# Companions of the Vale encounter the Red Hand of Doom



## dungeon blaster (Jan 6, 2008)

The following story hour details the adventures of the group formerly known as the Heroes of Hommlet, and now called the Companions of the Vale. We are currently running Red Hand of Doom, adapted for C&C and set in a strange amalgamation of FR, DL, and Greyhawk. We begin in the sleepy village of Hommlet, post-Temple of Elemental Evil, with two adventuring companions:

_Tarquin - a human male fighter born and raised in the sleepy village of Hommlet
Mathias - a human male cleric of St. Cuthbert orphaned on the steps of the church_

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Chapter 1: Hommlet - The Adventure Begins*

Arriving that night, Mathias visits the home of his childhood friend and adventuring companion, Tarquin. Once a poor soldier's son, Tarquin now lives in one of the largest, and perhaps gaudiest mansion in any village of the Vale. Built primarily of stone, with several slender towers and leaded glass windows, le Chateau de Tarquin is a grand testament to the vast stolen treasures that had once been secreted away in the Temple of Elemental Evil. Certainly, fame and fortune have not gone to the young warrior's head. No, he is one with the people, the bread of the land, salt of the earth, so to speak.

Mathias rings the bell outside the wrought iron gate and waits. Across the road he sees a stout stone building, dimly illuminated by the near-full moon. To most, it was the local church of St. Cuthbert, but to him it had been home for nearly twenty years. Within those stone walls he had learned to talk, to read and write, of ancient lore and of men long dead.  But his most valuable lesson was the teachings of St. Cuthbert, to see with eyes unclouded and open the heart and mind to receive Him and do his work upon the mortal plane. Those were the lessons that carried him through the darkest moments in the Temple, when it seemed the pure evil of that unholy fane would consume him and burn his soul to ash.

The front door opens and a man emerges, enveloped in a thick wool cloak to ward off the chill wind. At first, Mathias thinks it is Tarquin, but the man walks as the elderly do, and is clearly not his old friend. The cloaked man stops five paces shy of the gate and eyes Mathias warily.

"Who are you? The master does not meet at this hour. Come back in the morning." the old man croaks.

"I am Mathias of St. Cuthbert, and an old friend, good sir. Wake him if you must, but my news cannot wait till morning."

The old man scowls, appeared ready to refuse, but then turns and ambles back inside the home. Mathias waits impatiently, hoping the old man will not make him wait too much longer in the cold. He had ridden all night, his muscles hurt, and his bones ached.  It's gonna be a cold winter, he thinks drearily. Seemed as if every winter was a little bit colder than the last. Probably because every winter he was a little older than the last, he reminds himself.

The door opens again and a cloaked man strides towards the gate with none of the unsteadiness evident in the old man's step. His cloak is finer, of rich white fur, and drapes over shoulders broad and strong, unable to conceal the muscled frame underneath. Tarquin picks up his pace, jogging the last few steps to the iron gate, swings it open, and grasps Mathias in a bear hug.

Greetings aside, the two old friends hurry back into the manor, to a sitting room with dark wood paneled walls, plush couches, and a roaring fire. Mathias immediately sheds his cloak and sits by the fire.

Tarquin pours mead into a couple of crystal glasses, handing one to Mathias. "Everburning. Should be great for the winter, but don't know what I'll do with it come summertime!", Tarquin laughs. Mathias stares into the enchanted flames. They are not as hot as a real fire, probably designed that way so that the rich fop who purchased one would not burn his house down. He sips his mead slowly, savoring the delicate taste of honey. Hommlet was well-known for its mead, and this bottle was no exception to its quality reputation. Probably a bottle of Joren's Gold, the finest in the Vale.

He watches as Tarquin drains his glass and plops down on one of the poofy velvet chairs, one leg draped over the armrest. He had to admit, that while he still thought of his friend as a boy, in the eyes of many others he was a warrior of skill and courage. Of course, many others thought him reckless and a bit of a fool. That was their mistake; yes he could be reckless, but he was no fool.

The two friends exchange the usual pleasantries, but talk soon turns to the matter-at-hand.

"I am on a quest", Mathias states bluntly. "I must speak with the high priestess of Dennovar".

A puzzled look crosses Tarquin's face. "A quest? What are you speaking of?"

"Earlier this night, I was visited by a sending from the high priestess of Dennovar. She bade me come see her to discuss an urgent threat".

"Hmm. So when do we leave?"

Mathias smiles at the word "we". Good, he had hoped Tarquin would be willing to join him. "We must leave soon"

"Tomorrow morning then. I will have fresh horses readied and gear packed ..." Tarquin stands, begins pacing as he always does when making plans.

"No. Now. I...we...should go now."  It is difficult for Mathias to say it. His muscles plead for respite, to rest in a warm bed of soft down. He realized he hadn't ridden a horse in a long time, several months at the least.

Tarquin smiles. "Alright. Now it is. Just give me a few moments".

As Tarquin steps out of the sitting room, Mathias stares into the fire. What am I doing? he wonders. He didn't have any idea what this quest was, of if there truly was a threat. I must trust in my God, he reminds himself. He will show me the path when the time comes.


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## dungeon blaster (Jan 7, 2008)

*Chapter 2: Dennovar*

Chapter 2: Dennovar
_or, Look at that wizard in the window..._

Tarquin notices his friend's glum look as Mathias emerges from the church. Mathias's conversation with the high priestess lasted only a few minutes, and left him with more questions than he had before he arrived.

Tarquin tears a chunk of bread and hands it to the cleric. "So, what'd the tea leaves say?". Tarquin never liked divinations - he preferred to think that a person could choose their own destiny.

"She spoke to me of a vision...the Red Hand. That I should go westward, and if I find it, put an end to it" Mathias sighs, realizing what he says makes little sense.

Tarquin frowns, not knowing what to make of his friend's cryptic riddles. He begins to wonder if Mathias himself knows what he speaks of. "Okay. So what is the Red Hand and how will we stop it?"

"You've got me. I only know what I told you. But I would not have received this quest had it not been of importance. She advised me to 'gather my allies', that this quest may be too difficult to accomplish alone".

The two walk in silence, although all around them are the noises of a city waking up. Finally, Tarquin speaks.

"You know, Melvinari lives here. Might be useful having a wizard."

Mathias thinks on it. "Yeah, it would. Do you know where he is?"

"Some inn called the Oak & Barrel, last I heard".

The Oak & Barrel is not difficult to find, and as expected, Melvinari is there. A former apprentice of the locally famous mage, Burne, the young wizard has spent the last several months in the city of Dennovar continuing his studies of the magical arts.  Rarely did a wizard stay in the same town as his master, under whose shadow the wizard would always remain. A city the size of Dennovar, however, had room enough for many wizards.

Convincing him to join them is not easy, as few wizards enjoy long travels, and Melvinari is no exception. After much pleading on Tarquin's part, the young wizard finally relents and agrees to join them on their quest. The three decide to set forth for Hommlet the following morning. As expected, the following morning sees Melvinari quickly backtrack on his earlier promise.

"Too late, buddy. The innkeeper has already rented the room out" Tarquin says, gathering various wizardly trinkets and stuffing them into a sack.

Melvinari grabs the sack from Tarquin's hand.  "Careful with those!"  "How dare he rent out my room! I paid through the month!" Melvinari glowers, evidently conjuring in his mind a foul curse to lay upon the innkeepers head.

Tarquin smiles as he tossed him a sack of coin. "There's the balance of your payment." "The room has been rented, let's go."

Being a very intelligent man, Melvinari quickly realizes that Tarquin must have spoken with the innkeeper and made sure that someone rented the room for the following night. So, I'm that predictable, Melvinari thinks.

"Fine." "But don't touch...anything".

Tarquin began to question if all wizards were so grouchy, but he already knew the answer.


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## dungeon blaster (Jan 7, 2008)

*Off-topic Question*

Do readers generally prefer past or present tense in Story Hours? I'm having trouble deciding


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## dungeon blaster (Jan 8, 2008)

Chapter 3: Back to Hommlet
The three companions return to Hommlet in the early afternoon. The wheat fields ripple in the gusts of cold northern wind, and the sky is a blue expanse without a cloud to be seen. Hommlet is west of Dennovar, and therefore on their way, but the companions are here for a specific reason - they hope to add two more old friends to their group. Once in the village, the companions split up. Tarquin sets off towards The Grove, where he hopes to find Jaroo Ashstaff; Melvinari visits his former master, Burne, and Mathias goes in search of his friend Caetal.

As Tarquin walks along the narrow dirt path, wending his way between gnarled oaks, he can feel the power present in this sacred place, although he has always questioned if the source was the grove itself, or its warden, Jaroo. Within the grove, marked by a ring of moss covered stones and pale mushrooms, it feel to him as though time flows differently, or not at all. Tarquin wonders if this was how trees or animals experienced time. He resolves to ask Jaroo, or perhaps Robyn, someday.

Jaroo lives in a small cottage on the edge of the grove. As the local druid, he possess great authority among those who follow the Old Faith, or that of Silvanus, Mielikki, or Eldath. He arrived in Hommlet nearly forty years ago, after the previous druid passed away, and the village received him warmly. In the four decades he spent as warden of the sacred grove, he trained several apprentices, his most current apprentice being Brother Smyth, the local blacksmith. But none were as promising, and certainly not as beautiful as Robyn, the bee-keepers daughter. Jaroo instructed her in the druidic ways nearly from the day she was born, passing on to her the ways of the animals, trees, and rivers, the languages spoken by nature. He considered her his daughter and the forest was her mother. Literally. She was the child of a hamadryad, a tree spirit, and given to her father as a blessing from nature. The hamadryad was willing to part with her child only on the condition that she be raised as a druid. Joren, her father, and Jaroo agreed.

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Tarquin spies Jaroo tending to his garden and greets him warmly. Although Tarquin was educated by the local church of St. Cuthbert (where he developed his friendship with Mathias), he always felt a fondness towards the old druid. Jaroo, for his part, had always done his best to keep the young men of the village away from Robyn. Ever since she had left, the Grove had seen far fewer visits, and Jaroo wasn't entirely unhappy with the increased solitude.

"She's not here." Jaroo says flatly, still bent over the garden, his back turned.

A crestfallen look crosses Tarquin's face. He tries to recover. "Oh. Well, I have a message for her...A request, really".

Jaroo continues digging at a particularly stubborn turnip. "What kind of request?" It's about time you got the courage to ask her hand, not much good it will do you, Jaroo thinks.

Tarquin shifts uncomfortably. Speaking with Jaroo could be unnerving, to say the least. "A quest. I'm on a quest and her skills could be...useful. Do you know where she is?"

"Hand me that spade." Jaroo takes the spade and continued digging. "In the forest, I assume." He speaks tersely, apparently uninterested in the conversation.

"But you could contact her, right?" Tarquin looks at Jaroo hopefully, but the old man says nothing. "Please. This is important. Mathias had a vision".

"Of?"

"...a Red Hand. I don't really understand it msyelf" Tarquin says uncomfortably. Why did conversations about Robyn always have to be so difficult?

Jaroo slowly turns. "A great danger to the west."

Tarquin takes a step back, a look of shock on his face. "Yes! But how did you know?"

Jaroo's eyes connect with his. "I have seen the omens". He stands up, leaving the turnip half-buried in the ground.

Tarquin steps towards him. "So, will you help me?"

Jaroo sighs. "Yes. I will attempt to contact her." He bends over and picks up a small wicker basket filled with turnips and other roots.

Tarquin stoops over the buried turnip, plucks it out with one hand and places it in the basket. "Thanks".

Jaroo nods and stepped inside his cottage, shutting the door behind him.


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## dungeon blaster (Jan 9, 2008)

*Chapter 4: Inn of the Welcome Wench*

Mathias has little luck finding the ranger Caetal, and as evening approaches, he and Tarquin decide to toss back a few ales at the Inn of the Welcome Wench. They have several empty mugs to their name and are just beginning to get tipsy when four travel-worn, hooded, and heavily armed men enter the inn. Each scans a section of the crowd before they all take a seat at a table near the door. Ostler the innkeeper, not wanting to endanger any of his daughters by having them service these dangerous looking men, walks over to meet them. Tarquin watches them out of the corner of his eye, ready for any sign of trouble. As the drinks arrive, several of the men at the table remove their hoods, and lo! ... one of them is in fact their ranger friend!  Tarquin heads over to greet him, but the other rangers, not knowing who this burly, smiling man is, stand with hands on their weapons. Caetal sees Tarquin and assures his companions that this is his friend and means no harm, and invites Mathias and Tarquin to join him at his table. The rangers become close-lipped; whatever they had been talking about was not meant for non-ranger ears. But that hardly dampens the mood for the three friends, who take the opportunity to get really, really drunk. Caetal later explains that they have been stalking Zhentarim spies throughout the Dragonspine mountains and it is dangerous to discuss the matter with strangers.

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The next morning, Tarquin is summoned to the Old Grove. There, he finds Jaroo once-again tending his garden, but now there is a beautiful doe beside him. "Must be a druid thing" Tarquin muses. Suddenly, the doe begins to transform, standing on its hind legs...which become women's legs...long and slender...and smooth, so smooth <cough cough ahem>...

...he stares at a gorgeous young woman with auburn hair and stunning green eyes...Robyn. His heart skips a beat, or two. He rushes over to her, gently hugs her, almost afraid of how he will react to the feeling of her skin on his.  Jaroo just manages to look annoyed.

For her part, Robyn informs him that she was asked by the high druids of the wood to accompany him on his quest, that they too had seen the ill omens. Tarquin replies that her timing is impeccable and that they are planning on leaving in a few hours. Robyn remains with Jaroo while Tarquin returns to his manor house and requisitions additional equipment and a couple extra horses. Caetal warns his fellow rangers to look out for any signs of a "Red Hand" in their travels, and they discuss the possibility that it may relate to the Black Hand of Bane somehow. Maybe it is an offshoot cult or something....

By midday, the group has assembled and begins the long trek towards the city of Brindol, where they hope to find the last of the Companions.


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## Mahtave (Jan 9, 2008)

Very nice, I look forward to reading more.


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## Ed Gentry (Jan 10, 2008)

In my experience, staying in past tense full-time is the way to go.


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## dungeon blaster (Jan 11, 2008)

*Chapter 5: Brindol*

Decided I'd write this one in past-tense as Ed suggested!

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Chapter 5: Brindol
or, two can play at this game!_
_
It was a blustery late-afternoon when the companions arrived at the gates of Brindol. They had traveled for several days along the Dawn Way, the main road that cut through the Vale, stopping for the night in small villages and continuing on their journey as the sun rose. Unlike the dangerous Moonsea to the south, a person could travel the Vale roads without much fear of banditry or monsters. Tarquin often wondered why one of the northern Moonsea cities like Melvaunt or Zhentil Keep hadn't invaded, but Caetal quietly informed him that the Moonsea cities would do so in a heartbeat if given the chance. Rangers, like himself, and other groups worked day and night to keep the Vale free of "Moony" influence -- tracking Zhentish spies, maintaining strong relations with the dwarves of the Dragonspine mountains, and keeping a constant vigilance for any hints of invasion. For a moment, Tarquin entertained the idea of being a "Vale Protector" himself, but quickly dismissed the idea. Sure, it was neccesary for the safety of the people, but it sounded like tedious and unglamorous work...and where's the glory in that?! No, he reasoned that surely the best way to protect the Vale was to kill evil things and take their loot.

Once inside the city walls, the companions rented a few rooms in an upscale-looking inn before each went their own way for the evening. Tarquin made his way on foot to the local playhouse, hoping to discover the whereabouts of his friend, and the final companion, Talara. She had been raised in Hommlet along with the others, but was not a native -- in fact, she would have no answer if asked where she had spent the first few years of her life. One thing was clear, Talara was a half-elf and of gypsy stock on her human side. She was also quite attractive, with short, brown hair, a thin but athletic body, and slightly pointed ears betraying her elven lineage. Although she knew when and how to use her looks, as Tarquin was well aware of, she was by no means dependent on them. A budding femme fatale with a knack for guile and manipulation, Tarquin couldn't imagine a life of adventure without her.

He found her, finally, at a high-class tavern called the Laughing Manticore; it was the kind of place that catered to moneyed, i.e. successful adventurers, and quite famous for its special Manticore Mead, which was served in a hollowed out spiked manticore tail. When he arrived, she was sitting alone at a large round table, sipping slowly from a long-stemmed glass. She spied him almost immediately and the two friends greeted each other warmly. They sat down at her table and quickly fell into the sort of conversation one has with a friend long absent. It turned out that she had spent the last four months in Brindol, spending her time at the theater, the dance halls, the soirees of well-heeled individuals, etcetera. How she could afford such a lifestyle was a question that she seemed less willing to answer, but for a wink and a sly grin.

Tarquin was just remembering how much he loved conversing with her, and of the other things he loved to do with her (hint, nudge), when his thoughts were interrupted by a pair of hands placed upon her shoulders.

"I hope I'm not interrupting" the man said, smiling, as he slowly ran his hands over Talara's shoulders. "Is this a friend?", he asked her.

The man was handsome -- Tarquin couldn't deny it. And judging by the two ruby-encrusted rings on his fingers, wealthy as well. Tarquin disliked him already. "Yes, among other things", he replied with a forced smile that looked more like a grimace.

The man ignored the comment. "Aren't you going to introduce us?". His voice held no hint of jealousy, which disturbed Tarquin. Often, men held their women close when he was around. Often, women held him close when their men weren't around.

"Oh, yes! Tarquin, this is Rillor Paln. He owns this place, isn't that interesting?"

"Yeah. It's uh, swell." His smile was gone...pure grimace. Tarquin had always wanted to own a tavern, especially one that catered to adventuring types. Basically, he wanted a place just like this one.

"Yes, it's really become quite popular in Brindol" Rillor boasted. "When I purchased it three years ago it was infested with rats and about ready to collapse. Got it for coppers on the silver, you know."

"That so. Well, it's been a pleasure meeting you..." Tarquin rose, drained the last of his mead and slammed the tail spike into the table with a satisfying "thunk". He towered over the man and was far more muscled, but he couldn't resist puffing out his chest to emphasize the point. Let him have his fancy tavern, Tarquin thought. We'll see whom the bards sing about soon enough. He turned to Talara, gave her a long, tight hug. "You know, I could probably crush him like a bug", he whispered darkly. "With my pecs".

Talara slowly broke off the hug. "Don't be jealous, Tarquin. I don't love him.... I only sleep with him", she remarked dryly.  She knew it would sting him, and she was the happier for it. Although they had bedded many times, she knew he loved Robyn more than her, and she felt a dark satisfaction by turning the tables on him.

Tarquin stiffened. "Uh. Yeah, well...come find us later tonight. I'd like to take you up on that offer at the Thirsty Zombie." He strode out, roughly pushing past Rillor.

"Strange fellow", Rillor said, embracing her. "Shall we?"

Talara hesitated for a moment, glanced at the tavern door. "Yeah".

The two walked arm-in-arm up the stairs to his private chambers.


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## dungeon blaster (Jan 13, 2008)

*Chapter 6: The Thirsty Zombie*

Chapter 6: The Thirsty Zombie

Later that evening:

"Here we are. The Thirsty Zombie", Talara notified the group as they walked up to a ramshackle building with a sign depicting a zombie drinking from a mug, ale spilling from numerous holes in its body, and six drunken rats cavorting in the ale-puddles.

Caetal grinned wickedly. "My kind of place".

They entered the tavern, which was empty except for a large, mean-looking half-orc behind the counter spit-polishing a mug. A smoky haze filled the air, and a chill breeze wafted in through cracks in the shuttered windows.

Tarquin walked up to the barkeep, a friendly grin on his face, and plunked a silver onto the bar. "Mug o' yer finest my good barkeep!"

The half-orc scowled, filled the mug he had been polishing with a thick, dark brew, and placed it on the bar. He pocketed the silver coin.

Tarquin waited for the half-orc to make change. He didn't. "Um...keep the change", Tarquin muttered.

"We're here for the fight", Talara said to the barkeep. The barkeep nodded, pointed towards the wall.

"Ah, so that's where all the classy patrons must be" Tarquin grinned. "'Cuz this place is emptier than one of your performances, Talara".

It was Talara's turn to scowl. She stepped over to the wall, pushed, and the wall swung open, revealing a wooden staircase leading down. The smoke was even thicker down here, and the muted sounds of shouting could be heard. The group began to walk down the stairs when the barkeep growled, "Hey! Smiley! No Weapons!". The group turned to look at Tarquin, who was carrying his long sword. The others had left their weapons at the inn.

"Whoops." Tarquin saddled over to the barkeep, unbuckled his sword and laid it on the bar. "I want you to take real special care of this. It's a family heirloom." The barkeep's dark, piggy eyes gleamed with greed, and Tarquin noticed the look crossing the barkeeps face. He took out a small handful of gold coins. "This is my payment for entrusting you with the guardianship of my blade. Okay?"

The half-orc formed his mouth into a shape that could have been a grin. "I'll take real good care of it".

"Thanks." Tarquin walked towards the door, stopped and turned. "One other thing. I can't leave here empty-handed -- so I'll either be leaving tonight with my sword, or your head. You do not want to mess with us."

The half-orc growled in anger, but he knew that he wouldn't have a chance against five tough-looking adventurers. Survival came before greed, after all. He nodded.

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The stairs led down to a large, square basement 40' on a side, ringed with tiered benches -- a small, underground gladiatorial arena. Already, throngs of disreputable looking people occupied the benches, drinking, cursing, waving coins in the air, and calling out their bets to a gray-haired bet-taker in the center of the room, who collected their money and scribbled in a notebook. While the rest of the Companions took their seats on one of the benches, Tarqiun walked up to the bet-taker.

"So how does one get in on the fight?", he asked the harried-looking man.

"What? You want to bet?"

"No. I want to fight."

"Oh! Just give me your name. You've never fought before, right?"

"Not here. Who would I fight?"

"It's random. So do you want to do it or not? You'll get 20% of the cut if you win"

Tarquin thought for a moment. The bet-taker glared impatiently. "Ok.", he said.

"What's your name?"

"Caetal."

The bet-taker took out a piece of parchment and wrote "Caetal" on it. The list already contained a dozen names. "Alright, You'll be called down when it's your turn to fight."

"Thanks", Tarquin smiled, and trotted back up to join his friends.


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