorn is going to make us go do something about this,” Raven sighed, and she stretched and winced as she disturbed her remaining wounds from the previous day. Dust wearily agreed, and Lysorn looked annoyed, but pulled on his armor and robe. They set out.

The slaver camp was dominated by the large cage-wagon which held the prisoners, two humans and a halfling. Attached to the back of the wagon, forming a sort of “train,” was a small cart within which was a pile of random weapons and equipment. Around a small cook-fire hunched four hobgoblins, all armed and armored. Three horses was hobbled nearby, two of which looked like typical nags, and the third of which was a very nice-looking light war horse.

In the middle of their breakfast, the hobgoblin slavers found themselves suddenly under attack. Dust _Dazed_ a couple, then found herself resorting to _Burning Hands_. Lysorn held back and _Blessed_ the party. But strangely enough, at the moment the trio attacked, the prisoners burst out of the door at the back of the cage-wagon, grabbed weapons from the cart, and joined in the fray. Quickly all the hobgoblins had been slain, with minimal damage taken by anybody involved.

It turned out that the halfling was an accomplished rogue, and had picked the lock on the cage during the night. But the prisoners had been leery of trying to escape without some sort of distraction, especially since it would take them valuable time to recover their equipment. They introduced themselves as T’Angel, a Fhokki who had been abandoned by her parents for her outlandish appearance (they thought the albino hair was a curse) and raised by a sect of druids, whose skills she learned, Alron, the aforementioned halfling rogue, and Astoria, a Reanaarian paladin, for whom the capture and imprisonment had been almost too much to bear. The light war horse was hers.

The ex-prisoners were disoriented and in an unfamiliar land. After hearing the tale spun by Lysorn, Raven, and Dust, they all, each for their own reasons, offered to join them and help them solve the mystery of the Popowan Idiots. 

The newly-formed group piled all the armor and weapons they looted from the slavers into the small cart, hitched up the horses to the wagon, and drove the thing to town, asking the villagers to look after it while they went back to retrieve the boat.

If only it had gone smoothly after that.

All six of them pulled mightily on the rope and managed to get the small sailboat ashore. Just as they were lying, panting on the sand after their exertions, a head poked up out of the water. It was a Nixie, and it had been watching them.

Instantly on guard, the party conversed with the Nixie, who seemed very curious about what they were doing. Apparently it was just toying with them, because quite suddenly it said, “well, that’s all well and good, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to capture and enslave all of you now.” Several other Nixies popped their heads up out of the water – five in all – and the party suddenly found itself buffeted by _Charm_ effects.

Amazingly, everybody made their saving throws. Dust desperately counterspelled the next _Charm_ targeting her, while Raven, T’Angel, and Alron targeting the Nixies with their various missile weapons. (NOTE: I didn’t apply the Nixie’s damage reduction. The PCs were having a hard enough time dealing damage as it was). A couple party members were briefly _Charmed_, but the Nixies responsible were quickly targeted and killed, ending the enchantment. Their magic exhausted, the Nixies began to resort to their crossbows to continue their assault. 

Things were going pretty poorly when, all of a sudden, three more Nixies surfaced and came to the aid of the party, attacking the original Nixies with their own crossbows. The party, looking pretty bedraggled and with many crossbow bolts sticking out of various members, thanked the new Nixies for their assistance. 

T’Angel wanted to know why they were attacked, because Nixies are generally pretty quiescent water spirits, sometimes mischievous, but never downright hostile without good reason. The spokes-nixie replied, “We’re not really sure… about half of us suddenly turned evil and left the village. We’ve been waging a minor war with them ever since. It wouldn’t be so bad except, at the same time they went bad, our guardian naga got stupid.” Lots of questions from the party, “Yes, just transformed into a blubbering idiot. Without him, we’re crippled.”

After a few more words of little significance, the good Nixies vanished back into the lake, leaving the party to ponder this news. Villagers idiofied (a new term coined by my players and used extensively during this plot arc), and the naga as well? Something was going on, and they had no idea what it was. Curing one of the villagers was imperative. 

The wreck of the ship, as well as a few baubles contained within, netted the party enough gold for a _Restoration_ spell, but the nearest city where they could be assured such magic was available was Kalokapeta, the city they had just visited about a week before.

It turned out not to be difficult to pick which afflicted villager to take with them for curing – Lysorn was quite adamant. It was to be the mother of the child they had rescued, a young halfling woman. After collecting the halfling and bidding farewell to the mayor, they departed, bringing the captured slave wagon with them.


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## MerakSpielman (Dec 1, 2004)

And so they trekked, with the wagon slowing them down a bit, for several days. 

Then they were ambushed by mounted brigands, to the delight of Astoria, who got to do some fighting on horseback. After the short, bloody battle, they tossed the 2 brigands who were still alive into their slave wagon, just in case they could get a reward for turning them in when they got to Kalokapeta. 


A few more days, and they were there. They had to pay the ferry fee again, which was quite expensive what with the wagon and horses. Several PCs tried to haggle with the ferryman, without much success.

Once in the city, the PCs scouted around the different temples, and finally decided on the Order of Thought, who hold wisdom and mental prowess holy. Their hope was that the Seekers of Sagacity would find intelligence-drain a particularly heinous thing and cure it at a discount. To their delight, they were not charged for the material component for the Restoration spell, and came out of it with some extra cash.

Eagerly, they explained the situation to the restored halfling woman and asked her what she remembered about the day she was idiofied. “Well, I was out walking on the paths (there’s a lot of them around Tali Lake) collecting herbs to sell in town. The last thing I remember was looking up and seeing a beautiful human woman walking towards me… then everything went blank.”

Well, they had hoped for a bit more information than _that_, but that’s all she could remember. She was overjoyed, however, to learn that her son had been returned to her, and was eager to get back to Popowan and see him.

Grumbling, the PCs dropped their captured brigands off at the local constabulary, receiving a small reward, and left the city, escorting the halfling. They purchased some extra horses at this time as well.

Later the next day, they were attacked by hippogriffs – a flock of about 4 of the beasts, swooping in to try to make off with the horses. One landed on top of the cage-wagon, where Alron was entertaining the halfling woman. Having originally intended to pounce upon the wagon-horses from behind, it seemed a bit miffed when Alron began to vigorously attack it, by himself. The rogue was worried that the beast would make off with the halfling woman, and as a fellow halfling he felt he had to defend her rather than jump off the cart and out of harm’s way. 

Meanwhile, Dust’s horse was being attacked, and the rest of the party was fighting bravely against the monsters. Flames shot through the air, swords rose and fell, blood flew. A scream rose from the halfling woman – Alron had fallen. The hippogriff he was fighting grabs his tiny form and flapped off, joined by its companions, one of which clutched Dust’s horse in it’s talons.

The party watched, horrified and helpless, as the hippogriffs tore apart their prey in midair, fighting for prize chunks, and departed.

After composing themselves and repairing their injuries as best they could, they realized there was nothing to do but press on, and mourn his loss.

Two days later the remaining party members encountered a man sitting cross-legged in the middle of the road. “I’ve been waiting for you. I’m Kerrick, a monk from The Hall of Oaths.” After a quick round of questioning, it turned out that clerics at the Hall had performed some divinations, and it turned out Kerrick should come to this place at this time and join the first adventuring party that passed. However, The Speaker of the Word (the god of said temple) was very unclear on exactly _why_ this had to be done. But here he was.

Kerrick was quite insistent about joining the party, so they filled him in on what they were doing and let him join them.


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## MerakSpielman (Jan 7, 2005)

(clearly Kerrik is played by the fellow who played Alron. I didn’t feel like spending the time to work him into the group any better, and I figure it’s okay to use the “my god told me to join your group” method just once in my DMing career.)

Soon after Kerrick joined them, the party is stopped by a contingent of soldiers traveling the other way. The soldiers, a mix of humans and halflings, insist on looking through the PCs packs for contraband. “There’s rumors of an upcoming assassination attempt on the Prince of Pekal,” they told the PCs, “We’re searching everything.” The party submits to this and to their surprise, the guards find something. “What’s this? Poison!” It is the jar of blue, pasty substance Raven, Dust, and Lysorn found back on the cultist’s ship in Bet Seder.

The PCs manage to talk their way out of being arrested, since they genuinely didn’t know they had anything illegal on them. But the Captain still takes down their names before he sends them on their way, “just in case.”

Finally, they arrived back in Popowan and reunited the woman with her son. Tearfully, the pair returned home.

T’Angel sent her wolf companion out to investigate the trail network on the south side of Lake Tali. Her wolf returned in about half an hour and told her it smelled many individuals, but there was one who was different – not human, not halfling, just a bit… odd.

Of course, the party leaps on this lead and troops off into the trail network, following the wolf as it tracked the scent back to its origin. 

Eventually, the wolf led them off the trails to a clearing about three miles from the village. On the far side of the clearing was a small cottage, looking perfectly normal.

Feverish planning. Obviously, isolated cottages in clearings away from trails are not to be trusted.

Lysorn and Kerrick opt to go up to the front door and knock, while the rest of the characters decide to sneak around behind the cottage in the trees. Kerrick knocks on the door. A beautiful young woman answers it. “Excuse me,” says Kerrick, “I was wondering if we might…” The woman gives sort of scream and slams the door in their faces. They can hear the bolt sliding into place. “No, really, I worship the God of Oaths! I don’t lie!” Kerrick called. “Go away!” was the reply from inside.

“Er, what now?” asked Lysorn, “We can’t just break in. She might not have anything to do with this.”

So, long story cut short, T’Angel ends up summoning an octopus inside the hut, crashing and smashing sounds are heard, and the woman rushes out screaming. Melee ensues. Luckily for the PCs, she does indeed turn out to be a villain and hurls several vials which explode into clouds of Purple Mist poison (Fort DC 15, inhaled, primary damage 1d6 Int (permanent), secondary damage nil). Dust and Raven get a bit stupider. Actually, Raven gets a lot stupider.

Eventually they subdue the woman and tie her up. Interrogating her they learn that she is a half-dryad. She tells them that she’s been idiofying the villagers because they chopped down the tree that her mother lived in, killing the poor dryad. 

Astoria Detects Evil and the half-dryad tests positive. They deal with her with great suspicion. The party demands to know a cure for the poison. She directs them to a chest in her house, where they find a single potion of Lesser Restoration, which they refuse to drink because it might be poisoned, though she says she always keeps one on hand in case she accidentally poisons herself. The half-dryad tries to strike a deal for her release, promising to give up her revenge and leave the area, never to return, and offering to reveal her source for Lesser Restoration potions. The party refuses because they can find no way to hold her to her promise. They tie her up and toss her in their slave-wagon until they can figure out what to do with her.

Returning to the village, they realize they’ve eliminated the threat, but the town is still full of idiots. Also, being 2nd level, even Lysorn is unable to cast Lesser Restoration, even if they wanted to hang out long enough for him to cure every villager. It could take weeks. And that’s if they could somehow get him another level.

So they decided to go find a cleric of at least 3rd level and hire him to travel to Popowan and stay long enough to cure all the villagers. They trudge out to the nearest village, Gorido, and look around to see if there’s a temple (they didn’t think of this when de-idiofying the halfling woman because they wanted a full Restoration spell, and the only city large enough to have clerics of sufficient level was Kalokapeta). I roll on the charts, and the local cleric is 3rd level. Good enough. He is a Flame of the Assembly of Light, a church dedicated, above all, to worship of the sun and the destruction of undead creatures. The Flame says he will accompany them to Popowan and live there long enough to cure the villagers, but first he needs them to do a task for him as payment.

The Flame informs the party that his scouts have located an abandoned village about a day’s journey to the south. They spotted zombies shuffling around between the buildings. Normally, the Flame would rally his clerics and they’d go take care of it, but all he has are two 1st level Sparks at his command, and they are tasked by the High Assembly with providing lay services to Gorido. So his hands are tied. He needs the party to go to the village, destroy all the undead, and see if they can find any clues as to what caused them to rise.

The party agrees.

Hauling their slave-wagon-with-dryad along with them, they set out along a long-overgrown road and reach the town. Somebody has the idea to plant Lysorn on the wagon so he can preach the ways of the Lord of Silver Linings to the dryad, which they figure is a form of torture.

Parking a few hundred yards from the village, they wait for morning and mount their assault, leaving the wagon and their horses behind.

The village consists of perhaps only a dozen buildings, one of which is a large Hall of the Valiant, the temple of the Knight of the Gods. There is a handful of residences and businesses as well.

The fights are nothing to write home about. Several zombies in the street get slain, and the party starts going door-to-door, selling entry into the afterlife to undead customers. Nothing of value is found.

In the smithy, they find the zombified blacksmith (I gave him the stats for a Large zombie) and slice him down without too much trouble. The smithy has a nice selection of swords marked with the insignia of the Knight of the Gods, which they remember for loading into the small cart pulled behind their wagon later. There is also a locked iron chest, which confounds them greatly, for they have no rogue.

Continue on, fight more zombies, blah blah blah, the party decides to save the Hall of the Valiant for last. Finally, enough hit points have been lost and spells expended that the party feels they should rest for the night and recharge. They stake out a small house and sleep peacefully through the night.

Note that they seem to have, for the moment, forgotten that they left a prisoner in their wagon unattended for all of this. Oh, surely the DM wouldn’t take advantage of this oversight, would he? Heh heh heh.

----
At this point, two new players join the game. They play, respectively, a monk named Galina and an Archer named Joxor (just a fighter with archery feats). It should be noted that for one session, the player of Joxor was unsure what class he wanted to play and had a character sheet for a rogue. Since he accomplished so little during the session, I decided to let him morph his character into an Archer and just sort of retroactively assume he’d been one all along.
----

So, upon waking the party goes to check out the Hall. Bursting in through the front doors, they find themselves in a wide hall with a balcony/loft to their right and a big statue of the Knight of the Gods at the far end. Standing around the statue is a collection of zombies, armored in full plate bearing the insignia of the Knight of the Gods.

Oh dear, things did get messy. Joxor and Galina were hiding in the loft, having been driven up there by the zombies several days ago. The zombies quickly forgot their presence (if Joxor had been an archer at this time, he would have sniped the zombies from the loft, but he wasn’t). The party smashes into the zombies, taking lots of damage. Joxor jumps down from the loft, fails his tumble check, and takes falling damage (his first action of the campaign). Galina jumps down unhurt and joins the melee.

The zombies seem normal enough, but the plate armor makes them difficult to hit. Eventually, however, they triumph with no loss of life and make proper introductions. Of course, Galina and Joxor decide to join the party, because otherwise their players would be very bored (ok, so I suck at introducing new characters, ok? Neither one of them had a background at that point, so it was tough!).

Continuing the exploration of the Hall, the party discovers the zombified Guardian (a cleric of moderate rank within the Church), who seems to have retained some of his spellcasting ability. He Inflicts Moderate Wounds on the paladin, but is quickly chopped down before he can do much else.

His journal, however, is quite interesting. Summarizing, it tells the story of this small outpost. It was a mission, established perhaps 60 years ago by the Servants of the Swift Sword (the fancy name for worshippers of the Knight of the Gods) to reduce the influence of the forces of darkness in this region of Pekal. Reading on through pages of records of mundane activity, a story slowly emerges. The Guardian becomes increasingly convinced that one of his clerics is sabotaging missions, and even might be a worshipper of the Confuser of Ways, a group of clerics that infiltrates good temples and brings them down from within. Unable to determine exactly who was the traitor, the Guardian slowly descended into insanity. The last entry reads, “I have but one option remaining. It is the only way I can be sure of destroying the traitor. I hope nothing goes wrong, but there is nothing else. May the Swift Sword be merciful.”

The party takes the journal and departs. Bashing open the iron chest they find a masterwork spiked gauntlet. They collect all the armor and weapons they found and drag them back to the wagon – where they find the half-Dryad gone, along with all their horses. Raven looks at the tracks in the area and reports that a band of perhaps 20 small-sized creatures arrived and took the woman with them. She can’t tell if she left willingly or was captured. The tracks seem to lead back towards the road. But without their horses, the party is annoyed at how long it will take them to return to Gorido, collect the Flame, and get back to Popowan. And they’re unwilling to leave their slave wagon – and all their loot – behind. 

So Kerrick, runs off to Gorido (being a monk he finishes the journey pretty quickly) and tells the Flame what they’ve seen and done. He spends what little money the party pooled for him on a pair of horses to pull the wagon, then he and the Flame ride back to the party. The Flame looks over the village and takes great interest in the journal, insisting it be left with him. Hitching up the horses, the party and their newly-hired cleric return to Popowan.

The tracks, still visible here and there despite the traffic on the road, go the same way, eventually skirting the edges of Popowan itself and vanishing directly into Lake Tali. Even the horses.

A nixie pops its head out of the water. A conversation insues.

It turns out it’s a good nixie, and it tells the party that they’ve been following the tracks of a band of evil nixies – the ones that broke off from the good nixie village and attacked the party several days ago. He also tells them that the half-dryad was with them. They used their water breathing ability to get the half-dryad and the horses into the lake.

The party seems mainly pissed off about their stolen horses. They want to go into the lake and rescue their horses. Oh, yeah, and deal with that half-dryad once and for all. The party remembers that the good nixies have a naga on their side, but it’s been idiofied. They send Bubbles (the nixie) back to his village to fetch the naga so that the Flame can cure it. They also ask if it would be terribly troublesome if they could get enchanted to breath water so they could go take care of the under-lake mess.

They make a brief side-trip to the nixie’s cottage, but it seems unoccupied so they return to town and set up the Flame in a little house, asking him to please cure the naga first, as soon as it arrives.

Returning to the shore of Lake Tali, they are greeted by a host of nixies who gladly use their water breathing abilities and help the party get oriented in the water. The monks swim, but most everybody else has enough equipment to be heavy enough to walk on the bottom. 

But the group is worried that the evil nixies will return and steal their new horses, so they leave Lysorn behind to “guard” them. Really, they think he’s kind of annoying. 

Talking with Bubbles, they learn that the naga has lived in the lake far longer than the nixies. The naga seems determined to guard the area against possible evil incursions, so they figured the area right outside the naga’s cave would be a great place for a village. Also, they learn that a few miles away along the lake bed there is a sort of pit or well, which Bubbles refers to as the Bad Place. Nixies don’t go there, he says. They’re too afraid. It’s too evil. 

Of course, it seems that that’s where the evil nixies are coming from when they attack.

It seems an adventurer’s work is never done. (Oh, and yes, they’re heading into a dungeon crawl without their cleric.)

more to come...


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## MerakSpielman (Mar 30, 2005)

Placeholder for the "Temple under Lake Tali" adventure.


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## MerakSpielman (Mar 30, 2005)

Placeholder for "Magical journal and magical assaults"


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## MerakSpielman (Mar 30, 2005)

Placeholder for "Journey to and Arrival at Bet Rogala"


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## MerakSpielman (Mar 30, 2005)

Placeholder for "Attacking the Thieves' Guild" (Cooperative Dungeon 2)


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## MerakSpielman (Mar 30, 2005)

Placeholder for "Recovering the Tome for Sulat Mokira"


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## MerakSpielman (Mar 30, 2005)

Placeholder for "The Journey to Pel Brolenon"


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## MerakSpielman (Mar 30, 2005)

Placeholder for "Misadventures in Dowand-Brandel"


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## MerakSpielman (Mar 30, 2005)

Placeholder for "The Engineer Slave"


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## MerakSpielman (Mar 30, 2005)

Placeholder for "Locating the Vault in Vrendolin"


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## MerakSpielman (Mar 30, 2005)

Placeholder for "What Happens to a Cart that Falls Half a Mile? The Same Thing that Happens to Everything Else."


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## MerakSpielman (Mar 30, 2005)

Placeholder for "Death by Hypercube"


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