# The Risen Goddess (Updated 3.10.08)



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*THE RISEN GODDESS*

Before we begin . . . 

I'd like to say "thank you" to all the lurkers and readers who kept up with the adventures of the Risen Goddess on the last EN-Boards incarnation.  Unfortunately, those threads are lost to the ethers, which is a real shame.  The witty and insightful posts by the thread's posters were worth the read, and half the fun.  

You know who you are-- thanks!

_* A metagame note:*  This campaign is definately 'nonstandard' -- one player and one DM. The two of us involved switch DMing duties from time to time, and each person plays the roles of one primary character as a PC, and the secondary characters as NPCs. 

The characters are based on previously played PCs from earlier editions of the game (dating back to 1e and OD&D) who have returned to life as 1st level characters through the _pasoun_ of Ishlok._

You can also check out stat blocks for the PCs, as well as review a complete glossary of character, location and NPC names, at the Risen Goddess Rogues' Gallery thread.


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*1-- Things To Do In Greyhawk When You're Dead.*

Four adventurers sit around a familiar table in a familiar inn, not too far from a place they must have surely known their whole lives-- if they could only remember any of it.

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_*Taran Tar-Ilou*_, a pugnacious ranger, thick as a bull, and twice as mean,

_*Thelbar Tar-Ilou*_, a brilliant wizard, more fair of face and favored of speech than his aggressive younger brother,

_*Kyreel*_, a dark elven paladin dedicated to Ishlok the Mother, in her aspect of The Protector, and 

_*Indianichus*_, a lighthearted and imaginative elven rogue and historian.

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They are trained well for their respective professions, and suitably equipped.  They have known each other for . . . lives?  Life?  Surely they should remember their meeting.  But their acquaintance is itself a mystery.  How is it possible that they speak a foreign tongue and revere a goddess no one has heard of, yet possess thin and watery memories of a life half-lived in Greyhawk?  One thing they all know for sure:  their destinies revolve around one another, and they trust each other with bonds that run deeper than those of family and companionship.  Blood has been shed-- between them and by them, of that they are sure.  They know without speaking that there will be more blood spilled before they come to full knowledge of self.

Taran is a grim and hardnosed combatant, a man who believes in the ascendancy of the adventuring class.  He is as entitled as a nobleman, and views the common folk with much the same sort of protective disdain that one might see from a sheltered Baron.  He believes he has a duty to the people-- but he does not understand their lives.  An adventurer to the core, Taran knows that deadly force proves the final point in any argument.

His brother, Thelbar, on the other hand, is a deep thinking strategist.  He enjoys complicated intellectual pursuits, and studies architecture and engineering along with his magical lore.  Thelbar is fond of the damaging spell, but focuses his attention on those that disrupt the mind-- illusion and enchantment are his specialties.  Thelbar keeps a hawk familiar by the name of _Sartre_.

Kyreel is something of an enigma.  As a dark elf, she is shunned by most good folk.  Her companions know her and trust her implicitly, but there is something about her current form that seems divinely inspired.  She knows that she has felt the call to Service, and that Ishlok is her Goddess.  She is unwaveringly moral and beneficent.

Indianichus, called "Indy" by his friends, is a creature of curiosity.  He is extremely intelligent and imaginative, and loves nothing better than exploring new places, particularly ones he knows he should not be in.  A tomb-crawler to his heart, Indy's life is made complete by ancient artifacts, lost cultures, and forbidden temples.  Dwarves are his special field of study.  He speaks the language fluently and is well versed in Dwarven lore and culture.  Indianichus views himself as the central character in a High-Romantic drama.  That this belief is often in conflict with reality is of no consequence to Indy.  For this rogue, no passion is too obscure, no leap of logic too unbelievable, and no body of contradicting evidence convincing enough.


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*2-- Raiding the Raiders of a Star Cairn.*

The four friends agree that they will find no answers sitting still, and make plans to leave Greyhawk City.  Kyreel and Thelbar both have dreams that indicate a journey south would prove rewarding.  They bid farewell to their feebly remembered childhoods, and soon find themselves on the road traveling away from the Domain of Greyhawk towards whatever fate awaits them, and hopefully some answers.

They travel leisurely, and pass the time in conversation about their past, trying to jog one another's memory about this or that event, but in the end, the conclusion is the same.  They all have thin and wavering 'memories' of growing up together in Greyhawk city, although considering their racial makeup that cannot possibly be true.  They all also have a sense that the lives they remember are not their own, and that Greyhawk is not their home.

For his part, Taran is sure that he was once a great lord, although why anyone would want to serve him now is beyond him.  Thelbar also, remembers bits and pieces of magical lore that no mere apprentice should have learned.  Kyreel and Indy have similar memories and recollections, and all four agree that it is a relief to be leaving Greyhawk City and getting on with . . . something.

Their second day out, Taran is scouting through the woods, ranging a few hundred yards ahead of the group as is his custom, when he notices a pair of stout, tusked humanoids standing together near a barrow-mound.  He watches them for a moment, then returns to his companions to report.

Memories or no, it doesn't take a lifetime of experience to know that orcs are bad news.  The group sneaks up on the two feral brutes, and Thelbar enchants their simple minds, putting them to _sleep_.  After 'taking care' of the sleeping orcs, Taran notices that they were guarding a small opening in the side of the mound.  A circular slab of stone, recently pried free from the opening, lies on the ground next to the bodies of the two dead orcs. 

As the party is looking at one another and deciding what to do, an empty waterskin flies from the opening and lands on the ground at Thelbar's feet!  A guttural, hoarse voice barks a command in orcish:  "Fill the skin, you sheep-raping kobold-spawn, we're thirsty.  And keep your damned eyes open, Tarkh, or I'll have your manhood off!"

Thelbar is the only member of the group who can understand the strange, croaking language, and he smiles to himself.  While the rest of the party stares at him incredulously, he calmly takes the waterskin, places it under his robes, and relives himself in it.  He motions the group to hide themselves and he tosses the skin back into the hole.  "Here you go, boss," he says in his best Orcish.

Thirty seconds later, there is a harsh scream from down below, followed by a string of Orcish curses so fast and foul that Thelbar is only able to follow about half of the diatribe against Tarkh's mother, spawn, ancestry and eternal orcish soul.

The big orc who emerges from the hole barely has enough time to wonder what happened to his companions before he, too is cut down by Taran, Kyreel and Indy.  The group searches the dead orcs, and finds insignia and coinage that indicates that they are travelers from the Pomarj, far to the south.

The group climbs into the hole where they see that they are in a low, circular domed chamber, completely consistent with the hill's outside appearance.  Like many of the old ruins around Greyhawk Domain, the walls here are covered with enigmatic runes and carvings.  A piss-filled waterskin lies open in the center of the room, and at the far end, a rude excavation has obliterated part of the runic symbols and opened a passage deeper into the earth.

The passage is a thin tunnel of the sort used by tomb-builders as they seal a cairn.  It leads into a network of passages completely below ground, and the party must light a lantern so the humans can see.  The group listens carefully for any sounds of further orcish presence, but hear nothing.  A quick search of the walls near the tunnel to the surface reveals a hidden door that slides open when forcefully pushed.

The group steps through the secret door and finds themselves in a hidden area.  Magical writing covers the walls here, and at the far end of the chamber a large blue gem is ensconced in an ornate holder.  A quick _detect magic_ spell reveals that the gem retains some magical properties, but is currently inert.  Thelbar studies the writing on the wall, and after a few minutes tells the group that this orb is only part of a complete magic item-- a rod, or staff of some sort, likely very powerful.  It seems that this burrow is the holding place for a magical artifact, one that is stored in two parts to avoid its detection through magical means.

The group reasons that the orcs here are tomb-robbers, and likely have no idea what treasure is hidden in this place.  Not that the friends could, in all good conscience, allow a war-band of orcs to come into possession of a magical artifact of power.  They resolve to find these orcs, eliminate them, and unite the blue orb with its other piece.  Kyreel says a short prayer of thankfulness, and invokes the Mother's blessing on the group.

Leaving the secret chamber, the party hears booted feet approaching from one of the passageways.  They hear a orcish voice shout "Look!  There!  Lights, dead ahead!  Let's kill it!" and an answering yell from several voices as weapons are drawn from sheathes.  Within seconds, the party is embroiled in a terrible melee as orcs attack them from both ends of the passageway.  Taran and Kyreel stand toe-to-toe with their orcish foes, as Indy uses stealth and trickery to fight the monsters.  Thelbar sends several more orcs to a _sleep_ that will prove their last, and when the final blow is struck, a half dozen orcs lie dead, and everyone is bleeding from wounds inflicted by Pomarjian steel.

The group quickly casts about, and Indy reports hearing more orcs down one of the corridors.  Hoping to avoid a fight they can't win, the group snatches a few trophies from the fallen and retreats back out into the woods.  After finding a suitable hiding place not too far from the embattled cairn, Taran does his best to hide their tracks, and the group tends to their wounds.

In the night, Thelbar dreams of the goddess Ishlok, and wakes up the next morning with a renewed sense of faith.  He and Kyreel discuss the priesthood of the Mother Ishlok, and realize that they know of no one else who worships her.  Between the two of them, they are able to reconstruct several rituals of blessing and sacrament sacred to Ishlok, and they both undertake vows to worship Her and search for knowledge of Her faith.

The group returns to the cairn and after a careful search discover that the orcs have left the place, stripping their dead, and marching to the southeast.  A similar chamber to the one containing the orb is found, but unfortunately, the orcs found it first.  The haft of the item is in their possession, already a full day ahead of the group.

The band moves quickly, and as fast as Taran can lead them, follows the tracks of the remaining orcs.  Taran guesses that a full half or more of their number fell in the fighting, and the orcs seem hell-bent to get away from the area as quickly as possible.

After a few days of travel, the party discovers a camp where the orcs they had been following met with some other humanoid creatures.  Trails leave that campsite in two directions.  One group, the original orcs, travel due east, while the newer group leads a wagon to he south.

The party follows the original group, and catches them a day later.  An ambush is sprung, and after a brief battle, the party is in possession of a prisoner, but not the item they seek.  The prisoner is willing to talk in exchange for its life, and tells the group that he is the sub-leader of a raiding party that left the Pomarj twenty strong.  After some losses due to infighting, and one particularly nasty fall, the group happened upon the cairn with sixteen of their members alive.

When the party killed nine orcs, the remainder panicked and bolted.  The orc describes the other half of the orb-- a shaft of some strange metal, covered in runic inscription that "looked valuable".  Unfortunately, the band traded it for healing magic to a mixed group of orcish and goblin traders at their last encampment.  He says that the traders were from a clan of orcs that lives in an abandoned dwarven complex in the mountains to the south.  He says that the orcs call the place "Frowninghome", but to the dwarves who built it, it was Khundrukar-- the Forge of Fury.

The group releases him with a promise to return straightaway to the Pomarj, and returns to the meeting place, hoping to follow the traders from Khundrukar and claim the staff for their own.


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*Spoiler Alert:*

The following 3 posts contain the summary of this group's adventures in the WotC module _The Forge of Fury_


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*3-- The Forge of Fury*

They arrive in the town of Blasingdell, Kyreel taking care not to show her face.  The group meets with the Constable and other town leaders about the orcish activity operating out of Khundrukar.  The Constable assures the party that they would come into the favor of Blasingdell were they to put a stop to this orcish activity.  In addition, the dwarven merchant Kheldegan Tolm expresses an interest in purchasing any dwarven artifacts the group might recover.

In addition, Kheldegan tells the group the legend of Dugeddin the Black-- a master smith who was forced to leave his ancestral home when it was sacked by orcs.  He fled to the mountains north of Blasingdell and built Khundrukar, the Forge of Fury.  From there, he waged a decades-long war with Orcs until he was finally overrun, and Khundrukar looted.

Indy in particular seems interested in exploring dwarven ruins.  In his conversations with Kheldegan, the young elf exhibits much knowledge about dwarves and the dwarven way of life.  Despite his gruff intent, the merchant finds himself relating to Indianichus, beard or no.

The party determines to hire some help, and find themselves particularly attracted to a young man by the name of Rex, a local warrior with big dreams.  Rex agrees to go along with the group for a half-share of treasure, or one gold piece a day, whichever is greater.  He hopes to help his grandmother pay off the lean on her home, and buy himself a striding warhorse.

The group searches the mountain face of Khundrukar, and discovers a well-hidden and well-fortified entrance, along with a smoke-hole further up the side of the mount.  Indy is made _invisible_, and scrambles down the hole, then returns with good news-- the hole leads to a cooking area, currently unoccupied.  The perfect place for a quiet assault.

The group's first foray liberates a pair of halfling prisoners, and surprises the orcish shaman, killing her before she can fully prepare herself.  Thelbar is able to decipher her diary, and determines that she came into possession of the star-cairn staff, assuming it to be a magic item, but once she determined that she could not activate its powers, she grew discouraged and traded the object to the 'lizard-people' that live below.

The group discovers a stair leading to a lower level, and starts down, only to be ambushed by huge, bat-sized mosquito creatures-- stirges!  After a brief and horrific few minutes that nearly spells the end for Indy, the group is able to drag his sagging form back up the stairs and fend off the stirges with lit torches.

They surprise a pair of wandering orcs on their way back to the smoke hole and are able to kill them before the orcs can recover and summon reinforcements.  The group limps away from Khundrukar and sets up a base camp.  Several days pass while Indy recovers from the horrible leeching, and Rex takes the freed halflings back to Blasingdell and picks up more supplies.

The group determines that the haft for the blue orb lies beneath the orcish-occupied areas, but decide that leaving any orcs at their back would be a horrible tactical error.  Thus, they are in agreement-- the orcs must be killed or driven from Khundrukar, both for tactical reasons as well as Noble Principle.  An assault is planned.

When Indy fully recovers, he scouts out the smoke hole, and sure enough, the orcs have lit a huge fire beneath it, no doubt hoping to discourage further assault.  Indy is made magically resistant to fire, turned_ invisible_, given the ability to _spiderclimb_ and granted _darkvision_.  He creeps into the orcish chambers, taking an account of their numbers and defenses.  There are a pair of close calls, but in the end, he makes it back to the group with heartening news:  The orcs suspect the smoke-hole entrance, and have had to split their defenses guarding the smoke-hole and the main entrance.  Better yet, the orcs guarding the fire are standing within _sleep_ spell range of the fire itself, easy pickings for a mage looking down from the surface.

Using stealth (and the _sleep_ spell), the characters make their way into Khundrukar for the second time.  This time, they are moving purposefully from room to room, on a seek-and-destroy mission against the orcs.  Robbed of their shaman, the orcs are not prepared to stand against a stealthy foe who strikes with deadly effect, then slips away into the darkness.  The party kills the orcs in small groups, and finally finds themselves confronting the orcish leader Ulfe, an ogre of unusually bad temperment (which, given the fact he is an ogre, is extremely bad indeed).  Ulfe hands Taran and Rex the beatings of their young lives, and may very well have killed the entire group, save for some last-minute heroics, a pair of critical strikes, and a well-placed sneak attack from Indy.

The group accepts the surrender of the last few orcs left alive, and takes them to Blasingdell, where they will face human justice.  The party sets about looting the orcish home, and making themselves comfortable in their new base of operations for further assault on Khundrukar.

An assault that proves all too quick in the coming.  Within 24 hours of the last orc breath taken in Khundrukar, the stirges have been eliminated, and the party has explored the lower level, discovering the caverns occupied by the "reptile folk"-- lizardmen and their giant lizard companions.  Luckily the group is able to confront the toughest of the cruel lizards before attacking the mass of the lizardman population.

The fight is fierce and almost fatal for the party.  The lizardmen are tenacious, and fight as if they have nothing to loose.  The lizardman have a sorcerer amongst their number, and he turns the tables on Thelbar, attacking the party time and time again with magical _sleep_.  Thankfully, Rex proves entirely resistant to the sorcerer's spells, and saves the party with his accurate crossbow fire.  All is almost lost as the sorcerer's pet lizard rampages through the sleeping group, but fortunately, Taran is able to rouse himself and run the beast through from a prone position just before its jaws sink into Thelbar's throat.

Badly shaken, and severely wounded, the party is forced to flee to the orcish warrens, and hide themselves in the shaman's disgusting lair.  By the time they return to finish off the remaining lizardfolk, they discover that the remainder of the clan has fled.  It seems that they fled in a hurry, because they left quite a bit of their treasure behind.  But they must have also fled purposefully, for they have taken the best of their treasure with them, including the haft to the blue orb.


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*An aside, regarding character development*

Thelbar and Kyreel have both taken vows to the Mother, and Kyreel chooses to pursue this path more deeply, reasoning that her devotion to the unique religion all four of the heroes share may very well provide the answers they seek.  

Thelbar, for his part, is ever practical, and devotes the majority of his attention to the arcane arts, stating that his devotion to destroying his foes may very well keep them all alive long enough to find the answers they seek.  

Indianichus shows a keen interest and aptitude for the arcane studies, and begins to take lessons from Thelbar, proving himself a quick study.  

Taran begins training Rex in some of the finer points of swordplay, helping the young warrior improve his capabilities in melee.


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*3-- The Forge of Fury*, cont.

A further exploration of the complex reveals the Forge itself, an area currently occupied by a band of Duergar Dwarves, up from the Underdark, looking for Dugeddin's secrets.  The Duergar arcanist is a master of illusion, and the group wastes resources fighting with shadows before putting the villain down.  The surviving Duergar call for a sundering of hostilities, and offer to exchange information with the group in exchange for peace.  In the end, it is determined that the lizardfolk did not flee this direction with the staff-- they must have gone deeper still, into the unexplored depths of Khundrukar.

The group naively descends into the bowels of the Forge, and come across a large cavern containing an underground lake.  The party carefully steps out onto an low shelf of rock that overhangs the edge of the lake.  They are making a first cursory examination of the water itself when Indy cries out a warning that something . . . some _things_, are swimming toward them.  The group readies itself for melee, only to be taken by surprise as a huge lizard, the size of a pony and covered with black scales, darts out from behind them slashing Kyreel with its razor sharp claws!  The party attacks the beast in a state of general confusion, but their blows do little against the creature's armor-like scales.  

The beast lifts its head and spews forth a stream of acid, burning Taran, and ruining his armor.  The party scrambles madly to recover their wits, and manage a couple of feeble attacks, but the dragon fights like a half-ton house cat.  Before anyone can truly hurt the beast, it springs at Kyreel, grabbing her and diving over the side of the ledge.  

Indy and Taran are quick to shed their armor and dive in after their drow friend, but they have underwater troubles of their own-- the surviving lizardmen have gathered en masse around the ledge, and attack the newcomers with spears.  Kyreel fights for her life, trying vainly to escape the cruel clutches of the beast, but to no avail.

The lizardmen prove more than susceptible to the deadly one-two punch of Taran's dagger and Indy's rapier.  Kyreel manages to struggle free, and during the fighting, the dragon exposes itself to the surface, creating a target for Thelbar's _magic missiles_.  Indy manages to position himself between the lizardmen and the dragon, freeing Taran and Kyreel to attack the horror, if somewhat ineffectively.

Nightscale, for her part, is smart enough to know when her window of opportunity is closing.  In a flash, the serpentine horror uncoils and jets away, disappearing into the murky waters of the underground lagoon.

By the time the PCs manage to swim out to Nightscale's island in the center of the lake, the dragon has packed for a long vacation and taken her most cherished treasure with her, including all of her magic items, and the haft piece to the blue orb.

Kyreel, Indy and Taran horse around in the treasure pile, throwing coins at each other, and retelling parts of their first dragon fight.  Thelbar stands alone, at the edge of the water.  Looking at the orb, Thelbar sighs helplessly and reflects on the Magic Staff that Almost Was.  Half in the possession of a no name mage from Goddess-knows-where, and half in the possession of a baby black dragon, fleeing for its life.


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*4-- Forward, Into the Past *

When the last nook and cranny of Khundrukar has been searched and scoured, several more monsters have fallen to the blades and spells of the party.  (_Don't even get me started on the f***ing roper. --author_).  In a side passage, shunned by the lizardmen, and covered with Yellow Mold, the group finds a limed-over skeleton clutching a magical bastard sword, Taran's weapon of choice.  He gleefully claims it for his own, and names the blade "Black Lisa", after the heroine of a particularly gruesome folk tale involving patricide, poison and revenge.

Kyreel has experienced a divine rapture in the embrace of the Goddess Ishlok, and has begun channeling Her Divine Will in addition to her paladin abilities.  Thelbar also has taken Holy Vows, but prefers to concentrate on his arcana.  Indy has proven to be an apt pupil for the magical arts and can cast several spells now in addition to his stealthy practice.  Taran, on the other hand, believes in dancing with who brung ya-- he pours his energy into the arts of war.

Thelbar crafts the first wondrous items for the group, most importantly a _hat of disguise_ for Kyreel.  Now the drow can travel openly amongst Good society without fear of unwarranted assault.

Indy takes several of the dwarven artifacts to Kheldegan Tolm, and the two of them haggle for days about points of minutiae regarding dwarven history and the value of the artifacts.  In the end, Kheldegan agrees to buy a few of the objects, and arranges for Indy to meet some dwarven traders from a dwarf-fast to the east.

The negotiations go well, and Indy is able to win through the dwarves' distant nature with his knowledge of 'proper' custom, and obvious respect for dwarven ways.  The traders agree to purchase the artifacts from Khundrukar, and agree to spread the news to nearby dwarven communities that the Forge of Fury stands open and ready for resettlement.

The traders linger in town for a few days, and Indy hosts them, toasting to their clan, and their Fane.  This troubles one of the dwarves, and after beating around the subject for a proper length of time, tells Indy the following story:

He is from a dwarven hall near Ratik known as the Great Delve.  He, like many other young dwarves were forced to expatriate because his King had gone mad.  The King lost his senses sometime after a visit from a group of strange dwarves who came up from the Underdark, but claimed to be surface dwarves from a burrow far, far away.

The dwarf presents his shield, a gift from the foreign dwarves.  Indy is shocked and transfixed by the glyph.  He is sure he has seen it before, but cannot recall where.  He reacts very emotionally to the symbol, and knows it to be the warren mark of the Filas Hali.  None of the other dwarves recognize this name.

Further, the dwarf from the Great Delve tells Indy that the foreign dwarves had a king; a king by the name of Alvodar.  The name sends tendrils of memory through Indy, and he is sure he has known this dwarf.

The rest of the party needs little convincing, as they recognize the name of Alvodar themselves, though none of them know exactly why.  They are sure that this Alvodar is a being of great virtue, and must certainly be sought.  If the dwarves of the Great Delve are having troubles, and Alvodar is there, then into the Great Delve they shall go.

The catch?  The Fallen Hall is on the other side of the Flannaes.  Between the characters and their eventual destination are the Flinty Hills and the Bone March, a land every bit as unpleasant as its name would indicate.  The group prepares itself for a long overland travel, spending their hard-won adventuring loot on magic items and gear.  Horses are purchased, stout hill ponies suitable for long overland travel.  Rex, for his part, purchases the largest and most impressive warhorse he can find, and proudly names it 'Lac.


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*4-- Forward, Into the Past*, cont. 

During their first week of travel in the Flinty Hills, the group notices a strange sight off in the distance.  A long, narrow object, suspended in mid-air, stretching from approximately 2 feet to 20 feet off the ground before it disappears.  As they approach, they spot a very strange bird in a nearby tree.  

The brightly colored four-winged creature is the size of a small horse, and as they approach, it attacks them with bursts of lightning that issue from its hooked beak.  Its wings radiate equilaterally from its central axis, and it possesses an amazing level of mobility that no normal bird could ever hope to achieve.  Merely keeping one's eye on the thing is difficult enough, nonetheless convincing it to stand still long enough to shoot at!

They defeat it, but must use all their most potent magic to do so.  They then approach the object, which they can now see is a ladder, and call out.  Indy and Thelbar explain that the ladder is most likely a _rope trick_ currently being used by an adventuring party hiding from the bizarre and predatory bird.

Unfortunately for them, there are no friendly adventurers here.  The ladder is in fact completely normal.  Of course, no ladder can really be called normal when it is dangling from a rift in space bridging the prime material plane with the plane of Air.  On the Air side of this dimensional rift is a transmuter of malevolent disposition with his gang of hyper-aggressive gnome barbarians digging in a chunk of floating prime material plane for buried treasure.

Yes, literally.

One of the gnomes climbs down the ladder, and tells the PCs to mind their own business, and move on.  Or at least that's the general drift-- he isn't near that polite.  The gnome is nasty and insulting, and it isn't long before Taran decides he's had all the lip he's going to take out of a little half-dwarf who would need a step ladder to polish his own belt buckle.  Hostilities commence, and it's not pretty.

Unknown to the party, a large air elemental has been resting quietly at the base of the ladder, and once swords are drawn, it begins tearing through the party's ranks, picking up characters and depositing them one hundred feet away.   The transmuter, on the other side of a vortex, orders his remaining gnomes to find out what is keeping their companion, and terminate with prejudice anyone they don't recognize.

The aggro gnomes drop screaming from the vortex (which is kind of like a horizontal door between the two planes) with their blades drawn, only to charge face-first into a _color spray_.  They fall unconscious, wake up, go blind, then stumble around.  It would be like a typical night on the town, except at the end of it, they all die.

Meanwhile, the air elemental is causing complete chaos amongst the spellcasters, and Kyreel and Taran have just managed to fight their way underneath the dimensional rift where they can be seen by the watching transmuter.  The two heroes charge up the ladder and  into the plane of air, where the dire fellow attempts to parley. 

"Gentlemen!"  He says with an oily leer, "We've gotten off on the wrong foot.  Perhaps there is enough treasure here for all of us?"

 As soon as he sees that his ruse isn't going to work, he is quick to _lightning bolt_ the dirty do-gooders.  Unfortunately for him, they don't die.  (Strange, that's never happened before . . . they usually die when they are blasted in the face like that.)

The mage is backing away from the heroes toward the opposite end of a 20' x 15' slab of earth, clay and grass floating in an endless expanse of blue sky and majestic clouds.  A stiff breeze whistles through the place, disturbingly void of the normal earthen smells such a wind might bring.

Thelbar sends his hawk familiar Sartre up through the portal with a live _shocking grasp_ spell.  Sartre dodges around the mage's _shield_ and delivers a critical hit!  The mage is staggered, and in far too much pain to put up any sort of defense against the big man with the sharp sword.  Taran cuts him into two twitching, evil pieces.

The PCs gather on the slab of dirt and begin to explore the prime pocket floating in the plane of air.  The mean little gnomes had already dug up a large, wooden chest, and were in the process of destroying the lock to get it open.  One whack from Black Lisa later, the PCs are counting coinage and examining a pair of magic items.

On the body of the transmuter (well, the upper half, that is), Thelbar discovers a hide bound diary, of ancient manufacture.  The book is stamped with heraldic markings revealing its maker to be a craftsman from the Great Kingdom, pre-splintering!  Thelbar opens the tome, and discovers that he is holding the spellbook of an ancient wizard, now long gone, who had sequestered caches of coins and magic in various pocket dimensions and inner planes, then connected the caches to a series of static 'portals' in and around the Great Kingdom.  The portals are partially sealed, opened by spell-completion, like some magic items.  This transmuter (Mother have mercy on his soul), bought the book from a curio shop in Nyrond, and has partially translated the text.

What the transmuter missed, but Thelbar does not, was the hidden text describing a series of rituals that would fundamentally change aspects of an applicable spell.  If the rituals in this book work, any spell could be made more mighty, or lengthy in its duration, all without a greater expenditure of magical resource by the spell-caster.   If this book is correct, Thelbar realizes, every wizard in the Flannaes would kill to possess it.

The implications of the work captivate Thelbar, and he calls for a camp.  The heroes settle down on the prime material pocket to rest.  Indy and Thelbar pore over the ancient tome, while Kyreel and Taran watch the majestic (and altogether too massive) cloud formations whirl and tumble through the endless expanse of sky.

When they awaken in the morning, well rested and ready to resume their journey, they find that the portal back to the Prime Material plane has closed.  They are standing alone on a 15' x 10' x 20' chunk of dirt and grass floating in an infinite void of Air . . .


----------



## (contact)

*5-- As above, so below:  the Marrow Down.*

The better part of a day passes while Indy and Thelbar debate possible ways to get off the plane.  Tempers grow heated, then frayed.  Taran cycles through a manic phase, followed by despondency that leads to black implications of how bad his next foe will have it.

Thelbar occupies himself by learning about the laws of physics in this place.  He is able to stand comfortably on all sides of the Prime pocket, simply by stepping over the edge, and onto the alternate surface.  He determines that 'down' is relative here, relating to one's belief, rather than a physical constant.  He ties rope around himself and attempts the following experiment.  By believing that 'up' is 'down', Thelbar is able to fall away from the Prime pocket.  By reversing his mental orientation, he can fall back towards his friends.  Although it is crude and clumsy, Indy points out that should their situation grow desperate enough, they could 'fall' through the Plane looking for help.  Thelbar points out that he thinks they already are.

Objects have neither a 'down' or an 'up', traveling through the void at a constant speed, along whatever path they were launched.  In fact, this Prime pocket is surely rocketing through the void, its trajectory swayed by the mental 'down' of the beings sitting upon it.  If there is a 'terminal velocity' here, Thelbar reasons, it would be determined only by an individual object's weight, not any constraint imposed by the atmosphere.  

Late in the afternoon of the second day (at least as they remember time-- there is no sun or moon here, just an even expanse of  unchanging light), the group has resigned itself to its helpless state.  Even Indy has grown sullen and quiet, and stopped pestering Thelbar to let him examine the book.   Kyreel is flinging chunks of dirt and clay into the void when she spots a speck off in the distance.  The speck grows larger at a leisurely rate.  The entire group is soon staring 'up' at the spot, arguing amongst themselves about what it is.

Hours later, the argument is settled.  The thing is close enough that there can be no doubt about the object's nature; it is a ship.  A sailing vessel, by the looks of it, complete with masts and sails.  The heroes are at first overjoyed, thinking themselves rescued, then subdued when Taran points out that the ship may not be friendly.

The fact that he seems to relish the prospect of fighting an entire ship full of people does not diminish the validity of his observation.  The group readies themselves for whatever may come, and settles in to wait.

Hours pass, and Kyreel, Rex and Indy strike up a tense game of 'hidden stone', an orcish gambling pastime the duo have come to love.  As they play, they keep an eye on the ship.  Thelbar manages to coach Taran at believing in a different down, and between the two of them, they rotate the Prime pocket until they can watch the approaching ship without straining their necks.

The ship sails closer, and is soon near enough that the party can make out individuals standing at its rails, watching them.  A loud bellowing floats toward them, and they make out a crude and heavily accented phrase in common:  "On the rock, there!  Prepare to be boarded!"  Weapons are swiftly readied, and shortly thereafter, a pair of large humanoids leap from the ship and sail through the void toward the Prime pocket.

The two aggressors are half orcs, armed with orcish double axes, and Indy is barely able to observe how strange it is that sailors would be wearing plate mail armor before battle is joined.  Thelbar hides himself around one 'corner' of the Prime pocket, and opens the hostilities with a _magic missile._  Taran and Kyreel attack one of the half orcs, while Indy fences with the second.  Rex darts about, covering his friends with his crossbow and firing into the melee.  The fighting is intense, but it soon becomes apparent that the half orcs intend to subdue and capture the group rather than kill them.  They are extremely skilled fighters, and use their double weapons to swiftly disarm Taran, sending Black Lisa twirling end over end into the void.  

Sartre is dispatched to fetch the blade, and Taran draws his backup weapon, badly wounding one of the half orcs.  In a matter of seconds, the battle has turned against the boarders, and both of them fling themselves from the rock, and 'fall' back towards their ship, which is sailing in leisurely circles around the Prime pocket.

"Well done, well done!" A voice calls from the prow.  The heroes look up to see that they are hailed by a female orc, dressed to the nines in garish and loose fitting clothing.  She wears a prominent medallion depicting a series of arrows radiating outward from a central point, a universal symbol for Chaos.

"Listen, you're not off the reefs, yet," she shouts.  "You can be stubborn, and starve to death here on your rock, or you can join us.  My name is Ragna, and this is my ship.  The _Marrow Down_ needs good fighters like yourself.  Join me, and I can promise you a fine life of high piracy, along with an equal share of any salvage gold we might win for ourselves.  Scorn me, and I will send my Raiders," she gestures toward the horde of small, gray humanoids crowding on deck "to kill you all.  What say you?"

The party converses for a moment, but realizes that the cards are all in Ragna's hand, and they have no choice to agree.  Indy, for his part, is beside himself with excitement.  He exclaims that he has always wanted to be a pirate, and could we join them?  Oh, please!  Taran shrugs, pointing out that killing dungeon inhabitants for treasure isn't that much different than killing sailors for treasure, despite Kyreel's protests to the contrary.  Thelbar, in the end, casts the final vote, pointing out that at least with Ragna, they will be less likely to starve.

And thus the group joins Ragna's Raiders, sailing through the void of Elemental Air, as the _Marrow Down_'s new ship-to-ship combat specialists.


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## (contact)

*6--  "Below there, on deck!  Land ho . . . and she's flying right toward us!"*

The group is brought onboard, and introduced to the half orcs who just a minute ago were their mortal enemies.  Ragna introduces the two as Mishkal and Hamm, her sons, and the _Marrow Down_'s former ship-to-ship combat specialists.  Mishkal and Hamm look less than pleased about their new shipmates, and the two groups stare daggers at one another while Ragna presents her first mate, the lieutenant and the bosun. 

After getting the details of the _Marrow Down_, her routine, and their role in it, the party settles down for a hearty meal of salt beef and hard tack.  Ragna tells them of a place called Haven that is the _Marrow Down_'s port of call.  She refers to herself as a privateer, and approaches her piracy with a religious dedication.  Ragna, and her Raiders, oppose a group they call the Wind Dukes, great creatures of Elemental Law that seek to order and subjugate the free denizens of the Plane of Air.

Ragna herself was once a Prime Material denizen, but stumbled through a one way portal, and found herself marooned like so many others.  She was taken in by a pirate (the father of her sons, by the way), and soon found a clerical calling serving Chaos, and opposing Law.

Kyreel bristles at this tale, but diplomatically refrains from argument.

Haven, she tells them, is protected from the scrying of the Wind Dukes. She says that the _Marrow Down_ is due to dock there in a few weeks.  Perhaps, if the group proves themselves worthy, she might introduce them to some friends of hers who possess the means to travel between the planes.

Ragna's Raiders, with the exception of her sons, are neither human nor orc.  They call themselves Gith, and are thin, grey humanoids possessed of a sullen and generally disobedient nature.  They all revere Ragna, that much is clear, and they call her the greatest pirate any of them have ever had the pleasure to serve under.

Below decks are the 'oars' manned by ogres.  As velocity through the plane of air is determined by relative weight, the 'oars' are actually huge chairs set into the hull and oriented so the massive giants are seated with the prow of the ship as their 'down'.  The ogres have the easiest job on board-- sit there and grow fat, the fatter the better.  Indy remarks that he's never seen so many happy ogres in one place, and they certainly eat better than anyone else on board!

Several days pass, and the PCs play with "Head"-- a captive vargouille the Gith pirates have turned into a mascot. They practice 'falling' through the Plane of Air, and are tutored in some of the finer points of fighting in free-fall by Mishkal and Hamm. 

Kyreel manages to debate with Ragna about her views on Freedom versus Order, without the issue coming to blows. Ragna is a zealous woman, fully in opposition to the Wind Dukes and what she terms as "their senseless and arbitrary oppression of our Natural right to determine our own destinies".   Sartre, for his part finds himself agreeing with Ragna, and through his connection with Thelbar engages Kyreel in a lively argument about free will contending with duty to determine a creatures moral obligation.  Kyreel contends that laws provide the structure that allows Good people to work together for the betterment of all, and without worldly Law, the consequences would be disastrous. Furthermore, she argues, the _Pasoun_ (the central spiritual reality of the Ishlokian faith-- a type of reincarnation) proves that our temporal laws merely mirror irrefutable Metaphysical Principles. 

Sartre contends that as long as an individual cleaves to the Good out of fear of a law, he has not really made a choice, and therefore is not really good. Laws, Sartre argues, are necessary only because the mass of sentient-kind are petty and scheming at heart. A true Being of Distinction should regard laws as beneath him, and strive for righteousness out of his own capacity for reason. 

Thankfully, neither Ragna, nor any Wind Dukes were around to hear this. 

On day three of their first voyage as Pirates of Elemental Air, an object is sighted. The crew hastily prepares the ship for a chase, and a tense waiting begins, with the crew attending their normal duties, but in a very subdued and tense manner. Over the course of the next day, the object gets slowly closer. 

Ragna glowingly tells the PCs that she has caught "The Lighthouse", and seems eager for revenge against someone called Captain Philius and his associate Kruul. Philius and Kruul, she states, serve the Wind Duke B'hii, who has claimed this stretch of Air. As the day (a relative term in the plane of Air) wears on, it becomes obvious that the Lighthouse cannot hope to outrun the _Marrow Down_. 

The Lighthouse itself looks like a narrow sliver of cliff face, cut from some rocky shore and suspended in space. On the top of the cliff is a narrow tower, the upper half of which is glowing with a magical and eerie light. 

As the pirates get close, the Lighthouse begins an unusual maneuver, sacrificing its forward motion in order to spin on its horizontal axis. Thelbar immediately realizes that this is a defensive maneuver meant to make it impossible for the _Marrow Down_ to grapple and board.

Ragna looks confused (and a little worried), but says that this will only delay the inevitable. She is outlining her attack strategy when the call comes from the crow's nest: 

"On deck, there! Object off the starboard bow! Half-noon and sinking fast, Cap'n" 

Ragna dashes up to the lookout as nimbly as any rogue, and returns just as quickly. She pulls the party aside and summons her sons. 

"Silver 'gainst gold that's a Wind Duke warship, comin' on.  We don't have enough time to destroy that sodding rock," she points toward the lighthouse, "but I'll not run off without bloodying Philius and Krull." Ragna looks up toward the oncoming object, still only a speck in the sky. "The boys need me here, and we've got to get this ship ready to run - - the seven of you're gonna have to dry-jump over there, and give 'em what they got comin'." 

She fixes each of the group with a cold stare. "I'm counting on you. All those who love Freedom are too. Let's black this Duke's eye, and slip their hangman's noose! Now get to it!" 


_*DM's  note*-- The party was attempting to 'dry  jump' (without a rope) from one plane of a slowly moving object to one plane of a rapidly rotating object. They were aiming for a spot at the base of the tower, and were using an untrained skill. I was giving the smarter characters an Int check, and the more  nimble characters  a Dex check, depending on what tactic they would use. To hit the target (a 5' x 5' square on the combat map) was DC 25, to land within 10 feet was DC 20, and to hit the right plane at all was DC 15. Mishkal (Jump skill at +8) and Thelbar (Int 18) were the only ones to miss entirely, but landing across the face of the rock so spread out almost got them all killed:_

The party follows the lead of Mishkal and Hamm, and for the most part land near the Lighthouse tower. Thelbar overshoots completely, and has a moment of panic, before he realizes he can move in any direction by believing in a "down" other than the one he's falling toward.

Indy, Taran, Rex and Kyreel land safely, but are separated from one another. Indy is _invisible_, but the others are swarmed by bloodthirsty bugbears wearing the Ducal livery. 

Thelbar tries again, but overshoots his target-plane a second time. To the characters standing on the Lighthouse, the ground is their "down", and thus, they do not seem to be moving, rather, everything else is whirring around them like the sun and moon gone into overdrive. The roars and cheers of the Gith watching the fight from the _Marrow Down_ slowly become louder as the ship "circles" into view, then fade just as suddenly as the rock blocks out the sound. Thus, Thelbar, falling in a straight line, seems to be flying a graceful curve over the battle site. 

Taran would have wondered how Thelbar could fall in circles like that, but he is surrounded by bugbears.  But he is not alone.  Everyone is surrounded by bugbears, as they swarm out of the empty-looking lighthouse.  The bugbears are all Ducal Marines. 

"It's a trap!" screams Hamm, "Kill them all!"  (Apparently, it's been awhile since Hamm went to strategy school, because 'Kill them all' does not generally follow 'We've fallen for a trap'.)

Rex has the presence of mind to drop to the ground and play dead, after facing off with six of the furry bastards. Kyreel rushes to Rex's side, fooled by his ruse, and the two of them proceed to cut a swath of death through the ranks of their foes. A swath that dies a premature death when a nine foot tall bull-headed behemoth "falls" toward them from the top of the tower, then gracefully "falls" the other way at the last moment, landing right behind Kyreel.  Kruul the minotaur, right on schedule.

_Magic missiles_ come streaking from the top of the lighthouse into Taran, weakening him.   On the other side of the lighthouse, Mishkal joins Hamm, and the two of them start killing bugbears in a frenzied orgy of double-headed axe swipes and gore.

The vicious minotaur has a wicked looking brand on his chest that matches the symbol on the bugbear's livery. The first thing he does is bellow a challenge at Kyreel, sonically assaulting the paladin. Fortunately, Kyreel's inherent spell resistance is up to the task, and she is unharmed. Unfortunately, there is no resistance that will help against a minotaur's greataxe. Soon, Rex is forced to grab Kyreel's unconscious form and "fall" back to the _Marrow Down_ where Ragna is able to provide some magical healing, and get her back into the fray. 

Taran manages to get near to Kruul and lays into him, but cannot stand toe to toe with the beast for long. He falls, but is rescued in time by Kyreel who "lands" nearby, and administers some healing magic of her own to stop Taran's bleeding. 

Meanwhile, Indy has used a _spiderclimb_ spell to reach the top of the lighthouse, and spots an older man dressed in an outlandish outfit (replete with multiple buckles, no less) clutching a spear wreathed in a crackling blue electrical field. Unbeknownst to the man, he is stalked by a Master Thief.  Indy creeps ever closer to the sorcerer, taking careful aim, then . . . he strikes! And misses! And stumbles! 

Fortunately, Thelbar has finally landed, and yells "cover your eyes" in the foriegn language he and Indy share before enrapturing Captain Philus with a _hypnotic pattern_.   Thel turns his attentions toward Krull, casting the last of his _magic missiles_ at the beast.

After disarming and binding the good Captain, Indy runs halfway down the side of the tower, and begins firing his bow at the minotaur. Hamm and Mishkal are still threshing bugbears like a drunken farmboy taking dad's plow out for a joyride. Kruul can't withstand the magic missiles and arrow barrage, and is felled. The surviving bugbears curse in Auran and "fall" in every direction, leaving the PCs alone on the rock with Captain Philius, and a dozen dead bugbears. 

They return to the _Marrow Down_.  Ragna congratulates the heroes heartily, bestows kisses on her embarrassed sons, and gives the command to shove off, and away from here!

She examines her prisoner, and removes his gag.  Philius smugly regards the pursuing vessel and crows "You're done for now, Ragna. We have you at last. Surrender to me, and I can assure you the most civilized of treatment."

 Ragna replies that the _Marrow Down_ has a few tricks in her yet, and orders full sail!  Three points into the wind! Thelbar seems disturbed at Philius' total composure and lack of concern. 

The approaching object, it can now be seen, is a massive chunk of rock, shaped like a stalactite, swiftly gaining on the fleeing pirate vessel. "Thrice-damned Ducal Fleet," Ragna curses. She turns to the party and whispers conspiratorially "We won't win this fight. That's the _D.F. Piercer, _and she'll leave us in pieces. If you want to flee, well . . . I understand." 

Thelbar asks for a moment alone with Ragna and questions her about the maneuverability of the _Marrow Down_. Can she rotate, like the Lighthouse?  No.  Can she turn?  Much like a Prime Material sailing vessel. Thelbar proposes a bold strategy: Turn the _Marrow Down_ around 180 degrees and charge the _D.F. Piercer_! At the last moment, the pirates will veer to one side, and use their position broadsides to board the Wind Duke's privateer. They will then battle the crew for possession of the ship.   A do-or-die struggle, to be sure, the kind to inspire fierce fighting from the meekest scupper's mate!

Ragna looks at Thelbar with newfound admiration, and spreads the plan amongst the boys . . .


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## (contact)

*7-- Into the jaws of the Wind Dukes.*

Philius' smug composure cracks when Ragna orders the ship around, on a course to ram the _D.F. Piercer_.  It is now Ragna’s turn to gloat, and point out that she has more tricks up her sleeve than he has given her credit for, and this time it is the fox that will nip the hound!  The prime-material reference seems lost on Captain Philius, but he is able to get the drift of it.

The _D.F. Piercer_ is a massive vessel, fully one-hundred and fifty feet long, and sixty feet wide at its aft, narrowing to a vicious eight feet in width at is fore.  The vessel is built for ramming, and flies without sails, at speeds unmatched by ships like the _Marrow Down_.  Something about the _D.F. Piercer_ bothers Thelbar, though he cannot quite put a finger on it.

The wait as the two ships close on one another is almost unbearable.  Ragna’s Raiders leave only enough crew active to execute a last-minute turn, and Ragna sends up a parley flag in order to confuse the enemy.  The rest of the Raiders lurk about the starboard side, trying to look inconspicuous and conceal their boarding-pikes.

As the two ships near one another, a collision looks immanent.  Taran and Thelbar stand at the prow of the _Marrow Down_ and can make out their foe:  three score or more tall, willowy, blue-skinned humanoids, led by a winged man and a floating aberration that looks for all the world like a giant, grey cone of scaly flesh, with a spiky maw at one end, and two sets of arms protruding from its forepart at the cardinal directions.  The fact that the thing is obviously casting spells to prepare itself and the winged man is not lost on Thelbar.

"A Lawgiver," Hamm says over Taran's shoulder.  "They must want us bad, if they’ve sent that thing all the way from B'hii's court.  The flyboy standing next to him is a Wind Duke Navigatior. 

"Hamm," Thelbar begins, "The _Piercer_--is she . . . alive?"

Hamm laughs evilly and mutters "Not for long".

Their conversation is interrupted as Ragna shouts "Now, lads!  For freedom!  Turn this ship!"

The _Marrow Down_ lurches suddenly as the ogres below decks shift their weight to the side, and the vessel veers onto a course designed to bring them deck-to-deck with the _D.F. Piercer_.  The maneuver is only partially successful, and the horrible Wind Duke ship tears into the _Marrow Down_ just to the starboard side of the prow, below decks.  There is an awful rending tear, and the two ships are locked together, with the starboard-side ogres below decks smashed into a bloody mess and sent flying out into the void.  Ragna’s Raiders give a hearty yell, which is matched by the Wind Duke’s marines, then leap over the side of the ship to engage their foe.

The adventurers tell Mishkal and Hamm to concentrate on keeping the Raiders fighting together, and say that they will engage the Wind Duke and his Lawgiver.  They leap into the Air, this time with greater success than when attacking the Lighthouse.  Ducal marines stand in their way, however, and while the Lawgiver releases small bursts of lightning from its fingertips, Taran, Rex and Kyreel begin laying into their foes.

They manage to fight their way toward the Lawgiver, his phalanx of bodyguards proving no match for the party’s fighting prowess.  The Wind Duke Navigator, roused to action, sails effortlessly across the void, and lands on the _Marrow Down_, looking to engage Ragna with his greatsword.  Thelbar grabs his brother and leaps to her defense.

Ragna’s Raiders fight viciously enough to make her proud, and the Wind Duke’s troops fall back before their assault.  To finalize matters, a few of the surviving ogres manage to reach the _D.F. Piercer_ and begin smashing blue-skinned men with pieces of the _Marrow Down_’s shattered hull.

As the fight progresses, the _D.F. Piercer_ tears deeper and deeper into the _Marrow Down_, shattering the frail wooden ship and sundering it in two.  The Lawgiver shows no desire to engage in hand-to-hand combat with a fierce human, a crafty elf, and blood-covered drow, and before the heroes can kill it, the Lawgiver speaks a phrase in Auran and disappears.

Meanwhile, Ragna is desperately ordering some of her Raiders to transfer stores from the forward half of her former ship to the aft, and Thelbar and Taran are left to confront the Navigator.  The winged man fights coolly and mercilessly, and proves himself more than up for the task.  Thankfully, a handful of Ragna’s Raiders aid the cause, and distract him long enough for Thelbar’s spells to stun him, allowing Taran to strike him down.  Thelbar binds the Wind Duke’s wounds, and the two heroes leap for the aft side of the ship just as the _Marrow Down_ splits into two pieces.

Without its Navigator, or Lawgiver, the _D.F. Piercer_ has lost its will to fight, and the giant vessel does the impossible, reversing its course, and tearing free of the fore-part of the pirate ship.  Indy, Rex and Kyreel leap into the void, and manage to land near Taran on the aft half of the _Marrow Down_.  The heroes tend to one another’s wounds and watch the  _D.F. Piercer_ pull away from them, and sail off into the void.  Ragna takes stock of the situation, and counts heads--twenty gith, four ogres, her sons and herself are all that remains of the once proud _Marrow Down_ -- alive at least, but shipwrecked and floating aimlessly in an infinite void of Elemental Air.


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## (contact)

*8-- Left adrift, Fine Manners are proved to be a function of a full belly.*

The ogres and gith begin the shipwrecked voyage in relatively high spirits - - they have just beaten a superior force of Wind Duke Royalists, and lived to tell the tale. They are, after all, still free.

The _D.F. Piercer’s_ former Navigator says little, but when questioned reveals the following:  The plane of Air is mostly an empty void-- clusters of  "islands" comprised of elemental matter, Prime pockets or sentient-made objects float in the void, separated by mere hundreds of miles. Away from a cluster center, floating objects become more and more rare.

The clusters themselves are many thousands of miles apart, each cluster administered by a different Wind Duke, each with differing levels of power, and thus, authority. 

The splintered remnant of the _Marrow Down_ is falling away from the populated center of this particular 'island cluster’. If they don't strike land soon, it will all be over for Ragna's Raiders -- starvation for sure.

The party sets up a small section of the ship’s deck as their own demesne.  They surreptitiously examine their rations, and divide them equally amongst themselves, setting aside enough food to keep their Wind Duke captive alive.  He is gravely wounded, but under Kyreel’s ministrations he can be expected to live.  Indy, for his part, is ecstatic, adopting the gith pirate’s manner of dress and speech, and declaring himself a ‘Jaunty Pirate’, whatever that is supposed to mean.  He jokingly threatens to make Taran ‘walk the plank’, and is rebuffed with a threat involving the haft of Kyreel’s spear, Indy’s posterior, and a decidedly unnatural and swift scabbarding.

The gith grow more standoffish as the days progress.  Certainly they resent Thelbar and Kyreel’s stubborn insistence that the Wind Duke be kept alive, despite the rapidly dwindling food stores.  The Raider’s attitude begins to degenerate as their hunger grows.  Ragna and Kyreel can both create water but neither of them can produce food from thin air.  The ogres especially are unused to the hardship, as they had been over-fed in order to keep them as heavy as possible.  

Mishkal and Hamm keep to themselves, growing ever more surly (as if that were possible), and glaring at the heroes.  It seems their recent victories side-by-side have not erased the memory of the humiliation they suffered at the hands of the party in their first meeting.

Indy, completely undaunted by the latest chapter in his 'great romantic adventure', practices swashbuckling, spouting pithy phrases while thrusting at the air with his rapier.  If the ogres glare at him more balefully than usual, he takes no notice.


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## (contact)

*8-- Left adrift, Interlude*

As the days blur past, one just like the former while adrift in Elemental Air, Taran has a pair of powerful dreams:

In the first, he is a great general, and has led his forces against a previously unbeaten foe.  The dream takes place the night before a decisive battle.  A battle he knows his men cannot win, but one he has committed them to out of pride and anger.  It is a painfully poignant dream--he is addressing his officer corps, and gives them his pessimistic appraisal of their chances.  He offers each one of them an opportunity to withdraw and return home, with no loss of honor.  To their credit, they reply to a man that they will not leave his side.

The next phase of the dream takes place after this battle.  Taran has been captured his troops defeated, and he is led in chains through a crowd of jeering foreign commoners, on his way to be beheaded.  He is cursed by the enemy priests, and informed that the manner of his execution will prevent his soul from traveling into the afterlife, dooming him to a restless undeath.

He awakens with hatred in his heart, and the name of Ishlok on his lips.  His foes were Ishlokians, that is for sure--his enemies named themselves after the Goddess he so passionately reveres.  Even the wise council of Kyreel cannot answer that riddle, but they both agree that he is remembering his lives before this one, in the manner of the _Pasoun_.

His second dream is reoccurring and much more pleasant.   In that one he recalls the friendship of a silver dragon, a being who--he is sure-- was a boon companion in this misty half-remembered life. As his dreams intensify, he seems to undergo a subtle physical alteration. He finds that through concentration he can enhance his speed and stamina, or cause a faint shimmering of silver dragon scales to rise on his skin, toughening his hide.  The dragon's name is Galathonriel, and their souls, it seems, are intertwined.


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## (contact)

*8-- Left adrift, cont.*

Rex takes to watching the gith, sitting awake while the others sleep, and sleeping with a loaded crossbow. He petitions Taran for some more training, and they begin lessons, under the baleful gaze of Mishkal and Hamm.

Thelbar and Indy study the tome found in the possession of the wizard who had opened the original portal to the plane of Air.  The book contains a few unique spells dealing with planar travel and dimensional magic, as well as an effective description of the rudimentary principles of Ritual Magic - - a casting methodology unknown to most Greyhawk mages.   The time they spend shipwrecked is not wasted from Thelbar's point of view, and he takes to deciphering this book, studying during his entire waking hours.

Over the course of a week, the attitude of Ragna's Raiders degenerates, and one evening (morning? afternoon?) the party hears a loud argument taking place in Auran between Ragna, two gith and the ogres. Indy casts _comprehend languages_ and is able to determine the following: 

The gith have noticed that the party doesn't look as hungry as everyone else. The ogres point out that well-fed adventurers make for well-fed ogres. Ragna forbids them from harming her 'guests', berates the gith for forgetting their Code-of-the-Air, and states emphatically that after the Battle of the Lighthouse Spin and the fight with the _D.F. Peircer_, the party are now Raiders, just like the gith. 

The gith and ogres reply that "Ragna's Raiders" is a meaningless designation if Ragna isn't the captain anymore. Ragna calls them mutinous scum, but the ogres take this as some sort of compliment. The gith spokesman points out that the _Marrow Down_ is destroyed, and as the Auran saying goes; "there are no Captains on driftwood". 

Hamm says that he is in favor of eating the party, but Mishkal (who has made friends with Thelbar) wants the mage to be spared. Ragna forbids her sons from aiding this mutiny, and Mishkal at least obeys. Hamm, on the other hand, has been spoiling for a rematch and intends to have it. 

The ogres, ever the peacemakers, propose to eat the elf first, and then see about the others. 

Indy says "I knew it! They always eat the elf first . . ." and slips into the shadow of a wood overhang. 

The ogres step up to a landing (8' below the main deck level) where the party has been spending their time. The toughest of the bunch accuses Thelbar of hoarding food. Thelbar replies that he has not been hoarding food, he has been eating it, and if the ogre had not the foresight to keep his own rations, it will cause Thelbar no sleepless nights.

Perplexed at the aggressive response from such a little man, the ogre intimates that he might just take the food anyway.  Thelbar slips his fingertips into the small pouches at his waist, and cooly informs the overweight ogre that he will die if he tries it.  The ogre calls Thelbar's bluff with a guttural, mocking laugh.

But it's not a bluff.  Thelbar raises his hands and places a _fireball_ behind the four menacing ogres, wounding them, and instantly killing every gith left on the ship.  In one fell swoop, only four ogres and Hamm remain to press their mutiny.

Of course, four ogres and Hamm may well be enough.  The battle is pitched, with Thelbar and Kyreel exposed in the front ranks, both forced to flee the fight.  Taran calls on his "scales of the dragon" to protect him from harm, but without Rex at his side, he could not have finished the fight. 

In the end, the party is badly wounded, the ogres are slain, the gith are burned to a man, and Mishkal convinces Hamm to stop fighting, lest he too be slain. 

Mishkal whispers into his brother's ear, "There is plenty to eat now, brother. Leave this fight be". 

Ragna, tears streaking her orcish face, begs the party for mercy, and asks them in the name of the Goddess they serve to help her save any of her Raiders who still live. After a moment's hesitation, Kyreel steps forward and begins using her orisons to stabilize any Raiders who are still breathing.  In the end, six gith are saved, but remain unconscious as they are badly burned.


----------



## (contact)

*9-- Object Ho!  Eleven-nines! *

The very next day, Ragna confers with the party. She stresses the need for unity. She says that if they run across a small enough ship, she believes that the eight of them (the party, Ragna, Mishkal and Hamm) could still take it and leave enough of the crew alive to sail back to Haven.  She is hopeful that they might yet return home as Free Beings.

Before the party can answer her, Mishkal interrupts the parley and exclaims "Object ho! Eleven-nines!" (In the plane of air, directions are described on two axises, one running from prow to stern, and one running from starboard to larboard, both describing clock faces. So, eleven-nines is eleven o-clock front to back, nine o-clock left to right.). 

The party hurriedly gathers their gear, and prepares to board the object, should it prove to be a vessel. 

Kyreel tells the party that should they encounter a superior Wind Duke force, she wants to surrender rather than fight. The Wind Dukes, she reasons, are the group's true allies, and certainly more trustworthy than this pirate scum.  Indy says "Pirate . . . _scum_?" and stomps away to pout.  Thelbar points out that if they were to surrender they would be hanged, as they are now criminals in the eyes of the Dukes. Kyreel, however believes strongly in the Truth inherent in Justice, and restates her opinion. No resolution is achieved. 

After a tense hour of waiting drags into a tense afternoon of waiting, the group realizes that whatever the object is, it's very, very big. Miles long, most likely. 

Ragna tells the party that it's a prime pocket, and there are only two kinds of those: The kind the Wind Dukes make, and those made by a Sundering. She's not sure which is worse. The Wind Dukes pull huge sections of Prime Worlds through to the Plane of Air for use as military bases and even cities. That option would likely spell the end for them all. 

Sunderings occur when massive cataclysms rip parts of a Prime loose and send it violently through a dimensional portal. The most common cause for a Sundering? When Gods make war. "If you're lucky," Ragna says, "the Sundered island is territory belonging to the looser." 

Over the course of the next day, the island slowly comes closer. As the _Marrow Down_ (or what's left of her) approaches, it becomes obvious that this island is the product of a Sundering. Essentially triangle shaped, it includes a tropical lake surrounded by lushly forested hills, with jungle lowlands toward the sharp edge. All around the island are trees and rock flaking off from the edge of the prime pocket, slowly drifting away from the island that birthed them.  There is some sort of structure protruding from the center of the lake, but it is difficult to determine any details.   The underside of the island is rocky and jagged.  A thin stream of water drains away from the lake, falling away from the massive floating island in a stream that extends away as far as the eye can follow.

After some tricky navigation ("All together now, lads--fall!  Fall!") , the remainder of the _Marrow Down_ lands on a rocky 'beach' near the tip of the triangle.  Ragna asks the party to determine if there are any Hostile sentients on the island, while she tends to the wounded Raiders. Desiring to keep her sons from fighting, she orders them away from the party and sets Mishkal and Hamm to the task of building a new ship. 

A brief foray into the island reveals tracks of large, clawed beasts, as the tracks of great cats.  The party reports this information and organizes double watches, explaining to Ragna how this is done on land.

The next morning (always a relative condition here), the party determines to map their new home.  The first thing they discover is a tree-village inhabited by intelligent monkey-like beings, who build elaborate tree-top structures, but arm themselves with crude spears.  Fortunately they are not hostile, and after some spellcasting the group is able to communicate their peaceful intent, and are taken to meet the tribe's leader.

The creatures are quiet, intelligent, and thoughtful.  They mark their own history, care for their young, and utilize magic, fulfilling Indianichus' "three determinates of civilized sentience".  The monkey-people (or Phanatons, as their name for themselves is pronounced in common) have some unique characteristics.  Their history revolves around a series of cultural heroes, revered for their ability to think creatively and introduce new ideas and concepts to the tribe.  The Phanatons possess an amazing aptitude for learning, picking up a crude version of common speech within hours, but seem entirely unable to _imagine_.  Thus, they have no art that has not been made before, no new tales that have not been told before, and no new living strategies that have not been tried before.  The sundering of their island has thrown them into a confusion almost akin to insanity.  They cannot comprehend an event that does not have historical parallels, and cannot adapt.  They can, however, perform any task to the exact standard it is demonstrated to them, and they obey any commands given by a recognized leader without hesitation.

"These creatures would make perfect sailors", Thelbar observes. 

The leader tells the group that the big cats and lizard-kin have come down out of the hills after the Sundering.  He does not know why the island splintered from the prime, but suspects it may have something to do with the snake-people of the lake. No one in the tribe remembers the event, but they all remember a period of great disquiet and terror amongst them, and when it was over, they found themselves in this 'land where the sun has gone hiding'.  In addition to their confusion, the clan is terrified and hungry, refusing to leave their trees for fear of being eaten by one of the large predators that now roam their territory.

Taran vows to protect these beings, calling them the "first worthwhile creatures we haven't had to kill in this whole damned plane".  The group tells the chieftain that they are going to have a look around, and see what they can do.  A plan to escape the island is beginning to form.

On a foray out toward the hills, the group encounters a massive dragon-like lizard-- a twenty-foot tall behemoth that runs on its hind legs and snatches Indy whole into its gullet!  The thing has teeth like daggers, and for the first time in their young adventuring careers, the heroes believe that they have likely met their end.  They face a terrible lizard--a king amongst its kind.  Rex is in awe.

Fortunately, the group manages to land several lucky blows, and cut Indy from the creature's throat before he is suffocated or crushed.  Shaken and battered, the group retreats to the Phanaton's tree-home, fearing to face Mishkal and Hamm in their current sorry state.

The next day, they return to Ragna and her sons, noticing that the surviving gith are up and around and healing nicely.  Mishkal and Hamm are as surly as ever, and the staring match between the half-orcs and Taran almost erupts into an outright brawl before cooler heads can intervene.  Taran mutters under his breath that next time he fights those dirty bastards, he'll finish the job.  Indy chimes in, threatening to hang them from the mizzenmast until the gulls pick at their eyes, and then feed the remains to the sharks!  

Taran stares at the elf stonily. 

"There are no sharks here, Indy," Thelbar says.

The group meets with Ragna and lays out the following arrangement:  The Wind Duke Navigator is to be their prisoner alone, and they will take him to the Phanaton settlement.  Ragna may meet with the Phanaton leader, and if he is willing, can enlist the monkey-creatures into helping build a ship.  She is warned, that if she loves her sons, she would do well to keep them from even hinting that they might harm one of the Phanatons.  Thelbar instructs her, in no uncertain terms, that a third bout between his group and her sons would be their last act.

Ragna is overjoyed to hear the news, and replies that she is confident that she can teach the Phanatons to build a ship out of whatever native material is available, and furthermore, if the creatures are as clever as Thelbar says, she'll turn them into the fiercest crew of pirates the plane of Elemental Air has ever seen.

The Phanatons prove amiable to this course, and take to their instruction readily.  They show Ragna and her boys how to build out of a native silk-like material that hardens into a fibrous strength.  Ragna, for her part is overjoyed, and is soon predicting (loudly) a piratical reign of terror the likes of which will make the Wind Dukes shiver in their sleep at the mere mention of her name!


----------



## (contact)

*10-- Fear and Loathing on The Isle of Trepidation*

During this time, the party stays in the Phanaton encampment, wary of attack from Mishkal and Hamm.  The group wisely reckons that if the half-orcs really want them dead, now would be the time to do it.  They take the Navigator and set up a base-of-operations in an unused hutch.  

"By rightful Law," the Navigator says to Kyreel one morning, "I am Governor here until this island is disposed in B'hii.  Release me, and I will speak on your behalf at court.  Know this, I am a Navigator, and the mysteries of the spaces between things are known to me.  Unlike Ragna, I am not lost.  Release me, and we can free-fall to the nearest inhabited sanctuary."

Kyreel replies that she will have to think it over, and discuss it with her companions.  The group again fails to reach consensus, and Kyreel returns to ask the Navigator a few more questions:  Can he guarantee that no harm will come to the party if they turn themselves in to the Wind Dukes?  

"I guarantee a fair and just inquiry."

Can he provide for the well-being of the Phanatons?

"The Phanatons are now subjects of the Wind Dukes with no more nor any less right to their place in the service of B'hii."

In the end, the risk seems less with Ragna than throwing themselves upon the dubious mercy of a Wind Duke court of law.  At least with the orcish pirate, the Phanatons will be well-loved.  The party tells the Navigator that he is to be set free once Ragna has finished her sailing vessel, and take his word that he will try no escape until that time.  Once he gives his word, they release his bonds, and free him to walk about and exercise.  In particular Kyreel enjoys his company, and if the Navigator lacks slightly in mercy, he certainly understands principles of Justice and Duty as well as anyone Kyreel has ever known.  The two have many conversations late into the evenings.

-----

Ragna is confident that a ship can be built.  The ship needs only integrity, as there is no concern about water-tightness.  She estimates that they will be ready to go sooner than later owing to the single-mindedness of the Phanatons and their ability to rapidly assimilate knowledge.  The Phanatons themselves are concerned about predatory attacks, so the ship is built above ground, in a rigging suspended from nearby trees.  The rigging also serves as an eventual launching cradle for the ship, so the vessel is built upside-down (in order to fall away from the island right side up). 

The second day of construction, the island is rocked by one of the massive storms that drift endlessly here in Elemental Air.  Mini-vortexes to the plane of Water, the storm must have itself been thousands of miles across.  Life on the island comes to a complete stop as every creature on it hunkers down and hides from the storm.

Taran, Thelbar and Kyreel take the time to sit down and hash out a strategy session (Indy, of course, attends, but he spends the majority of the time playing with a fat toad he has pulled out of the nearby forest).  The group is concerned that some of the larger predators in the nearby jungle might attack the Phanatons while they are busy building a ship, and learning how to sail it.

Thus, the group mobilizes to form a pro-active line of defense, and spend their days combing the nearby jungle on seek-and-destroy missions against anything higher up on the food chain than an intelligent monkey.  

They fight with a cat-headed man riding a sabre-tooth tiger.  Neither the tiger or the warrior can withstand Thelbar's _color spray_, so fortunately no one is seriously mauled (no one who isn't at least half cat, that is).  Smaller reptilian hunters are also encountered, and dealt with.  But one issue seems to be plaguing everyone's mind--the structure in the middle of the lake.

A closer examination reveals that the thing is a ziggurat pyramid that rises out of the water approximately fifty feet.  It is one-hundred-plus feet to a side at water-level, and most certainly larger still under the surface.

The group determines to explore the place, and uses _water-walking_ spells to reach the ziggurat.  The lake has drained significantly enough to reveal that the base of the structure is built onto an island formation, with coral reefs just below the original water level.

A series of cave-like openings in the coral are radiating a nauseating smell of dead fish.  As adventurers can neither resist caves nor dead fish, the group edges closer.

Suddenly, horrific amphibian humanoid abominations leap from the caves, charging the characters in a blind fury!  Fortunately, after a _fireball_l from Thelbar, and a pair of cleaves from Taran, the fish-men _are no more_.

As the group is exploring the ziggurat itself, they notice that the entrance to the place seems to be at the very top of the structure, which is reached by means of stairs carved into one side of the structure.  Taran is in the lead, followed by Kyreel, then Thelbar, with Indy picking up the rear.

A trapped step sends a flurry of darts rocketing into Taran and Kyreel.  The paladin is only grazed, but one of the darts striking Taran draws blood, and within a matter of seconds, Taran's perceptions begin to distort.

He turns to his companions with a confused look in his eye, and says "I'm alright.  I'm just . . . kind of floaty right now."

Before anyone gets the chance to ask him what 'floaty' is supposed to mean, he is picking his way back up the stairs, trying to keep them A) from melting completely away, and B) clear of the morass of glowing snakes that are now oozing out of the pores of the rock.

The rest of the party looks at one another and watches Taran's exaggerated progress up the steps.  Kyreel says "He has been poisoned, but I think he is unhurt."

_
Metagame note:  Taran just took a whopping 2d6 Cha and Wis damage, after failing both his primary and secondary saves against poison.  He is now hallucinating harder than Jimi Hendrix taking a weekend holiday with Timothy Leary.
_
The party enters the structure through an opening in the floor of the top level.  The group lights a torch for the human's benefit, then lowers a rope and climbs down.  They find themselves in an alien chamber, decorated with a mixture of relief carving and fresco paintings that seem to depict snakes crawling all over the walls with a life-like and disturbing effect.  Apparently Taran wasn't far off in his hallucinatory assessment of the scene.  

The group hears a rasping hiss from just beyond the edge of their torchlight, and draws their weapons.  A horrific dessicated snake with a human-like head and one human arm approaches them.  The thing is withered and encrusted with filth.  The creature mutters alien words of power and a shimmering hemisphere of green energy surrounds it.  Taran charges the beast, apparently no less useful for having slipped into a hallucinogen-induced psychotic state, but his attacks cannot pass the energy field.  Kyreel mutters a _blessing_ to counteract the vile nature of the room, and Indy tries to get around the back of the snake creature for a sneak attack.  The creature gestures again, and Kyreel is struck by transparent vipers extending from the beast's one extended hand.  Thelbar recognizes a _magic missile_ spell when he sees one, and reasons that fire is best fought with fire.  But the energy sphere harmlessly absorbs his _magic missiles_, provoking a rare curse from the well-spoken mage.

Indy and Taran press the thing, with Kyreel aiding.  The creature proves immune to Enchantment spells of any sort, but is not fully prepared to melee with three capable combatants.  After a _burning hands_ from Thelbar, and near-simultaneous strikes from the others, the mummified creature collapses to the ground with a hiss, it's energy field slowly fading away.

"I don't know what that thing was, but I'm not sure that I want to ever see another one again," Indy says.  "He pulls his pet toad from his pocket.  "At least Vognu is safe."

"Put that snake back where you found it," Taran says.  "They're _all_ in our pockets, but the fire on the mountain top won't let us stop now!" And with that piece of advice, the burly fighter ducks through a low archway some 3' high.  

Unfortunately for Indy, the mummified snake-thing isn't the last one they see, and the party battles with three more of the dusty monstrosities before discovering another hole in the ground leading deeper into the ziggurat.

The chamber below is a massive square room, decorated like the ones above, but with a series of pillars forming a large circle in the center of the huge space. The pillars themselves are carved into the shapes of hundreds of snake-like abominations writhing together to form a grotesque mass. Given the poor lighting conditions in the room, it is no wonder that the group does not spot a pair of real snake-men using a psionic _camouflage_.

As the party prepares a rope, and begins their descent, they are hit with the first of two waves of utter revulsion.  The small, animal parts of their minds are stimulated into an unreasoning terror and loathing.  Taran succumbs and begins his retreat, but as the group is trying to gather their wits, arrows come flying out of the darkness, striking Indy and Kyreel.  The two elves feel their muscles clench around the arrow wounds, as poison seeps into their bloodstream.

It's time to run for it.

The group manages to make it to the level where they fought the mummified abominations, but are dismayed to realize that the real means of passage for the ziggurat's main inhabitants are a series of fist-sized holes cleverly disguised by the artwork on the wall.  Small vipers come streaming out of the holes at some unspoken command, and the party has only their luck to thank that no one is severely poisoned by the things.

Once back in the fresh air and suddenly comforting half-light of the plane of Air, the group high-tails it for the Phanaton camp to rest and recover.


----------



## (contact)

*11-- Bidding farewell to a life of crime*

The group makes it back to the Phanaton camp, and heals physical wounds and relaxes themselves.  Taran, unfortunately, spends the night sitting in a corner with his knees drawn up to his chest, either refusing to see or unable to see his friends and their attempts to ease his suffering.

Taran is made of stern stuff, however, and as his body is throwing off the vice-grip of the poison, he spontaneously regresses to a previous lifetime . . .

-----

It is his incarnation as a general again, although he is much younger this time than in his previous dreams.  He has a sword in his possession -- an intelligent blade that possesses a powerful dislike for evil dragonkind, red dragons in particular.  

In this life, Taran was a quiet and tongue-tied youth, but while in his sword's company, he found a ready friend with whom could communicate using his mind, not his stilted speech.  The two would while away hours spent guarding this camp or the other, discussing dragonkind, political thought or the tactics of war.

Galathonriel (as that was the sword's name) was the soul of a silver dragon, placed into a weapon that he might continue to oppose his enemies after death.  Many fighters will tell you that their sword is their best friend, or that they trust only their blade.  In Taran's case, this was literally so.

It burned at Taran, and hurt him, that Galathonriel could not have a body to fly free, and live the life he so fondly remembered.  Through a series of elaborate adventures, Taran managed to find a way 'between the worlds', and speak with the powerful spirits charged with shepherding the souls of the dead.  A bargain was struck, and Galathonriel was given a new body, and a new life.

Somehow, through that process, part of Taran's soul remained with the dragon, and part of a dragon's soul was left in the man.  In this life, as Taran grows in stature, elements of Galathonriel's primal magical gift are bubbling to the surface, reflected in sorcerous abilities.

If Galathonriel was still alive when the remnants of Taran's army was dashed upon the rocks of the Ishlokian Imperial Guard, Taran cannot recall.  The Lord of Rethmiir (called The Dragonslayer, called Scion of the Blade), Taran Tar-Ilou was executed as a war criminal by the High Justicar of Her Glorious and Most Radiant Goddess Ishlok, Protector of Her Holy Empire, in the Fall of the year 1122 Founding.

He was reborn of whole cloth in Greyhawk city, a world away from his home, charged with a great and terrible purpose.  Galathonriel, it seems, is still with him, integrated into the new whole.

-----

When Taran awakes, he is still sitting on the floor.  The room is empty, and as he starts to stand a wave of nausea overtakes him, and he kneels on the ground for a moment.  As he does so, memories of the previous night's visions return to him, and he recalls snakes crawling all over him, inside his clothes and under his skin.

At that point, a tiny silver triangle-shaped head emerges from his vest pocket.  It is a silver-colored viper.  For a moment, Taran is unsure if he is still hallucinating, but he realizes he can _feel_ the snake's presence in his mind, as if the little creature has burrowed out a nest for itself within his consciousness.  It is an extraordinary sensation, and quite pleasant.  Taran smiles, and wishes for the snake to crawl out onto his arm.  The viper responds instantly, traveling down to Taran's calloused sword-hand, where it coils around his fist.

"I think I'll call you Galathonriel," Taran says.

"Be careful," Kyreel says as she enters the small room, "don't drink this all at once."  She hands Taran a conch shell filled with a foul-smelling tea.  "The Phanatons say this will purge you, and by my _augury_, Ishlok concurred.  I petitioned the Goddess to _restore_ you to a sound mind, and it seems She . . ." Kyreel trails off as she notices Taran's new pet.  

She regards the fighter for a moment, searching for signs of further madness.  Seeing none, she shrugs and says, "Keep your snake from eating Indy's toad lest we all are forced to suffer his grief.  Drink this now, and come to your bed."

After Taran recuperates, the group feels ready to finish what they started in the temple.  Everyone is enchanted to resist poison and suitable spells are prepared.  Unfortunately for the two remaining snake-priests, their dark God was the looser in the war that produced this sundering.  Their faith is strong, but their spells have evaporated away into the mists of Elemental Air.  They are no match for a group of skilled, prepared adventurers.  They are killed quickly, and the heroes fall to looting their temple.  Much gold is found, along with unique artifacts and record keeping devices.

"Let's watch our backs," Thelbar cautions, "if Mishkal and Hamm wanted to kill us yesterday," he lifts a handful of strangely shaped gold coins, "they are going to be beside themselves to kill us now."

"Fine with me," Taran says, "let 'em try.  And the sooner the better."

"Be still, friends," Kyreel says.  "We have led Ragna to believe that we intend peace with her sons," Kyreel says, "and I will not have us betraying ourselves in the name of wealth.  Let us keep our find as quiet as we can, and keep the peace."  

It is several days before the Phanaton ship is ready to launch, and the group maintains their patrols, but encounters no further enemies.

Ragna determines to name her new ship the _Island's Gift_, after their adventure on the isle, and with the Phanatons clinging to their places with their feet and tails (and everyone else hanging on for dear life), Ragna gives the order to shove off.  Every sentient in the boat changes their belief that up is down, and suddenly, the _Island's Gift_ is falling away from the Isle of Trepidation, and the party bids a silent farewell to both the sundered island and the Ducal Navigator--the lone being left behind.

Ragna proves true to her word, and takes the party to Haven; a sprawling port-city built on three sides of a cube-shaped sundered rock.  The place is strange beyond the heroes' experience, with creatures of all kinds mingling in the streets, drunken sailors fighting and singing (mostly fighting), and a few overworked prostitutes too tired to really argue when rebuffed.

Ragna introduces the group to a wizard who, she claims, owes her a favor.  The wizard is dark, mysterious, and altogether unwholesome, but Kyreel manages to restrain her desire to smite him long enough to allow him to cast the spell of transportation that will send the group home.


----------



## (contact)

*12-- Another victory for Diplomacy*

Ragna's Wizard friend can't promise a pin-point delivery, but he says he will get the group close to their destination of Ratik.  Mishkal and Hamm neither come to say good-byes, nor attack the group (which was the more likely option).  Ragna, for her part, gets all teared up, and gives each of the characters a crushing orcish hug, promising to keep their deeds alive as pirate tales.

The group arrives close enough to the mountains to recognize how far they are from the place where they ventured into Elemental Air.  They take a moment to breathe in the familiar smells, and are startled at how _loud_ everything is out here in the middle of nowhere.  Rex wonders aloud what happened to 'Lac, his first real warhorse. 

The group has grown in experience, and power.  Both Indy and Taran have bonded with animals from the island, Vognu the frog and Galathonriel the silver snake.  Several magic items have passed from the hands of enemies to the characters, most notably Captain Philius' shocking shortspear and _ring of flying_, in the possession of Kyreel and Taran, respectively.

After a couple of days travel, the group is able to orient themselves using a map purchased in Greyhawk City, and are nearing the city of Ratikill, in Ratik.

The party notices a cloud of dust on the horizon and moves to investigate.  What they see is a troop of thirty-five armed knights and footmen forming an honor guard for an unarmed black-robed individual whose face and visible skin are covered in intricate tattoos.

Worse yet, the soldiers are flying a flag that sparks painful memories in the minds of the party.  A black crescent moon set against a maroon circle, the whole of which is outlined by seven golden stars.  It is the banner of the Ishlokian Empire – the same nation that executed Taran a lifetime previous, and likely killed the others as well.

_
Metagame note: The Ishlokians were terrible foes: an imperialistic bunch of xenophobic elitists.  Ishlokians hold to the
_
Demon Decree_--a doctrine espoused by their Emperor-Priests.  The _Demon Decree_ states that magic is in every instance a manifestation of Demonic power, and all non-humans are inherently, irredeemably Evil.  The Ishlokians were best known for their genocidal wars against demihumans, elves in particular.  The Holy Empire of Ishlok perpetrated these atrocities in the name of the Goddess that Kyreel serves, but certainly did not receive any spells from her.  The the _Demon Decree_ was likely a reaction to the fact that they could no longer channel Divine magic.  The Emperor-Priests consorted with Devils, and introduced Baatorian politics into the world of Isk. 

So if you spot a troop of 35 armed Ishlokian knights and light footmen escorting a black-robed individual, what would you do?  If you answered, "lead with a fireball, centered on the black-robed bastard", you would have agreed with Thelbar. _

The heroes gain the element of surprise, and decimate the Ishlokian ranks with spells and missile fire.  To their credit, the Ishlokians rally quickly, and came forward in an ordered charge maneuver, bringing them into melee with Taran, Kyreel and Indy.

The black-robed individual simply disappears shortly after being burned by the _fireball_, and does not return. Taran fights his way through footmen, Cleaving at every step, and Kyreel wields her shocking spear to great effect.  

_
Metagame note: The comedic moment of the fight was Indy commanding his toad familiar Vognu into battle. "Vognu! Get their leader!"  "Burrrap".  Flop.  Five-foot move.  Next round: "Burrrap".  Flop.  Five-foot move.  Toads don't even have an attack!  Vognu had to flop himself onto the foot of an Ishlokian soldier to discharge his
_
shocking grasp_ spell! _

 After several rounds of furious melee, the field belongs to the heroes.  The knights are slain to a man, and the few surviving footmen have surrendered their swords.  Thelbar questions one of the footmen, who calls him an "elf-loving Demon scum", and haughtily informs Thelbar that he is now marked for death.  The black-robed man, he informs the group, is none other than the ambassador to Ratik from Knurl.  

"You are now criminals of the worst sort," he states, "murderers and assassins".

The group debates the fate of the surviving Ishlokians, and determines to set them free, albeit far from safety, and without horses.  After they leave, the party discusses the implications of their actions.

Indy asks, "How were we supposed to know that black-robed bastard was the ambassador from a nearby allied nation?  Is it our fault that he can _teleport_ himself, and that one fireball isn't enough to kill him? Can you blame us for assuming that all Ishlokians are racist, theologically retarded scum, even the ones who would like to appear otherwise?  No, my friends, we have done no wrong.  In fact, we should be lauded at the highest level of Government for exposing their treachery!  For freedom!  And, um . . . Justice!  Who is with me!"

The group stares at Indy, then Vognu flops out of his bag, spraining a leg. 

The group obtains passage on a sea voyage up the coast of Ratik, to her capital city of Marner, very near the Great Delve.  Most of the party becomes seasick, including Indy, who decides that maybe being a Jaunty Pirate isn't all it's cracked up to be.  Vognu, on the other hand, is fine, although he complains about the salty air chafing his skin.  Vognu is a delicate toad.

Upon their arrival in Marner, Indy begins gathering information about the Great Delve, and the mysterious disappearance of the dwarves there that happened a year earlier.  

The group is placed under arrest four days later.


----------



## (contact)

*13-- For great justice!  Let fly every propagandist!*

The party is sitting in a local adventurer's watering hole when it happens.  They have struck up a friendship with several Northern barbarians and learned the following:  Ishlokian war ships began landing along the coast last year, and they have established a base North of Ratik, from which they have made war against the Frutzii clans who live there.

Further, the Ishlokians have allied themselves with the Baron of Knurl, who is the father of Lady Evaliegh, Ratik's leader and Baroness.  The Ishlokians are a mystery to the people of Ratik, but they claim to follow Pholtus of the Blinding Light.  Their exact relationship with the Theocracy of the Pale is unknown, but they seem properly rigid and closed-minded enough to please Pholtus.

As the group is enjoying a meal and a pint, the bar around them suddenly grows quiet.  Looking up, the heroes spot a brace of armed guards entering the place.  "We are looking for these men," the guard captain says, holding up a portrait of the five heroes.  Indy slides under the table, and sneaks away.

Killing a brace of Ishlokians is one thing, but attacking honest guards who are merely executing their duty is another.  The group stands and surrenders without a fight.  Indy remains hidden, and manages to slip out of the inn.  He frantically tries to think of some way to free his fellows, and follows them to the prisons, but can find no opening.

He _charms_ a local guard captain, and discovers that his four friends are to be tried on charges of Unwarranted Use of Magical Force, Assault of a Nobleman by a Commoner, and Base Murder.  If they are found guilty, they will be executed, and their possessions taken into the treasury of Ratik, as befits political criminals.

But Indy is not defeated quite yet.  He composes a stirring revolutionary tract, accusing the Baroness Evaliegh of conspiring to frame adventurers for crimes they did not commit, in order to take their magic items from them.

Indy's logic:  Most adventurers don't give a whit about politics, but tell them someone wants to steal their magic, and they will scream for blood.  Indy begins posting his seditious tracts in every location frequented by adventurers, and starts a general outcry to "Free the Ratik Four".  He befriends a group of bards, and asks them to spread the heroic tale of the Ratik Four and their betrayal at the hands of the power-mad Baroness.

Being a revolutionary is even more romantic than being a pirate.


_Metagame note:  At this point, Indy purchased a rank in Profession (Revolutionary).  The DM thought he should buy ranks in Profession (Rabble Rousing), but that's just sour grapes. He's just bitter that Indy crafted such a powerful and compelling public opinion movement. _

Indy's next step is to retain the services of a barrister.  A man possessed of a razor-sharp mind and impeccable reputation.  Er, at least one who is willing to work pro-bono  (Indy's treasure was confiscated along with his friends'   .  He manages to sweet-talk a gnomish barrister by the name of Cocrane into taking the case.  Cocrane begins work on a legal defense that will leverage popular opinion, point out how handsome Thelbar is at every opportunity, and string together a spurious chain of legal loopholes and long-forgotten precedent.  Indy loves it.

Four days later, Indy is arrested while buying fruit at the market.

He is unceremoniously dumped into a cell with his companions, and he excitedly brings them up to speed on the airtight defense, well . . . the _creative_ defense that Cocrane is putting together for them.  After Thelbar is restrained from throttling the elven rogue, and Kyreel's breathing resumes its normal course, Taran smacks Indy on the back of his head, and calls him an idiot.  Indy comments that it is a shame how quickly counter-revolutionary indoctrination can happen in prison.

The group is called before the Lady Evaliegh to be given an opportunity to confess their crimes.  Cocrane is present, and insists that his clients remain silent, preferring instead to answer all of the Lady's questions himself.  Thelbar almost has to be restrained again, but manages to gather his composure.

Indy stares slack-jawed at the Lady for the duration of the questioning.  She is devastatingly beautiful, a true noblewoman in bearing, well spoken, and obviously extremely intelligent.  Indy fancies that she shares several private glances with him, confirming his suddenly growing belief that the two of them are in love, tragic lovers separated by a cruel political divide neither of them can overcome.  Oh, the humanity.

Cocrane, ever the clever barrister, invokes an ancient legal provision that allows political prisoners to be judged by the Council of Northern Lords--the entire assembly of leaders East of Tenh.  Gathering the assembly will take weeks, if not months, buying the party time.  More importantly, the group will be judged by Lords who may oppose Ishlokian involvement in Evaliegh's court.  

The party has nothing to occupy their time until the trial, as even games of chance are forbidden in the Ratik prisons.  Taran baits the guards, trying to start a fight, but the rest of the group merely sits silently, lost in their own thoughts.  Rex wonders aloud what his Grandmother would think if she could see him now.

At the trial, the group stares down a trio of black-robed Ishlokians, one of whom they recognize.  

"Hey, your burns healed pretty fast, baldy -- you look like an ugly map of Tenh," Taran says before Cocrane can hush him to silence.

When the defendants are introduced, the name "Tar-Ilou" provokes the only reaction from the black-robed trio the courtroom would see during the whole trial.  It is hard to say whether the Ishlokians were scared, startled or just surprised, but one thing is for sure--Taran and Thelbar's family name is known to them.

The trial is a 'Northman's Court' with only the noblemen in the room allowed to ask questions.  Cocrane, as the barrister, is allowed to answer for the defendants wherever he deems necessary.  The trial is brief, and after an afternoon's deliberation, the Lord's Council delivers the following verdict:  The defendants are sentenced to five years in a labor camp, at the end of which time they are to be turned over to the Baron of Knurl for execution.

It is a message-verdict, sent from Evaliegh to her father-in-law. He will have his revenge, but not at his leisure.  It seems she is taking this opportunity to remind him who is Lady in Ratik.  The verdict also highlights another political schism.  The Lords of the area are deeply divided about the 'alliance' the Baron of Knurl has made with the outsiders.  


_Metagame Note:  "Outsider" is the name the locals have given the Ishlokians, there is no implication of outer-planar origin within this use of the phrase. _

The night after the trial, as the party is discussing the implications of the sentence, their cell doors are unlocked and opened.  A masked man (or woman) says, "I am here to free you.  Follow me and be quiet.  I am taking you out through a secret passage.  Move."

Just like that, the heroes are drinking in the nighttime air, and examining their gear, all intact and strapped to horses.  Indy gloats that his revolutionary movement must have long arms, but Thelbar thinks that this is the work of one of the Northern Lords.  Likely one of the Lords hates the Ishlokians as much as the party does, and determined to blunt the interest the Ishlokians had in seeing the party dead.  It might even be Evaliegh.  

Amongst the gear, the group finds their map of the area, with additional writing on it in Isenthanian Proper*. There is a site marked 'outsider camp', not too far from Marner.  More outsiders! But are they Ishlokian, or are they like the party?  Will they have some answers to this mystery of memory?


_*Isenthanian Proper is the foreign language the party speaks.  It is a derivate of Old Ishlokian, the language spoken by the black robed rat-bastards._


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## (contact)

*The adventure synopsis to date:* 

In previous sessions, our heroes [Taran (ftr 4, rgr 2, sor 1), Thelbar (wiz 7, clr 1), Kyreel (clr 7, pal 1), and Indianichus (rog 4, wiz 4)] left Greyhawk looking for answers about their past, a mystery none of them can seem to remember.  After chasing after a magical staff and fighting their way through Khundrukar, the band heard rumors of a group of dwarves led by a King Alvodar.  As the heroes recognized this name, they determined to travel to Ratik and investigate the Great Delve, where King Alvodar was seen.  

Along the way, the party stumbled through a portal leading to the plane of Elemental Air, where they were conscripted as freebooters in a war of Ethos, pitting Chaos versus Law.  Indy, in particular, embraced the lifestyle of a 'jaunty pirate'.  After several adventures on the pirate vessel _Marrow Down_, they were able to arrange for magical transport back to Greyhawk

They returned from their pirate adventures on the Plane of Elemental Air, only to find that Ratik (Eastern Greyhawk) had been infested with Ishlokians, as xenophobic a group of magic-hating imperialists as you could ever hope to meet. 

So the party killed them. 

Indy's toad familiar Vognu proved himself a one-amphibian-wrecking-crew, and 'the Slimy Assassin' doled out the pain with his 5 ft. movement rate and _shocking grasp_. (Oh yeah, he's bad.)  Brrrap. Flop. Brrrap. Flop. BZZZZZZZZT! 

But despite their best intentions, the heroes didn't kill the Ishlokian psion leader, who was (as it turned out) the ambassador to Ratik from Knurl a powerful nearby neighbor. The party was arrested (save for Indy) and things looked bleak. Indy is not one to easily concede defeat, however, and he hired a swift-talking gnomish barrister and simultaneously began a one-elf crusade (you say 'muckraking', I say 'liberation struggle') to "win the hearts and minds" of the Ratik people. 

Where is Patty Hearst when you need her? 

Unfortunately, our delusional elven rogue has fully cast off the romantic ideal of the pirate, and donned the romantic ideal of the hard working revolutionary. He has also drawn the tragic conclusion that he and the baroness, while locked in dispute over adventurer's rights and freedom for the Ratik Five, have fallen in love. 

That he came to this realization only after noticing that the Lady Evaliegh is astonishingly beautiful should surprise no one. 

Whether it is a sign that the Ishlokians are not well loved, or that our heroes have tumbled into deeper politics than they can know, a 'mysterious friend' freed them from jail, and provided them with a map of the area containing the location of an 'outsider's camp'.   All outsiders seem to have been affected by a memory charm. Our heroes hope that at this camp they might get some answers.


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## (contact)

*14-- Strange Bedfellows, and A New Companion*

At the 'outsider' camp, the heroes are met by armed and hostile elves. The heroes are ordered to stand their ground, in Isenthanian Proper -- a language they had formerly only ever heard from one another!  The elves speak heavily clipped Isenthanian, and are open to parley, but claim not to be followers of Ishlok the Mother. 

"Praise the Mother," Kyreel says to one of the sentries, as she makes the proper devotional gestures. 

"_Your_ mother," the elf stonily replies. 


_It's a good thing Taran didn't hear that elf talking about his Mother.  At least Taran's Mother can *pronounce* 'improved initiative', 'flat-footed elf', 'expert tactician', and 'power attack'._
 

The group is ordered to wait with the sentries until proper authority can be consulted.  There is a tense moment where the elves, staring at an Ishlokian drow, look like they are about to start a fight. 

 Fortunately, Taran looks like he knows how to finish a fight, and the elves decide that their life has been hard enough as is.

The 'outsider' camp is discovered to be a hidden group of elves devoted to the Elven Pantheon, refugees from an isle called Neteraiis (NET-air-ace).  The elves of Neteraiis primarily worship Corellon Larethian, and resent some of the Goddess Ishlok's dogma.  Specifically, they resent the blasphemous parts where she claims to have created the elven race.  The Neteraiis elves are joined in this camp by a few members of the Ahk Velar (AHK-vey-lar), an elven chivalric order dedicated to Ishlok.  Tensions between the two groups are high, but for the moment an uneasy truce is in effect.

Their story is tragic: The isle of Neteraiis was an elven paradise.  High priests of Corellon Larethian had declared the teachings of Ishlok blasphemous, and vowed to open a portal to Arborea, taking all willing Iskian elves with them into the embrace of the Elven High Father.  Before this portal could be completed, the Neteraiis elves were assaulted on their isle by a drow army, attacking from the underdark. The drow overran the surprised elven forces fairly quickly. This group of elves survived only through the heroic intervention of these Ahk Velar knights.  

This seems to be a less-than-desirable situation judging by the attitudes of the Pantheon elves towards their Ishlokian kin. Apparently, there are dogmatic frictions between the two groups, particularly around the 'creative ownership' of the elven race. Was it Corellon Larethian, or was it Ishlok who made the elves? For the time being, the two sides have agreed to disagree, although the air is thick with the argument. 

The party meets a young Ahk Velar knight of high standing, an avariel (winged) elven woman by the name of Gorquen. After a brief meeting, the party learns about a group of goblins that have been attacking the camp. Without a moment's hesitation (except for Indy, who is pining over the Lady Evaliegh) the party volunteers to exterminate the goblins down to the last "dog-****ing mini orc" (pejoratives by Taran). Gorquen is quick to join up, and promises the group that she can handle her own on the field of honor. 

The goblins are not hard to find. They are riding about on wolves as if they own the woods, and perhaps up until now they have. The goblins and party spot one another, and Taran signals for a truce. He approaches the goblins alone, with his companions hidden in the nearby underbrush.   A cool half-dozen wolf-riders circle him, and another half dozen riderless dire wolves pace the nearby forest. 

Taran introduces himself using his full name, and the goblin war-leader laughs. "You expect me to believe you are _the_ Taran Tar-Ilou?" Taran scowls and continues with the parley.

A brief exchange reveals that these goblins are from 'the Goblin Court', another outsider name that strikes a chord in Taran. They are a raiding party out from the Great Delve, and consider the elven camp to be weak, and therefore rightful prey.  Taran asks them could they be persuaded to leave the elves alone?  They could not.  Is it possible that this meeting need not come to bloodshed?  It is not. 

The goblin's disrespect incenses Taran, who narrows his eyes and begins slowly walking toward the war-leader. The goblin's dire wolves move to surround the hulking human. In response, he _flies_ directly up into the air, out of reach.  From cover, Thelbar spots this pre-arranged signal, and centers a fireball directly beneath his flying brother.

And so the fight begins. It ends however, as our heroes are coming to expect their fights to end: with their foes dead save for those who manage to run, everyone bloody, and their spell libraries exhausted. 

The goblin war-leader is captured, and advised in cold-blooded tones that running would be futile. He proves most tractable after the display of the party's killing capabilities, and tells our heroes a few interesting tidbits: First, that the Goblin Court holds the front door to the Great Delve. Second, there are dwarves in the deeps still, but they are pasty-skinned and sickly. Third, a trio of white dragons harasses both the dwarves and the goblins. 

Last, but certainly fourth, the goblin war-bands have just recently thwarted an assault by humans -- Ishlokians to be exact.  

And the bastards must still be nearby. 

It is apparently a small force, as Ishlokian armies go ("No more than hundred, me sure", the goblin says), and Taran proposes an idea. He tells the goblin to return to his leader with the following message: "The infamous Taran and Thelbar Tar-Ilou are here. They wish to explore the Great Delve. They can help you with your dragon problem, and perhaps an understanding can be reached. Send a negotiator who can speak in your name to this spot in six days time." 

The war-leader is released, and the second half of the plan hatched. To kill the time until their meeting with the Goblin Court, a guerrilla action could be conducted against the Ishlokians fleeing from the drubbing they took at the gates of the Delve.


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## (contact)

*15-- Warcraft *

The Ishlokains are tracked to a small encampment in a river-bottom vale. An attempt to gain intelligence on the foe backfires: Indy is scouting ahead when he alerts their sentries. The party begins to prepare magic, and await the Ishlokain response. 

The first Ishlokian reaction force is a group of five heavily armored horsemen, spreading out and looking for targets. Indy is well ahead of the rest of the party, and lets the mounted skirmish group pass him by. He is soon occupied as another half-dozen Ishlokians, this time lightly armored woodsmen, advance on foot toward his position. 

Thelbar opens the festivities with that timeless crowd-pleaser _fireball_l. Mayhem ensues. The five heavy horsemen die quickly, save for one fellow who is _held_ and _charmed_.  The party hides their prisoner away, and moves closer to the Ishlokian camp.

Advancing into the mouth of the ravine, the party finds that the Ishlokians have mustered a double-score of troops into a three-deep phalanx of crossbowmen and halberders. A pair of massive ballistae mounted on wagons supports these crossbowmen. Trust Ishlokians to bring siege weaponry to a sword-fight. 

Thanking the goddess Ishlok for his enemy's tactical sense, Thelbar destroys the Ishlokian position with a _wall of fire_. Fully half of the crossbowmen are killed as the wall appears directly in front of them. The others break ranks.

Meanwhile, Kyreel is saying a_ prayer _over his companions. Taran and Gorquen fly over the wall of fire and engage the last remaining heavy footman while laying into the remnants of the phalanx. 

While flying over the wall, Taran spotted the Ishlokian reserve around the bend of the shallow ravine -- another score footmen, more woodsmen and a curious unarmed individual who must be the commander. If Taran didn't know better, he'd think the bald bastard was a mage.*


* Ishlokians hate and fear magic, and have no arcane casters amongst their ranks.

Taran and Gorquen attack the main Ishlokian position, while their polearm-wall burns and runs.  As the last Knight falls from his horse, filling his plate armor with his own blood like a grisly balloon for really evil giant children, Taran lays about him with Black Lisa, killing footmen at a swipe. 

"Yeah, sweetie" he coos to his sword. "That's it, baby." 

The commander charges Taran, crossing the intervening forty yards in under three seconds and striking Taran barehanded four times before the startled fighter can react! Barehanded? Galathonriel rises out from underneath Taran's chain shirt to strike at the Ishlokian's eyes, but the man is too quick, and avoids the snake. 

The Ishlokian commander orders his footmen to overrun Taran and Gorquen, and grapple them. The footmen pay a heavy price at sword-point, but manage to close ranks and tackle the two. Taran takes the beating of his young life, as a dozen or so Ishlokians bite, twist, squeeze, kick, scratch and poke him near to death. Meanwhile, the commander is adding to Taran's troubles by attacking pressure points and engaging particularly painful joint manipulations. 

Taran and Gorquen are nearly dead by the time the _wall of fire_ dissipates, and the others can come to their aid.  Indy engages the Ishlokian woodsmen with bow fire and poisoned arrows. Kyreel rushes to Taran's side, in order to heal his grievous wounds, and after a _color spray_ from Thelbar thins the Ishlokian ranks, Taran and Gorquen are able to swing their swords again. 

The commander, dangerous in a one-on-one fight, cannot stand against the united party.   In short order, he is killed, his remaining dozen-and-a-half troops routed, and the party stands (just barely) victorious. The Ishlokians will never know how close they came to ending the line of House Tar-Ilou. Had the Ishlokians been willing to fight to the last man, that last man may well have been one of their number. As it was, deprived of the fanatical fire of leadership, the footmen did not have the superior will to fight.  So they lost.

A search of the officer's tent and interrogation of the _charmed_ knight reveals that the force of seventy knights, footmen and rangers that were just defeated were the support detail for a small band of elites charged with taking the Great Delve. 

"Aww, Mother take their eyes, Ish-freaking-lokian _adventurers_!? What'll they think of next?" Taran whines as he looks about for the best tactical position covering the camp.

Of course, it takes an adventurer to know how to fight one -- this calls for an ambush. Anticipating the Ishlokian elite's return to camp, the party hides themselves in a nearby copse of trees and settles down to wait. 

The camp commander's log indicates that two of the five adventurers are members of the Ulwe (OOL-way), an Order dedicated to Transcendent Consciousness and the Perfection of Thought, whatever the hell that's supposed to mean. The other three are a knight, another 'unarmed fighter' and a scout extraordinaire. Fortunately for the heroes, these adventurers are in the mountains searching for another entrance into the Great Delve. 

The second day of the ambush vigil, the monotony is broken by the good sport of re-routing the original routed footmen as they return to the camp they were routed from! Ha, ha, and _take that_ you Ishlokian swine! 

-----

As the date to meet the Goblin Court draws closer, there is no sign of the Ishlokian adventuring band. Perhaps they found their back door after all . . . Here's hoping it leads to the bottom level of the dungeon. 

The party gathers the swag from the camp -- including weapons, armor, tents and all -- and loads it into a quartet of wagons thoughtfully supplied by the dead Ishlokians. 

Gorquen wishes to turn the treasure over to the refugees, who desperately need wealth and goods, especially with winter coming. Taran says Gorquen can do whatever she wants with her share of the treasure, what the refugees really need is for him to have better magic items. 

(Kyreel has since begun casting _endurance_ on Gorquen instead of Taran. Go figure.) 

Taran camouflages the loot as best he can near the meeting spot and settles in to wait for the Goblin messengers. They don't wait long, but the party is dismayed to see that only one goblin, the war-leader they had previously met, is approaching. 

"Don't you give me any bad news," Taran begins. 

"Well," the diminutive diplomat drawls, with his hands held before his face, "there little problem. The Prince, him want talk you, but Bugbear leader, him in the way. 

"Him no like you. Him say you big coward. Him live on island in lake. Prince want talk you, but Bugbear in the way. Bugbear say you no good." 

Taran smirks. Uh huh. (We'd love to help, but that guy over there just called your mom a tramp, and there's nothing we can do. Really.) 

"The Prince no _tell_ you go kill all bugbear, you see? The Prince also not hide boat in cove near pass this side of lake. Me no know where that boat come from." 

Taran makes the messenger memorize an elaborate insult involving ogres sodomizing kobolds with a pack of lice-ridden rats becoming impregnated as a result, thus giving birth to the bugbear chieftain's ancestors. He instructs the messenger to deliver this insult to the bugbear clan along with a challenge to meet at this very spot, in two days time. 

Meanwhile, the party will stash the swag, follow the goblin, and wait for the bugbears to leave their island. Then, they'll sneak in the island, kill any homebodies left behind and set an ambush for the returning bugbear leader. 

At least, that's the plan.


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## (contact)

*16-- When meat goes bad . . . *

-----
"I came in the door / I said it before / I never let the mic magnetize me no more." 
_-- Eric B. and Rakim, Eric B. For President _

"We kicked in the door / We've done it before / I hope that isn't all *my* blood on the floor." 
_-- Taran and Thel, This Session _
-----

The party stashes their loot, and follows the old trade-road through a rugged (and often very narrow) mountain pass that finally leads out through a narrow rift into a bowl-shaped mountain valley, almost completely occupied by a clear and serene lake. 

On the opposite side of the lake, if the goblin was telling the truth, is the front doors to the Great Delve, the Mountain Fastness. In the middle of the lake, barring the way, is the structure that had blunted the Ishlokian's attempt to attack the Delve. 

Sitting on four supporting pillars, and rising some thirty feet from the surface of the lake is the single most impressive engineering feat anyone present had ever seen. A huge keep on massive stilts, the structure culminates in four watchtowers surrounding a large central spire. 

Taran and Gorquen are made _invisible_ and _fly_ to the structure to have a closer look. Nearing the keep, they see that the watchtowers are covered but open to the air and manned by ballistae-wielding bugbears. The giant furry goblinoids don't seem to enjoy the bright afternoon sun, and do not notice the flying duo. 

The base of the keep is open to the water, and a cursory examination shows a portcullis guarding a 20' wide opening at water level designed to allow boats to sail into the building itself. 

A plan is formed and the next day, put into action: At high-sun, Thelbar and Indy make the party _invisible_. Kyreel casts _silence 15' radius_ on a pebble, which Taran places in his mouth. Taran has several 10-foot lengths of rope in his hand, one for each PC (save for Kyreel's 20-foot rope), and thanks to Kyreel's _water walk_ spell, the group sets out for the bugbear's keep on the double. Upon attaining the front gates, Kyreel walks out to the length of his rope, and _stoneshapes_ an opening at the side of the portcullis. He then returns to the source of his rope, and pats the _invisible_ Taran on the head, signaling that it is time to move in. 

A repeat of the procedure at a second portcullis gains the party entrance to the interior docks. 

A pair of bugbear guards dicing there never get a chance to reflect on how unlucky they were to draw front-door duty this day. With Gorquen, Taran and Indy taking advantage of their invisibility, the guards never sound the alarm. 

The only exit from the room is an open shaft in the ceiling covered by a metal grate some 30' above the floor level. There is a platform attached to chains that run up through the grate. As the party dispatches the two guards, they move to cover this opening. Bugbear voices are heard from the room above. The grate slides open with a rasping hiss, and a furry bugbear head peers down into the room.

The bugbear is shot six times, including a sneak attack, a _flaming burst_ arrow, and a critical hit. 

He's dead, Jim. 

The party bursts into action, with Gorquen and Taran flying through the grate into the room above. Indianichus and Kyreel follow closely behind, climbing the chain. Taran and Gorquen start the mayhem by laying about them with heavy *thwackings* from a bastard sword and greatsword. Kyreel bull-rushes a bugbear into the elevator shaft, then handily operates the elevator, allowing Thelbar to get into the battle. Thel sucks at climbing. 

He doesn't suck at _fireballing_ bugbears, though, and he single-handedly eliminates the bugbears further up the elevator shaft who are peppering the general melee with javelins. 

The main brawl is happening in a large room with exits at the four corners. Each exit leads to a hot-spring well and a narrow spiral staircase going up. In the center of the room is a larger elevator shaft, this one fully 20' square. 

Bugbear rogues start sneak attacking, and Taran and Indy split off from the main group to hunt them down and kill them. In that order. 

General all-out slashing and hacking commences, but by the time the PCs have exhausted their best spells and defeated all the bugbears in front of them, they have come to 2 conclusions: 


1. the leader is still in the building, and 
2. they have no exit strategy.

Gorquen decides to fly up the shaft on the solo in order to take the fight to the enemy. A brave choice. Unfortunately, the enemy was planning to take the fight to the PCs, and shortly after Gorquen disappears, bugbears start pouring into the room from the four passageways leading to the spiral staircases. 

The bugbear's vile clerical leader leads one of the groups. He is a big, bad mother even amongst his big, bad species, and his morningstar crackles with a repulsive black aura. He has apparently kept the . . . er, 'macho sticks' from some of his foes, and these grisly trophies decorate his armor. 

"Look at the size of that . . ." Taran begins, before Thelbar cuts him off by punishing the cleric's group with his last _fireball_. 

Many of the bugbears look hurt, but not the cleric. Obviously, this is not a bugbear to be trifled with. Hairy goblinoids surround the group, with more on the way. Bugbears are chopped, and cleaved, but they score telling blows of their own. 

Overwhelmed, Thelbar has no choice but to cut the battle in half with a _wall of fire_. This strands Gorquen in the elevator shaft, but it must be done. Things are starting to look up for the PCs when suddenly Taran shakes his head once, and goes limp; apparently the subject of some fell _domination_ effect. Indy and Kyreel both rush to his aid with _protection from evil_ spells (to prevent possession) but the dominated fighter manages to summon his willpower at the wrong time, and resists both spells. 

Time to run? You bet. 

But first, Indy and Kyreel take Black Lisa away from Taran and try to coax him along. When this results in the cleric giving the telepathic command to "kill your friends", Taran is abandoned. The remaining bugbears make trouble, however, and Kyreel falls to the ground, killed by a blow from a morningstar. 

Or so they think. The wily cleric was playing possum, and takes the opportunity to use her _hat of disguise_ to flee, but she flees in the opposite direction of the others! 

Meanwhile, back at the ranch . . . 

Gorquen has sliced a pair of _featherfalling_ skirmishers into ribbons, and flies down into the main room only to find that her friends are on the other side of a _wall of fire_. As her wings are particularly vulnerable to fire, she won't be getting through there. 

To her way of thinking, there is only one honorable course of action: Attack the unwounded high priest.


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## (contact)

*17-- Heroism in the face of defeat.*

Taran _dominated_, Indy and Thelbar fleeing up one set of stairs into a part of the dungeon they've never seen before, Kyreel fleeing into the other, and Gorquen decides to engage in single combat with the main villain. Could it get any worse? 

It sure can.  Gorquen charges the vile bugbear, and much to his surprise, doesn't bother attacking him. She swings from her heels and uses an Improved Sunder to nearly chop his _unholy_ morningstar in two! The evil priest can only stare in amazement at his nearly sundered weapon, as Gorquen dashes up the spiral stairs behind him. 

At the top of the stairs, she emerges onto an open-air balcony at the top of the northeast tower. She can see that the priest has moved to a similar balcony at the top of the central tower. He is examining his morningstar with a concerned expression on his furry face. He has Taran with him. 

Thelbar and Indy make it to the top of their tower, and Indy reveals to Thelbar that he had taken Taran's _ring of flying_ from him, along with Black Lisa. 

Indy and Thelbar divest themselves of all unnecessary gear, and take to the sky, with Indy using the _ring of flying_ to carry Thel. They are just leaving the tower when they realize that they have been spotted, and worse yet, are pursued. A bugbear mounted on a griffon is charging and attacking. 

To add to the confusion, a bugbear still on the battlements is firing flaming arrows at the griffon-riding goblinoid. Who is that bugbear, how did he get Kyreel's arrows, and what's he doing attacking his own? 

Unfortunately, the answers would have to wait, because despite feeble resistance, the griffon rends Indy, knocking him unconscious, and sending both characters plummeting 100' into the icy waters below. 

Thelbar survives, and is able through a combination of magic and sheer willpower to retrieve Indy's corpse.  Vognu is missing and presumed dead. 

Kyreel manages to flee, using her _hat of disguise_ to gain access back to the front docks, and _water walks_ (er, water runs) back to the opposite shore. 

Gorquen, on the other hand . . . could you blame her after all, for wanting to destroy the _unholy_ weapon so cherished by her foe? Could you blame her for believing that she might just rescue Taran after all? 

Gorquen flies to the central tower and charges straight for the priest. Taran is given the dire command to attack, and for the third time, succumbs to the will of the bugbear cleric. But he is not fast enough, after all, and Gorquen finishes the job she had started earlier, Sundering the cleric's unholy focus and all around phallic symbol cleanly in two. 

Then Taran grabs her and squeezes her into unconsciousness.


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## (contact)

*18-- A terrible accounting.*


Gorquen-- captured 
Taran-- captured and _dominated_
Indy-- killed 
Vognu-- M.I.A., presumed dead 
Thelbar-- Free and wounded 
Kyreel-- Free and wounded


"You never knocked me down, Ray"  


Kyreel and Thelbar find a nearby hiding spot and discuss their options. They exhaust their spell capabilities healing one another, then settle down to rest and regain spells. Eight and one half hours later, they are ready to go back to see if their friends can be saved. 

They shroud themselves with abjurations of every sort, bolster their fortitude with _endurance_ spells, and go _invisible. Waterwalking_ back to the fort, Kyreel uses _spiderclimb_ to gain access to the top level, with Thelbar _flying_ nearby. 

What they find is startling. There are less than a dozen bugbears left alive. They are guarding the top of the central tower. Above them is the griffon aerie, a glass-domed room that was probably once a terrarium. 

One of the glass panels is open, and standing guard over the opening is Taran himself, armed with a morningstar in place of Black Lisa. Kyreel moves into position to attempt a _protection from evil_ spell if Thelbar's _dispel magic_ should fail. 


_Metagame Note: Taran failed his Willpower save against the domination -- of course he did, that's what fighters do. But we were allowing protection from evil spells to block the mental control post-fact. When he was captured, Taran made both Will saves against the friendly spells. Then he failed two Will saves [even with a +4 bonus] when the cleric ordered him to attack his friends. For the love of Ishlok, what can ya do with a guy that rolls like that?_

But Thelbar's _dispel magic_ does not fail. Taran is freed from his mental shackles, and an anguished curse is heard from a curtained area directly behind him. The cleric is painfully aware that his thrall is his no more. 

Taran knows the following: The cleric beheaded Gorquen last night in a fit of anger, but not before he'd torn off her wings. Slowly. He'd done what he could to set his house in order, marshalling the remaining troops and bolstering their morale wherever possible. 

He was not surprised that the goblin prince had led the party here, as the two groups had recently been contesting for supremacy, and the right to control the entrance to the Great Delve. The goblin war chief and his insulting message had never reached the bugbear cleric. 

Taran makes a mental note to beat that worm for disobedience. 

The bugbear cleric had not slept or regained spells. After settling his troops, he began the process of creating another unholy focus item. Nine hours after Indy and Gorquen fell, the heroes had returned. He is not ready, but neither is he a coward, and after seeing these humans and elves flee before him, he is confident. 

After his scream of rage, the guards from below start to mobilize and charge up the stairs into the aerie.

Thelbar gets the jump, however, and seals the room with a _wall of fire_. The bugbears retreat down the stairs, giving the three heroes an opportunity to cast their short-duration abjurations and heal Taran. Thelbar _charms_ one of the griffons, and lets it out of the cage. 

The next stage of the fight begins with a _summon monster III_ from Kyreel, producing 4 celestial dogs, each one looking like a shining golden Lassie (which Lassie? Why all of them). The dogs trigger the bugbear ambush, using their scent ability to point out (and maul) any hidden rogues in the room. 

The Holy Lassies don't last very long, but they do serve their purpose, and the slashing and hacking phase opens up in earnest with (surprise, surprise) a _fireball_. The rat bastard cleric sees the party mowing through his fodder, and decides enough is enough. He goes _invisible_, and almost manages to elude the party, but his own griffon gives him away by following his movements with its head. 

The party catches him in the aerie saddled up on a griffon and just about to fly off, with Taran attempting a last chance grapple attempt to wrestle him off the saddle before his mount takes flight . . . and rolls a one.

Whaddayagonnado?


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## (contact)

*19-- "Our honorable dead shall not lie still / But return soon enough to our embrace / In an unknown figure familiar filled / Wearing, all the same, a stranger's face."*

The party has defeated the Bugbears in the lake fortress, but at a great price.  Both Indy and Gorquen are dead.  After carefully preparing and gathering their remains, it is determined that the green and red gelatinous goop in Indy's pouch are, in fact, Vognu's mortal remains.

Alas, fair Vognu, a prince amongst toads.

The group determines that in their current state, the fortress is un-defensible, and after looting the place, they cross the lake once again to search for a less conspicuous base-camp.  What they find is both comforting and frightening.

In the valley that brushes up against the mountain lake, the party quickly spots signs of humanoid activity.  They encounter strange, heavily tattooed elves, who speak a derivative of High Elvish unknown to any of the surviving party members.  Fortunately, the group is still able to communicate their peaceful intentions, and they are taken to the elven village.

The elves have no love for the evil humanoids who currently occupy the delve, and relate the following disturbing news:  a large clan of unusually cruel stone giants also live nearby, and before the coming of the dwarves, in the youth-time of the elder elves, had made terrible war on the good-aligned humanoids in the valley.  

The dwarves, however, were able to forge a peace-treaty with the giants, and even went so far as to exchange royal 'hostages' with the giants to cement their understanding.  Now the dwarves are gone, the giants in the Delve are not accounted for, and peace in the valley looks like it could well be on its last legs.  The elves are rightfully afraid that the giant 'hostages' were killed, and once the giants discover this all hell will break loose.

They tell the party that they have requested the aid of the local druid, and give the group his location, reasoning that as fellow humans, the party might convince the druid to assist their cause.

The party, however, has different plans for this druid--they hope to find some way to convince him to _reincarnate_ their fallen members.

The druid lives where the elves indicated, alright, in a humble shelter made from fallen wood and a strange sticky substance that looks like beeswax.

The erstwhile nature-boy is, in fact, a surprisingly young man, a native Ratiksman by the look of him, and quite open to receiving strangers.  He proves to be talkative and confirms the wild elves' dire appraisal of the local situation, but steadfastly argues that politics are not his concern.

His concern, he says, is his lost-love.  The druid pines for a woman that he refers to only as 'beauty' or 'morning dew' or some other equally pithy cliché.  He laments that they shared a unique love, the kind of love never known by others, the property of his wounded heart alone.  Sobbing, he points to a stack of letters that his 'rose-lipped goddess' has refused to receive.

Struck by inspiration, Thelbar promises the druid that should he return Indy, Vognu and Gorquen to physical form the newly _reincarnated_ heroes might travel to Beauty's home and convince her to visit the druid, or at least accept his letters.

Using his most sincere face, Thelbar assures the druid that Indy is a renowned expert on Love and All Things Romantic.  Kyreel makes a mental note to chastise her companion for this lie, and bites her lip.

The druid, his eyes red from weeping, snatches at this grain of hope and promises the party that should it bring him even the merest glimpse of his Heavenly Passion, he would _reincarnate_ a score of adventurers!

Kyreel commends his zeal in the name of Love, and the party hands over the remains of their fallen.

The druid travels alone to his Holy Grove and, several hours later, returns with a halfling, a faerie-dragon and an elven woman.  

"Indy?"  Kyreel asks the elf.

"I am Gorquen Alistral, of house Alistral, Knight of the Ahk Velar," the elf replies.

"Yes.  Yes, look!  Her marks--they are unchanged!" Thelbar exclaims, pointing to Gorquen's unique star-shaped birthmark.

"_I'm_ Indy, you thoughtless bat!" the halfling pipes up.  "And _no short jokes_, you tepid motherless wastrels!  Look at me!  I can't be a _halfling_, I'm a revolutionary."

"Well, it whines like Indy," Taran says, squinting at the diminutive rogue.

The faerie-dragon hisses a sibilant trilling laugh, and then tries to bury itself in the mud, to no avail.

"Um, Vognu," Indy says.  "We all have to . . . adjust now.  I'm going to take up smoking a pipe and overeating, and you're going to have to stop wallowing in the . . . I know, of course you do . . . but . . ."

Indy's lecture is cut off by the druid returning with a stack of letters over a foot high, neatly bound with woven-fiber twine.  "Here are my missives and poems.  Take them to my Beauty, and for the love of all that grows under the sun, bring a reply!"

While Indy and Gorquen look suspiciously at the druid and his papers, the rest of the party slips out the door.  Kyreel approaches Gorquen and says, "I am sure you will do your part to aid this man, to whom you owe your new life".


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## (contact)

*20-- In the name of Love.*

After a torturous briefing involving listening to far too much of the druid's impossibly insipid love poetry, Indy and Gorquen have the meat of it:  The druid is in love with a woman who also lives in the wild.  He has sent correspondence via an animal messenger, but she is not accepting his love-letters.  He has no idea why.

After the first two hours of the journey, Indy knows why.

"It's not ethical to read other people's mail, Indy," Gorquen scolds.

"It's not ethical to torture a woman with bad poetry either," Indy replies in his new high-pitched squeaky voice.  "But that didn't slow _him_ down.  Listen to this:

"'TO BEAUTY, THE SUN AND MOON OF MY VINING HEART:

"'I am, now as ever / Living like a mushroom / (One of the cute little ones with the bumpy spots / That grow under the Giants-trees / The brown ones that are very poisonous / Unless you boil them with murkroot for at least an hour) / In the shadows of your thick, gnarled trunk / I reflect on the eternal nature of a flower: / A rose is red /A violet is blue / What good are _miracles_ / If I don't have you?'

"Or,  'How many times must I cry out / For Love to unveil Her eyes / And regard me / A humble flower / Thirsting for your (scratched out) milky breasts (written in margin) soggy watermelons" 

Indy regards Gorquen earnestly.  "This is going to be more difficult than I thought."

Vognu regards the satchel containing the druid's writing and hisses, flying away into the forest.

The journey takes more than a day, at the rate a chipmunk scuttles, and as they settle in for their night's camp, they examine their new bodies.  Gorquen speaks about the profound sorrow she feels knowing that she will never fly again.  Indy shares his fear that people won't take him seriously anymore.  Vognu is busy flying around looking for _invisible_ creatures and stinging mice with his _sleep_-poisoned stinger.

The next morning, the heroes set out, the refreshing country air and sunshine working its wonder on their spirits.  By mid-morning, both are in a light mood, and as Indy reads some of the druid's poetry aloud they both have a good laugh.

"'Your eyes sparkle like the eyes of an opossum do / when it's looking at something bright / And your tail is bushy like a squirrel's / But rounder and with less fur, of course'"

As the afternoon approaches, the duo find themselves in a shallow bowl-shaped indention approximately a quarter of a mile in diameter that contains a sparkling, clear lake.

Indy squints and shades his face with his hand.  "Well, here we are, but I don't see . . . oh, Good Goddess In my Hour of Need.  Who is _she_?"

_She_ is a voluptuous woman, all legs and hips and . . . oh my.  Both adventurers feel their hearts skip a beat as she saunters toward them--a dripping wet vision of carnal perfection.

The woman regards the satchel stuffed with letters as it slips from Indy's numb fingers.  "You must be friends of that . . . little man," she sneers.

"We are at your service, Lady!" Gorquen exclaims as she bounds in front of the halfling.

"Really?"  The woman breathlessly intones, "You would do . . . anything?"

"That goes without saying," Indy pipes as he steps in front of Gorquen.

"We would be honored to serve," Gorquen mutters as she pushes the rogue behind her once again.

The woman manages to explain her dilemma between sultry glances and breathless sighs:  She cannot possibly meet the Druid, per his request, as the jewelry that he gave her is gone missing.  It seems she 'loaned' it to a passing adventurer with whom she had a brief . . . association, and now this adventurer has gone M.I.A.  Indy and Gorquen fall over one another to promise that they will do whatever is in their power to find and aid the fellow if it will please the Lady.

She tells them that she saw him last when he left with some friends to explore the ruined home of some dusty old wizard.  Indy promises to rescue him from the clutches of peril, and Gorquen assures the lady that if Valor and Integrity account for anything, all will be well.  Then Indy sighs contentedly as the woman hands him a kerchief, "For luck".  Gorquen receives a prize of her own:  a lingering goodbye kiss!

As they trek to the ruins, the pair begin a jealous argument.

"Ah Evaliegh, how can I rend your heart this way," Indy laments, "now that another vies for my affection."

"She wasn't vying for your affection, Indy," Gorquen states.  

"How can you say that?  You were there!  You saw how she looked at me."

"Yes, and it was with the same regard she gave to the chipmunk.  She is a noble soul."

"Chipm . . . why, if I wasn't a gentleman, I'd . . ."

"So elegant, and refined.  Virtuous and powerful; gentle, yet fearsome when her ire is aroused."

"Even a drooling imbecile could see that there was electricity between us."

Gorquen stops walking to regard her halfling companion.  "Yet she didn't kiss you, did she Indy?"

"Ah!  Well, er . . . that's because . . . um."

"Because she doesn't think of you as a paramour," Gorquen finishes for him.

"Because I'm a . . . _halfling_, you mean!"

"Now, Indy, I didn't say that."

"You don't have to!  I know what you think of halflings.  Infernos of Dis, I know what _I_ think of halflings!"  Indy starts to sob.  "Evaliegh, oh Evaliegh . . . whatever will befall our love now?"

Gorquen softens under the cruel weight of halfling tears, and reaches out her calloused fighter's hand to try and comfort the rogue.  "Now, now.  There's no need for all this.  Why Indy, what ever has gotten in to you, anyway?  You're acting like a schoolboy in his eighties, not a one-hundred-and-thirty-year old!  We have a job to do, after all!  We wouldn't even be here to have these problems if it wasn't for the kindness of that druid.  Now, we owe him a debt!  And I for one intend to pay it, not sulk and cry over spilt . . ." Gorquen trails off, as her eyes catch a glimpse of something on the horizon.  "Hush!  There it is, our goal.  Let us be on our guard.  You scout ahead, Indy, and _no more crying!_"


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## (contact)

*21-- A Significant Skirmish, a Sizeable Surprise and a Sudden Solution*

The structure is a tall mage's tower, some fifty feet in circumference, surrounded by a handful of outlying buildings and a low farmer's wall.  Indy is quickly over the wall and into the compound, and after having a look around returns with this report:

"Looks like a necromancer's hole, alright.  There are four low buildings, longhouses in the Frutzii style.  Two of them are closed, but two serve as some sort of guard posts.  They're manned by um . . . how should I put this?  Well, they're dead alright . . . they're all f-ed up.  Listen, Gorquen, if you thought ogres stank while they were _alive, _" 

"Yes, yes, get on with it."

"Right.  The main tower has a front door, it might be locked, but I didn't even get that close.  I would have, but a _really powerful_ ward kept me away from it.  I'm no Thelbar, and I'm sure no Mordenkainen, but I can chuck a spell or two and believe me when I tell you, that tower is bad news.  If our guy is in there, well, it won't make the Lady any more happy to have our deaths on her conscience." 

"Oh, Indy, get a hold of yourself.  You're talking like a coward."

"Coward?  Pragmatist, you mean!  Whoever put that spell on that door is so far beyond us, we oughta just suck on a wyvern stinger now, and save him the trouble."

"Or her."

"Fine.  The point is, if our guy made it inside, he's gone.  But based on what the Lady told us, I don't think he had the obsidian orbs to get in there.  He's probably zombie-food right now."

The two sneak up to the first low structure and peer inside.  As Indy indicated, there is a massive, nine-foot tall, desiccated ogre lurking by the doorway.  Gorquen leaps in and swings her sword in a merciless arc, slicing the creature's torso almost in two before it can manage a sorry answering punch.  Indy stabs at the thing with his new shocking short spear*, and before either adventurer can break a sweat, the zombie slumps to the ground, once again lifeless.


_*Metagame note:  Indy's new race prevents him from using the rapier that he formerly carried, so Kyreel generously gave him her shocking short spear as a replacement weapon. _

The adventurers search counter-clockwise around the edge of the low wall and after determining that Indy was right about the _antipathy_ effect on the tower itself, the two move toward the last remaining building.  

Indy says, "I didn't get this far in my scouting.  I was hoping you'd get a look at that tower and we could just go home."

"That's ridiculous," Gorquen sniffs.  "I am no recreant."

"Yeah, I don't know what I was thinking."  The rogue pauses, "Hey, d'ya hear that?"

As the breeze shifts, a low mumbling can be heard coming from the building.  As the two sneak closer to the structure, the mumbling resolves itself into a madman's rambling.  Someone is muttering vile deprecations to himself inside the building.  Indy sneaks up to the door and tests it gently.  He looks back at Gorquen and makes the hand-sign for "unlocked".

The two rush into the building, hoping for surprise, but are themselves shocked at the grisly scene before them.  The furniture here is overturned and smashed, save for an altar to Evil towards the back of the room.  The stone bears heavy bloodstains as evidence of a grisly fight that must have taken place here not long ago.  To the back of the room, near the altar, a dry and wrinkled human stands over an Infernal book, his sunken features preternaturally sharp and piercing.  Between him and the door stand four zombies, still dressed in their blood-soaked adventuring gear.  One of the zombies matches the description of the Lady's 'friend' exactly.

"Oh, dear." Indy says under his breath, as Gorquen raises her sword and charges at the nearest foe.

The horrible man closes his book, and points his hands at Indy, releasing from his fingertips a crackling arc of electricity--surely enough to cook the halfling medium-well done!  Fortunately, Indy is able to dodge the worst of it, and make his way to the back of the room, where he is cut off by a pair of zombies.

Sheets of fire and bolts of force sting Gorquen as she hacks into the unusually tough and gristly undead.  Her clumsy foes cannot seem to hurt her, but she is finding the fighting slow work.  Meanwhile, Indy tumbles and dodges about the back of the room, stinging zombies with his spear and calling for help.  The hideous wizard tries to halt the rogue in his tracks but fortunately fails to do so.

The mindless zombies manage through blind stumbling to flank Gorquen and both of them breach her defenses, wounding her just as she cuts down one, then the other.  As the two adventurers are about to turn on their spell-casting foe, a pair of ogre zombies shuffle into the room, and start making their laborious way through the wrecked furniture and fallen dead.

That's enough for Indy, who uses his own magic to go invisible, and calls for a general retreat!  But Gorquen, true to her character will have none of it, and once the adventurers are outside the building, she demands that they make a stand.

It is a brief stand, despite Gorquen's abundant courage, and after a few more exchanges she is badly hurt.  The duo has dropped one of the ogres but finds themselves attacked by _invisible flying _creatures!  Discretion being the better part of valor, Gorquen is forced to admit that there is nothing in the Ahk Velar code that demands a knight stay in a hopeless melee.  Indy and Gorquen sprint for the compound walls, easily evading the remaining zombie, and loosing their _invisible_ foes in the process.

But they are not done fighting, and after drinking the last of their healing potions, prime themselves for a return to the fighting.  Gorquen states that she is the superior combatant here, and is sure to be granted victory.  Indy slyly removes a scroll containing the spell _see invisible_.

What he sees as he sneaks back toward the longhouse is a pair of shadowy bat-like creatures buzzing about the entrance.  He attacks one with missile fire, drawing them toward him, and leaving the way open for Gorquen to charge the zombie ogre waiting outside the door.

Indy leads the flying creatures on a merry chase around the complex, peppering them with arrows and evading the worst of their attacks.  He is so preoccupied with his enemies, he does not witness Gorquen's display of strength as she cleaves clean through the zombie, leaving two man-sized piles of rotting flesh flanking the doorway like grisly statuary.

The wizard tries to be reasonable.  He entreats the elven swordswoman for mercy as she slowly walks to the back of the room.  He appeals to her compassion, as he was merely led along a misguided path by malicious associates, poor parenting and early childhood trauma.  He begs her to reconsider as she cuts him into several really Evil pieces.

Gorquen pauses for a moment to catch her breath, and hears Indy's high-pitched shrieking as he is stung twice by a bat-thing.  She dashes outside, and fires blindly at a target she cannot see, nonetheless striking true, and ending its life.

As he examines his clothing for bloodstains and winces in pain, Indy says, "You still think going into the tower is a good idea?  The doormen nearly finished us!"

"We are victorious Indy," Gorquen chides, "and I believe we have found our quarry."  She leads the halfling over to the fallen form of one of the zombies.  The zombie's trousers were shredded by Gorquen's lightning sword strikes, and the body is indecently exposed.

"Grace of the Goddess, will you look at the size of that thing!"  Indy exclaims.  That's one hell of a man!"

"He doesn't seem exceptionally tall," Gorquen begins, then trails off.  "Oh.  Oh, my.  Yes, he is unusually . . ."

"Elephantine is the word you're looking for," Indy says.  "Of course, he's not a handsome fellow, but hey--when you've got it where it counts, you don't need to be, right Gorquen?"

Gorquen stares icily at the halfling.  "I wouldn't know.  I measure a man by his fighting spirit, not by his . . ."

"Natural Endowment," Indy finishes.

"Not that you'd know what it is like either, I'd wager."  Gorquen fishes something out of the corpse's pouch.  Here is our amulet, Indy.  We have succeeded in our quest.  Now let us search this place . . . Indy?"

The halfling isn't listening to Gorquen.  Instead he stares thoughtfully at the body, then at his own, new form.  "Oh, no."  Indy whispers.  "I hadn't thought.  I mean, I knew I was a halfling, but . . ." Tears well up in his eyes.  "I'm a halfling all over, do you know what I'm getting at?"

Gorquen sighs, "Indy, I rarely do.  Now if you're finished?"

"I'm not just a halfling _from the waist up_ is what I'm saying!  And it's obvious what parts of a man the Lady loves best.  Worse yet, what will Evaliegh think?  Alas, I'm done for!"

Gorquen pauses for a moment and regards Indy's tears.  "Look, my friend, let me tell you something.  A man's . . . well, _that measurement_ doesn't count for everything in matters of love.  As we say in sword-fighting, it's not the heft of the pommel, it's the sharpness of the edge.  It's the swing of the cudgel, after all, that produces its sting."

"You're just saying that to get me to search the room!" Indy sobs.

"Well, yes.  Yes I am.  I won't lie to you Indy; we are still in terrible danger.  Let us pine for our . . . shortcomings later, once we are clear of this foul place, lest we awaken whatever master lives in yonder tower."

The duo make a half-hearted search of the room, revealing various ritual objects, a small treasure horde, and the spellbooks of the necromancer.

Once clear of the place, and settled down in a camp, Indy casts _read magic_ and begins to peruse the villain's research notes.  Apparently the dire fellow believed he had found a shortcut to a sort of waking un-life, and taken his opportunity for immortality only to find his undead body slowly deteriorating.  The vile mage had made a pilgrimage to this tower in order to petition its master, apparently a lich, for assistance.  But he too was repulsed by the _antipathy_ effect and settled down in the outlying buildings to wait the master's appearance.  Unfortunately for him, the master never made an appearance, and just as the lesser lich was ready to abandon hope, a band of adventurers stumbled upon his lair, and were dispatched by his zombie ogres.  One of the fallen adventurers was the Lady of the Lake's paramour.  A few days later, Indy and Gorquen arrived, disturbing his research.

Upon their return to the lake, the duo break the unfortunate news to the Lady, and return her amulet.  Gorquen offers the tearful Lady a woman's comfort, but the Lady of the Lake is too distraught, she says, to receive visitors.  As she is leaving, Indy asks about the druid.

"You tell him to keep his fecal poetry, and to _stay away from me! _  You tell him he is a tiny, tiny man, and I will have none of him!"  With this the Lady storms away, into the underbrush and out of our tale.

"Alas, there goes my first and last chance for carnal glory," Indy says as the Lady returns to her Lake.

"How unbelievably crass of you," Gorquen says.  "Besides, it is obvious that she fancies me."

"Does not!"

"She kissed me."

"In a friendly way!"

"It was more than friendly, I assure you."

"And how would you know?  You only love your honor, and fighting.  I, on the other hand, am well acquainted with the Celestial sting, the arrow of passion, the . . . the . . ." Indy sobs again.  "But now no woman will have me!"

"Oh, Goddess' Grace, Indianichus Silverleaf!  Your 'chances' are the same now as they ever were-- entirely imagined!  Stop crying or I'll smite you!"

The pair bicker through the morning, but by late afternoon they are nearing the druid's home, and are faced with a much more somber task.  "Whatever should we tell him?"  Gorquen wonders aloud, feeling slightly guilty for accepting affections from the druid's paramour.

Indy, brooding over his seeming inadequacies, has come to a different conclusion.  "We'll free him of this madness that has bent his will, your will, and for a time, my will!"  He fishes in his pouch for a scroll.  "Ah, ha!  This will answer the cause, I suspect!  Now Gorquen, you have to help me to help him, and for once in your life, keep your honesty to yourself!"  Indy quickly digs a shallow hole, then casts the druid's poetry into it.  He says the short-form of the Ishlokian prayer for victims of plague over the hole, and fills it in.

The druid greets them at the door, worry lines around his bloodshot sleep-deprived eyes.  "Did you?  Did she?  Are we?  Oh, Root and Bramble, what am I to do!"

"Relax, my friend," Indy purrs.  We have seen her, and the outcome is well in your favor.  But the cause is not yet won, and you must now trust my advice."

Upon hearing this, the druid leaps up from his seat (where he has managed to pen another half-hundred pages during the night) and grabs Indy by his shoulders.  "Did she receive my poems?  Oh, what did she say?"

"Only that they were . . ." Indy begins.

"Yes!  Yes?"

"Well, they needed work." 

"All is lost!"

Gorquen kicks Indy in the shin, while smiling at the druid.  

"But!"  The halfling continues, "she did say that they were obviously very sincere, and that she's been a fool all this time not to receive you, and that . . . um, your girth does not, in fact, matter to her."

The druid pauses for a moment.  "She told you, then of my shortcoming?"

"Well, yes.  But worry not!  I have the solution right here."  And with that, Indy produces a scroll.  "This is a powerful spell, designed to ensure that all of your attributes are properly pleasing.   I'd use it myself, but there's no need-- heh, heh."

Gorquen kicks Indy again, harder.

"But I digress," Indy says.  "I am prepared to read this spell upon you, in recognition of the debt Gorquen and I owe you, but you must promise not to resist the spell.  It is very tricky, and may only be attempted once!"

"Promise?  To once again be enraptured by my Sun and Moon?  My forest-flower of abandon?  I would promise anything!"

And with that, Indy reads his _dispel magic_, breaking the nymph's _charm_ on the druid.


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## (contact)

*22-- Into the Delve, for once and for all.*

The grateful (and slightly embarrassed) druid behind them, Indy and Gorquen follow his directions to the wild elf camp where their friends are waiting.  In their new bodies, and perhaps just a bit wiser for their most recent experience, the two friends exchange pleasant conversation until they reach the camp.

After they tell their story (each of them conveniently leaving out their foolish fascination with the lake-nymph), the group puts their heads together and decides next steps.  In between chasing the wild elven women, Taran has managed to get back to the Iskian refugee camp and retrieve Rex.  Rex tells the group that their gifts were appreciated, and much needed.   Thelbar and Kyreel have been back to scout the lake-fortress twice since their fated battle with the bugbears, but have seen no sign of further occupation.

The group decides that they must press on, take the fortress and present their case to the goblins, who hold the "Iron Position" (to quote one of Taran's war-manuals) at the Gates of the Great Delve.

Rex and Taran will leave a day early, and attempt to recruit some fighters from the refugee camp to help the group hold the fort. Indy and Thelbar have some studying to do, and Gorquen tells the group she could use some rest.  Kyreel, although treated with deep suspicion by the wood elves due to her drow background, still wishes to take the time to learn more about her cousins.

By the time everyone makes the rendezvous in the cove where the goblin's assault boat is hidden, Taran has a round dozen elves, all of the Ishlokian faith, who are willing to join them.  He guiltily tells the group that he felt so sorry for their impoverished state that he promised them about five times the normal soldier's salary, plus combat bonuses if necessary.  Kyreel smiles a secret smile and assures Taran that he has done no wrong to think gently about another being's plight.

The adventuring group uses a combination of _flying_ magic and _water-walking_ to get inside the fort, and find that everything is just as they left it, if a bit more foul-smelling.  Boating the elves across, the erstwhile refugees get their first taste of what being a soldier is really about:  bugbear fatality detail.  The elves haul the hairy bodies up to the first balcony and throw them into the lake, where they sink (presumably) to the bottom.  Taran watches over this work, calling out encouragement and privately muttering to his brother, "You know, if there are sea-serpents in this lake, we're asking for trouble this way.  Still, there's no help for it.  A pyre would bring flying predators and I'm not digging a grave that big!"

Once the place is clean, and mopping details have been formed, Taran lays out the watch-and-watch order that the elves are to follow.  They are armed extremely well, thanks to the party's fallen enemies, and are looking like the makings of a real crack unit.

That settled, the group composes a missive, and sets out in a boat to deliver it to the Goblin Court.  The letter reads:  "In the name of House Tar-Ilou, in the name of Thelbar and the name of Taran, cordial greetings to the Goblin high-chief, Prince of the Delve.  This is a letter to inform you that your enemies in the lake-fortress are no more.  They have been put to death by sword and spell at the hands of Taran Tar-Ilou and his band, the new masters of the fortress. 

"In two days time, we will expect you or your chosen representative to meet with us regarding your dragon problem, and our helpful offer to solve it.  In the meantime, and until further notice, the following rules must be in place between us:

"1.  No goblins in any group larger than three may approach within 100 yards of the fortress at any time.  Violators will be killed without warning or question.

"2.  No goblins in any size group may approach within 100 yards of the fortress from sundown to sunup. Violators will be killed without warning or question.

"3.  Any group bearing an official message from the Goblin Prince must bear a banner or pennant displaying his Royal Sigil, visible out to 100 yards.

"These rules are for the safety of your subjects, unfortunate as they are to live in such dangerous times as these.  We wish no hostility, but neither do we harbor any fear.  May this missive find you in Abundant Health, In the name of the Goddess Ishlok, Mother of All Creation, signed, Taran Tar-Ilou."

-----

Two days later, the guards call out "A boat!  A boat bearing their banner!"  The party rushes to the battlements of the central tower, where they see a small craft, filled to the brim with goblins, including an unusually shifty-looking female, and a goblin who must be the Prince, judging by the size of his hat.

"Open the portcullis and hold your positions!" Taran yells, as the party prepares to meet the goblin Prince.

The Prince and his retinue of goblins and hobgoblins make their way into the fortresses' inner docks.  The goblin leader proves to be a savvy and intelligent negotiator, and in the end, a canny fellow.  The group manages to weasel out of his demand for fealty, but must promise on their honor to remain non-hostile against the goblins if they wish to have access to the delve.

Arrangements are made for the party to fly a special banner upon their approach that will signal to the goblin guards that they wish to enter the delve.  The goblins will let them in to fight dragons, and let them out again when they are victorious, but the main gates must remain closed at all times.

The goblins are exceptionally close-mouthed about what else awaits in the Great Delve, save that there are strange dwarves in the deeps.  Strange dwarves, indeed.


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## (contact)

*22-- Into the Delve, for once and for all (cont.)*

The group sets out the next day, armed to the teeth and bristling with prepared spells.  The mood is somber, as Taran, Gorquen and Rex undertake their morning calisthenics, and try to loosen up their muscles in anticipation of a terrific battle.

The goblins are true to their word, and when they spot the banner requesting admittance to the Delve, steer the party's boat to a filthy and stagnant pool of shallow water that serves double duty as a dock and a waste-disposal site.  Broken pots, discarded bits of clothing and other unidentifiable refuse laps up around the edges of the boat as the group steps into the Delve for the first time.

The place is massive, if not well-kept, and despite the goblin children that swarm about like malodorous insects, the group approaches the place with a sort of quiet reverence.  What forms the basis for a goblin tent-city looks to Thelbar's trained eye like a dwarf-made channel, meant to be flooded in order to secure larger vessels than the one the group sailed up in.

Why a lake-faring dwarven clan would require larger vessels is another mystery, however, and one that would have to wait to be answered.

The party is met by none other than the very war-leader who first surrendered to them outside of the refugee camp.  Taran stares daggers into the little beast, but in the name of diplomacy refrains from beating him severely.  The goblin crowingly tells the group that they have not even seen the main gates, despite their long walk, and hints that the delve is so big, that a goblin might starve to death before he could walk from one end to another.

They enter into a massive passage, at least one hundred feet in width and twice that in height, leading back into the mountain itself.  The walkway runs along either side of an eighty-foot wide channel, recessed another forty feet into the ground.  At regular intervals, the ground slopes down so sharply that stairs are cut in the walkway on either side.

After several minutes of this, Thelbar has deduced the purpose of such a strange chamber.  "We are walking in a lock-weir, brother!"  At Taran's bewildered expression, Thelbar continues, "This is a giant passage that can be flooded, in order to give ships access from some underground waterway to the lake outside."   

Taran furrows his brow, then seems to understand.  "What magic!" he mutters.  "These dwarves must be powerful sorcerers."

"Wizards, you mean," Indy corrects him.  "You are a sorcerer.  Most dwarvish spellcasters are wizards."

"This is an engineering feat, not an arcane one," Thelbar states.

"Goddess of my Heart, Ishlok preserve us," Kyreel mutters as she grasps the enormity of what she is hearing.

"Bad spot to fight a dragon in, I reckon," Rex sagely mutters, as he spits on the ground.

Taran follows Rex's gaze up to the ceiling, so high that his lamplight cannot reach it.  "Yeah.  Real bad."

A few more minutes pass, and Taran begins to wonder if he'll ever see the other side of this monstrous passage.  But eventually, the passage ends at a pair of massive stone doors.  The giant-sized portal is flanked by switchback stairs cut in to the wall, giving access to a walkway and guard post that sits fifty feet above floor level.  This walkway is swarming with dirty goblins.

The goblin war-chief steps forward to give directions.  "Okay, we open door--you go in.  We close.  We no open unless you knock real loud three times, like this:  one, two, um . . . oh yeah, three!"

The stone doors are unbarred and slowly swing open, revealing a short tunnel that opens up to a large cavern, judging by the pressure shift and gust of cold air.  The air bites skin even through layers of furs and wool.  The goblins grow agitated and restless, dancing about and casting frightened glances into the darkness beyond the portal.

Taran laughs softly to himself and shakes his head at the spinelessness of goblins.

The party prepares protective spells and carefully moves into the cavern beyond.  What they see there only leads them to wonder anew about the means of the dwarves who built this place.

They walk into a massive bowl-shaped cavern, bisected by a huge gorge, and so tall that the ceiling would be completely unseen if it wasn't giving off a weak, bluish light.

"If I didn't know better," Indy states, "I'd think that they had a sky-light up there."

"Keep your eyes open and head up.  Remember . . ." Taran does not get to finish his thought, as he is struck from behind by a cone of sub-zero air, and whirling ice particles!  Fortunately, Indy manages to drop into a reflexive roll,  and shield himself from the frigid blast by hiding behind the fighter.

The group whirls around and finds that the other side of the portal has an identical stair-walkway construction framing it, but instead of goblins, the walkway on this side is occupied by a huge snow and ice encrusted dragon!  The beast is partially hidden by the hand-rail at the walkway's edge, but it must be easily thirty feet in length.  Its slitted eyes are black fissures fringed with blue, and they open, then narrow as it regards its prey.  It may, perhaps be confused that the target of its icy breath stands and shakes ice from his beard, then flies straight up in the air, brandishing a sword!

Kyreel says a _prayer_ over the group, and Indy fires a bolt from his crossbow that bounces off the scales around the dragon's mouth.  Thelbar, on the other hand, has a more effective response, and after _hasting_ himself, he gestures and calls into being a ball of fiery force, centered on the wyrm's serpentine body, leaving Taran enough room to _fly_ forward and slash at the creature's eyes with Black Lisa.

The dragon slithers forward off of its perch, and spreads a pair of membranous wings, gliding silently like an owl into the party's midst.  It lashes out with its claws and tail at Thelbar as it passes, wounding the mage, then deposits itself on the ground closer to the cavern rift, well away from any of the human's melee attacks.

Indy and Rex both take up overlapping fire positions and try to occupy the beast with crossbow strikes, with little effect.

Kyreel scrambles forward to _heal_ the gravely wounded mage as Thelbar casts his second _fireball_, and unleashes a third, this time from a wand.  Taran covers the distance and manages another slash, but this time, the frigid beast whips its head away from Black Lisa's sharp edge, and strikes at Taran with its tail, driving him into the hard stone floor and giving the dragon room to flee.

And flee it does, but not before Thelbar can hit it with another _fireball_ from his wand.   Unfortunately, the dragon still has enough life left in it to fly upward towards the ceiling, and dive down into the crevice, disappearing from sight.

As Kyreel looks about to take stock of her companion's wounds, Taran orders Rex to "bang on that door!"  After a minute or so of waiting, the door slowly creaks open, revealing several curious goblin heads staring at the group.  

"What you forget?" the war-chief asks.  "Leave big spear at home?  Me often leave . . ."

"Shut the f--k up," Taran says as he pushes past the goblin.  "We're going out to the lake, but we'll be back soon.  You be ready, or you answer to me."

As the group shoves past the goblins and heads for the lake, the war-chief looks at his companions quizzically.  "It snowing in big cave now?"


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## (contact)

*23-- "Revenge is a dish best served cold . . ."* 

All in all, it could have been worse.  They met a white dragon and managed to hurt the beast, though they couldn't pin it down long enough to kill it.  Nonetheless, Taran is convinced that they have the advantage due to their healing magic, and now all that remains is to find the monster's lair, and finish the job.  Should be a short day.

The group impatiently waits out the evening, and between Kyreel and Thelbar manage to heal up completely.  The next day, Thelbar prepares a basin of water for his _scrying_ spell.  He looks for the dragon, but finds much, much more than he'd expected. 

The dragon is lying on the floor of a large stone chamber.  The room is dimly lit with the eerie bluish glow from the crevasse room, but the glow is stronger here.  The dragon's head is in the lap of a concerned looking grey-skinned dwarf, seated on a massive throne.  The Kingly figure is stroking the dragon's head, while another dwarf dressed in ceremonial robes rubs some sort of ointment into the dragon's burns.  

"Sonofabitch!" Taran curses.  "Those bastards are healing our dragon!  We gotta put a stop to this before somebody doesn't get killed!"

The party barrels into their boat, and makes for the Great Delve at top speed.  They dash past the guards at the gate, and arrive at the main doors winded and out of breath.  Taran snatches a goblin by the cuff of its raggedy shirt and demands to know where the mechanism for opening the doors is.  The goblin points out a recessed wheel cleverly disguised to blend in with the surrounding rock, and Rex hustles over to operate it.

The group gathers into their accustomed marching order and Indy is sent ahead to scout.  Taran had formulated a strategy for searching the room while in the boat, and he begins to explain it to the others.  But surprisingly enough, it seems that the dragon is a creature of habit, as Indy's first stealthy search of the room turns up a distinctly dragon-like shape lurking on the ledge, right where they found it last time.  

"Oh this is going to be too easy," the halfling thinks to himself as he creeps back to the main group with his news.  As stealthily as possible, the party moves to the end of the tunnel, just underneath where the dragon is lurking.  Thelbar prepares components for both his _haste_ and _fireball_ spells, and everyone else readies missile weapons.  Taran wants a rematch, and promises himself that this time, he'll be ready for the scaly bastard's tricks.

As the party steps out to surprise the dragon, they learn the hard way that "surprise" and "dragon" just don't belong in the same sentence.  Thelbar manages to finish his _haste_, but his second spell is ruined by the rain of icy shards and blisteringly cold air that blasts him as he steps out into the room.  

As the group recovers their wits, and look about, they find that the dragon has slipped away from its perch, and has positioned itself just outside of Taran's flying range.  The party peppers the dragon with missile fire, and Thelbar gets ready to _fireball_ the beast again, but he draws up short as a dreadful form slithers up from the chasm with stupefying speed.

A second dragon, almost three times the size of the first, opens its majestic wings and begins a climb-dive flight pattern that brings it close enough to the party that they can hear the rush of air as it sucks in breath just before bathing the group in a massive cone of frost and pain.

"Mommy . . ." Indy mutters, although it is unclear whether he is referring to the second dragon or calling for his own.

Thelbar and Kyreel target this new threat with spell attacks, and Taran turns his charge around, and _flies_ directly into the maw of the beast, swinging from his heels with Black Lisa, and letting out an exultant cry.  Unfortunately, it's going to take more than enthusiasm and a strong arm to penetrate this snow-encrusted dragon's hide.  Taran's attacks don't even seem to phase the creature, and it brings its mighty claws to bear on the flying warrior, ripping holes in his armor, and gashing his side.

It becomes quickly obvious that the party is outmatched.  Both dragons take to the air, preparing to dive at the trespassers, and the group decides that an orderly retreat is called for.  Unfortunately, no one is giving orders, so a full out panicked flight ensues.

The group runs for the doors leading back into the lock-weir.  As Taran and Kyreel pound desperately on the main doors, Rex turns to fire another shot from his crossbow, just as the larger of the two dragons unleashes a second blast of sub-zero death.  Rex does not survive long enough to cry out, and he is instantly killed.


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## (contact)

*24-- A Slight Change of Plans*

The party manages to close the gates behind them, and limp back to the fortress stronghold.  Rex's body is left behind, and the group's mood is dark.

Taran and Thelbar both believe that any further attempt to get into the Great Delve is beyond their means, with two dragons guarding the entrance, and make plans to vacate their base in the lake fortress.  The decision is made to seek further adventure in the nearby valley, but no one is confident that without the party's presence that the goblins can be trusted not to reclaim the structure, as that was obviously the Goblin Prince's goal.  The men at arms are briefed, and told to return to the refugee camp.  They will remain in the party's pay, and possibly called up for service at a later date.  Until then, they are to be put into duty watching over the elves there.

The band spends their last night in the fortress drinking and telling stories about Rex-- his affection for his horse, his uncanny accuracy with a crossbow, and the numerous times he saved the lives of the group with his bravery.

The next morning, the group locks up the main gates, and sails across the lake, their hearts heavy with grief.  After returning to the elven refugee camp, and briefing the cleric of Corellon Larethian that rules there, they set out for the mysterious abandoned city originally mentioned by the wild elves of the valley.

And a wondrous city it is.  The architecture predates any other civilized settlement in the region, by Thelbar and Indy's best estimates, and is probably older than even the mysterious Star Cairns around Greyhawk City.  Low, domed buildings supported by columns and plinths predominate, and the entire place has a mystical feel that sets the party's small hairs on edge.  The surrounding forest has made significant inroads into the place in the centuries since it was abandoned, and the foliage is just thick enough to obscure sight.

The group notices a structure near the edge of town significantly larger than its neighbors, and begins to advance toward it when arrows whistle out from hidden positions behind trees, striking Gorquen and Thelbar.  The party scrambles, taking cover where they can, and charging in two main groups around to the front of the edifice.

Their foes are bizarre creatures-man-like, but without faces altogether, and possessed of preternaturally rapid rates of fire with their longbows.  The creatures fire and move to cover, separating the group and targeting the arcane casters.  Thelbar is struck several times, and is forced to spend his energy seeking cover and healing himself.  Taran and Kyreel, creeping around the opposite side from the others notice a giant-sized automaton made from the body parts of several creatures guarding the front entrance to the building.  Taran gleefully charges at it, and begins to methodically reduce the thing to its component parts.  Kyreel ascends the stairs leading to the building's entrance behind Taran and prepares herself for melee by drawing the power of Ishlok into herself.

Gorquen starts to fly at one of the faceless archers, but realizes with a twinge of sadness that she no longer possesses wings.  She manages to close the distance between her and her foes, but cannot reach melee range and attacks with her bow.  Thelbar decides to buy some time by separating his enemies with a _wall of fire_, a dubious tactic in the woodlands, but necessary to preserve his life!

Taran strikes the fleshy monstrosity once and again, and Kyreel steps up into melee just in time to find herself on the business end of a _lightning bolt_ that comes screaming out of the building, blasting all three combatants.  The bolt wounds the heroes, but worse yet seems to heal the construct!  Indy takes this as his cue, and sneaks into the building, looking to present the hidden mage with a little present-six inches of good Great Kingdom steel between the ribs.

The archer-creatures are dogged and persistent in their single-minded assault, but Thelbar shrouds one of them in a sphere of _darkness_, and begins peppering the other with _magic missiles_ of his own.  Gorquen provides support for him, and focuses on the wounded creature with her own attacks.

Taran attempts to draw the golem away from the opening, where its master's _lightning bolts_ cannot reach it, but has little success.  His sword-blows, combined with Kyreel's attacks do seem to weaken the thing, despite a second electrical blast.  Cursing, Taran renews his attack and calls for his brother.

Indy, meanwhile, has made it into the room, and has crept dangerously near their foe.  The individual in question is a wizard, dressed head-to-toe in red, flanked by another pair of faceless archers.  Indy puts himself in a position to disrupt the mage's next spell with a well-placed sneak-attack.

Thelbar and Gorquen have begun a deadly game of hide-and-go-seek, using the sphere of _darkness_ to hide in, stepping out of it only long enough to strike at their foes with spells and arrows.  The archer automatons prove deadly accurate even firing blind, and the duo find themselves drinking _healing_ potions like water, just to stay on their feet.

As the red wizard raises his hands for another spell, Indy pounces forward and drives his spear into the man's side, cutting him deeply and eliciting a surprised yelp of pain.  At the same moment, Taran and Gorquen tear into the fleshy giant, evicting its animating force and rendering it inert.  

The red mage orders his archers to kill Indy, and flees into a back chamber, where he begins chanting a spell that the halfling does not recognize.  Shortly thereafter, the rest of the party dashes into the building and at Indy's prompting, ignore the two archers and pursue the mage.  The archers follow, and the entire group arrives just in time to see that the red wizard has opened some sort of _portal_ in the far wall, and is stepping into a mistily seen forest scene strikingly different from the forest outside.

A few seconds later, and the mage is joined by both his bodyguards and his foes, as the entire melee charges through the _portal_ after him.  But the wizard is not finished, nor is he out of spells.  He mutters a curse in an unrecognizable foreign tongue, and points his wrinkled hands at Indy.  A burst of power arcs through the air between them and suddenly Indy has disappeared, replaced by a vaguely revolutionary-looking toad!

"You lucky bastard!" Vognu exclaims in Indy's mind as the former halfling flees in panic back through the _portal_.  Kyreel chases after Indy, attempting to _dispel_ the polymorph, but without success.

As Thelbar stings the mage with _magic missiles_, and Taran stalks forward, Black Lisa in hand, the wizard raises his hands, hoping to parley.  His words are unintelligible, but their intent is clear.  Taran pauses, just long enough for the wizard to raise a wand and send a treacherous _lightning bolt_ arcing into the group.  If the red wizard had hoped that his desperate attack would preserve his life, he underestimated Taran and Gorquen, who leap forward to cut him down.  

As the three heroes standing over the red-garbed wizard and catch their breath, on the other side of a _portal_ and a world away, Vognu has dumped out Indy's satchel and flown outside, filling it with foliage and damp mud.  After all, it takes a former toad to know what a newly _polymorphed_ toad might find comfortable.

Taran says, "Search the meat for magic, and we're out of here."  The bull-necked warrior turns back to the direction of the _portal_.  He finds himself squinting at a ramshackle stone cottage, long abandoned and mostly collapsed.  The plant life is unfamiliar, and even the light quality in this glade seems wrong.  The air has a particular musky smell that seems comfortable somehow, but is definitely not familiar.  It takes the sweat-covered warrior a minute or two to notice what is subtly disturbing him, however.

"Hey, Thel," he asks.  "Where'd the _portal_ go?"


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## (contact)

*25-- Strangers in a Strange Land, Shipwrecked Without a Ship.*

The wizard's body yields several magical treasures, particularly a brace of offensive wands and a rod that seems to control the visage-less automatons.  There is one of the archers left undestroyed, and using the rod, Thelbar finds that the creature responds to his mental commands, despite the apparent language barrier.

A _detect magic_ spell reveals faint traces of transmutation and conjuration magic around the door-lintel of the ruined cottage, but no active spells.  The trio of wounded adventurers explore the cottage's interior and find tracks of several creatures that Taran swears are elvish.  After the group exhausts its healing magic they settle down to wait as Taran slips into the forest for reconnaissance.  

He returns with the news that they seem to have stumbled into an area heavily used by small bands of elves, moving with characteristic grace and subtlety, but uncharacteristic haste.  As the group is debating whether to follow the elven trail or avoid it, a veritable swarm of small darts whistle into the cottage through holes in the wall and sink into leather straps with dull thuds, and bounce off of chain armor links with a graceful jingle.  The darts are immediately followed by stealthy and graceful elven warriors, bright silver blades contrasting against their pitch-black skin.

Drow!  Bearing a disconcerting surface similarity to Kyreel, the dark-skinned elves pause in their assault, expecting their sleep poison to overtake the nervous systems of their foes.  But their hesitation will cost them their lives, and within seconds, Taran and Gorquen have cut down the nearest drow, leaving the ones further away to taste the fruits of the fallen red wizard's wand-crafting acumen.  Thelbar takes his new wands for a field test, and before they get a chance to reverse their charge, the drow are left unconscious and bleeding-out onto the dusty stone floor.

Taran frowns and looks about.  "These drow attacked our strong position with a weak force.  They obviously expected us to become startled and break ranks.  Why in the Seven Names of Ishlok would they think that?"  He paces around the room, poking and prodding at the bleeding drow casualties.  After a moment he answers his own question.  "Because they've attacked humans before.  Many times, I'd wager."  Taran's eyes narrow as he rifles through one of the drow's gear.  "These drow have raided the surface enough to think they know how we'll react."

"Yet it is the middle of the day." Gorquen says.  "Who ever heard of Drow raiding the surface in the face of the sun?"

"Look at their gear," Taran says.  "These drow are carrying no food, or water.  They aren't far from their base, and they were intending on returning soon.  We don't want to be here once they are missed."

The group takes a brief inventory of their foe's gear and makes ready to move out.  The question of following the elven trail is settled, and the group decides to make out sunward in the hopes of crossing a stream or trail.  After a few minutes Taran huddles close to Thelbar and Gorquen.  "We've got an interesting situation here, and a dangerous one.  These elven trails look like they're being used by small bands of lightly-burdened raiders, but only one sort of band, do you understand?"

Thelbar understands.  The drow are moving through the deep forest as the uncontested masters of the place.  Where are the elves who should be fighting them?  

As dusk nears, the group grows increasingly nervous about being caught in dark-elf territory after dark.  Fortunately, a break in the trees reveals the unmistakable twin ruts of a wagon-trail.  Taran assures them that it is fairly well traveled, most of the traffic moving East to West.  After a brief discussion, the group decides to follow the trail against the flow, in the hopes that they would meet some traveler who could educate them about this land.

Their idea bears fruit, and within a handful of minutes the group runs across a lone human, leading an ox-drawn cart.  The man's language is completely unintelligible, but a _tongues_ spell paves the way for communication, and the fellow explains that the group is very near a human community called Mistledale, and that they are in a region known as the Dalelands.  The farmer has just left Mistledale, and hopes to reach his homestead before dark falls.  

That none of the trio has ever even heard of such a place does not surprise them.  Obviously, they have stepped through a _portal_ into an entirely foreign region, if not a foreign world entirely.  Thelbar, who has some knowledge of such matters, suggests that they have not left the Prime Material plane, but may have traveled to another world.

When asked about the Drow, the farmer explains that not long ago, as the humans reckon time, the drow swarmed up from the underdark and conquered the surrounding forests, called Cormanthyr after the ancient elven empire that once held sway here.  There has been no further sign of the normally reclusive Cormanthyrian elves, and the commonly held opinion in the Dalelands is that they have all been slain or driven off. 

Since the drow occupation, Mistledale has been raided fairly continuously.  The drow seem to be more interested in inflicting small cruelties and generating misery rather than any serious attempt at conquest.  Nevertheless, the populace of Mistledale has grown fearful, and withdrawn.

When this is translated and relayed to Taran, he mutters "Small cruelties my ass, they're probing the human settlements and trying to build a combat profile of the humans.  Probably, they've been skirmishing with the day elves for centuries and know how they'll respond in any given situation.  Humans are a new element, and they're just gathering information."

Thelbar points out that based on the reaction of the drow in the abandoned cottage, they seem to believe that humans aren't much for fighting.

"Well, if they're commander's worth his salt," Taran replies, "He'll be doing what he can to deliver a false read, while preparing for the assault that's bound to come."  Taran looks long and hard at the merchant, who grows unnerved at the tough warrior's level stare.  "I feel sorry for these people.  I don't think they have any idea what they're up to their chins in."

The group thanks the man, and gets his name, so they might repay him properly should their paths ever cross again.  True to the farmer's word, the group retraces their steps, and finds that they were mere miles from Mistledale where they first encountered the road.


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## (contact)

*26-- Sometimes, The Best Offense Is The One That Kills the Most People*

Arriving in Mistledale, the group is greeted by a red-cheeked rotund fellow who introduces himself as High Councilor Haresk Malorn.  A _tongues_ spell enables communication, and the party describes their encounter with the drow.  Harsek takes the group around town, and they are jovially introduced to Jhanira Barasstan, priestess of Chauntea and Nerval Watchwill, priest of Torm, the town's spiritual leaders.  The group is paraded before the town's elders, and then briefed on the current situation:

Vast armies of drow recently rampaged up out of the Underdark and overran the nearby Cormanthyr forest.  This invasion was made possible by the Elven Retreat-a phenomena where elves have fled the world of men for a mythical homeland across the sea.  Although the Retreat has been recently reversed, the elven forests of Cormanthyr were largely abandoned when the drow made their surprise assault.

The drow stopped short of conquering any of the human Dalelands, but many observers predict that it is only a matter of time before a serious assault takes place.  In the meantime, drow have made frequent raids, burning outlying farms and slaughtering or kidnapping their inhabitants.

Taran stares at the assembled leadership of Shadowdale, and asks his brother to translate the following: "Give us a place to live, and we'll see what we can do about your drow problem".

Two days later, the group has begun to learn the basics of the language, and has used spell-enabled communication to gather information on the land they find themselves in.  They have been magically transported to a place called Faerun by its sages, in a region known as the Dalelands.  Nearby Shadowdale is the home of several famous adventurers, including Storm Silverhand and Elminster; the man Dalelanders claim is the most powerful wizard in the land.  Thelbar's eyebrows shoot up at this boast, but he holds his tongue.

After getting a lay of the land, the group is ready to go hunting.  Taran retraces their steps back to the small ruined cottage where the _portal_ left them, and begins tracking.  After a morning's work, he reports that he has found a group of tracks that were meant to be concealed, leading deeper into the forest.

"It's a war-band, I can assure you that," the bull-necked fighter states.  "Look here-advance scouts overlap sweeping in two-by-twos, and here's the supply detail, these sorry wretches are carrying the loot.  This group came to fight fast and travel light.  They've got to have a base nearby.  Eyes up."

Taran, Thelbar, and Gorquen make for a fleet-footed war band themselves, and by the afternoon, they have found their target.  Taran's chain shirt is _silenced_ and _blackened_, and using his newly discovered _message_ power, he is able to range far ahead of the group and provide a whispered commentary of his findings.

Taran describes a pair of stone buildings; a low-set, long structure and a nearby tower.  The buildings must have once housed a wizard and his retinue, or perhaps a woodcutting team.  Either way, they appear completely abandoned now.  A closer inspection reveals several camouflaged sentries hidden about the grounds.  Taran completes his sweep and counts four all told, including one at the top of the tower.

Taran _flies_ to a position just beneath the lip of the tower, and waits for Thelbar and Gorquen to get into spell-range.  As they have done so many times, Taran waits until he hears the whoosh of a _fireball_ expanding before he _flies_ into the face of the guard and slices into him with a rapid overhand/underhand combination that leaves the drow eviscerated, in shock, and gushing arterial blood.

Within seconds, the drow forces have responded, and Gorquen is dashing forward to engage them.  Dark elf fighters come streaming out from the low building and Gorquen gives a hearty Ishlokain battle-cry, hacking at her foes with a righteous fervor.  Though these drow had nothing to do with the massacres Gorquen escaped with the elven refugees, you wouldn't know it from watching her fight! 

Thelbar is peppering the melee with _magic missiles_ and _lightning bolts_, but several drow archers get a bead on him and flush him from his cover.

Taran, meanwhile, is holding his position at the top of the tower, and when a trapdoor begins to creak open, he points his _wand of fireballs_ at the hole, and soon the trap door is blown off its hinges in a flaming explosion, taking several drow with it.

But there is a wizard left alive in that tower, and he has a _fireball _of his own.  After a counter burst singes Taran's skin, and sucks the breath from his lungs, he decides that trading spells with a wizard is a bad idea, and hops down the opening to see how the wizard likes trading sword-blows!

Gorquen's characteristic enthusiasm for melee has left Thelbar alone, which is not the place a mage wants to be when several drow rangers are stalking him. He burns and pierces them with magic, but he is soon overtaken, and cries out for help.

Gorquen begins fighting her way back to his side, and after Taran swiftly butchers the drow wizard he _flies_ to give aid as well, but neither of them are fast enough.  Thelbar collapses from multiple sword wounds before they arrive.  Fortunately, a potion of _cure moderate wounds_ is at hand, and within seconds Thelbar is on his feet, and ready to assist his companions as they pursue the fleeing drow, killing them where they can catch them, and cursing the rest.


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## (contact)

*27-- An Appointment of No Small Worth, and a Dirty Trick*

Upon their return, the group can report a total of one and one-half score drow slain, and Taran presents a sack full of left hands to prove it.  This seems to shock and impress the town leaders, who ask the party to remain in Mistledale, and offer to grant them a small plot of land and a house near the town's fringe.  Two days later, as the group is finishing their small herb garden and repairing the dilapidated roof, they are called before the town council for a more formal meeting.

Haresk Malorn and the worthies of Mistledale, after a series of lengthy speeches lauding the party's recent victories, make Taran an offer.  They propose that he take the title and rank of High Protector of Mistledale, a position charged with the training and organization of the Riders of Mistledale, and securing the defenses of the town.

Due to some confusion as a result of the language barrier, Taran forgets to ask what happened to the previous Lord Protector, and agrees to the terms.  He jokingly appoints Thelbar and Gorquen his Low Protectors and bounds off to review his troops and chew them out in Isenthanian, his native tongue.

A few days pass as the party settles into their new home and takes Faerunian language lessons.  Taran teaches his Riders some basic Isenthanian words and phrases as well, specifically "no" and "hell, no".  The men love him.

Thelbar uses the time to study the archer-golem, and learn more about the red-robed wizard it was taken from.  The wizard was from a nation called Thay, a cruel magocracy where the strongest become wizards, and all others are slaves or worse.  The red-robed wizards of Thay are known as merchants of magic, and they have conclaves in most large communities.

Through his studies, Thelbar is able to determine the control mechanism for the archer-golem.  After some discussion, the group decides that the golem should be put to use guarding Mistledale.  It is the perfect sentry against drow assaults; it never sleeps and cannot be misled by spells.

Several days pass in relative peace, but soon bad news filters in to the community.  A nearby farmhouse was raided during the night, and the drow who did it kidnapped the farm's children.  Two young girls and an infant boy were taken.  Taran promises to find them, and punish these raiders.  A young Rider of Mistledale by the name of Keltie volunteers to accompany the party, claiming that the children were his kin.

Keltie is formally introduced to Thelbar and Gorquen, and is briefed on the group's standard tactics in battle.  The four adventurers gear up for a short overland trek, and leave Mistledale with the dawn.  After searching the farmhouse in question, the kidnapper's trail is picked up.  The party finds what they had expected; a small band of drow, moving toward the farm light-of-foot, and leaving encumbered.  The drow seem bent on putting as much distance between themselves and the farmhouse as possible.

"These night-elves are running fast," Taran chuckles.  "Our last raid really put the fear of steel into them.  I won't have any trouble following this lot.  When we hit 'em, we'll want to be fast and merciless-we don't want to frighten them, in case they try to kill the children."

The party follows the trail, and discovers that it leads deep into the Cormanthyr forest, well within drow territory.  Undaunted, the party remains focused on the fleeing dark elves, bloody murder on their minds.

As the twilight hours deepen the forest's shadows into almost night-like conditions, the track of the drow leads into a human-style building, set amongst the trees of the deep Cormanthyr.  The party doesn't hesitate, but Taran does take a minute to confirm that no trap awaits them either inside nor lurking near the house, before slipping into the building.  Dust covers the floors and walls of the place, and there is no furniture.

Taran scouts forward, easily discerning the drow's movements in the thick dust.  The trail leads into a back room of the house, then through a door.  When the door is cautiously opened, it reveals, to the group's surprise, a narrow set of stairs that sinks deeply into the earth.  There is no trace of the musty smell that might be expected from a cellar in these humid conditions, but a burst of dry, cool air washes over the heroes as they take the first steps down into the darkness.

The stairs descend far deeper into the earth than might be expected, apparently leading into some sort of dungeon complex.  Taran lights a torch, and passes it to Keltie, then signals the group to follow his lead.  So anxious is the party to punish these drow raiders, that they do not notice how little these stairs seem to resemble the sort of craftsmanship that built the rest of the home.  In fact, it is a pity that no dwarf travels with the group, for he might have noticed that the stone walls of the stairway are cut whole from underground stone, not the mud and rock of forest earth.

The long descent ends at a doorway, which is unlocked.  The doorway opens onto a huge underground chamber, much larger than the party's light source can fully reveal.  As the group moves cautiously forward, more of the strange space is revealed.  This room is massive, and in its center sits a three-tiered ziggurat, a full one hundred feet square at its base, with nearly twenty feet in height at each layer.    Strange patches of glowing multicolored _faerie fire_ provide an eerie illumination throughout the area, and Keltie extinguishes the torch.

Thelbar does a few quick calculations, and determines that the ceiling of this room is taller than the depth of the stairs he just descended!  He casts _detect magic_ and turns back to the door he just left, only to find that the door is gone!  Worse yet, the entire room radiates magic, causing Thelbar's detection spell to seem overblown and indistinct.

Without question, the drow have led the group through some sort of _teleportation_ portal and into a vast underearth complex somewhere.

Taran returns from a _flying_ scouting mission and reports that the room has several normal doors, and one set of larger double-doors at the opposite end.  The ziggurat has no obvious entrances or even a means to ascend it, but the party decides to find a way to reach the top nonetheless.  Flying magic and _levitation_ spells provide the means, and once there, the group finds the top empty save for a stone shrine adorned with the unholy symbol of Lolth, the spider queen.

The group settles in to wait and see what kind of traffic comes through this room.  Several minutes pass without any movement, then Keltie spots a trio of dark-elven women dressed in some kind of ritual regalia moving perpendicular to the party's position, apparently making for a doorway opposite the one they just exited.  

Keltie and Gorquen ready missile weapons, and Taran _flies_ up toward the ceiling, hiding amongst the shadows there.  The three heroes still at the top of the ziggurat release _magic missiles_ and arrows into the priestesses, and as the drow women fall to the ground or fumble for their holy symbols, Taran swoops down into their midst, and finishes them.

The party searches their bodies for treasure or intelligence, and finds little, save that the house-marking these clerics have tattooed is different from the drow of house Jaelre the party fought on the surface.  Thelbar postulates that the party has been _teleported_ far from their previous location, and most likely even into territory occupied by house Jaelre's enemies.

"Well, you gotta admire their tactics," Taran says gleefully.  "It's two birds with one arrow; if a band of adventurers are  cutting a swath through your ranks, _teleport_ them into your enemy's lap."

"What do we do now?" Keltie asks, looking a bit concerned.

Taran looks at him evenly.  "We kill our way out of here, Keltie.  That's what we do."

Thelbar adjusts his spell-component satchel.  "Followers of the Spider Queen do not deserve to live."

"Battle is honor, young sir," Gorquen states, placing her hand on Keltie's shoulder.  "Ishlok's name be praised."

"Her name is exalted amongst all things," the two brothers reply, by rote.

The group settles into a marching order, with Taran scouting ahead and Thelbar sandwiched between the other two fighters.  Taran receives a _darkvision_ spell, and uses his _message_ ability to send back whispered commentary on his findings, allowing the group to prepare for whatever lies ahead.

The rooms that the priestesses exited are searched first, and appear to be the living quarters for three clerics, with nothing unusual about them (if you think of erotic sculpture depicting scenes of torture as usual, that is).  The group makes haste to follow the clerics' lead and explore the doorway they were headed to.

Drow generally aren't used to being surprised by hidden surface-dwellers.  After all, those roles are normally reversed.  The spectre of humans springing out of the shadows and decimating their ranks with spell and sword is not something most drow warriors have ever imagined having to face.

In a dark and light-less world populated by giant floating eyeballs with death rays, squid-headed humanoids who possess terrible mind-control powers and giant, translucent fish that plot to enslave all living things, a rational being could forgive these drow for not preparing for a band of stealthy surface-dwellers committed to a massive and overwhelming first-strike.

Not that Lolth is likely to do so, when she receives their souls.

Of the fifteen drow warriors in the chamber next to the ziggurat rooms, a full third of their number fall to spell and sword before the remainder are even able to draw their twisted rapiers, or level the exquisite polearms that are their hallmark.  They regroup quickly, and form a makeshift spear-hedge, attempting to force the invaders back.  Several of the more nimble drow manage to win their way to the back of the party's formation, where Thelbar is raining magical death upon the drow spearmen.

Thelbar proves harder to hit than might be expected, and after he becomes _invisible_, the drow are completely befuddled.  The dark elf fighters are outmatched, and while they have shown that they have the courage to fight in the face of sure death, it is a moral victory at best.


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## (contact)

*28-- Gigantic Dungeons Make For Strange Bedfellows.*

Taran sifts through the remains of the fifteen drow fighters still bleeding out onto the stone floor.  "Yup, Lolth worshippers, same house as the others.  Nothing else here, though."

There are two exits from this room.  Both are barred from this side, but one of them seems to be permanently sealed, with several different means of doing so.  "Hey now," Taran says.  "What's on the other side of this door, I wonder?"

"Something horrible enough to scare these drow," Keltie says.

Gorquen looks up from the cleaning of her sword.  "More of us, then."

The party elects to explore the un-sealed door, and are horrified to find themselves in a long, narrow passage with alcoves cut into one wall at regular intervals-alcoves used to store prisoners and torture victims.

Taran slips quietly along the row, looking for signs that the prisoners may be guarded by something other than the fifteen drow that the party just vanquished.  Instead, he finds several human prisoners and many drow hanging in manacles.  One of the humans seems to have been driven mad from the torment, as he mutters to himself wildly.  There are also several drow to be found here, criminals no doubt, or possibly individuals that couldn't bring themselves to complete some ordained act of cruelty and have been sentenced to death by torture for the unforgivable sin of mercy.

Taran begins to release the human prisoners, as Thelbar casts a _detect evil_ spell to examine the drow with.  The spell reveals some surprising information.  Two of the drow are not evil, after all, but the human Taran just released is.

Taran is helping the fellow to his feet, and covering him, when Thelbar speaks in Isenthanian.  "That one is not to be trusted, brother.  The two night-elf women to your left can be, however."

Taran frees the two indicated women, one of whom is so severely wounded that she cannot quite stand without help.  The drow thank the party for their freedom.

"You."  Taran says, turning to the human.  "What's your name."

"My name is Elbis, and I am also grateful to my rescuers, but I must caution you to be wary.  These drow should not be released.  They are an untrustworthy race, after all."

"We worship the goddess Palatin Eremath," says the stronger drow woman.  "She is a goddess of mercy and redemption.  I am Elita, a priestess of the goddess, and this is my acolyte."

"Oh yeah," Elbis says, rolling his eyes, "That's believable."

"This man," she says, pointing to Elbis "is a worshipper of Bane."

"Is it true you are a Bannite?" Thelbar asks the man.

"Well, I am a citizen of Zhentil Keep, after all," the man purrs.

"He is a _cleric_ of Bane," Elita says.

"A citizen of Zhentil Keep _and_ a cleric of Bane, I was about to say."

"We have heard of the Zhentarim and Bane in Mistledale," Thelbar says.

"Bane is an Evil god," Taran says.

"Evil?" Elbis squawks, "No!  Bane does not teach _evil_.  Our faith is misunderstood.  Bane merely instructs us to defend ourselves-- Bane teaches a man to repay insults in kind."  Elbis turns to Taran.  "If someone slapped you, how would you respond?"

"I would beat them," Taran says matter of factly

"And would that make you _evil_?"

Taran laughs, "No, that would give me bruised knuckles."

"Exactly.  And after all, who are a pair of drow to level the accusation of evil?"

Thelbar steps in front of the Bannite.  "We have drow companions, so mind your tongue."

"Of course," Elbis purrs, "not _all_ drow are evil.  I am merely advising you to use due prudence when weighing the statements of strangers.  Should we not trust first our own?  Bane wants us to be discriminating about our companions."

"Yeah, yeah," Taran says, interrupting the cleric.  "How did you wind up here?"

"I was captured, while exploring Undermountain with some associates."

"And you?"  Taran turns toward the drow women.

"Our order keeps a shrine nearby.  We are here searching for artifacts of our faith, which we believe to be somewhere in Undermountain."

"What is Undermountain?"  Thelbar asks.

"You're in it, pal," Elbis crows.  "The largest dungeon in Faerun.  Why, it's said that no mortal has ever seen the full length and breadth of it.  But the sad part is, nobody knows the way out."

"That's ridiculous," Taran says.  "You get out the way you got in."

"Uh, huh.  And how did you get in?"  Elbis asks.

"Well, there was a door, but it disappeared . . ."

"Uh, huh." 

"Alright, I get it."  Taran says.  "Gorquen-- take Elita to the guard room, and get her armed.  Thel, why don't you see what you can do for the acolyte, healing wise.  You," he says, tossing Elbis a cloak, "can come with me, but if I see you looking like you're even thinking about casting a spell, I'm going to kill you first and _speak with dead_ second.  Got it?"

"Shouldn't I be armed as well?"  Elbis asks.

"No.  Don't trifle with me, or I might decide you're more trouble than you're worth."

As Gorquen takes the two clerics to scavenge weapons and armor from the party's last battle, Elita cries out.  The drow priestess points out Gorquen's falling star birthmark, explaining that it is a symbol of her faith.  Gorquen says nothing but offers a silent prayer to Ishlok.

Elita walks point with Taran, in order to guide the group to the compound of her faith, which she assures them is close, by Undermountain's standards.  They travel through several deserted rooms and corridors, until they stumble upon a band of five ogres squatting around a dice game.

The ogres and the party notice one another at just about the same time, and hostilities commence with a predictable suddenness. The ogre's smug confidence turns to shock, and then fright as Taran and Gorquen rip into their ranks, swift on the heels of Thelbar's ubiquitous party favor, _fireball_.  With three of the five ogres slain within seconds, the other two show the party their heels with a quickness.

Elbis wisely hangs back during the fighting, and in its aftermath he regards the party with a newfound respect.  "Say, with fighters like you in Mistledale, it's no wonder those drow from the Cormanthyr couldn't take over."

"Nor the Zhentarim," Thelbar interjects.  "Keep your opinions to yourself, Bannite, and thank your god we let you live."

"I'm hurt," Elbis begins.  "This is not the way friends talk to one another in Zhentil Keep."

"Nor is it the way friends talk to one another in my homeland," Thelbar says.  "Mark that, Elbis, and grow silent."

The party has several more encounters with hostile bands of monsters, including a large war-band of orcs who scatter in the face of Thelbar's _fireball_ wand, only to flee into the greedy clutches of a group of hungry trolls drawn to the area by the sounds of combat.  The next few minutes are an orgy of blood, fire, squealing orcs, rending flesh, _fireballs_ and the steady thwack, thwack of Gorquen and Taran's swordplay.

"Undermountain?  I love this place!"  Taran announces as the last of the burned trolls flees over the corpses of a full score of mutilated orcs.


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## (contact)

*29-- Looking Into the Face of the Goddess, the Goddess Looks Back.*

Elita sighs with relief as the group slips through a secret door and into a deserted corridor.  "That door, there," she says.  "That is our sanctuary in this place."

The group enter into a series of dungeon rooms inhabited by a dozen clerics and followers of Palatin Eremath.  The party was expecting drow, but the multi-racial composition of the shrine's inhabitants would put any adventuring group to shame.  The high priest introduces himself as Malwyn, a former cleric of Tyr who was converted when he came into the presence of a holy artifact of the Goddess, here in Undermountain.

Elita anxiously takes Gorquen into a side room where she shows her a statue of an elven warrior-woman brandishing a bastard sword.  "This is an ancient hero of Palatin Eremath," Elita explains, "This statue predates the elven schism.  We found it when we recovered the great artifact."

Gorquen examines the statue, a look of wonderment on her face.  "She . . ." Gorquen trails off for a moment and looks at Elita, who has tears in her eyes.  "That's my . . . that's an Ahk Velar fighting stance," Gorquen says.

"And look at her birthmark," Elita whispers.  "Gorquen, this statue is you."

"Palatin Eremath," Gorquen says, "she is Ishlok!"

-----

Malwyn explains that he was a high-cleric of Tyr and came down into Undermountain with a half-dozen of the faithful hoping to loot treasure to fill the church's coffers.  However, what he found was better than any gold.  They discovered a secret series of rooms that were once the hideout of a lost cult to a forgotten Elvish goddess.  In the main room was a shrine with a reliquary statue that struck Malwyn and everyone viewing it with the full majesty of Palatin Eremath.  He was converted on the spot, and became the first modern true cleric of Palatin Eremath in the Forgotten Realms.

His companions were likewise converted, and over time, they have shown the relic to other dungeon inhabitants.  Without fail, all those viewing the statue are either destroyed or instantly transformed into good-aligned worshippers of Palatin Eremath.

Palatin Eremath is the name of an elven goddess, a member of the racial pantheon.  Her portfolio seems to relate to battle and honor.  How her worship came to be lost is a mystery, and the goddess has chosen not to reveal her history to her new worshippers.

Gorquen and Elita return from their discovery, and Gorquen explains the doctrines of Ishlok to Malwyn.  He agrees that the two faith's teachings agree on every major point: All souls must find their way to a state of Goodness as a sort of cosmic inevitability.  Thus mercy and redemption are more than merely moral values, they are the immutable basis for all reality (and unreality as well).  The only concept from the Ishlokian faith that startles him is the _pasoun_, the process where souls are folded back into living bodies that they might complete their transformations.

Malwyn concedes that the _pasoun_ clarifies several visions and sendings he has had from Palatin Eremath of late.  He declares that Taran, Thelbar and Gorquen are messengers and Champions of the goddess, and must be taken before the relic immediately.  Keltie is also anxious to see such a wondrous thing, particularly when its Champions fight so well.

Elbis politely declines the offer, but is convinced by Taran at swordpoint to attend the viewing.

After the affair, none of those viewing it can truly recall what they saw, save that it seemed very old, was definitely elven, and seemed to occupy the entirety of one's attention, regardless of what else was going on around it.

The four Mistledale adventurers leave their audience with the artifact unchanged, save for a powerful sense of Ishlok's divine presence, but Elbis is a new man.  Tears streaming down his face, Elbis explains how his selfish views and mistrust of others have been holding him back.  He begs the group's forgiveness for plotting to murder and rob them at his first opportunity, and swears off politics for good.

Malwyn asks the former cleric of Bane if he would like to come into the divine service of Palatin Eremath, and Elbis gratefully accepts.

The cult of Palatin Eremath has two major issues before them: First, they need to get the great relic out of Undermountain, and second, they must retrieve another artifact known as the Fallen Star of Palatin Eremath, a sapphire of unusual quality.  The Fallen Star was stolen from the ancient shrine, but the cult does not believe that it has left the dungeon.

The party proposes that they help in this way:  Gorquen can shepherd the faithful and the relic to the surface, while Taran, Thelbar, Keltie, Elita and Elbis search for the Fallen Star.  This would allow Gorquen to explore the mystery of her markings and get the cult to safety, while leaving those more suited for dungeon-crawling work behind to scour Undermountain.

The next morning, Malwyn leads a small service of investiture, _blessing_ Taran, Thelbar and Gorquen as Champions of the Goddess Palatin Eremath, and asking her favor for their endeavors.  Gorquen shares a few terse words with her companions, and wishes them well before she leaves.

As the faithful and their caravan are trundling toward the exit, Taran laughs.  "Gorquen sucks at saying her good-byes," he says.  "That was the prickliest hug I've ever gotten, even from a stone cold killer like her.  C'mon Elbis, let's go find this Star."


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## (contact)

*30-- "It's A Small Dungeon, After All" (tm)*

Undermountain was built (legends say) by the Mad Mage Halaster Blackcloak.  It is widely accepted by the populace of Faerun that Undermountain is the single largest labyrinth of connected underground rooms and passages in the known world.  

The entire place radiates magic, and ruins divinations of that sort.  In addition, transportative spells simply do not function within Undermountain, foiling rapid travel into or out of the dungeon.  Not that such travel does not take place-in fact, there are said to be _portals_ to countless other places in Faerun and even other planes of existence within Halaster's domain, but they are not easily navigated.  Rooms that adventurers were resting in just minutes before have a nasty habit of disappearing, and more than one band of hardy delvers have starved to death trying to find a way out of Undermountain.  In Halaster's halls, everything must be won and nothing can be taken for granted.  The monstrous inhabitants of the place are _teleported_ or _summoned_ into the dungeon by the Mad Mage himself-monster collecting is said to be one of his more mundane hobbies.

The first half-day of searching does not turn up any ancient artifacts, but a trio of events transpire that are interesting in their own right.

In the first, the four explorers stumble upon a scene of battle.  The fight must have been fairly recent, judging by the state of the human and elven corpses around the room, but not so recent that the bodies were not looted for their coins, magic and steel.  Five adventurers died in mortal combat here, that much is obvious.  From the looks of their mutilated remains and the footprints in the blood around their bodies, they were killed by a mixed group of trolls and human-sized spell users.

Taran discovers a diary on the body of a fighter-type, and with Thelbar's help is able to make some sense of the entries.  The man is Cormyrian, and he names his hometown as Arabel.  A former knight of the realm, his family fell on hard times during the recent struggles there, and he had decided (against his wife's argumentative disapproval) to try and win back his fortune raiding the halls of Halaster.  By the time of the last pitiful entry, the band had grown completely lost, their numbers dwindling through violent attrition, and food supplies were dangerously low.  The last entry reads simply, "Someone tell my wife she was right."

Taran finds himself deeply moved by the late adventurer's story, and pockets the diary, thumbing through it from time to time.

As the group is leaving the battle site, several wispy translucent figures float up through the floor and clutch at the hearts of the living.  Wights!  Elbis is not yet strong enough in his new-found faith to repulse these fiends, and Elita can only send a pair packing.  The rest fall upon Keltie, piercing his skin with their half-real fingertips, and greedily clutching the life out of his heart.  Taran leaps forward, Black Lisa is put to use, and soon the wights are no more.  But it is not soon enough for Keltie, who has gone to the _pasoun_.

Elita says some words for her new companion and Taran promises to pay Keltie's treasure share to his survivors.  Elbis grapples with a strange, new feeling-grief.  After all, the death rites in the church of Bane usually revolved around dividing the deceased's loot and fighting over who got the promotion.

Several more rooms are searched without event, when the band stumbles upon another group of delvers.  This new band is composed completely of elves, worshippers of Corellon Larethian, as proclaimed by their prominent holy symbols.  Unfortunately, these Corellon elves aren't interested in parleying with any band that includes drow members, and before Thelbar can explain himself, the elves attack!

Poor Elita is their first target, and she is attacked from behind by a previously unseen elven rogue.  A follow-up _flame strike_ from the elven cleric finishes her, and she dies on the spot before Taran can even free Black Lisa from her scabbard.

The party counterattacks, and within seconds, the cleric is _feebleminded_, and Taran has cut the rouge badly.  Elbis fights well enough to make his former Zhentarim brethren proud, and things turn deadly serious.  It is a tragic mistake, to be sure, but one that the Champions of Ishlok intend to live to regret.

Spells fly, and swords sing their deadly tune.  Taran is wounded, but the elven rogue is killed, the elven mage _held_ and their cleric left a drooling idiot.  A lone elf, an arcane archer, turns _invisible_ and flees, but cannot escape her foes, as she retreats into a room with no exits.


_Rule number one: Never split the party.  

Rule number two: Never flee into a part of the dungeon you have not explored._

The arcane archer is cornered, and convinced at sword-point to parley.  The archer expresses no regret for their murderous attack, and curses the party for being evil, refusing to accept the possibility of good-aligned drow.  It is revealed that the Corellon Larethian faithful were searching Undermountain for a sacred gem of their own faith, but their hopes for success are certainly dashed now.

In the end, no real peace can be found, and the group sadly allows her to gather her dead and wounded.  She scorns all offers of help, and the four surviving Champions leave her to find her own way free of Undermountain, wounded and alone.

Thelbar says a few words over the body of Elita, and commends her soul into the _pasoun_, ending with the Ishlokain ritual prayer for her next life.

Their numbers dwindling, Taran is fitfully reminded of the fallen adventurer's diary, and the horrible litany of attrition it contained.  But he puts the morbid thought from his mind, and continues with the search.  After several twisting turns that directly contradict the map given them by the cultists of Palatin Eremath, the party stumbles into a narrow corridor that gives out into a doorway that opens on blackness.  Taran is scouting ahead when he spies a trio of female heads, seemingly floating in the inky darkness of the doorway.

"Greetings, human," one of the heads hisses in a sibilant whisper.

"Perhaps you could provide us with an answer to a pressing question," the second says.

"Yes," the third finishes.  "Why should we not eat you?"

"Because I'd f-king murder you?" Taran asks in his best innocent tones.

"No, brother," comes Thelbar's voice as he approaches the scene.  Elbis is carrying a torch, and as the two near the doorway, the darkness is dispelled, revealing that the women's heads are not floating, but attached to snake bodies that twine back into the room.

"Worthies like these fear not your steel," Thelbar says.  "But perhaps we have something they cannot retrieve from our corpses."

"Yes," the top head says.

"News, perhaps?" the middle head says.

"Gossip about Halister's Home?" the third head says.

"We will exchange information, in equal measures if you can help us find what we seek."

The exchange is surprisingly polite, with both sides wary of the other's temper.  The nagas are long-term inhabitants of Undermountain and claim that nothing happens here that doesn't reach their ears eventually.  They are not surprised to hear about the goddess Palatin Eremath having a shrine in the dungeon, but are shocked to hear that she now has a priesthood here as well.  The naga say that Palatin Eremath is a dead elven goddess, believed lost from before the time of even their grandmothers.  That she has followers, or an other-worldly existence as the goddess Ishlok is news to them.  In turn, they tell the party that the Fallen Star of Palatin Eremath is a perfect sapphire, truly one of a kind, and now currently in the possession of a blue dragon that has taken up residence in Undermountain fairly recently.

"No more than decade or so ago," one of the nagas says.

The group shows the nagas their map, and are instructed to bear north by east.  "The dragon's lair is in the northeast corner", one says.  

"You can't miss it", pipes in a second.  

"Best of luck prying the Star from its clutches", the third cheerily and insincerely replies.  

Taran scowls, but Thelbar remembers his manners, and bows to the naga as deeply as he might to a eligible baroness.  Elbis grapples with another foreign emotion-disgust for evil things.

The trio follows the naga's directions, and comes across a large room containing a freshwater pool.  The water would be a welcome sight and rare luxury if it wasn't guarded by a handful of massive humanoids, 13 feet tall and slope-browed.  When they spot the party, the de-evolved giants leap to their size 64 feet and brandish clubs eagerly.  Battle commences, and Elbis proves that while he may be newly kind-hearted, he is still as conniving and clever as ever.  He _summons_ monsters to distract the giants, leaving openings for Taran, while Thelbar quickly _charms_ one of the titanic brutes.

As the battle lines are drawn, Taran scores a legendary blow, cleaving through one of the giant's legs with one mighty swing of his sword.  The unfortunate giant falls to the ground screaming, and as his blood literally bathes the snarling human fighter, the remaining giants look like they are beginning to think twice about wanting this fight.

But the way is not yet clear as a hooded figure appears from a secret passage and begins a series of arcane gestures.  A wave of nausea and muscle tension slips over Taran and Thelbar, but they are fortunately able to resist the effect.  Thelbar hits the wizard with a _dispel magic_, and Elbis _silences_ the mage.  Taran tries to win free of the giants he is fighting in order to get close to the enemy wizard, but just as he succeeds, the wizard throws back his hood revealing an alien head filled with clutching tentacles where a mouth should be.  Taran hesitates for a second out of revulsion and is suddenly overwhelmed by the will of the creature, which seems to radiate out of it in palpable waves, confusing and stunning the fighter.

Thelbar is not stunned, however, and places a _lightning bolt_ square between the beast's tentacles.  As he does so, his _charmed_ giant companion swings his oversized maul and crushes the face of the last of his friends, laughing all the time, and saying "Me told you no make fun of me!  See what you get!  See what you get!"

As Taran slowly recovers his wits, Thelbar addresses his new giant companion.  The huge degenerate gives his name as "Skullf--ker", a charming moniker no doubt thought to be quite sophisticated amongst his kind.  

Thelbar considers re-naming his new pet, but decides against it, realizing the amusement he will have every time Taran barks "Skullf--ker!  To my side!"


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## (contact)

*31-- A Skull To Love, A Skull To Hate-- A Skull to Trade At Freedom's Gate.*

The alhoon keeps chambers behind the secret door, and they are lavishly appointed by any standards.  The party takes turns bathing in the cold pool, fed by an elaborate fountain featuring mermaids and alien octopi.  Even Skullf--er gets in on the act, as Thelbar is gratefully able to convince the gigantic simpleton to bathe.  Taran, exultant from his amazing feat, gestures toward the severed leg, and tries to intimidate the dripping wet giant.  Skullf--er is duly frightened, but requests the leg for himself, to use as a weapon.  Of course, Taran agrees.  After all, who could deny such a cute face?

Thelbar orders his giant to keep watch during the night, and the party slips behind the secret door, taking their rest in the Alhoon's secret quarters.

Once spells are re-memorized and all wounds attended to, the party moves out, Skullf--er in the rear.  Er, well, the giant is at the back of the group.  

They come across a sight that seems odd for even this strange place.  A lone human skull sits atop a writing desk in a lavishly appointed sitting room.  As the party approaches, the skull speaks in a high-pitched squealing tone, and introduces itself as Murg.

Murg has a tragic tale to tell.  Once a Waterdhavian wizard, he was _cursed_ by a rival spellcaster to never die, but to live on as an eternally animated severed head.  "Of course, that was long ago," Murg says, "back when I still had my flesh.  Halaster himself brought me here, you know.  I think he fancies me."

Murg claims to have extensive knowledge of Undermountain and brags that he has been a guide in this place for several bands of adventurers.  His role as a guide is enhanced by his magical ability to see through all deception, and his encyclopedic knowledge of the dungeon's layout.  Murg promises that if he is taken along, he can lead the party to their goal, and show them the way out.

The group agrees to bring Murg along, as his _true sight_ will no doubt prove exceedingly useful, but Taran makes the skull promise to remain silent while they move about the dungeon.  Murg promises to be compliant and helpful, a perfect skull companion, although he is a bit distressed when introduced to the giant by name.

"Merely an evocative appellation," Thelbar promises the talking skull.  "Nothing to distress yourself over, I'm sure."

"Yeah, you're not his type," Taran says.

Murg suggests a course that should lead the group to the northeast corner of this level, but refuses to remain silent, jabbering away about the minutia of facts he has accrued over the years.  Taran argues with the skull, and each time receives promises that Murg will remain silent.

"The epitome of stealth, that's me," Murg squeaks.  "Never one to go on when I'm not wanted, no sir.  Why subtlety is my forte!  In fact, I was once compared to . . ."

"Shut up now, skull," Taran says.

"Oh I will, I assure you.  Silence first, discretion always.  'The wise man does not speak, and the man who speaks is not wise', isn't that right Thelbar!  After all . . ."

Murg's voice is muffled as he is stuffed into a pouch.  

Taran motions the group for readiness when he spots movement up ahead through an open doorway.  Apparently, Murg's incessant babbling has attracted the unwelcome attention of some wandering monsters.  The party is readying themselves for this new threat when a pair of _fireballs_ blossom in their midst, striking Elbis to the ground, and setting him on fire!

"I told you to be careful!" Murg screeches from his bag.  "That is a _fireball_ spell; material components sulfur and bat guano.  It's very dangerous, and casters must always take care when . . ." Murg is cut off as Taran snatches him out of his bag and throws him through the door at the mysterious spellcasters then slams it shut.

"That ought to give us a moment's peace.  Elbis?  Is he?"

"He's dead Jim," Thelbar says, feeling for a pulse on the cleric.

"Who the hell is Ji . . ." Taran begins, but the crackling boom of a _lightning bolt_ interrupts him as it blasts the door into splinters and blows him off his feet.  Taran groans in pain, and struggles to stand before passing out.

Suddenly, a projectile is hurled through the open door frame and Murg bounces back into the room.  "How do you like that!" he whines.  "Shuttled between hands like a common throwing-skull!  Why, if I had legs I'd . . ."

Thelbar steps over the talking skull and raises his hands, fury in his eyes.  He spots a trio of snake like figures in the darkness beyond the door, and gets a better look at them when his _fireball_ lights up the room.  One of the human-headed snakes falls with a hideous shriek, and the others intone abjurations to protect themselves, but they apparently forgot to ward against _feeblemind_.  As the second naga suddenly looses her train of thought in a most unpleasant fashion, the third decides that she's had enough, and slithers away in full retreat before Skullf--er can get a leg up.

Thelbar immediately turns to his brother, and calls upon the goddess Ishlok to _cure_ his wounds.  Taran rises, and after noting that the fight is over, drinks his remaining healing potions, restoring himself.  Thelbar is also in need of healing and soon the duo is without magical aid.

"Elbis, we hardly knew ye," Taran says, looking at the body of his fallen companion.  "You were a real bastard, but you saw the light eventually.  May the goddess have mercy on you and bring you back as a better looking son of a bitch."

"What a great eulogy," Murg pipes up.  "You know, when I was a young man . . ." Murg probably finishes his story, but Taran and Thelbar miss the end of it as Taran punts the talking skull as far down the corridor as he can.

"We'd better get a move on," Taran says.  "Ishlok only knows what's coming for us now."

The group, now down to three (four if you count the giant twice), makes their way onward, following Murg's last direction.  Before long, they surprise a trio of disreputable looking humans.  Taran is about to attack them when Thelbar holds him back.

"Brother, no.  These men are dressed in city clothes, not adventurer's gear," he says in Isenthanian.  "We must be near the surface."

In fact that proves to be the case.  Something in the steely fighters eye convinces these men to parley, or perhaps it is the sight of a drooling hill giant wielding a severed giant's leg as a club, but whatever the case may be, the men claim to be members of a Waterdhavian criminal organization.  They tell the party that there is an entrance to the surface nearby, but the toll to use it will be steep.  When asked, they are aware that a blue dragon lairs nearby, but claim to never be troubled by the beast.

"If ya mean to go dragon-huntin', whyn't I hold ya pretty jewels while yer gone?" one of the rogues asks.

"Why don't you tell your master that we'll be back soon, and intend to be ferried to the surface instead," Thelbar says.  "Come, Skullf--er.  The end of our quest is near."

The trio gird themselves with all the protective magics at their disposal, taking pains to ward against electrical attacks.  As they approach the area said to house the dragon, they are greeted by a beautiful young man, dressed in minstrel's clothes.  He pleasantly inquires as to the party's business in this place.  Thelbar tells him that they are lost adventurers, and asks how he came to be here.  The minstrel is evasive, and something about his demeanor sets Taran's teeth on edge.  Thelbar asks the minstrel to name his patron deity, but the man demurs, saying that worship should be a private affair.  That is all the suspicion Taran needs, and when the young bard reaches for spell components, he is ready.  Black Lisa snaps from her scabbard, and between Taran's devastating slices, and Skullf--er's clubbing leg, the bard manages only one feeble spell, which fails in its desired effect.


_Metagame note: The giant failed his save against the bard's confusion, but since he rolled "act normally" two rounds in a row, the bard didn't live to see his spell befuddle the monstrous simpleton.  After all, bludgeoning fancy little men to death with the severed legs of one's companions is "acting normal" for a hill giant._
_

When the bard falls to the ground, a terrible mournful screech emerges from the corridor ahead of them and echoes weirdly throughout the halls around them.  As the trio moves forward, they are bathed in a blast of lighting so dense that all vision is obscured for a terrible minute.  Fortunately, their protective magics help them to weather the storm, and soon they find themselves sword-to-claw with a massive reptilian shape, its blue scales gleaming in the torchlight.

Thelbar hangs back, letting Skullf--er and Taran melee with the creature, hoping to harm it with spells.  But the dragon proves resistant to Thelbar's magic, and his arcane energies cannot pierce the wyrm's natural magical defenses.  Things look dire, and Thelbar is planning to sacrifice his giant in a desperate retreat when suddenly, his confusion spell takes effect, and the dragon falls under its effect!

Skullf--er also is confused, but as the dragon and giant trade blows, each one becomes unable to conceive of another course of action, laying into one another with club and claw.  This gives Taran some room to retreat, and he pulls back to his brother's side, and Thelbar begins to administer as much magical healing as he can muster.

Within moments, it becomes obvious that Skullf--er cannot stand against the dragon, but as Taran charges back into the fighting, aided by blasts from Thelbar's wands, the dragon is overwhelmed, and falls lifeless to the ground.

Skullf--er is grievously wounded, but alive, and the duo instructs him to guard the entrance while they search the lair.  There is a living quarter for the bard amidst the treasure, replete with trinkets that indicate that the dragon spent much time in human form, consorting with her human lover.  Along with the dragon's treasure, they discover the Fallen Star of Palatin Eremath- a gemstone so large and perfect that it must be celestial in origin.  The stone radiates a blessed aura, calming and invigorating the two brothers.  They gather what of the dragons' treasure they can easily carry and return to the bandits.

The bandits are dutifully impressed that the group survived their fight with the blue dragon, but even still seem more afraid of their lord.  They demand a steep price in gold, but Thelbar has other ideas.

"Do you see the giant behind me?" he asks.  The bandits motion that they do, indeed.  "He is my thrall, but I suspect he would be much more useful to your organization here in Undermountain.  Take the giant, and lead us to the surface in return."

The bandits confer with their bosses, and the deal seems agreeable to all sides.  Soon, Skullf--er is getting acclimated to his new home, and Taran and Thelbar are climbing up through a sewer grate into the Waterdhavian night._


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## (contact)

*32--The Risen Goddess*

The brothers are led by their bandit guide through a narrow shaft topped by a secret trap-door.  The secret door opens into the Waterdhavian sewers, which in turn lead out into a narrow cobble-stone street.  The fresh air, even diluted as it is by the presence of so many nearby people, is a welcome relief for Taran and Thelbar.

The bandit offers to show the brothers "a good time" for a fee.  When questioned, he clarifies that he literally meant, "show them where to find a good time", to Thelbar's relief.  The gap toothed, filthy bandit isn't Thelbar's idea of a stimulating companion, after all.  The wretch gives them a brief rundown of the city, and tells them that the place where they want to be is an inn called The House of the Delver, which specializes in catering to the needs of adventurers.

When Taran and Thelbar arrive at Chez Delver, they are greeted by an efficient and bustling concierge, who arranges for their treasure to be stored, their rooms to be prepared, and their clothes to be burned.  A tailor, a bath-boy and an armor-smith are summoned, along with a money-changer who appraises their treasure items, and exchanges them for coins, or other more portable forms of currency.

"Chez Delver really knows how to treat a guy," Taran says.  "We should start one of these in Mistledale."

The dining room is a queer mix of wealthy opulence and hard-bitten posturing.  Most of the adventurers seated around the linen-draped tables do not know their salad-fork from their brandy snifter, but they certainly have the gold in their pockets to pay for anything they might wish, and the staff at Chez Delver is remarkably thick-skinned and accommodating. 

A few tables over, an argument about the best way to fight a roper degenerates into a scuffle, then a fistfight.  Rays of _paralyzation_ beam into the brawl from the fingertips of several wizardly bouncers.  A handful of massive half-orc tough-guys dressed in fashionable suits wade into the melee and hustle the offending guests through a servant's door and into the unseen halls of the place.

After dinner, and more than a few drinks, Taran and Thelbar retire to their rooms for the evening.  They introduce themselves to the door-guards they have hired for the night.  The guards give their names as Juron and Glim, and tell a story of hard luck.  Undermountain was not kind to them.  They went in, and only made it out weeks later by the skin of their teeth, having lost all of their weapons and armor.  They are now working for Chez Delver, hoping to save enough money to re-equip themselves for further adventuring.

Thelbar ponders for a minute, and asks the two if they would like to come into his service.  He tells them briefly about the goddess Ishlok, her new name here as Palatin Eremath, and the struggle of Mistledale against the drow.  He promises to equip the two suitably, with magic weapons pulled from the dragon's hoard, and give them a full share of any treasure found to split between them.

Neither Juron nor Glim needs to think too hard about the offer.  The gift of magic weaponry as a signing bonus is almost too good to be true, and they agree that in the morning, they will tell their boss that they are leaving his service and _teleport_ to Mistledale with Taran and Thelbar.

That settled, Juron and Glim stand their post, while Taran and Thelbar get some much-needed sleep.  During the night, both brothers have the same dream-- a sending from Ishlok the Preserver and Protector, goddess of their faith.

In the dream, Ishlok confirms that she is in fact Palatin Eremath, the lost goddess of the elven pantheon.  In ages past, Palatin Eremath was the consort and war-champion to Corellon Larethian, and the co-creator of the elven race.  The goddess Lolth (known then as Arunshee) was her sister, and when the schism between Arunshee's night-elves and Corellon Larethian's day-elves broke out, Palatin Eremath was forced to honor her vows, and take her consort's side.  

Palatin Eremath was the greatest warrior amongst the elven deities, and she defeated her sister in combat, taking not only Aurunshee's honor, but scarring her sister and taking her Goodness from her, earning Arunshee's eternal enmity. 

After the battle, Palatin Eremath lay wounded and dying.  She turned on Corellon Larethian and accused him of instigating the conflict.  She blamed his stubborn self-righteousness for driving a wedge between the elven family, and spoke out against his rule.  This was unacceptable to the father-god of the elves, and he ordered her name struck from elven history, her stars struck from the night sky and her identity destroyed, even as she went beyond the great veil, and into the land of the deific dead.

But death was only a temporary condition for the mother-goddess of the elves.  She crossed the great veil a second time, returning to the land of the living with knowledge and power beyond even the reckoning of the gods.  She adopted a new identity as Ishlok, and went into solitude with a world of her own creation, the world of Isk.  She established the _pasoun_, as an analogy to her own transformation, but also as a new paradigm for the distribution of mortal souls.  Gone was the mortal's dependence on patron powers to protect their afterlife from the ravishes of wickedness or deprivation.  The _pasoun_ educated and enlightened them until they too could pass beyond the great veil, taking their place at the sides of the gods, not subservient to them.

Taran and Thelbar are souls of the _pasoun_, children of Ishlok, and they have been chosen as her worldly champions, to pave the way for the return of Palatin Eremath into the hearts of her children, and set her name above all as a goddess for all beings.

The goddess instructs the duo to travel to the Star Mountains in the High Forest, a primeval wood in the north of Faerun.  They are to explore the remnants of the Irilun Empire, and to seek the assistance of a high priest to the elven god Labels Unearth. Apparently, in this new world, accomplishing the will of the Goddess is a family affair.


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## Dawn

First to comment!

I had only recently learned the history you described.  Read it on another posting.  Good use of the history to include the players.  

Keep it coming.


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## (contact)

Out of curiosity, Dawn, where did you read about the campaign's history?


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## Dawn

Actually I was talking about the Drow history, not the campaign history.  I read it on one on Yahoo's clubs.  Another member posted it.  It was interesting in that I had never read how the Drow came about or how they ended up worshiping Lolth.  Then a couple of days later, I read your posting here.

I love the way you have tied your main PCs into the history.


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## (contact)

Right.  Gotcha.    

This is just our take on the FR 'canon' as far as the elven schism and the creation of the Drow, but as we will see, all is not as it is generally believed . . .

In our homebrew, there had been a schism for years between the elves supporting Corellon Larethian's view of the elven creation myth and Ishlok's claim of creation, with the drow opposing both sides.

Very interesting politics with each good aligned side opposed by one honorable (i.e. good) side, and one dishonorable.  Two faiths with mutual enemies but irreconcilable differences in dogma and canon.

At any rate, it's looking like both sides are right.  Read on . . .


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## (contact)

*33—Settling the Affairs of Dead Men. *

The duo awake invigorated and filled with purpose as the Champions of the Risen Goddess.  Thelbar explains that he requires some time to study spells and prepare himself.  Thelbar teleports his brother and their two companions to their new home in the Dalelands.

Thelbar settles down to his spellbooks, and disappears into his room for days at a time.  Juron and Glim occupy themselves with the Riders of Mistledale, and Taran prepares an overland trek to find the widow of a corpse he never knew.

In Undermountain, the party discovered the remains of a less fortunate group of adventurers, and one of the bodies contained a journal.  


_The man is Cormyrian, and he names his hometown as Arabel.  A former knight of the realm, his family fell on hard times during the recent struggles there, and he had decided (against his wife’s argumentative disapproval) to try and win back his fortune raiding the halls of Halaster.  By the time of the last pitiful entry, the band had grown completely lost, their numbers dwindling through violent attrition, and food supplies were dangerously low.  The last entry reads simply, “Someone tell my wife she was right.”_

Arabel is a large community in Cormyr, a state to the South and West of Mistledale.  Cormyr has recently fallen on hard times, exemplified in the death of their much beloved King Azoun.  The roads are said to be thick with bandits and monstrous raiders, but Taran’s journey is uneventful.  Maybe Cormyrian bandits can recognize a Worst Case Scenario when they see one riding alone along the road.

As he nears Arabel, Taran is able to enlist the assistance of helpful locals, and after a day of searching, locates the home of the fallen knight.

His widow, perhaps appropriate for the times, greets Taran at the border of her property with a loaded crossbow and a stern warning not to trespass.  Her mood softens when her husband’s name is mentioned, and after hearing the burly fighter’s explanation, she introduces herself as Lilline, and invites Taran in.

Taran tells her that he is an adventurer who found himself lost in the unforgiving dungeons of Undermountain, and was rescued by her husband.  He paints a picture of the fallen knight as a selflessly heroic warrior who gave his life that others might be spared.  He offers the lady a substantial sum, totaling three thousand gold pieces—a veritable fortune!  Taran tells her that the gold and gems represent her dead husband’s share of treasure duly won, and begs her to accept the gift for her children’s sake.

The widow Lilline is obviously not taken in by Taran’s amateurish lies, but does not confront him directly, either from fear of what he might do, or out of gratitude for his extravagant gift.

Lilline offers Taran her hospitality for the evening, but indicates that he should leave first thing in the morning.  After a sparse meal of stew and pan-bread, Taran sits at the table and tells stories to Lilline’s three children.

He tells them their father was a great hero, and should always be honored in their memory.  He tells them stories of his adventures, substituting their father’s name for his own.  In his tales, it is their father exploring Khundrukar, or fighting Ishlokians in Ratik’s forest.  He tells them about sailing the infinite void of Elemental Air with Ragna the orcish pirate and her crew of ogres and gith.  He tells them about fighting Yuan-Ti in a ziggurat built into a slowly draining lake, and assaulting bugbears in their mountain fortress.  Finally, as the youngest is drifting off to sleep, he tells them about the dragons of the Great Delve, and their fearsome frost breath.

The children are completely enraptured.  Lilline doesn’t believe a word.

The next morning she awakens to find Taran next to his saddled mount, practicing a compilation of his sword fighting techniques.  She presents him with some trail-food, and whispers, “I know what you are trying to do.  You are a miserable liar, Taran Tar-Ilou, but a good man.  May the gods go with you.”

Surprisingly, the journey back to Mistledale seems twice as long.

-----

When Taran rides into town, he finds his brother packed and ready for a journey.

“I scryed you along the road,” Thelbar says in response to Taran’s befuddled expression.  “The Irilun Empire was an ancient elven kingdom to the north of here.  Our luck holds, brother—there is a temple to Labelas Enorath two days ride to the Northwest.  I have briefed Juron and Glim as to what we are about.  We are ready to leave, once you have rested and eaten.  The Blessings of the Mother are upon us.”

There is a change in Thelbar’s demeanor, a new confidence.  Taran notes several more pouches for spell components than Thelbar was accustomed to carry, as well as a pair of new wands. 

“You’ve been busy,” Taran says.

“As have you, I’m sure.  How was your trip to Cormyr?”

“Quiet.  Any drow trouble?”

“None.  Taran?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you give that woman your entire treasure share?”

“Yeah.”

After a pause, Thelbar nods and says, “Ishlok has blessed us, brother.  And She has set us apart from her other children.  It is good that we can give back some of what we have gained, but we can no longer _be_ like them.  Do you understand?”

“Yeah.”

-----

The four riders are welcomed into the temple to Labelas Enorath.  The elven priests seem nonplussed by the group’s martial clothing, and without much fanfare take them into the presence of the high priest.

The old elf smiles a wizened smile at the name Palatin Eremath, and tells the group a creation story no longer remembered by elves or man:

Palatin Eremath and Corellon Larethian were lovers and consorts.  Palatin was his war champion, and the most militant member of the Elven Pantheon.  Together, they made the elves, and together they remained until the great schism that drove the night-elves underground, and made Palatin Eremath’s sister Arunshee into Lolth the Spider Queen.

When Arunshee was cast out of Arvandor, Palatin Eremath lay dying, and she took into Herself all her sister’s Goodness, as a punishment for Arunshee’s betrayal, and it was this act that turned the goddess of the night-elves away from all mercy and kindness.  In addition, it was this infusion of divine Love and Beneficence that caused Palatin Eremath to realize the horrible tragedy of their feud, and Corellon Larethian’s fault in the affair.

Palatin’s accusations wounded the elven father-god deeply, and he ordered her stars pulled from the sky, her name banished from all history, and her sacred places destroyed.

But Labelas Enorath was close to Palatin Eremath, and did not completely obey his the wishes of his liege.  Labelas kept Palatin Eremath’s stars, as a token of his love for her, and hid them away in the mortal realms.  In addition, he sheltered one of her temples from destruction, and knowledge of its existence was passed down through his high priests, a divine secret kept from all ears until this day.

This hidden temple, the high priest says, is in the High Forest, secluded from prying eyes in the central Crystalmist Mountains.   And the star of Palatin Eremath is in the hands of her champions, Taran and Thelbar.

The goddess wants her stars back.  Palatin Eremath is returning to the sight of her children.


----------



## Single Malt

"Maybe Cormyrian bandits can recognize a Worst Case Scenario when they see one riding alone along the road"  

Lines like these alone would make (contact)'s stories worth the read, add in all the other good stuff and you've got a winner.

Keep up the good work!


----------



## Dawn

Sounds like they are on their way to becoming legends in their own right.  Stories of Taran and Thelbar will be told for generations - if they succeed.


----------



## Dawn

Graceful Bump to the top of the list.


----------



## Tellerve

*wow*

I should have known to read this considering it was Contact but I just didn't.  And when I had gotten to the end of a lot of the other story posts I decided to read this one.  Awesome as always Contact.  You have me drooling for more of this and the Liberators of Tenh.

Btw, are the players in those campaigns the same?  If not you have a wealth of what appears to be excellent role-players.  Is the banter you write in the stories things that happened in the game that you remember or jot down or are you just adding some flavor for us?  Either way it is great and I look forward to more.

Tellerve


----------



## (contact)

*Re: wow*



			
				Tellerve said:
			
		

> *Btw, are the players in those campaigns the same?  If not you have a wealth of what appears to be excellent role-players.  Is the banter you write in the stories things that happened in the game that you remember or jot down or are you just adding some flavor for us?  Either way it is great and I look forward to more.
> 
> Tellerve *




Thanks for the kind words!

The other player in this game runs Heydricus in the Liberation of Tenh.  Gorquen (who had a few sessions in this story) is played by Prisantha's player.

The dialogue is probably 80%+ accurate.  I generally write the logs directly after a session, but where I mis-remember the exact quotes, the spirit is there.


----------



## Tellerve

np, Contact, those words were deserved.  Good to hear, and good to know about the players.  I am anxious to hear new news from either story hour, when do you all play next?

Tellerve


----------



## byxbee

PING!


----------



## (contact)

*Story Synopsis*

*Story Synopsis to date:*

*Taran, Thelbar, Kyreel* and *Indy* are adventurers from the Free City of Greyhawk with a little problem-- they cannot remember a thing about their lives prior to the campaign’s beginning.  Another thing they have in common is the veneration of the Goddess Ishlok, a Goddess unfamiliar to anyone else in Greyhawk . . .

They set out for adventure, eventually finding themselves trapped on the Plane of Elemental Air.  There, they join the Pirate Ship _The Marrow Down_ and become pirates for a short time until they can make their way back to the Prime Material plane.

Upon their return, they travel to Ratik, in the far East of the Flannaes, and encounter enemies from a past-life!  Fortunately, the party wins the fight.  Unfortunately, these enemies are diplomats and emissaries from a nearby land.  The group is jailed for murder and High Treason, but manages to escape.

The group meets with *Gorquen* a stout avariel elven knight, and learns that many others like themselves, foreigners to Greyhawk, have turned up—- and none of them can remember _how_ or _why_. 

Gorquen and Indy are killed shortly thereafter, and must be turned over to a local druid for _reincarnation_.  Indy returns as a halfling, to his chagrin, and Gorquen as a wingless elven maid.  The two set out on a brief quest to reunite the druid with his lady-love.  Lesbian intimations and penis-jokes ensue.

Reunited again, the party subsequently discovers a mysterious ruined city, and during a fight with a red-robed mage, the group is split up.  Taran, Thelbar and Gorquen find themselves in another land altogether—- called Faerun by it’s sages.

There, they begin a series of running battles with drow, put down roots in a community called Mistledale, and discover some of the shocking truth about their Goddess Ishlok:



> _ During the night, Taran and Thelbar have the same dream-- a sending from Ishlok the Preserver and Protector, goddess of their faith.
> 
> In the dream, Ishlok confirms that she is in fact *Palatin Eremath*, the lost goddess of the elven pantheon.  In ages past, Palatin Eremath was the consort and war-champion to Corellon Larethian, and the co-creator of the elven race.  The goddess Lolth (known then as Arunshee) was her sister, and when the schism between Arunshee’s night-elves and Corellon Larethian’s day-elves broke out, Palatin Eremath was forced to honor her vows, and take her consort’s side.
> 
> Palatin Eremath was the greatest warrior amongst the elven deities, and she defeated her sister in combat, taking not only Aurunshee’s honor, but scarring her sister and taking her Goodness from her, earning Arunshee’s eternal enmity.
> 
> After the battle, Palatin Eremath lay wounded and dying.  She turned on Corellon Larethian and accused him of instigating the conflict.  She blamed his stubborn self-righteousness for driving a wedge between the elven family, and spoke out against his rule.  This was unacceptable to the father-god of the elves, and he ordered her name struck from elven history, her stars struck from the night sky and her identity destroyed, even as she went beyond the great veil, and into the land of the deific dead.
> 
> But death was only a temporary condition for the mother-goddess of the elves.  She crossed the great veil a second time, returning to the land of the living with knowledge and power beyond even the reckoning of the gods.  She adopted a new identity as Ishlok, and went into solitude with a world of her own creation, the world of Isk.  She established the pasoun, as an analogy to her own transformation, but also as a new paradigm for the distribution of mortal souls.  Gone was the mortal’s dependence on patron powers to protect their afterlife from the ravishes of wickedness or deprivation.  The pasoun educated and enlightened them until they too could pass beyond the great veil, taking their place at the sides of the gods, not subservient to them.
> 
> Taran and Thelbar are souls of the pasoun, children of Ishlok, and they have been chosen as her worldly champions, to pave the way for the return of Palatin Eremath into the hearts of her children, and set her name above all as a goddess for all beings.
> 
> The goddess instructs the duo to travel to the Star Mountains in the High Forest, a primeval wood in the north of Faerun.  They are to explore the remnants of the Irilun Empire, and to seek the assistance of a high priest to the elven god Labels Enorath.
> 
> Apparently, in this new world, accomplishing the will of the goddess is a family affair._


----------



## (contact)

*Spoiler Alert:  Chapters 34 through 38 of the Risen Goddess contain spoilers to the module The Speaker In Dreams.*


----------



## (contact)

*34—To Marner, To Marner and Rally to the Cause.*

After the fight with the Red Wizard at the _portal_ leading to Faerun, Kyreel finds herself standing alone inside the strange structure.  Several attempts to unlock the _portal_ fail, and after a few minutes, the drow cleric sits down to wait.

Vognu flies into the room, a toad protruding from a mud-filled satchel clutched in the faerie dragon’s claws.  Kyreel watches as Vognu plops the satchel down at her feet, and lands nearby, waiting expectantly.

The toad hops around in a circle, croaking agitatedly.  In her mind, Kyreel ‘hears’ Vognu’s reedy, ticklish voice in her head, translating the toad’s tirade.

“What’s that, my friend?” Kyreel says to the toad.  “Vognu, I think Indy’s trying to tell us something.”

The toad hops a figure eight, croaking all the while.

Kyreel squints at Vognu, hoping to ‘home in’ on the faerie dragon’s telepathic sending.  “What’s that, Indy?  Someone fell in the well?”

Vognu hisses.

“Oh, you said we should _try to dispel_.  Well of course we will, Indy, but I must rest first.  Vognu can help you stay moist and comfortable until we can return you to your normal form.”

The toad hops straight up in the air, and lets out a stream of acerbic chirrups and burraps.

“Well, a halfling _is_ your normal form now, Indy, and no magic I have will change that fact.”

-----

After a night’s rest, Kyreel manages to _dispel_ the Red Wizard’s _polymorph_.  Vognu, mysteriously, has disappeared during the night, and is nowhere to be found.

“We’re no longer bonded, Vognu and I,” Indy says by way of explanation.  “Ever since we were _reincarnated_, our link has faded.  At first Vognu stayed in his pouch much of the time, but he’s started to really understand that he’s no longer a toad, I think.  Alas, I find myself without a familiar, deprived of the means to secure my lady-love, and two feet shorter.”

Indy holds up the Red Wizard’s spellbook, left on the Greyhawk side of the _portal_.  “I suspect this will tell us how to follow our friends, but this isn’t the sort of thing I can study sitting up to my neck in monster-infested ruins.  We need to go back to Marner.  You have a _hat of disguise_ and I have a whole new form.  We should be safe from Justice for a few days, at least.

“But we’ll need new names.  You should call yourself Leeryk, and I will be Ydni.”

Kyreel stares at the halfling.  “Using your own name backwards is the stupidest naming convention I have ever heard of, Indy.”

“No it’s not.  Look at Xagyg, or Ollidimara.”

“Don’t blaspheme, Indy.”

“I’m only saying, Leeryk . . .”

“You may call me Asahasa, if you must.”

“How am I supposed to remember Asahasa?”

“How do you remember Kyreel?  How do you remember your spells?”

“Leeryk is easy.  Asahasa sounds like a wizard’s name, anyway.”

Ratik is bustling when the duo arrive.  The year-end Fairwinter festival is beginning, before the first snow of the year.  A huge nomadic halfling community has arrived via river barges, bringing trade goods, entertainment, and kegs of halfling bitter stout—a Ratik favorite.

Understandably, the guards at the gate are pleased to admit a gaily-dressed halfling in the company of a beautiful half-elf, and no questions are asked.  The duo make their way through the crowded marketplace and discover that there are no rooms at any of Ratik’s inns.

“This is ridiculous,” Indy says.  “I offered that innkeeper ten times his normal rate, and he still wouldn’t put that family out.”

“The woman was _pregnant_, Indy,” Kyreel says.

“There’s room in the manger!  Let _her_ sleep with the horses—I’m allergic.”

“The gods will punish you soon, I think,” Kyreel says as she turns away from Indy.

After a few hours of fruitless searching, a member of the Ratik Watch informs the group that his family is thinking about renting out a room during the festival.  Indy and Kyreel follow the man’s directions, and offer his elderly mother the equivalent of his monthly salary per evening, provided she can secure peace and quiet for Indy’s studies.

The woman eyes the two adventurers, and bites the offered coins.  “If it’s peace and quiet you want, sir and lady,” the old woman says between the gold piece in her teeth, “you’ve come to the right place.”

-----

Indy announces that he’ll need proper materials if he is to decipher the Red Wizard’s spellbook, and the duo return to the marketplace to buy arcanist’s supplies.  An afternoon’s search convinces them that they are in the wrong district.  If they are looking for down-cloth, elven silk, sparkle-spice from the Pale, roasted rabbit, finger puppets, winter-wolf pelts, sharpened stakes, breech-caulk, candied apples, manticore spikes, folding screens, cast-iron pots, tindertwigs, new boots or gnomish wind-up toys they are in the right place.  But every drop of ink for sale in Marner is in the clerk’s district.

As Indy is negotiating with a halfling tanner for a pair of lavender riding breeches there is a cry of terror from a few stalls down.  Kyreel and Indy shove through the crowd in time to discover a half-dozen giant rats running wild and attacking everyone in sight.  The rats have overturned a pair of stalls, and started a small fire where an oil lamp has burst.

The adventurers leap into the fray, attacking the rats and driving them into the tight spaces between stalls in the overcrowded marketplace.  Kyreel _smites_ one of the rats on a hunch, and her Holy blow literally quarters the rodent in a spray of blood and fur.

“These rats are evil,” she says under her breath to Indy.

“Tell me about it!” the halfling exclaims, “the damn things chewed a hole in my new boots!”

“No, Indy, these rats are Evil.  There is more to this than meets the eye.”

The heroes have order restored and the fire put out by the time that the first guards arrive on the scene.  After a brief conversation, the guards praise the adventurer’s quick action, promise to put them up for an official commendation, and recommend that they report to Captain Shella, the guard’s interim captain.  When asked why their captain is “interim”, the guards explain that the former captain was murdered, presumably by thieves, three nights ago.

Something is rotten in Denmark, and Kyrell smells a rat.


----------



## thatdarncat

and an update here too 

welcome back


----------



## (contact)

*35—Play on, play on.*

The next morning, Kyreel and Indy follow the guard’s advice, and pay a call on the new captain of the guard.  Captain Shella is a young woman, sincere and honorable, and she congratulates the adventurers on their timely intercession.  She confesses that her guard is currently overworked with all of the festival traffic, and her duty roster is stretched to the point of breaking.  She laments a series of recent unrelated disturbances, including a rash of robberies and a pair of murders.  Kyreel offers to help without a moment’s hesitation, and Captain Shella gratefully accepts.

The murders took place in the Southspur district, a warehouse community peppered with shanty homes and a few less than desirable businesses.  The guard has taken a defensive stance with regards to the recent problems, preferring instead to keep the festival running with its much-needed influx of coin and commerce.  Any help the adventurers might render, she states, will be gratefully received.

“The irony of it all,” Indy says as they return to their rooms.  “We certainly top the Ratik Most Wanted list, but we’ve just been conscripted as guards.  After we solve these murders and restore Law and Order, do you think we should turn ourselves in?”

The duo make their way to Southspur, Ratik’s “troublesome district”, and are accosted along their way by a gaudily dressed fellow who warns the duo that he’ll brook no competition on his turf.  Indy is completely baffled by the man’s hostility, but Kyreel understands his meaning.

“You are a pimp,” she states, “and you think we are also involved in your seedy trade.  First, sir, I will have you know that should you cross swords with us, you can kiss your illicit career goodbye with the same peck that sends your life off, and second we are _not_ selling flesh.  We are adventurers, investigating a murder at the behest of Captain Shella herself.”

“Right,” the man says, as he runs his hand through his beard.  “No trouble from Swagger Jack you’ll have missus.  I should have known.  You looked a little up-hill for this block, and he obviously swings his sword with the other hand, if you take my meanin’.  Not that there’s anything wrong with that, mind.”

The pimp stares at the two of them.  “No blood, no harm, I say.”  After a thoughtful pause, he continues.  “You might want to talk to Master Cerin of the Night Walkers.  They run this district, and if anyone knows the inside of the secrets here, it’s him.  Myself, I wish you luck.  Murders are bad for my business.”

After the man returns to his slouch in a nearby doorway, Indy turns to Kyreel.  “He thought I was a pimp?  Me?”   The duo walk toward the safe-house described by Swagger Jack, and Indy mutters “Cool.”

Kyreel notices that the diminuative pirate-cum-revolutionary adopts a slight limp and massages his beardless face in an offhanded manner.  “Maybe I need a gold-handled shortspear,” Indy mutters to himself.  “And a big hat.”

“Maybe you need to abandon this foolishness and keep your mind on your business,” Kyreel says.

“Maybe you need a lesson from the back of my hand, you keep runnin’ your yap, woman,” Indy says.

“Indianichus Winterborne Silverleaf!  That will be quite enough!  I’ll have none of this.  You’re not a pirate, there is no ‘revolution’, Lady Evaleigh is _not in love with you, and you are certainly not a pimp._  By all that is and will be, you are favored by Ishlok Herself, is that not enough?”

Indy mutters “I just want to be _popular_,” as a lone tear runs down his cheek.

-----

The gang run by Master Cerin proves to be remarkably loose-lipped considering that their job description includes subterfuge and secrecy.  Apparently, whatever has been preying on the street-folk in Southspur has these thieves frightened to go out at night, and Ollidamara knows how little daytime trade there is, even with the festival in full bloom.

Master Cerin shows the duo where the murders took place, all within a three-block radius, and tells them that whatever killed these people wasn’t human—the victims were _shredded_, as if by innumerable claws, and their blood was not found with the bodies the next morning.

A search of the area reveals a suspicious warehouse with a single un-boarded window on the second floor, and Indy’s keen eyes spot claw-marks running from the window to the ground.  

The duo fortifies themselves with spells, and Indy climbs up to the second floor window for a close listen.  He hears scrabbling noises, and a disturbing atonal muttering coming from within the building.  He holds up one fist in the universal sign for a fight, and as Kyreel makes her way to the front door, he slips inside.

Suddenly, the dimly lit interior goes completely black, and the muttering rises in volume to an ear-bending crescendo of yelps and bloodthirsty wails.  Several creatures claw at him from the darkness, and it is all he can do to flee toward the sound of Kyreel smashing in the front door, and calling down a _flame strike_ on some unseen foe.

Had Indy realized that he was fleeing off the edge of a fifteen-foot riser, he might have reconsidered, but blinded by the magical _darkness_, he pitches headfirst over the edge, and into a gaggle of scorched humanoid bodies.

The eyeless creatures are feral humanoids and are covered with a strange sort of fur most like a spider’s bristles in look and feel.  A round half-dozen more of the things are swarming from the riser, and lashing out at Kyreel with cat-like claws and protruding fangs.

But Kyreel was just voted The Wrong Cleric To F--k With by the Monsters Union Local 35, and she proves why, driving the beasts into Indy’s waiting sneak attacks, and smiting them head from shoulders with her mace.  _Divine might_ makes right most of the time, after all.

There is a minute of furious fighting, then as suddenly as it began, the warehouse is quiet, and the heroes are victorious.

But all is not yet well in Ratik.  Secure in their victory, the duo is returning to Captain Shella to report when they are approached by a pair of shady-looking thugs who warn them not to “go poking their nose in their betters’ business.”

After beating the two thugs into a semi-conscious pleading submission, Kyreel concludes that the Warehouse fight was a red herring, and that the trouble in Ratik runs deeper than they know.  Indy practices saying “what’s up, bitch?” to passers-by.

The pair returns to the Market, where several of the grateful stall owners are more than happy to tell the group about a series of strange happenings involving the city’s rat population.  Perhaps there is some sort of Pied Piper at work-- if the mysterious figure’s goal is to unsettle the locals, he seems to have succeeded.  An elderly dwarven matron and weaponsmith grants the duo an audience, owing to their status as heroes amongst the Marketplace stall-owners.  When asked about rats, she suggests having a look at the city’s Bell Tower, long known to be a breeding place for the filthy rodents.

Further investigation also incriminates the city’s Bell Tower as the epicenter of some very un-ratlike rat behavior, and after sneaking into the place, Indy reports a half score of wererats haunting the place.

The heroes decide to climb the walls of the tower, and assault it from the top.  The roof level leads into a web of rickety support beams and rope-work forming walkways high above the tower’s floor.  Their rodent enemies lurk among the shadows and corners of the chaotic latticework, armed and ready for trouble.  But a _fireball_ from Indy undermines the wererat’s position, and before too much time has elapsed, their foes have all surrendered their liberty, or surrendered their lives.

“That’ll teach them to mess with one of _my_ women,” Indy says as he pulls his spear out of a wererat’s body, now transforming back into its human form.

“If you don’t stop this pimp foolishness, I won’t cure you,” Kyreel says.

“Now look here, baby,” Indy says as he exaggeratedly widens his eyes.  “You’ll do what you’re told, see?  When I _say_ cure light wounds, I _get_ cure light wounds.”  

“Oh, I don’t mean cure your wounds,” Kyreel says, picking up Indy’s arm, revealing a rat-bite.  “I meant, _the curse_.”

“Curse!” Indy exclaims.

“Lycanthropy.  You probably have it.”

“No!  Not me! Not . . . _Sweet Ratik Indy_!”

“And you’d better learn to like eating human flesh, Indy, because I don’t remove curses from pimps, revolutionaries or pirates.”

“Human . . .flesh?”

“Wererats eat the privates first, Indy.”

“Eeew!”

“If you promise to cut out this pretending nonsense, I will remove your curse.  But you must promise.”

After a moment of thought, as Indy scans the crotches of all the fallen wererats with a grimace on his face, he agrees.  Kyreel also wrestles out of him a promise to abandon any notion of a romance between Lady Evaliegh and himself, and despite his most fervent wishes, he does so.


----------



## byxbee

> * But Kyreel was just voted The Wrong Cleric To F--k With by the Monsters Union Local 35 *






> *Divine might makes right most of the time, after all.*





(giggles). Lines like this make your story hour rock!


----------



## (contact)

*36—Voices Under the Stairs*

Satisfied that she has put a stop to Indy’s ridiculous imagination, Kyreel looks about her and ponders her situation.  Killing wretched humanoids in an abandoned warehouse is one thing, but these wererats all lead lives as Marner citizens.  Convinced that she can turn to Marner’s religious community, she and Indy bundle one of the dead wererats, and trundle off to the Temple of Pelor, and beg an audience with the High Priest Forgrimm.

Pleasantries are exchanged, _divinations_ are cast (on the corpses as well as those who brought them), and the High Priest agrees to speak with Shella on Kyreel and Indy’s behalf.  The Sun’s Blessed are intrigued by Kyreel’s description of the Goddess Ishlok, and suggest that she speak with Heironeous’ Champion Alein, a woman who, like Kyreel, has dedicated her entire life to the service of Order and Goodness.  Alein, the high priest assures them, would love to become involved with the sorts of investigations Kyreel and Indy are undertaking.   Indy sneaks away and steals food from Pelor’s kitchens, as Kyreel and the high priest talk long into the evening.

As the duo are traveling to the Southspur district, looking for Heironeous’ shrine, they hear a startled yelp, and a half-grunt half-scream coming from up ahead.  Charging forward, they stumble into a bank of rapidly spreading mist that covers first their boot-tops, then their legs, and then obscures their vision altogether.

Indy grabs Kyreel’s arm, slowing her charge, and cocks his head for a listen.  He whispers, “Someone is fighting behind the building.  I’ll go up to the roof!”

Kyreel feels her way to the back of the building and tries to home in on the sounds, now quite muffled, of two men grunting under some strain.

“Kyreel!  Cream ‘em!” Indy yells from his vantage point above the mist.  “They’ve got a body in a bag!”

Kyreel helpfully complies, silently thanking Ishlok that Indy didn’t say, “now, bitch!”

The fight is more of a mugging than a combat, and after some frenzied hand-to-hand fighting, Kyreel and Indy are standing over the bundle the three suddenly-deceased individuals were trying to make off with.  The bundle looks suspiciously like a body, either dead or alive.

Fortunately, the body in the bag proves to be quite alive, and is none other than the acolyte to Valor’s Champion Alein.  The frightened acolyte tells the adventurers that Alein went missing last night, and just as he was getting ready to go looking for her, these two ruffians jumped him outside the shrine.

The acolyte recognizes one of the dead men as being an attendant at the Reality Wrinkle Bookstore, a queer little shop specializing in Arcana and magical obscurities.  In fact, he and Valor’s Champion Alein had just been there a few weeks ago looking into a murder.

“I’ll give ‘em a murder to look into!” Indy mutters to himself, as he rubs the bite-wound one of the crazed kidnappers gave him.  “Let’s go Ky . . . er, Leeryk!”

The Reality Wrinkle Bookstore is more than a queer little bookstore specializing in Arcana.  It is, in fact a Queer Little Bookstore specializing in Arcana.  Indy and Kyreel saunter in and swiftly find themselves in possession of Queer Little headaches, starting just behind the eyes, and stabbing backwards into the skull.  Everything seems Out of Place, and while the dusty shelves and discordant stacks of books are entirely appropriate for a bookstore specializing in Arcana, this dust seems both more and less than just dust, and the piles of books look exactly like the sorts of piles of books Foul Creatures might want to hide behind.

“I don’t like it here one bit,” Indy mutters as the duo approach an old man sitting at the service-desk.

“You there.  We need to ask you a few questions, in the name of the Law,” Kyreel begins with all her characteristic subtlety.  “I am going to cast a spell to divine truth from lies in what you say, so do not . . .”

The paladin is cut off as the man dashes past her and behind a curtain, without a word.

“Sonofa . . .” Indy shouts as he rips his spear from its peace-pouch.  “Get him!”

As the two charge behind the curtain, they are struck with a wave of dizziness, as the angles joining things seem just a touch impossible in the Reality Wrinkle’s back room.  A foul gibbering emanates from behind a door underneath a set of stairs leading to the building’s second floor.  

Kyreel throws the door open, and is accosted by an amorphous blob of mouths and eyes that oozes over itself subsuming its horrific features, only to reveal new ones as it rolls onto the shocked paladin.

Indy covers his ears against the nonsensical howling and gibbering emanating from the thing, as its un-worldly muttering worms its way into the panic centers of his brain.

Fortunately, the monster is just as vulnerable to a Holy Smite as the next hideous aberration from an utterly alien dimension, and Kyreel is able to fight it off, suffering only a disgusting series of red welts where the thing was biting her.

“You know, they pay extra for . . .” Indy begins, but trails off in the face of Kyreel’s withering glance.

“While you were cowering,” she begins, “I heard foot-falls above us.  Whatever this thing is, its wailing set this entire building into motion.  Let us be on our guard.”

Unfortunately for the heroes, the old man at the front isn’t the only utterly mad neo-cultist in the Reality Wrinkle, and dashing up the stairs, our heroes quickly become trapped in a sticky quagmire of a battle, as a half-dozen madmen (and madwomen) attack them with weapons and spells, while a willowy figure dressed entirely in red and wearing a festival-mask phases in and out of an _invisible_ state and _summons_ several hideous giant lamprey-like monstrosities.

Indy shouts “That’s it, we’re done for!” on no less than two occasions, and if Luck hadn’t been on the side of the heroes, they surely would have been.

But in the end, the blood staining their clothes isn’t their last, and Indy and Kyreel survey the carnage in the bookstore.  With their foes defeated, Kyreel attempts to wrest from the dying masked woman what the group’s purpose was.

“The Gate to the End of All Things will open and swallow us into its embrace as its chosen . . .” is her croaking reply.

“Oh, great, another cult to entropy,” Indy says.  “Like we need this right now.”

“Nonsense, Indianichus.  This is no religion.  This is, rather _was_, a sort of home for the criminally insane, but I think we’ve put a stop to their nefarious plans.”

And so, for a time, do all the citizens of Marner.


----------



## Victim

I see that the code names and disguises are working well.


----------



## Krellic

Great and epic stuff, though the Greyhawk pair seems slightly less on the epic side, at least so far.  Heaven forbid Indy should take on the profession of epic hero...


----------



## Dawn

Excellent posts.  Keep it coming!


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## (contact)

Thanks, folks.  I appreciate the comments and encouragement!

I like the juxtoposition of Epic plots and meta-plotting with gritty low-fantasy detail at the session-to-session level.  It's just cool to me when Taran wakes up with a hangover or sore sword-arm in the dungeon where he's trying to return the very constellation of his Goddess back to the heavens.

So the story is epic, but the characters haven't figured out how important they really are yet.  They don't know they are (insert fanfare) capital-H heroes.

_Except for Indy._ 

There is always a fanfare playing for Indy in his own mind.  His romantic worldview is comedic relief, and makes him a clown, but in the end-- he'll be right!  His worldview will be the one with the most truth to it, because it will stand the test of time!

Thelbar is kind of inscrutable, but I believe that he is primarily a problem-solver and really quite humble.  He understands that his life is not like the lives of others, and his reluctance to form emotional bonds with non-adventurers stems from his past-life memories (our 2nd edition campaign, to be specific), rather than (as it would appear) elitism.

Taran, on the other hand, is _extremely_ self-entitled (or sword-entitled!) and violent.  He's a man that would be in prison in our real world, but in a world with four-armed giant carnivorous apes and even worse monsters, he's your favorite guy to have around.  ("Hey, welcome to Sherrybrook.  Glad you're here and please don't kill anybody!")  But Taran's nature is present-focused.  His emotional and mental scope does not really reach beyond the moment, which makes him a deadly combatant, and a lousy king.  (Again-- that is a remnant of these character's 2e past-lives emerging.)

Kyreel is a holy woman, and well-suited for an epic story, but she subsumes herself within her faith and devotion.  Kyreel doesn't realize that _it really is about her_.

Indy is the only one who gets that fundamental truth, despite the fact (or  maybe because!) he is the clown.

Play on, playa.


----------



## (contact)

*37—Feasting is for the Good Guys, Villains just hatch plots over brunch.*

For the first time in their young adventuring careers (and hopefully not the last), Kyreel and Indy receive invitations to a party to be held in their honor by the Mercantile Council of Marner.  Unfortunately, Lady Evaliegh is unable to attend, but she sends her younger sister Sherrill in her stead, and the evening is spent lauding the heroes efforts to keep Marner a Safe and Prosperous place, despite the workings of rat-men and this bizarre cult.  Several of the merchants that were rescued from the deprivations of the wererats give speeches, and re-tell the story of the marketplace fight.

At the climax of the genial feast, the Lady Sherrill presents both Indy and Kyreel with amethyst stones set into gold chains, with the inscription “For Services Rendered to Marner and All Her Citizens, the Gratitude of Ratik”.

As the older folk return to their warm homes, and the younger folk begin the serious drinking, Indy and Kyreel excuse themselves, and start back toward their rented abode, hoping to get an early start on deciphering the Red Wizard’s spellbook in the morning.

_Of course, you don’t need three levels of Expert and six ranks in Knowledge (Meteorology) to know that a sudden ice storm can really kill your buzz._

Fortunately, it never ices over during Ratik’s brief summer.  

Unfortunately, an _ice storm_ spell still gets the job done.  

Indy and Kyreel are walking home, lost in their own thoughts when they are pelted with a withering cone of ice shards and frozen air, emanating from a dark alleyway to their right.

“This sucks!” Indy astutely yelps, as he tumbles free of the frozen hail.

“Indy, to arms!” Kyreel says, proving that she also, has a gift for stating the obvious.

The two adventurers charge into the alleyway, just in time to spot a large, blue skinned giant fleeing deeper into the alley.  A few missile attacks and a partial charge later, they are set upon by a trio of rogues leaping out from the shadows.

“Ambush!” Kyreel yells as she summons the Holy Might of Ishlok into her form.

“Death wish!” Indy clarifies, as he slips behind one of the rogues and ends the wretch’s villainous career at the point of his spear.

A vile cloud of clinging malaise manifests around the heroes, threatening to choke the life from the halfling as a cleric bearing the unholy symbol of Hextor appears at the end of an alleyway.

“Really good ambush!” Kyreel yells, and charges the cleric.

Indy sticks close to Kyreel’s side, and uses his slippers of _spider climbing_ and acrobatic skill to flank first one, then another of their shadowy foes.  Kyreel does her part, Smiting the cleric several times before he falls, the name of his wicked God on his lips.

The blue-skinned giant proves more than able to match Kyreel blow-for-blow, but cannot match her capability for healing magic, and the would-be ambush turns into a rout.

“This simply will not do,” Kyreel states.  “We have apparently been targeted for murder, and we don’t need a diviner to figure out that there is more wickedness plaguing Marner than we thought.  Let us rest, and we can investigate further in the morning.”

----------

Morning arrives, as it tends to do, but this morning is greeted with a herald’s cry—the citizens of Marner are to attend the Lady Evaliegh at high-sun for an announcement.

Indy and Kyreel are able to make their way through the gathered crowd in time to hear the Lady of Ratik deliver this pronouncement:

“Good people of Marner”, Evaliegh begins, her words slurred and wooden.  “I address you with a heavy heart, standing amid the chaos that plagues our home.  Fortunately, we are not without recourse.  I have called upon certain allies that can help us restore order to Marner.”

Standing just behind her this whole time is a hooded man, remaining completely still while the Lady drones her way through her speech.  If the creature’s hood bulges in places where no man has limbs, no one in the crowd takes notice, so shocked are they by Evaliegh’s words.

“The street fair is over,” the Lady of Ratik continues.  “The gates to the city will be closed.  No traffic is to enter or leave our city, upon punishment of death.”

“Who has an ‘overactive imagination’ now?” Indy thinks to himself, as he is already plotting a stirring new revolutionary tract.

The Lady Evaliegh continues.  “The carrying of weapons is banned, upon punishment of death.  A sundown curfew is in effect, upon punishment of death.  All these edicts are to take effect immediately.”

 As the final words are spoken, a strange figure appears atop the Keep—a humanoid, easily larger than any man, emaciated and skeletal with fiery red eyes, and a scorpion’s stinger protruding from its backside!  The creature seethes with malice, and seems to dim the sun’s light around itself.  A fiend to be sure.

“There’s a fiend on the tower!” Indy yelps.

“Not for long,” Kyreel says, as the duo leap into action.

Kyreel swiftly casts a series of protective spells over herself and her companion, warding them against Evil in the name of Ishlok.  Indy _spider climbs_ up the wall, and Kyreel sips a potion of the same name, recently taken from one of the failed ambushers.

Within seconds, the adventurers are upon the osyluth, and Kyreel Smites the fiend, while Indy delivers a telling sneak attack.  The osyluth screeches once in frustration, and lashes out.  It discovers that its foes are swift—its stinger fails to reach its target.  Indy and Kyreel do not give it a second chance, and dispatch the thing, flinging its body from the tower, in front of the assembled crowd.

Kyreel addresses the gathered townsfolk, who are staring mouths agape at the unimaginable scene unfolding before their eyes. 

 “People of Marner,” she begins.  “Dark winds are blowing, but we will not be cowed!  Entities of Evil are working among us—do not submit to their tyranny!  If we stand together we cannot fail!  Return to your homes, and protect your loved ones.  In the name of Ishlok the Guardian, I will not permit this wickedness to prosper!”

By the time she has finished with her speech, Indy has located the trap door leading into the castle itself.  The duo race inside, and are confronted on the second floor by a half-dozen hobgoblins, led by a particularly foul-looking half-orc.  After an initial flurry of blows drops three of the mercenaries, the survivors flee through a stairwell, with Indy and Kyreel hot on their heels.

In the main antechamber off of the balcony the Lady was speaking from, the hobgoblins have retreated into the arms of their reinforcements:  a wicked looking human warrior holds the leashes of several fiendish-looking great cats, and the shadowy figure attending the lady pulls back its hood, revealing a face full of squirming tentacles.

As the duo assess their foes, they are suddenly fixated by the hypnotically waving tentacles.  A mind-numbing wave of will washes over them, commanding them to submit to the new order.  The mental command emanates from the squid-faced figure, and only the grace of Ishlok grants the adventurers the meager comfort of their own determination.

Indy races up a side wall, around the charging hobgoblins, and attacks them from their rear.  Kyreel, for her part, lays into her foes, slowly grinding them down, but as the hobgoblins prove unable to face the adventurers in melee, the fiendish predators leap forward, cutting through the cleric’s armor, and rending the rogue.

Indy and Kyreel are forced back, and manage to take shelter in a doorway, forcing their foes to enter a killing zone as they bottleneck before the opening.  Their enemies hang back, and that provides an opportunity to slam and bar the door, as Kyreel invokes Ishlok’s Seven Holy Names to cure the duo’s wounds.

While she is _curing_, her enemies smash at the door, shattering its bar and reducing it to splinters.  But all their efforts have only brought them face-to-face with an unwounded pair of determined heroes, who wade back into the fray with deadly efficiency.  By now, Indy and Kyreel have learned to fight as a team, with Kyreel’s muscle setting up their foes for Indy’s oblique attacks.

In a matter of seconds, the tide has turned, the fiendish cats are dead, and the shadowy figure has fled the scene, leaving the Lady Evaliegh slumped on the ground, comatose.

But the heroes of Marner are not willing to count their victory won just yet, and they pursue the horrific creature up a second set of stairs, and out onto another tower-top.

The mind-flayer is nowhere to be seen, however, and the pursuit stops cold.

“Where the,” Indy begins but he is cut off by a terrifying wave of sheer malice that tears through his mind, and worms its way into the heart of him, suppressing his courage and readying his will.

The duo turn to find the mind-flayer hovering in mid-air ten feet from the edge of the tower, out over the assembled crowd.  A chill laughter resonates through the minds of the heroes as they regard the _levitating_ beast. 

“You will die here, know this much.” The thing seethes into their thoughts.  “I am as patient as a stream cutting through a mountain, and I will prevail.  Grovel before you die, you flesh-bound thought cattle.”

Kyreel makes a small noise in the base of her throat that rises in volume to become a hoarse scream.  She charges the edge of the tower, and launches herself into space, directly at the mind-flayer.  She seizes hold of the abomination’s waist, and her weight is too much for it to bear.  The tentacled abomination and holy warrior plummet together toward the ground.


----------



## KidCthulhu

Flesh-bound thought cattle.  Nice image.


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## (contact)

*Interlude—A Loss, a Council and a Pardon.*

Indy rushes down the stairs and out into the noonday crowd, which has gathered at a cautious distance from the crumpled bodies of Kyreel and her illithid victim.   For the first time in this life, Indy breathes a sincere prayer to the Goddess Ishlok—asking Her to spare the life of his companion.  The fact that his prayer is primarily motivated by his selfish desire not to be left companionless in this world does not seem to deter the Mother, because as the last beseeching vowel is leaving his lips, Kyreel stirs.

“Indy,” she breathes.

“I’m here!  Goddess be praised, you’re . . .” Indy finishes his sentence with a high-pitched yelp as he notices the mind-flayer’s tentacles twitch.

Kyreel rolls away from the thing as Indy drives his spear into its bulbous and pulpy head.

“I’m well enough, thank you for asking,” Kyreel says as she _cures_ herself as best she can.  “Let us see to Evaleigh.”

“Gods and Shards!  My lady-love!  I must fly to her side Kyreel, to be embraced as the conquering hero!  Surely we can be united!”

Before Kyreel can protest, and attempt to hold Indy to his bargain, the diminutive rogue charges back into the lord’s tower, pushing thorough the crowds gathering around the door.  Indy leaps over the bleeding bodies of his recent foes and dashes to Evaliegh’s side!

“Oh, Joy, thy name is Love, and Love thy name is Evaliegh,” Indy says to himself as he regards the beautiful and blank-faced Lady who slumps where she was last seen.  And Evaliegh thy name is mind-wiped.  Nothing Indy can do is able to attract the attention of the Lady of Ratik.  She breathes and blinks and that is all.

Indy races downstairs, tears streaming from his face.  “Oh, Kyreel!” he squeaks.  “Whatever shall I do?  My Lady has had the better part of her taken by this . . .” he motions toward the mind-flayer corpse “this fiend!”

“Raped?” Kyreel asks.

“No, worse!  Her mind is gone.  Whatever shall I do?”

Kyreel attempts to heal the Lady, but cannot return the spark of intelligence to her eyes.  The clerics of Pelor can do no better, and despite their true status as heroes in Marner, Indy and Kyreel are downcast.

Kyreel determines that it is time to end her charade, and reveals to Sherrill her true form.  Over the next few days, Lady Sherrill takes Kyreel into her confidence, and the wise Paladin of Ishlok lovingly guides the trembling hand of the newly-made Lady of Ratik, easing her worries and pleasing her greatly.

Within a week, an announcement is made that the Ratik Five are to be given a complete pardon for all crimes known and unknown within the lands of Ratik.

Vindicated at last, Indy holds a finally tearful meeting with his cell of bardic revolutionaries, and formally disbands the revolution.  He explains that he has moved on, and they should do the same. 

“Now,” he thinks to himself, “there is nothing standing in between Evaliegh and I, or our hopes of marriage.  Save of course, for the whole completely without a conscious mind thing”.  Indy paces in the night, half-heartedly threatening female passersby with his jewel-studded cane.  “But her healthy return is beyond me.  Thelbar would know what to do, and if not, he could find someone who might.  It’s time to go back through that portal."


----------



## Dawn

And?

And?

It has been so long since we have had an update!


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## (contact)

*Chapter 38*

*38-Forest treasures, friends and foes.*

_*Previously*:  Having made contact with a High Priest of Labelas Enorath, Elven God of the Hunt, Taran and Thelbar learn about Labelas Enorath's disobedience.  The Elven Hunter God kept Palatin Eremath's stars hidden when they were to be destroyed, and has also kept her last temple from the eyes of mortal and God alike, in the Star Mountains, rising from the depths of the High Forest.  The duo have the Star of Palatin Eremath in their possession, won from the clutches of Undermountain, and travel to Her temple, to set her stars back into the night sky, and serve notice to the world that the Risen Goddess has returned to the affairs of mortal men._


Equipped with Elven trail-food and information, Taran, Thelbar, Juron and Glim take their leave of Labelas Enorath's high priest and journey north, resting for a time in Loudwater, before undertaking a wilderness trek to search for Palatin Eremath's sole remaining temple.

While in Loudwater, a frontier-town on the verge of the High Forest's untracked wilderness, they share dinner with an unlikely trio of dinner companions-elves dedicated to Corellon Larethian, wanderers like themselves, drawn to the region at the summons of their God.  Taran's sword-hand sweats and twitches as the dinner progresses, but the elves don't seem to realize that the humans they are chatting with are in fact the agents they have been sent to neutralize. 

The elves claim that the High Forest was once the center of a great elven empire, and at the direction of Corellon Larethian Himself is to be made into one again.  They share rumors about an ancient green dragon by the name of Eelacrimalicros, the primary (in their assessment) obstacle to an elven colony in the region.

The following morning, the group obtains the services of a local guide, said to know as much of the High Forest as anyone in town.  The man gives his name as Andruthar, but is quickly dubbed "Stinky" for his repugnant odor.

Stinky tells the party that many threats lie between them and their goal, hunting wyverns and manticores the least of them.  A band of giants calling themselves a kingdom prowls the forest, organized under the rulership of King Kovas, the Fire Tyrant.  Thelbar assures Stinky that should they encounter giants, of course the group will act with all necessary caution.  Taran laughs under his breath and makes the Ishlokian gesture for _Tsun_-- ritual murder.  Stinky understands the gist of the sign, if not its meaning, and frowns darkly.

The next morning, the band sets off, and Taran and Stinky engage in a bickering rivalry about woodscraft and trackers-lore.  Juron makes an attempt at levity, asking how many rangers does it take to track a bear, but the scowl he receives for his trouble makes him drop the punch-line.

After half a day's journey, the way becomes so rough, that not even the most hardy among them have the energy for joking.  It is hard going, and even with an experienced guide, the group is forced to backtrack on numerous occasions.

Two days into their slow ascent to the Star Mounts, the group encounters a centaur, who knows Stinky well, and uses his proper name (which by this time Taran has forgotten).   The centaur takes the measure of the group with a few pointed questions, and liking what he hears, invites them to join him in his community.

But to the surprise of everyone, his "community" proves not to be a centaur clan, but a well-camouflaged village of dark elves, nestled within a massive old-growth grove!  The party's experience with good-aligned drow in Undermountain, along with the doctrines of Palatin Eremath have prepared them well for such a strange sight, and without any sign of hostility or fear, the Champions of the Risen Goddess approach the shy elves.

The village elders receive the outsiders with open arms, feasting them in the elvish fashion, and proving that they cling more closely to ancient tradition than do even some groups of surface elves.  They identify themselves as House Drelar Daergeth, and call themselves "moon elves".  It is no coincidence that these elves live in this most ancient of Faerunian forests, and they claim to keep the true old ways.

In ancient times, they tell the group, there were moon elves and sun elves-night and day but not evil and good.  Lolth was a goddess of the moon elves, and when she lost the war, her followers were banished along with her.  But this clan did not venerate Lolth, and remained here in their ancestral home, unwelcome amongst their kin, and unseen by other races.

The elders are intrigued by Thelbar's explanation of Palatin Eremath, and tell the group that they are aware of a structure that fits the description of the Risen Goddess' former temple.  They also say that terrible things live there, flying sorcerers and fiends.  Worse yet (or best yet, if you're Taran), the most direct route to the valley that shelters the temple is through the home of the fire giant king Kovas.

Stinky appears terrified at this news, then simply panicked at the look in Taran's eyes.  Thelbar speaks calmly, soothing the scout.  "Don't worry, Andruthar," Thelbar coos.  "We don't expect you to beard Kovas in his lair.  Lead us to him, and we will pay you twice what was agreed.  Then you will be free to go about your way."

Stinky squints at Thelbar.  "And what are _you_ going to do?  March through the halls of the fire giant king?  He will never grant you passage.  As long as there are giants alive in there, they'll resist you."

"Yeah," Taran says, pulling his chair close to Stinky, and grinning ear to ear.  "That's the plan."


----------



## Krellic

A thread called 'The Risen Goddess' - hang on that sounds familiar.  Oh THAT Risen Goddess, blimey I'd evenb forgotten that I was missing my fix! 

Hope the next update comes soon!


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## coyote6

Presenting, the "Where's the update?" Bump!

We know from the Liberation of Tenh thread that y'all played again, so we're waiting . . .


----------



## (contact)

*Interlude*

The group spends several days at the elven camp, preparing themselves for the journey ahead, and relaxing with the clan.  Taran spends most of his time in the company of a young, beautiful elf, much to the delight of Juron and Glim, who tease him unmercifully.

For all his battle prowess, Taran is still a young man, and that is never more evident than when he blushingly stammers a half-hearted explanation of where he has spent his morning.

“Hey, lookit,” Juron says.  “It’s Taran Tar Ilou, the famous adventurer.  You been out exploring you some drow caves, killer?” Juron says.

“Been wrestling a dragon, have you?” Glim chimes in.  “Taming the downy tiger?”

“The fearless explorer,” Juron says, as both men laugh.

“Aw, hell, you guys . . . I’ve been learning local plant lore,” Taran mutters.

“Yeah, I bet you have!” Glim laughs.

“Have you learned which plants not to roll around in, yet?” Juron asks.

“I bet he got poison oak on his snake,” Glim says.

“Yeah, Taran.  Did you show her your _familiar_?”


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## Piratecat

I'm taming the downy tiger right now, if you know what I mean - and I think you do!


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## (contact)

You have a very understanding tiger if she lets you browse the board while you . . .

Of course, this _is_ the Risen Goddess thread, so I'm sure she understands.


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## (contact)

*39-My can of whup-ass says 'haste' on it.*

The group spends several days at the elven camp, preparing themselves for the journey ahead, and relaxing with the clan.  Taran spends most of his time in the company of a young, beautiful elf, much to the delight of Juron and Glim, who tease him unmercifully.

For all his battle prowess, Taran is still a young man, and that is never more evident than when he blushingly stammers a half-hearted explanation of where he has spent his morning.

"Hey, lookit," Juron says.  "It's Taran Tar Ilou, the famous adventurer.  You been out exploring you some drow caves, killer?" Juron says.

"Been wrestling a dragon, have you?" Glim chimes in.  "Taming the downy tiger?"

"The fearless conqueror," Juron says, as both men laugh.

"Aw, hell, you guys . . . I've been learning local plant lore," Taran mutters.

"Yeah, I bet you have!" Glim laughs.

"Have you learned which plants _not_ to roll around in, yet?" Juron asks.

"I bet he got poison oak on his snake," Glim says.

"Yeah, Taran.  Did you show her your _familiar_?"

But the group cannot stay in the village for long, and after a few days of sunshine, fresh air and hearty food, the group is ready to approach the lair of the fire giants.

During their journey Taran and Stinky's relationship, tenuous to begin with, deteriorates in proportion with Juron and Glim's teasing.  Taran berates Stinky for every failure, real or imagined, and the two almost come to blows on several occasions.  

During one of their arguments, Taran is chastising Stinky for what he calls "damned lazy pathfinding", when Stinky turns and runs away from Taran at top speed.  Taran starts to protest, but when he sees Thelbar reaching into his spell-component satchel and Juron and Glim drawing weapons, he turns and notices what they are reacting to:  the heads of four surprised fire giants loom over the tree-line, looking down on the human heroes.

"In the name of Kovas, Ravager of the North" one of them bellows, "I sentence you to . . ."

He was probably going to say "death", but Thelbar's _feeblemind_ spell cut his sentence short, and instead of threats, a long string of fire-giant drool runs down his chin.  

The three fighters target a second giant with a volley of missile fire, their arrows coated with drow poison (liberated from Undermountain), which takes almost instant effect, causing the giant to double over, then drift into a noisy sleep.

The two remaining giants fling rocks at Thelbar, but fortunately, their stones cannot pierce his _protection from arrows_ effect, and as Thel gets up from where he was knocked prone, Taran charges the nearest giant at full speed, howling wildly.

The giant swipes at Taran with his huge greatsword, and nearly cuts the young fighter in two, but Taran responds with a devastating blow of his own-striking the giant and severing tendons in the hip, hobbling it.  But Taran's exultant cry is cut short as the giant counterattacks, and strikes Taran such a powerful blow that the pugnacious youth is lifted off his feet, and sent flying backwards into the upper branches of a nearby tree!

The second giant charges Thelbar, overrunning Juron and Glim, only to run headlong into a _color spray_, which dazes the brute long enough for a second _chain lightning_ to arc from giant to giant, singing their skin and producing a unique odor reminiscent of Baklunish cooking.  

The stunned and singed giant stumbles backwards, directly under the branch that Taran is lying on.  Taran leaps from the tree, and buries his sword into the giant's neck, ending its life.

A second _feeblemind_ renders the last active giant into a simple-minded state, and both _feebleminded_ giants converge on their sleeping friend, wanting to run, but reluctant to leave him.

Their misplaced loyalty soon becomes their last act, as the group fires volley after volley of arrows into the remaining giants, slowly wearing them down until all four giants lie dead.

"Oh, sh-t," Taran says and passes out from his wounds.

After receiving _healing_ from Thelbar, Taran retakes his feet, just as Stinky is slowly returning to the battle ground.  Taran favors the malodorous scout with a rare grin, and tussles Stinky's hair.

"You see," Taran says.  "We're going to be _just fine_."  He puts his hands on his hips and looks around, taking in a deep breath of the mountain air.  "We must be close to their lair."

Stinky leads the group for the remainder of the afternoon, helping them navigate a treacherous mountain-face until they were within sight of a large cave, some thirty feet in width, and arcing to a height of twelve feet at its apex.  The cave opening itself spills out onto a narrow lip abutting a steep cliff-face.

As Thelbar counts platinum coins into Stinky's grubby hands, Taran and Glim examine the cave opening, and debate the best possible angle for approach.  Stinky stands near the arguing duo for a few minutes, with his coin purse still in his hands, waiting for a goodbye.  But after a few moments, when it becomes apparent that none is forthcoming, Stinky turns and disappears into the surrounding woods.

--------------------

While Thelbar inventories his remaining spells and material components, the three fighters decide on a means to access the cave-Taran will fly into the cave mouth, and as stealthily as possible set ropes for an assisted climb of the cliff face.  Ideally, they will not need to use these lines as a retreat, but in such a case, Juron helps Taran rig the lines for a free-falling rappel, should Thelbar and his _teleport_ (the party's exit-strategy du jour), fall in battle.

Just inside the cave opening, the passage is revealed as a worked hallway, some twenty feet in width, and thirty feet high.  The group is taking stock of this environment, and preparing themselves for a lightless dungeon crawl when a pack of heavily armored trolls break out of side passages, and charge the group!

Taran, Juron and Glim lay into their foes, and Thelbar unleashes a _chain lightning_ that puts the rubbery giants onto their heels.  After a few pleasantries are exchanged, all the trolls lie in pieces, and the sounds of their battle can be heard echoing down the long corridor.  From far away, the sounds of yelling in giantish and the loud tang of metal on metal drifts back toward the party.  The fighters hastily gather the troll corpses, and immolate them with alchemical flame.

Thelbar pours wine from his skin into the basin of Taran's shield, and _scrys_ the fire giant king.   A misty scene appears on the surface of the water-a huge throne room hollowed from the living rock is occupied by a round score of fire giants and trolls scurrying into defensive positions facing the wide corridor that enters the room opposite the throne.  One giant in particular seems to be in charge.  A large beast, even by giantish standards, his thick black beard is woven with fineries, and his ruddy reddish skin turns purple as he shouts commands.  King Kovas, the Fire Tyrant, Ravager of the North.

"Well?" Taran asks.

"He is near.  It is his voice that we hear." Thelbar says.

"And how does he seem?"

"He doesn't even look concerned." 

Taran pauses and rubs his beard, grinning through his hand. "Perfect."


----------



## (contact)

*40--Blood and blood, fire and fire.*

The group is made _invisible_, and moves toward the end of the long hall.  As they near the L-shaped turn, the sounds of giant voices become more audible.  A pack of trolls, led on a leash by a fur-draped fire giant emerge from around the corner and begin searching the hallway, sniffing the ground like bloodhounds.

Taran is in the forward position, and before the trolls can pinpoint his scent, he charges into them, slicing rubbery flesh from bone.

Juron and Glim open fire with arrows on the fire giant troll-handler, and force it back around the bend.

A chorus of shouts and yells come from the great hall, but no fire giants expose themselves.

After the trolls are dealt with, Taran creeps ahead stealthily, and reports that the giants have taken defensive positions throughout the hall, and refuse to be drawn out.  In his opinion, their position is unassailable.

But victory can be measured by many conditions, and the group determines to exhaust Thelbar's spell cache before retreating.  Taran, Juron and Glim hold to the hallway and exchange missile fire with the main giant force while Thelbar singles out King Kovas for a _feeblemind_ spell.

The fighting drags on, with the giants committing their forces slowly, unwilling to draw together in groups vulnerable to spell attack.  Eventually, however, the coal-skinned giant King signals a general advance, and moves to within spell range.

In an instant, the Ravager of the North is reduced to a squalling mental infancy, an event that has a ripple effect across his forces.  The giant's morale breaks with an almost audible sound, and if the Champions of the Risen goddess had more fight in them, a full fledged retreat would have ensued.

But the heroes are themselves weakened, and determine that they must leave, to live and fight another day.  One _teleport_ later, and they are in their base camp two days march from the giant's lair, a full day and a half ahead of Stinky's retreat.

"Hey, look, Juron-your whetstone," Taran says.

"I thought I left it here," Juron says.

"You dumb drunk bastard," Glim says.  "You'd forget your dick if you weren't holding it all the time.  Who's wounded?" 

The next morning, Thelbar _scrys_ Kovas.  The fire giant king is curled up on the floor of a great stone room, while a massive female giant feeds him soup, depositing more on her king's beard than in his mouth.

Thelbar rises from his _scrying_.  "Taran, come with me.  Juron and Glim, you will wait here.  If we do not return in one day's time, you are to assume that we are lost."

And with that pronouncement still hanging in the air, Thelbar _teleports_ himself and Taran into the chamber of the fire giant king.

His nursemaid looks up quizzically at the pop of air signaling the heroes arrival.  Her expression turns to rage, then a slack-jawed confusion as Thelbar removes her intellect from her possession with a practiced ease.

The two infantile giants scurry away from their diminutive attackers, and make easy prey for a pair of _hold monster_ spells.  With their struggles ceased, Taran makes quick and bloody work of the two formerly ferocious terrors of the Crystalmist mountains.

True to form, the room contains a secret chamber, and within the chamber are the fire giant king's wealth and valuable possessions.  The duo quickly sorts through the mess, taking everything of note, and within ten minutes of their arrival are back at their camp, dumping piles of treasure at the feet of the astounded men-at-arms.

"Well, fellas," Taran says.  "You're rich again.  What do you know about that?"

--------------------

The next morning, Thelbar _scrys_ one of the giants who survived the party's first assault, and discovers that Kovas' "Kingdom" is in dissaray.  The fire giants have scattered, and are in full flight, either alone or in small groups.  Thelbar watches, satisfied, for a few moments before _teleporting_ himself and the fighters directly before one of the fleeing giants.

"You there!" Thelbar shouts at him in his best Giantish.  Thelbar looks into the eyes of the startled coal-skinned terror.  The brute is fully fifteen feet tall, his braid hastily wound around a wire latticework, and his armor is half-buckled.  Thelbar speaks softly, almost cooing to the giant as his eyes hold the creature's attention.  "Attend me."

The giant pauses, and furrows its brow as it slowly realizes what (and who) stands in front of it.

"What is your name?"  Thelbar asks softly.

"Axhell," the giant says, then adds "Scourge of the Mountain Pass, and Terror of the . . ." before he has a chance to think about it.  The giant looks from Thelbar cool expression to Taran's scowling glare, and grows silent.

I will call you Axhell," Thelbar says.  "Why do your people flee?"

"Because you have stolen the sun from our eyes, Terrible One.  Your curse killed the greatest among us, our King, and we tremble before you."  The giant casts its eyes to the ground, and bends a knee.

"Feh," Taran says, and spits on the ground as he walks away from the giant.

"Axhell, we require a guide through your mountain home.  We intend to pass through and make for the crystal mountain.  You may guide us, or you may join your King."

"I will serve, Terrible One," Axhell says.  "I ask only that my service, once rendered, is sufficient to keep your gaze far from me."

"Ishlok's Holy Name, Thel," Taran says, "Just put the poor son of a bitch in the front of the marching order, and be done with it!"  Taran turns to Juron and Glim.  "He does this to chafe my hide.  He knows I can't stand it when giants grovel."


----------



## (contact)

> Incognito said:
> *(I want) favored status in getting lazy-ass (contact) to update his other story hour "The Risen Goddess." A tale by which the mass murderer Taran, and his contemplative brother Thelbar bring light and life back to the world in the form of thier rediscovered goddess Ishok.*




Mass-murderer Taran!?

Gee, I didn't know anyone was still reading this one.


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## thatdarncat

(contact) said:
			
		

> *Gee, I didn't know anyone was still reading this one. *




We're still around


----------



## (contact)

For incognito and thatdarncat,


*41—Dead and back again.*

The journey through the remains of the Fire Giants' “Kingdom” is a brief affair.  The place looks like a whirlwind of fleeing giants rampaged through it, because of course, they did.

A passage within the giants' kingdom burrows straight through the mountainside, a titanic highway that somehow seems ancient and new at the same time.  At the end of the passage, it opens into a large cavern, containing a freshwater pool and the skeleton of a massive dragon.  The skeleton is curled into a ball, but must have been a real terror when it was alive—surely at least one hundred feet in length.  The party feels a moment’s dread when Taran mentions stories he has heard of undead dragons, wielding arch-magic destroying entire nations.  But the skeleton is inert, a passing testament to power, and nothing more.

The group approaches the skeleton, and begins to look for hidden exits from this chamber—certainly the dragon must have gotten in here somehow.  Thelbar reasons that the waterway must feed out onto the surface, and begins formulating some means to travel through the underground river.

Taran’s back is to the skeleton when the dragon emerges.

A snaky green-scaled head juts forth from the ribcage, and belches a noxious spew, enveloping Taran in a cloud of acidic fog.  The bull-necked fighter cries out, and Juron and Glim rush to his side, as Thelbar readies his spell components.

As the dragon is slipping out from inside the skeletal ribcage, Thelbar strikes the beast with a _feeblemind_ spell— Thelbar’s enchantment seems to take effect, as the titanic serpent flares its wings and  changes course, then knocks Thelbar onto his back with a swipe from its tail.  Taran is back on his feet, and sinks several sword thrusts into the creature’s side, but as he does so, he brings himself within range of the dragon’s claws, and in a sudden flash of blood and pain Taran's soul is severed from his mangled body, and his limp form flops to the ground.

Axhell proves that while he might grovel, he is no coward, and the fire giant steps over the body of Taran with a great shout, cleaving into the dragon with his huge battle-axe.  Juron and Glim also pepper the beast with missile fire, and after a moment, Thelbar is back on his feet, and with a spell sends arcs of electricity coursing through the serpentine form.

The _feebleminded_ dragon has enough sense to know when it is outmatched, and after a failed attempt to drag his victim’s body underwater with it, the creature slips beneath the surface and disappears.

Thelbar commands Axhell to retrieve Taran’s body, and the group retreats back along the great passage.  They make a campsite within the former Fire Giant Kingdom, and Thelbar prepares his brother’s body for ressurection.

The next morning, Thelbar invokes the Goddess Ishlok, and begs her humbly to deny this, her servant, his _pasoun_; to give him back to this life, that he may continue to serve Her worthy cause.  The gem recovered from Undermountain pulses with a holy light, and as Thelbar reads a _raise dead_ spell over the corpse, the gem throbs softly.  After a moment, Taran sits up and reflexively reaches for his sword.

“Gods above, what was that?” Taran mutters.

“A fearsome beast,” Axhell states in his booming voice.  “Known to us as the Spawn of Night's Terror, and Scion of Mayhem.  It is the Guardian of the Western Way, an ally of my people since before my birth, and even before the crowning of our Great King Kovas the Ravager, known to us as th . . .” 

“You mean to tell me you knew there was a f---ing dragon in that cave, and you didn’t tell us?” Taran says, reaching for his sword for real.

“I was deceived.  I believed that the corpse was the Guardian, and did not wish to speak out of place.”

“It matters little,” Thelbar whispers, placing a hand on Taran's brow.  “We hurt it severely, and I have hidden its mind from itself.  Tomorrow, we will take its head as well.  For now, rest, brother.  After all, it’s not every day that you can die and live to tell about it.”

The next day, Thelbar is proved right.  The dragon still lurks within the skeleton of its ancestor, and even in its wounded state has not the sense to remain in hiding.  The party is fully prepared this time, and after a few exchanges, the dragon lies dead.  Taran hacks at its neck with an obsessive ferocity, refusing all assistance until he has severed its head from its body, at which point Thelbar smiles, noting the color finally returning to his brother’s cheeks.  

The dragon’s treasure is kept in a hidden cave underneath the water, and Thelbar summons a group of formians to remove and count the loot.  With water breathing spells prepared, the group is able to determine that the underwater passage is short, and opens into a fertile valley, bordered on all sides by tall peaks.

At this point, Thelbar dismisses Axhell, thanking him for his assistance, and promising that he will never again be troubled by the Terrible One.  The giant takes his leave, wishing long life and many victories upon the group as he goes.

Once Axhell is gone, Thelbar turns to Juron and Glim.  “You are wealthy again,” he says, “and have more than repaid any debt you may have to me.  Where Taran and I go, you may not follow, but I give you this choice:  I will return you to Mistledale, where you may come into our service, or I will return you to Waterdeep, where you may pursue your own path.”

After a moment’s reflection wherein they mentally count the gold they’ve obtained in their short tour of duty with the Champions of the Risen Goddess, both Juron and Glim state that they intend to live out their days as the richest foot-soldiers this side of Amn, in the service of the brothers Tar-Ilou.  A pair of _teleport_ spells later, they are relaxing within Thelbar and Taran’s home in Mistledale, while the brothers prepare to ascend the crystal peaks, in search of the last and only temple to the Fallen Goddess of the Elves.


----------



## Vargo

Here's one more person still reading this story hour (contact) - I just find bumping rather tasteless myself.


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## wolff96

Hey, I'm still reading it too...

Of course, I only come by when it's been updated, but...


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## incognito

(contact) could write a story hour called "The obsevations of two blades of grass as the liberators of Tenh tread on them" and I would STILL give it a once over.  I simply like his style and humor.

Characters like Indy make story hours worth while.  By blithely insisting the PCs ARE heores, it makes it easier to juxtapose the day to day hack, with roleplaying goodness.  I'll not soon forget Indy crying over his new halfling proportions when reincarnated.

PS: Vognu as a psuedodraon with a toad's personality: brilliant!

I assume (contact) that you are caught up to present day, then?


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## (contact)

Oh, not even close, I'm just being lazy about updating.

Indy is the classic trickster figure, a clown who tells the real truth.  He is also a crafty player's way to undermine the entire meta-plot by turning the "lynchpin" characters into the straight-men for a comedy scene that's only funny from a meta-game perspective.

Does that make sense?

Gorquen is a high-minded, grand old knight, but when she's adventuring with Indy, she becomes the foil for dick jokes.  Kyreel is the faithful holy warrior and woman of vision, but with Indy she's the foil for pimp jokes.  Indy is the only one of the PCs who acts like "_we are the only people in existance_", which is of course a meta-game truth.  There's only four real characters in the whole game, but only Indy behaves like he knows that.


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## incognito

I think what makes Indy so special in his role as the trickster though, is the uncanny ability not to derail the story completely, and turn the campaign into a farce.  This may be due to some masterful GMing, or it maybe Indy's player knowing when enough is enough.

Although physically much different, I played a character who had a very similar personality to Indy, named "Solomon Grundy."  He was a big meaty guy, built to withstand a lot of punishment (hard to damage, etc, etc).  Instead of being the tough combat guy, however, he had this crafty, sneaky streak, which often failed utterly. If you can imagine an 8 or 9 foot tall, 500lb tank trying to hide beind water coolers, or talk his way past security - with a french maids outfit on - trying to pass himself off as the cleaning service, you get a clear picture of what his deal was.

God I miss that character...

And I miss Indy too -  get this story hour back online, or I will be forced to compliment you in other threads, making the other writer's angrily accuse me of hijacking thier Story Hours!


----------



## (contact)

*Chapter 41*

*41—All Things Known and Unknown Bow Before Time.*

Thelbar and Taran stand within the mountain valley, marveling at the sight before them.  To the south, directly above the passage from Kovas’ kingdom, the mountain peaks give way to an unworldly structure of worked crystal.  Parapets and towers rise from the mountain face, buttressing huge landings and gardens, the whole of it reflecting the afternoon light into a thousand star-like beams.  Several winged serpents cruise the skys, drifting in lazy circles on the thermal currents high above the ground.

Thelbar fixes one of the landings with his _eyes of the eagle_, and _teleports_ the duo to the spot.  Within seconds of their arrival, one of the winged creatures dives toward them, and the heroes spot a rider on its back, leveling a crossbow.  Taran fires arrows into the beast, and Thelbar blasts it with a _disintegrate_ spell, sending its rider crashing to the rocks far below.

Thelbar gets a glimpse of the rider as he whistles past the duo on his Icarus descent—an elf to be sure, but a pair of vestigal wings sprouting from his back along with thick gray scales covering his skin bespeaks a fiendish ancestry.  As the demonic figure bounces from the rocks below, another rider dives from out of the midday sun and places a horn to his lips.

“Now this really pisses me off,” Taran says, as he removes Black Lisa from her sheath.  “Tell me why in all the Hells known to man would you have multiple guards flying an equidistant patrol pattern over a lost temple that’s _already_ in the center of a gods-cursed hidden valley, _the only passage into which is guarded by Fire Giants and a dragon_?”

Thelbar regards his brother’s outburst with a silent expression.

“Oh yeah,” Taran says.  “Magic.”  The burly ranger tightens the straps on his haversack.  “The sons of bitches knew we were coming.”  An answering horn-call comes from within the archway facing onto the terrace the heroes are standing on.  Taran looks at the archway.  “Won’t save ‘em.”

Taran and Thelbar move across the terrace, and through an archway cut into the mountain face, weapons at the ready.  They pass thirty feet down a wide, low-ceilinged passage, and are met by several scrambling fiendish elves at the entrance to a larger cavern.  Taran steps into their charge, and strikes one of them dead with a single blow, slowing down the charge of the group long enough for Thelbar to send a _chain lightning_ arcing through the assembled mass of elven warriors.

From the other end of the passage, a pair of wizards appear from thin air, and level tortured-looking scraps of wood at the brothers.  A pair of gut-wrenching globes of dimness burst in between Taran and Thelbar, and while Taran opens up a pocket for his brother against the press of demonic foes, Thelbar turns his attention to the wizards, first _dispelling_ their protective magics, then _feebleminding_ the stronger of the two.  Taran finishes the last of the warriors with emphasis, literally obliterating the creature’s upper third with a single mighty swipe of Black Lisa.

After the second mage _teleports_ away, the brothers are alone in the corridor with the bodies of their enemies.  From within the complex they can hear shouts and the noise of more elves moving toward them at a run, and from the outside, the screeches of several more wyverns ring through the air.

“Hold still, brother,” Thelbar says as he also calls upon the _teleport_ spell to pull them to a place of safety.  It is just now growing dusk in Mistledale, and the streets are empty.

Taran touches the familiar wood of his own front doorway.  “That was . . . ” he begins, then falters.

“Not entirely unexpected, eh?” Thelbar finishes.  “But did you mark their lack of religious regalia, brother?  Interesting, is it not?  It seems to me that fiendish elves living within the former temple to a dead goddess should have some sort of religious foci to their society, hm?”

Taran squints at his brother.  “I’m pretty sure those were wizards, not clerics, Thel.”

Thelbar stares at Taran for a moment, then smiles.  “So they were.”

Juron and Glim are raised from their slumber, and put to work helping Taran stow his adventuring gear.  They have barely scraped the worst of the gore from the gaps in Taran’s armor when Juron notices a shadowy figure moving through the area just outside the window.

“Hey, Glim,” he begins, but is interrupted as Taran tears through the half-opened front door, splintering the wood, and begins laying about himself, Black Lisa making soft thapping sounds as she bites into the flesh of his foes.  Grey-scaled elves, their eyes seeming to give off a yellowish cast when seen in the half-light, begin to maneuver around Taran.  They work in tight formation, and attempt to hinder his mobility with polearms.

Juron and Glim snatch up weapons and join Taran, fighting knee-deep in a freshly planted herb and vegetable garden.  The combatants undo in a moment the patient work of a tenday and obliterate the garden, along with the imported decorative woodwork along the windowpanes.  Thelbar emerges from a second-story window, and _flies_ into the night, using his wands of fire and lightning to reveal and destroy any lurking enemies.

After the battle, the trio of fighters are bloody (mostly not their own) and exhausted, Taran having fought two long protracted melees within an hour of each other.  Thelbar applies healing magic to the wounded victors, and after Taran summons a quintet of Mistledale Riders to catalogue and remove the bodies, Thelbar shares what his _scrying_ spell just revealed to him about the elves’ master and commander.

The fellow is a grey elf, dressed in exquisite clothes, including ceremonially barbed masterwork chainmail.  It appears male, and is attractive, even by the elven people’s high standards, with thick coarse hair, and splotches of scales that seem to accent the angularity of its face.  Most disturbing, the creature immediately recognized Thelbar’s _scrying_ eye, and addressed it directly, speaking to Thelbar through unknown sorcerous means.

Thelbar addressed the thing courteously, which seemed to please it, and after naming the goddess Palatin Eremath, the fiend nodded, and agreed that Thelbar should have access to the place he wished to go, providing no further hostilities are instigated.  Thelbar took the beast for its word, and the creature gave him a description of a specific location deep within the crystalline mountain that should be specific enough to target a _teleport_ spell.

“Did he apologize for making me smash the f--king door, then?” Taran demands angrily, put off by Thelbar’s obvious awe and respect for his enemy.

“Taran,” Thelbar says softly, “you must control yourself.  This beast is not a thing to be trifled with.  Our goals are not mutually exclusive, after all, and we came to terms.  That is a victory of sorts, is it not?”

Taran says nothing, but glares at the floor.  After an uncomfortable silence, Taran turns toward Glim.  “We go in the morning,” he says as he gets up to take his leave.  “Have my things ready by dawn.”


----------



## incognito

Yeah!  Taran has a _slight_ temper.  Like a tropical storm causes a little 'dampness.'

I wonder, does Taran have levels of Barbarian?

Thanks for the triple update across all story hours (contact).  That's will keep me satisfied until...uh...when are you posting the next instalment, did you say?



Cheers,


----------



## (contact)

I thought about giving him Barbarian levels, but he has enough classes already!  He's just a grouchy, mean bastard who has decided that "violence proves the final point in any argument".


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## incognito

And he's definitely become more grumpy with age, (contact) old boy!


Aside:

...I know I'm not the only one reading this story hour and usually there is no shortage of posters to a (contact) thread.  So, where is the running commentary?
I'm not looking for bumping, but seems to me posting to a story regularly is somewhat of a time consuming affair...

maybe we should see a show of some hands to indicate whether (contact) should keep posting here (which is what I want) - or maybe the guy needs one less thread to update, and he can post a compliation (mmm...compilation...!) thread once he has some time to do some more write ups?  

Any thoughts on that subject, (contact)?

After all - I want pictures to go with my RtTEE thread, and sketch take time too!


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## thatdarncat

_Raises his hand then reaches over to the couch where his gf is asleep and raises her hand as well_


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## (contact)

Sleeping people count twice.


----------



## Corwyn

Corwyn raises both hands and jumps up and down.


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## Ziggy

I'm here as well. I'm not asleep, but I can pretent to be it if you want more votes.

.Ziggy


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## NeghVar

(contact),

My family would say that I have been asleep at the wheel for years...please countmy vote twice for updating this Story Hour...

Later!


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## incognito

<crank yankers>  Yaaaaay!  Everyone voted for (contact)'s Story hour Yaaaay!!! </crank yankers>

awww man!  ToEE got two, maybe three updates, and Taran hasn't killed anything in DAYS!

no wonder he's cranky!

Need...risen goddess...goodness...


----------



## (contact)

*41--*


Previously:

_Taran says nothing, but glares at the floor.  After an uncomfortable silence, Taran turns toward Glim.  “We go in the morning,” he says as he gets up to take his leave.  “Have my things ready by dawn.”_


*42—A new star, a new knowledge.*

The fiendish sorcerer is true to his word, and the heroes find themselves in an ancient ceremonial hall, decorated with unrecognizable runes and symbols of a lost faith.  An elaborate altar sits atop a tall riser at the back of the chamber, seeming to rise from an inky blackness—a foul mist, malign to be sure, that lives more in the mind and spirit than within the world.  From the depths of the darkness, a pair of red and feral eyes blaze forth, seeming to hover at the periphery of vision, regardless of how the viewer fixes them.

A deep and terrible voice oozes out from within the darkness, forming a single word of recognition; “You.”

The raising of Palatin Eremath’s star remains a blur in the memory of those who made it so.

A terrible guardian opposed the heroes, they are sure of that much—a thing of fire and darkness and intense pain.  The Champions of the Risen Goddess fought with it, with every stroke seeming to sink deeper into a repressed memory of epic violence and grand plans gone terribly, terribly wrong.

But in the end, they stood before the altar, the stone of Palatin Eremath fixed upon it, and were enveloped in a vivid blue light that stripped the pain from their flesh and the terror from their mind.  A lone, still voice bubbled forth from their souls, with the resonant and welcome tones of a long-forgotten mother.

*“Let this world see that I have returned.  Let all mark that I am again come.”*

Across the length and breadth of Faerun, lovers and sages, commoners and princes alike are given a new light to fix their eyes upon as night descends on the land.  The Star of Palatin Eremath, struck from the skies by the father-god of the elves, is returned as whole as if it were never truly gone.


----------



## incognito

Whoa....

That either seems like an awfully special (if short) divine interventionly ending...

or a reader becoming confused with what_just_happened...

um, (contact)?


----------



## Circle of Crows

No kidding, Incognito. (contact), you know I don't like to complain, especially when it comes to my entertainment, much prefering to sit slack-jawed and complacent, but I don't get it.


----------



## Falcon

Hey (contact),

Great stuff!  Now I know what you are doing with all your free time at work.

:cheers:


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## Piratecat

I predict he'll reply....  now.


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## (contact)

Thanks, Falcon!  I freelance, so there's nobody to pay me for this stuff (albeit unwittingly).  

Incognito, Circle of Crows--

From Chapter 29—*Looking Into the Face of the Goddess, the Goddess Looks Back*:

The cult of Palatin Eremath has two major issues before them: First, they need to get the great relic out of Undermountain, and second, they must retrieve another artifact known as the Fallen Star of Palatin Eremath, a sapphire of unusual quality.  The Fallen Star was stolen from the ancient shrine, but the cult does not believe that it has left the dungeon.

*From Chapter 31—A Skull To Love, A Skull To Hate—A Skull to Trade At Freedom’s Gate*:

Along with the dragon’s treasure, they discover the Fallen Star of Palatin Eremath— a gemstone so large and perfect that it must be celestial in origin.  The stone radiates a blessed aura, calming and invigorating the two brothers.  

From Chapter 38—*Forest treasures, friends and foes*:

Having made contact with a High Priest of Labelas Enorath, Elven God of the Hunt, Taran and Thelbar learn about Labelas Enorath’s disobedience.  The Elven Hunter God kept Palatin Eremath’s stars hidden when they were to be destroyed, and has also kept her last temple from the eyes of mortal and God alike, in the Star Mountains, rising from the depths of the High Forest.  The duo have the Star of Palatin Eremath in their possession, won from the clutches of Undermountain, and travel to Her temple, to set her stars back into the night sky, and serve notice to the world that the Risen Goddess has returned to the affairs of mortal men.

From Chapter 41--*All Things Known and Unknown Bow Before Time*:

Thelbar addressed the thing courteously, which seemed to please it, and after naming the goddess Palatin Eremath, the fiend nodded, and agreed that Thelbar should have access to the place he wished to go, providing no further hostilities are instigated. Thelbar took the beast for its word, and the creature gave him a description of a specific location deep within the crystalline mountain that should be specific enough to target a _teleport_ spell.

*42—A new star, a new knowledge.*

The fiendish sorcerer is true to his word, and the heroes find themselves in an ancient ceremonial hall, decorated with unrecognizable runes and symbols of a lost faith. An elaborate altar sits atop a tall riser at the back of the chamber, seeming to rise from an inky blackness—a foul mist, malign to be sure, that lives more in the mind and spirit than within the world. From the depths of the darkness, a pair of red and feral eyes blaze forth, seeming to hover at the periphery of vision, regardless of how the viewer fixes them.

A deep and terrible voice oozes out from within the darkness, forming a single word of recognition; “You.”

The raising of Palatin Eremath’s star remains a blur in the memory of those who made it so.

A terrible guardian opposed the heroes, they are sure of that much—a thing of fire and darkness and intense pain. The Champions of the Risen Goddess fought with it, with every stroke seeming to sink deeper into a repressed memory of epic violence and grand plans gone terribly, terribly wrong.

But in the end, they stood before the altar, the stone of Palatin Eremath fixed upon it, and were enveloped in a vivid blue light that stripped the pain from their flesh and the terror from their mind. A lone, still voice bubbled forth from their souls, with the resonant and welcome tones of a long-forgotten mother.

*“Let this world see that I have returned. Let all mark that I am again come.”*

Across the length and breadth of Faerun, lovers and sages, commoners and princes alike are given a new light to fix their eyes upon as night descends on the land. The Star of Palatin Eremath, struck from the skies by the father-god of the elves, is returned as whole as if it were never truly gone.


----------



## (contact)

Previously, (from chapter 37): 
_Vindicated at last, Indy holds a finally tearful meeting with his cell of bardic revolutionaries, and formally disbands the revolution.  He explains that he has moved on, and they should do the same. 
“Now,” he thinks to himself, “there is nothing standing in between Evaliegh and I, or our hopes of marriage.  Save of course, for the whole completely without a conscious mind thing”.  Indy paces in the night, half-heartedly threatening female passersby with his jewel-studded cane.  “But her healthy return is beyond me.  Thelbar would know what to do, and if not, he could find someone who might.  It’s time to go back through that portal."_


*43—Reunion.*

Indy and Kyreel pass through the _gate_ with little trouble, and after several days of fruitless wandering, run across a traveling minstrel who recognizes the description of Taran and Thelbar as belonging to the new Lord Protector of Mistledale and his brother.  By that evening, Indy and Kyreel are in Mistledale.

The adventurers spend a cheerful evening reuniting themselves, and renewing their bonds of friendship over the best hospitality the Dalelands can provide.  Indy and Kyreel inform the group of their recent accomplishments in Ratik, and the Lady Evaliegh’s heartrending plight.  For their part, Taran and Thelbar relate their journey through Undermountain and the Crystal Mountains, and the raising of Palatin Eremath’s star.  Taran takes particular delight mimicking the various giants forced into the fold or _feebleminded_ by Thelbar’s enchantments.

After several days of lazy debauchery, the group discusses their current plans.  Thelbar wants to settle in Mistledale, believing, as does Kyreel, that the work for which they have been called is not accomplished yet.  Indy argues that the group must fly to the aid of Lady Evaliegh, but as Taran professes total ambivalence beyond his next meal, Indy is outvoted.  Thelbar explains his plan to build a wizard’s academy in Mistledale, and his hope to establish a mages-fair to rival that of any in the more civilized South.  

The next morning, the group travels to the dwelling of the Revered Sage, Elminster of Shadowdale, with the intent of seeking his blessing for Thelbar’s ambition.  None of them are fully sure what to expect, but they are certainly surprised when they are attacked outright by a frail-seeming scholarly type, who strikes at the group with his bare hands!  As the party protests their innocence of whatever crime this scribe would have them accused of, the wizened elder calms down and apologizes for any understanding.  He introduces himself as Lhaeo, assistant to the Sage of Shadowdale.

Lhaeo explains that Elminster has uncharacteristically gone missing, and his location is hidden from any and all divinations.  In his distress, the scribe assumed that the party was somehow involved (as coincidences rarely occur around the life of such an August personage as Elminster), and mistook their intent.

He further explains that his lord had recently conferred with Khelbin Blackstaff, lord of Waterdeep about a matter that puzzled and perplexed both wizards—the new star in the night sky.  The two wizards had gone to seek the council of the revered elven elder Ahl-Ithevia, in a temple to Corellon Larethian near Scardale.  They were to return within the day, but it is now three days since, and Lhaeo is deeply concerned.

Taran cheerfully says, “Well, hell Lhaeo, we’ll go find him for you,” apparently the only member of the party who missed the obvious connection between Elminster’s disappearance and the faith of Palatin Eremath.

Lhaeo gives them the description of Ahl-Ithevia, and describes her as a great elven mystic—a woman who holds the cherished title of High Speaker to the faithful of Corellon Larethian.  In all of the Father-God’s church, there are seven High Speakers, the clerics who possess the final word on all matters of dogma and faith.  There is no position more highly regarded within the church hierarchy, for the High Speakers are said to hear to the voice of Corellon Larethian himself in their prayers.

The group travels to Scardale, an altogether wretched place.  Nearly destroyed by recent warfare and its accompanying plague, the parts of the town that remain unburned are populated by the worst sort of ruffians and buccaneers.  Bandits openly roam the streets of the city, and one enterprising group of adventurers decides that they will save themselves some time traveling all the way to the nearest dungeon, and simply rob the Champions of the Risen Goddess, acquiring a full career’s worth of magical treasure in one fell swoop.

“You have to admire their initiative,” Indy says as he shoots the enemy group’s wizard with a poisoned arrow.

“It’s a good plan, I’ll give them that,” Taran says, catching the enemy monk with a well-timed blow to the neck, that sends the barehanded fellow crashing to the ground.  “Poor choice of targets, though,” he finishes as he severs the monk’s head from his shoulders.

One of the would-be murderers manages to drink a _potion of gaseous form_, and floats away on the tepid breeze.  Taran will have none of it, however, and stalks the greenish mist across the city until it comes to rest among the litter of a shantytown squat.  Taran waits patiently until the mist re-forms into the wounded and shaken fighter, and without warning he leaps on the man, ramming Black Lisa through his back.

“I got ‘im,” Taran says triumphantly as he returns to his group with the fighter’s gear.  He notices Kyreel and her disapproving stare.  “Hey,” Taran begins, “The scriptures say ‘If you’re going to do it, do it.  So I did.”  He grins.

Thelbar quotes, “_half measures are sloth masquerading as progress_.”

That evening, the heroes gain the trust of a trio of wandering elves, and are told where they can find the sacred grove of Corellon Larethian.  The elves have heard the name Ahl-Ithevia, and murmur with awe to learn that the group goes to speak with her, but cannot say if she is at the grove or no.

The Great Scar for which Scardale was given its name is a rift canyon several miles in length, bounded by deep forests on both sides, and a half mile wide at its largest point.  Elven tradition holds that it was at the Great Scar that Corellon Larethian defeated Grummush, the orcish god, and put out his eye.  The Great Scar itself is the mark where Corellon Larethian placed his spear on the ground, as he gallantly allowed the blinded orc to escape with his life.  Thus, for the elves, the Great Scar represents both martial prowess and charity in the face of duress, the highest elven virtues.

The shrine of Corellon Larethian at the Great Scar is an appropriately sublime place, the border where the forest ends and the temple begins completely blurred to non-elven eyes.  Kyreel wisely refrains from attending the meeting, knowing that these elves will likely see through her _hat of disguise_, and despite their teachings to the contrary, might not be able to overcome their own prejudices toward her.  She determines that success is more important than a moral victory over a dubious foe, and awaits the group in a secure hiding-place.

Thelbar takes on the role of spokesperson, and after attending to the elves’ seemingly endless welcoming ritual, manages to wrest from the High Priest that Ahl-Ithevia has herself gone into the Scar.  The priest is not concerned, even though it is unlike her to disappear for this long.  He knows that she is in the hands of her God, and “whom Corellon Larethian sets his hand upon, what being can harm her”?  The priest also confirms that Elminster Elf-Friend and “a companion” were also here looking for Ahl-Ithevia just three days ago.  They received the same answer then that Thelbar is getting now.  She is gone, and no one knows where.  If the High Speaker seemed troubled before her unannounced journey, what mortal could truly say?

“The thoughts of a High Speaker,” the party is told, “are not for us to know.”


----------



## (contact)

Piratecat is funny.


----------



## Piratecat

See? I'm prescient!  Ahhh... more (contact)y goodness.


----------



## (contact)

Yeah, I meant to say "prescient", but I typed "funny".


----------



## Circle of Crows

Okay, (contact) I get it--

"The raising of Palatin Eremath’s star remains a blur in the memory of those who made it so."

  I think I skipped that sentence the 1st time through. I was confused b/c it seemed kind of anti-climactic.


----------



## Circle of Crows

(contact) said:
			
		

> [One of the would-be murderers manages to drink a _potion of gaseous form_, and floats away on the tepid breeze.  Taran will have none of it, however, and stalks the greenish mist across the city until it comes to rest among the litter of a shantytown squat.  Taran waits patiently until the mist re-forms into the wounded and shaken fighter, and without warning he leaps on the man, ramming Black Lisa through his back.
> 
> “I got ‘im,” Taran says triumphantly as he returns to his group with the fighter’s gear.  He notices Kyreel and her disapproving stare.  “Hey,” Taran begins, “The scriptures say ‘If you’re going to do it, do it.  So I did.”  He grins.
> 
> Thelbar quotes, “_half measures are sloth masquerading as progress_.”
> [/B]




  Does it make me bad that I'm laughing?


----------



## incognito

(contact):

Ok, having connected all the dot's beforehand my confusion was not  so much hwo did this all come together (becasue I knew they had the star, and they were seeking the shrine) - but rather it was this:

"A terrible guardian opposed the heroes, they are sure of that much—a thing of fire and darkness and intense pain. The Champions of the Risen Goddess fought with it, with every stroke seeming to sink deeper into a repressed memory of epic violence and grand plans gone terribly, terribly wrong."

I know they beat **something - but what, who, when?

Ok, and now I will read the last chapter - and p'rhaps all will be explained.

PS: Pirate cat is a level 5 RBDM, he has _uncanny post_


----------



## incognito

*the last chapter*

Indy!!!

Guess who back,
Back again,
Indy's back,
Hide your gems!

Guess who's back, guess who's back, guess who's back,....

A) love (contact)'s writing style
B) A party that realizes Kyreel's prescence will not be appreciated _and actually does the respectful thing_ makes me weep for my poor DM skills getting players ot realize what should and should not be attempted.
C)  And a little Thelbar quoteage?  Priceless.

I am well satisfied today!


----------



## (contact)

incognito said:
			
		

> *
> 
> "A terrible guardian opposed the heroes, they are sure of that much—a thing of fire and darkness and intense pain. The Champions of the Risen Goddess fought with it, with every stroke seeming to sink deeper into a repressed memory of epic violence and grand plans gone terribly, terribly wrong."
> 
> I know they beat **something - but what, who, when? *




And worse yet, how did it recognize them, and why?


----------



## (contact)

*Chapter 44-- Witness to History*

*44—Witness to History*

The group takes a path down into the Scar described to them by the priest of Corellon Larethian.  They find themselves within a huge canyon, and after traveling for hours without seeing the sun, they come upon the very tip of the Scar—and a strange sight.

A pair of huge, golden doors are set into the cavern wall, each door fifteen feet tall and seven feet wide.  The lintels are covered in a hieroglyphic script that seems to relate to natural phenomena, but is no known language.  Standing directly to either side of the doors is a pair of huge celestial figures—androgynous elves that glow with a thin olive-hued radiance and are so perfect of feature that the party cannot bear to look directly at them; the celestials block the golden doors with a pair of crossed wooden spears, tipped with glowing blades that scatter sparks in all directions.  Kneeling before the heavenly guardians is a frail elven woman, dressed in the sky-blue and gold robes of a high-speaker. Ahl-Ithevia sits in a submissive pose, although whether from true humility or from exhaustion, no one can say for sure.

The group silently takes in this scene, and after a few moments, it becomes obvious that the elven trio are engaged in a debate.  Thelbar and Kyreel speak enough high-elvish to gather the gist of the argument:  These celestials are primal creations, the first-made beings of the Elven father-god Corellon Larethian, and they have been charged to guard these doors and permit no entry until the moon falls from the sky, and the sun ceases to shine.  Opposing them is Ahl-Ithevia, high speaker to Corellon Larethian, who wishes to gain entry.

For three full days the argument continues, point and counterpoint, as the high speaker argues the minutia of her faith’s dogma with the two eternals.  Kyreel and Thelbar stand transfixed, neither daring to speak, or even leave, lest they loose the thread of a titanic debate.  In the end, Ahl-Ithevia carries the argument, and forces the celestials to concede her point.  When her final argument sinks home, the celestials vanish as if they had never been, and the aged high speaker collapses, exhausted.

Thelbar and Kyreel are also fatigued from their vigil, and for a while, no one speaks.  When food and water have been passed out, Ahl-Ithevia addresses the group.  She explains that she has come to this place after encountering an anomaly in her long years of service to her god—for the first time, of late, she has come to doubt his Word.  Her doubts have led her to this place, and she is sure that answers await her within.  She believes that Elminster and Khelben Blackstaff entered this place, bypassing the guardians, but would not herself dare such a bold transgression.  She began an argument with the celestials that was already days old when the party arrived, and managed to convince them that their highest and most true duty to their God was to leave their sworn post.  But now she is exhausted, and can continue no further.

“Well, hell lady,” Taran says, with an uncharacteristic touch of gentleness in his voice.  “We’ll go in there for you.  You stay here and rest.  If it’s safe, we’ll fetch ya.”

The party prepares themselves for conflict, and passes the gates—they swing open soundlessly in response to a single touch.  Indy looks wistfully at the runic script, and takes rubbings of the hieroglyphs for later study.  

The area beyond the golden doors is no mortal realm.  Rather, it is a misty and dim demi-plane, a perfect replica of the Great Scar in miniature—the cliff walls no more than hundreds of feet high.  Moving forward, the group follows the Scar to the point where the golden doors stood in their world, and discover a decrepit and ruined tower, looking for all the world like the fang of an epic creature, thrust into the ground, its tip broken and jagged.


----------



## incognito

welll...at least it wasn't mini-me...

 

...and dammit. I can't belive Indy had nothing to say to the celestials.  Sheesh, Indy: we're counting on ya, buddy.

good writing as always (contact), this update is appreciated!


----------



## (contact)

Taran says that Indy is just pouting because the party won't go back to Ratik to rescue Lady Evaliegh.  

A more charitable fighter could say that even Indy has enough sense to shut up when Elder Eternal Servants are debating matters of High Dogma.  The scene was very dramatic, and not really an appropriate place for his normal histronics.

(Plus, I was DMing at the time, and Indy was a lowly NPC.   Generally, the adventures where he has a more central role are the adventures where I am on the player's side of the screen.)


----------



## sheelba

Excellent story, (Contact). Your best yet. The adventures on the elemental plane put me in mind of Cudgel. All in all, a very amusing read. Having just finished it after three days hard reading, I’m a little worried that things are about to end. I will just have to read on and find out, I suppose. Do they intend to avenge Rex? Didn’t someone tell them that there were three White Dragons?

While I’m asking questions, how did the book of feats work? They found it just before the trip onto the elemental plane, I think. Did it have a number of uses per day, or did the rituals take so long no one would use it frequently?

I’ll save my other questions until another time. But I’ll be keeping my eye out for Taran’s S. Dragon Soul Mate. We’ve probably already met her. Any of those elven women could be her.

Thanks for your time and hard work.


----------



## (contact)

Hey Sheelba, thanks for the kind words!

"*The adventures on the elemental plane put me in mind of Cudgel.*"

What is Cudgel?

"*All in all, a very amusing read. Having just finished it after three days hard reading, I’m a little worried that things are about to end. *"

You're worried that the campaign is about to end?  No way-- we've been playing the characters through four editions of the game!  They've got a lot of adventuring to do.

"*Do they intend to avenge Rex?*"

No.  Originally we did, but right after we lost Rex we went through the _portal_ to Faerun, and then we got caught up fighting the drow and questing for the Star of Palatin Eremath.

Meta-game wise, the other Risen Goddess DM (Kyreel, Thelbar) expanded the Great Delve into a full-fledged campaign, and started running it for another group.  It's a real gem of a campaign, and almost as deadly as his TOEE2 game was.

"*While I’m asking questions, how did the book of feats work? They found it just before the trip onto the elemental plane, I think. Did it have a number of uses per day, or did the rituals take so long no one would use it frequently?*"

No one knows . . . Thelbar has never used them!  The book allowed its possessor to use Ritual Magic from the Scarred Lands setting (which is normally not avaliable in our campaigns), and substitute longer casting times for higher spell slots when casting meta-magic feats!  You'd think (as I did) that such a treasure would be tops on Thelbar's list, but he's never once used the book!

"*I’ll save my other questions until another time. But I’ll be keeping my eye out for Taran’s S. Dragon Soul Mate. We’ve probably already met her. Any of those elven women could be her.*"

Interesting you should say this-- a character shows up soon that could very well be her . . .

"*Thanks for your time and hard work.*"

It's a labor of love, for sure.  I'm glad that others enjoy reading these logs, and that we have a forum to share these stories.

Plus, with a story hour I don't have to stand around at conventions and say "do you want to hear about my 14th level fighter/ranger/sorcerer/spellsword?" anymore.  I can just hand them a 125-page spiral-bound document, and save myself the time.


----------



## Victim

Cugel is character who adventures in Vance's Dying earth world.  We see him in 2 stories.  He's rogue and con artist who calls himself Cugel the Clever.  He isn't.


----------



## Vargo

'Scuse me for a second while I hijack the thread here...

I recently hit up my library for any of Vance's "Dying Earth" saga.  Unfortunately, the only bit they had was his "Cugel's Saga" - which, as I understand, was a sequel to his other Cugel book, and didn't really contain any good descriptions of "Vancian magic," which is why I was trying to get my hands on his writings in the first place.

I'd argue with the characterization of Cugel not being clever - he actually does pull off some fairly good cons from time to time, as well as noticing quite a few things that others don't.  Where he falls down is in figuring out that OTHERS are also trying to con HIM - he's got high valuations in Bluff, Spot, and Search, but he neglected to put any points into Sense Motive.  Oops.

Okay book, nothing too spectacular.  Bunch of people on a world that could die at any time, with nobody too concerned about what happens tomorrow, all trying to rip each other off.


----------



## (contact)

. . . sounds like where I grew up.  Heh.

How does the Cudgel character relate to the adventures in the Plane of Air?


----------



## Victim

Vargo said:
			
		

> *'Scuse me for a second while I hijack the thread here...
> 
> I recently hit up my library for any of Vance's "Dying Earth" saga.  Unfortunately, the only bit they had was his "Cugel's Saga" - which, as I understand, was a sequel to his other Cugel book, and didn't really contain any good descriptions of "Vancian magic," which is why I was trying to get my hands on his writings in the first place.
> 
> I'd argue with the characterization of Cugel not being clever - he actually does pull off some fairly good cons from time to time, as well as noticing quite a few things that others don't.  Where he falls down is in figuring out that OTHERS are also trying to con HIM - he's got high valuations in Bluff, Spot, and Search, but he neglected to put any points into Sense Motive.  Oops.
> 
> Okay book, nothing too spectacular.  Bunch of people on a world that could die at any time, with nobody too concerned about what happens tomorrow, all trying to rip each other off. *




Yeah, I liked the ones with the wizards better.  Nothing beats the 'Spray.  Well, actually, it seems that the Omnipotent Sphere provides a defense, as does Lacodel's Rune, but, hey, close enough.  

But the reason I call him not clever is because he has a rather low total mental value.  Because he has no WIS and sense motive, usually any clever ideas he has usually turn out to be a disadvantage.  He'll come up with clever idea X, and it won't be half bad except the the downsides he never seems to notice, or the fact that someone is manipulating him.  His wit usually seems to let others use him more effectively.

The relation to Indy's PoA adventures is that Cugel is always thrown into the weirdest and most fantastic situations that he  fumbles through.


----------



## sheelba

Hi (contact), thanks for the reply. Guess I don’t need to tell you who Cudgel is. The first half of the story reminded me of “The Eyes of the Overworld” and “Cudgel’s Saga” because:

1) He has some funny and scary adventures in a floating boat. It only flew because he kicked it with boots covered in magic boot polish, (Indy’s kind of magic item I feel).

2) There are radical changes in the circumstances of Cudgel. Like in your game, he is transported to unknown (and unknowable), places. Rapid changes of location and pace. The different characters he travels with allow different aspects of his own character to develop/be displayed. 

3) The Cudgel Sagas can be very funny.

Just occasionally I was put in mind of Cudgel. Mere hints – and not for some time. I didn’t think anyone would comment on it. I’m a big fan of “The Dying Earth” books. But I can well understand many are not.

The other Dying Earth, non-Cudgel, books are “the Dying Earth” and “Rhialto the Marvellous”.

So the Rise of the Goddess is not the end. (Your game isn't called "the Rising of the Goddess", after all.) Glad to here it. I think that little miracle might turn out to be easier than reconciling the various good faction. 

It seams that a degree of P.C. ownership has developed. Did this evolve or was it planned or even based on whom the character belonged to in 2e? I only ask as you said that there was no ownership of NPC’s or PC’s in your first post. You have overcome all the negatives of only two gamers as far as I can see. I wonder how it’s done. 

Good gaming and keep posting. I'm eager to find out more.


----------



## (contact)

Oh, ok-- gotcha.  Yes, it sounds like Indy and Cudgel have a lot in common.  



> So the Rise of the Goddess is not the end. (Your game isn't called "the Rising of the Goddess", after all.) Glad to here it. I think that little miracle might turn out to be easier than reconciling the various good faction.




And that task just keeps getting more and more difficult, as the next couple of chapters will show.  There are some skeletons in the closet, and they are Size H . . .



> It seams that a degree of P.C. ownership has developed. Did this evolve or was it planned or even based on whom the character belonged to in 2e?




I meant at the time that we would alternate who runs the characters based on expediency-- but generally, when I DM, I keep Taran and Indy as NPCs, but when I play, I pick up Kyreel.  And even when I'm DMing, I will 'speak' as Kyreel sometimes if I think the Lawful and Good point of view is not present.

We recently cut the group down to three PCs, to make our life a little easier, as well as for story reasons.


----------



## Circle of Crows

(contact)-
    The question is, do think that you and the other DM are as evil on these characters (whom you've played through four iterations of D&D) as you are in your "standard" campaigns(e.g., TOEE2,LoT)?  I think at some point, you've written that these PCs are 20 years old(meta-game wise), and if they were my characters,I'd be too emotionally involved, I think, to be properly RBDM-ish.  Is this question even fair?
    Whatever the answer, PLEASE KEEP POSTING!


----------



## (contact)

Circle of Crows said:
			
		

> *(contact)-
> The question is, do think that you and the other DM are as evil on these characters (whom you've played through four iterations of D&D) as you are in your "standard" campaigns(e.g., TOEE2,LoT)?  I think at some point, you've written that these PCs are 20 years old(meta-game wise), and if they were my characters, I'd be too emotionally involved, I think, to be properly RBDM-ish.  Is this question even fair?
> Whatever the answer, PLEASE KEEP POSTING! *




I think that’s a fair question, and I think you’re totally right.  We’re nowhere near as evil toward these PCs as we were in the TOEE2, but that’s because we have to take this game for what it is—

The TOEE2 was all about theme and mood (and kicking much D&D ass), whereas the Risen Goddess is much more philosophical, and is more about ideas and philosophy (and d—k jokes). The TOEE2 had a meta-plot that was entirely unattached to the players.  Its structure was set in motion, and the plot was going to advance in a certain direction whether the PCs were present or not.  This gave the DM complete lethal freedom—he could Kill at Will without derailing the game.

_“Hey Heydricus—old what’s-his-name-died already? Who’s the new guy?”_

--------------------------------------

This may sound crass, but PC insignificance was a huge part of the TOOE2’s theme!  The logs don’t really portray it, but at the gaming table that campaign was very, very dark.  The TOEE2: _“A small band of desperate freedom fighters sacrifice their lives and struggle against overwhelming odds to Avoid the Worst.”_  PC insignificance allowed the revolving door of fresh meat to come and go without impacting the story’s continuity.

The Risen Goddess’ meta-plot, on the other hand, is tied in to these specific four PCs and their in-game history.  The PCs are the flash-point for the events that are shaping the world, rather than having happened to be the only good guys at Ground Zero.  

Also, the TOEE2 was the responsibility and creation of one DM.  He knew in an absolute way what was happening behind the scenes.  The Risen Goddess is an organic collaboration of only two players (with an occasional third) who switch DMing duties.  So there can’t really be an *absolute* plot.  It’s like playing improv jazz: each of us has to build on what has come before, riff on the theme while adding our own flavor, and make sure we don’t step on what the other guy is doing.  All the while we’re trying to pull surprises out of our hat.  

As an example, the other DM decided to ‘reveal’ that Ishlok was a forgotten elven mother-goddess named Palatin Eremath!  (Ishlok has been a primary deity in our home-brew campaign since 1988 . . .)  So he sent us on the quest to return her stars to the sky, and revealed her history (as we knew it then).  Then I ran a series (not yet posted) and added a twist or two to *his* plot!  He ran the Ratik Five scenario, and I ran the game that got them pardoned, etc.

Also in the Risen Goddess, the essential themes of the game mean that there’s really no question of permanent character death.  The concept of the pasoun and reincarnation means that even if they stay dead, they don’t stay dead!  So why gun for them?  The point is to have cool, challenging D&D battles that move along the story and give the characters chances to flex their buff abilities.

--------------------------------------

Does that make sense?  Are you still awake?  What do you think?  I’ve invited some other Rat Bastards to come pipe in what they think about character preciousness, and plot fluidity.


----------



## Lordnightshade

(Contact) Yer link finally worked. So I will add my Rat Bastard opinion to this. 

Circle of Crows said “and if they were my characters, I'd be too emotionally involved, I think, to be properly RBDM-ish.”

First let us look at the definition of Rat Bastardry as defined by the Rat Bastard’s Club: 



> Rat bastardry
> Pronunciation: 'Rat bas-t&rd-ry
> Function: noun
> 1: A philosophy that asserts that a role-playing game's capacity for providing enjoyment can be greatly increased by weaving a complex web of psychological challenges, moral or ethical dilemmas, frequent plot twists, and unforeseen consequences to create a gaming environment with verisimilitude that rises above the mundane with the ultimate aim of creating an atmosphere of awed paranoia for the players.




So by that definition you don’t have to kill your PCs to be Rat Bastardly. In a game with resurrection and true res, death stops being such a bad thing, merely an inconvenience. 

So it is up to the DM to dream up the things that are worse than death, the things that challenge a characters morals and pushes them to the limits. 

If the DM doesn’t do this then the higher levels where PCs can cast true res and wish and miracle stop being challenging. 

My group is full of PCs who have been around a long, long time and death is the least of their fears.


----------



## incognito

Lordnightshade:  Geez, can't we all just get along (wink)  

.
.
.
WRT Rat bastardry  - the best part about it is when the PCs realize they they are in a confusing cornundrum _of their own making!_ - occurs mostly at higher level play.  

...ripple effects rule.


----------



## Circle of Crows

(contact)-
    Thanks for the answer.  I wasn't really suggesting that ToEE2 should be a benchmark,  b/c the player death that made it such a cool campaign, in the long term, would make the game no fun.   One last question, and then I'm done: have you or the other guy( maybe we should call him RBDMII?) ever ruined one or the others long-term story arcs/plots? Or is it the nature of this campaign make long term stuff impossible?

     Anyway, I'm going to go check out the latest post on LoT!


----------



## (contact)

Yeah, he turns up his nose at my plot hooks from time to time, but as far as the 'big picture' goes, we are careful, and work well together.  I think I threw him a loop with the next deal coming up, though.


----------



## (contact)

SPOILER ALERT: 

The next two posts contain the details of the group's adventure through the WotC module, _Heart of Nightfang Spire_.  If you want to avoid spoilers, skip chapters 45 and 46.

Unfortunately, it is during this module that the PCs discover some crucial information about Palatin Eremath and her relationship to the elven pantheon.  For those of you choose not to read these chapters, I will summarize the key plot points after Chapter 46.


----------



## (contact)

*45—The Heart of Nightfang Spire*

There is no obvious means of entry to the tower, so the group equips itself with flying magic, and makes for the top— there they encounter a horrible creature, a bulbous fleshy thing covered with oozing tentacles that surround a mouth filled with barbed teeth.  The thing is sorcerous, and strikes Thelbar from the sky with a burst of lightning.   The group descends on the abomination, and makes quick work of it with sword and spell.

There in the top of the tower, ringed by jagged parapets is a landing, and on the landing is the decayed body of a great black dragon.  Taran frowns as he prods the corpse.  “This one hasn’t been dead long,” he says as he pokes at its head.  “The eyes are still here.”

“Who can reckon time in such a place, I wonder,” Kyreel says.

“It’s probably counter-symmetrical,” Indy opines in his most sagely voice.

“So the longer it’s been dead the less it would decay?” Thelbar asks.

“Is that what counter-symmetrical means?” Indy asks.

“Bulls--t.  It hasn’t been dead long.” Taran says.  “I’m the tracker here, devils take your philosophy.  Now stay on your toes!”

The group discovers a trap door, partially hidden beneath the dragon’s bulk.  After a few moments of gruesome work, the group cuts enough of the dragon away to open the hatch.  They descend into a level containing a series of tombs, and begin to explore the place.  Along the way they determine two things:  That this place was once a center of religious rites, probably malign, and certainly focused around dragons, or possibly one dragon.  Second, that the unnatural mist swirling around their feet is definitely following them.

As Indy is examining a secret panel for traps, the mist forms itself into the shape of a sextet of vile elven warriors, each one bearing the mark of a deathblow.  The creatures radiate an unholy chill, and drain the strength from whoever is unlucky enough to find herself beneath their claws.  An unseen force blocks Kyreel’s turning attempt, and the group is forced to rely on more trustworthy means to vanquish the sylvan undead.

Later, they find a room containing the remains of a recent massacre.  Taran, ever the pragmatist, is searching the bodies for valuables when one of the corpses stirs and moans.  “Holy Mother of the Pasoun, this poor sonofabitch is still alive!” he shouts. 

Kyreel rushes to Taran’s side, and immediately _cures_ the poor wretch.  Her healing magic brings the elven woman to consciousness, and after a few moments, the party hears her tale:  She is a priestess of a god she refers to as the Great Black Wyrm, or by the name Asharladon.  This tower is, in fact, carved from one of the castaway teeth of her draconic patron, and is itself an unholy relic.  She is not aware that she is no longer within the mortal realm, but recalls that her coven was attacked by elves sworn to Corellon Larethian.  

She describes her religion as being native to the elven pantheon, and her master as the first of all dragonkind.  The rites she describes are evil to be sure, but she sees no contradiction in this fact.  Her religion, she contends, comprises the sum of the wickedness to be found within the elves.

She has not heard of Lolth, but recognizes the deity by her former elvish name, Arunshee.  When told of Lolth’s evil bent, she claims that she cannot believe that it is true.  Arunshee, she says, was the goddess to the night elves— she points at Kyreel.  She was good and kind, a despicably gentle being.

The name Palatin Eremath is known to her as well, and she agrees with the party’s telling of the great battle fought between Arunshee and her sister, but claims it was over a lover’s quarrel between Corellon and Arunshee.  She recalls Palatin Eremath’s eventual scorning of Corellon Larethian, and calls it a great day in the history of the elves.  She claims that her master Asharladon was the only elven deity to stand with Palatin Eremath, and this is why her coven was assaulted, and destroyed.

She says that at the time they were attacked, the gods’ war had raged for long centuries as the mortals reckon time.  Palatin Eremath had been killed, and as an act of rebellion, the faith of Asharladon had built a great tomb for his last faithful on the very spot where Corellon Larethian struck her down—the Great Scar of the Dales.  For their temerity, the survivors of the raid were banished to a timeless demiplane and locked away for eternity.

This news startles the group— not only is it untrue that Corellon Larethian defeated Grummush at this place, but their previously held belief that Palatin Eremath died from wounds given her by Arunshee is false as well!  In a fit of anger, Corellon Larethian attacked his wounded champion, his sister and consort.  He dealt her a mortal blow as a response to her disrespect.  Did the father-god then strike memory of her from the planes because of his righteous indignation, or merely to cover his guilt?

When asked to name her wish for her own future, the elven priestess is clear and decisive—she desires to join her fellows in death, or unlife, as her god will have it.  Taran obliges, while Kyreel turns away.

The deed done, Kyreel speaks briefly about the pantheon of deities native to the Ishlokian faith.  Before the goddess was known to Kyreel as Palatin Eremath, Ishlok was the name by which Kyreel called her.  Ishlok’s faith holds her forth as the mother of all things, but not as the only diety.  Ishlok had three children; Isk, a goddess of great compassion that was represented by the earth; Hustaire, an aloof and uncaring goddess, represented by the elements and magic; and a son, cruel and despotic, represented by the wicked actions of mortal kind.  This son was known as Iiam, and was said to be the father of evil dragonkind.  Kyreel ventures to guess that this Iiam was known to Palatin Eremath as Asharladon, and was slain for the crime of supporting her against Corellon Larethian.

After all, if a goddess can rise from the dead, can she not reward those loyal to her with life after death as well?  If any more of Asharladon’s original elven faithful yet exist, it would be in this place.

The group clears the level, and discovers a passage below.  A second tomb-like level is explored, replete with scores of undead and vicious traps.  Finally, the group discovers a wide shaft that leads to a series of caverns beneath the surface.

Down below, they encounter the bestial servants of Asharladon—half dragon girallons; huge black-scaled ape-like monstrosities with four arms that attack the party with a mindless blood fury.  The group fights a desperate battle, fearing at each moment that they will be overrun as more and more of the creatures emerge from nearby rooms.  As Thelbar and Kyreel are reaching the complete end of their spell repertoire, the last of the monstrous reserves are exhausted, and soon only one creature remains, _charmed_ into a placid docility.

The group rests in the girallons’ lair, and question their new “friend”.  From it, Thelbar learns that the girallons are servitors of one Gulthais, a high priest to Asharladon, and the master of this place.  Gulthais lives within the Heart of the spire, the core of the tower—a place reached only through the use of the dragon keys—four artifacts of the faith, given to the high priests.  This four-part key was meant to assure that only matters of enough import to concern all four high priests should require access to the Heart.  Since the sacking of Nightfang Spire, Gulthais no longer comes in person to give instructions and orders, but has spoken through proxies, and instructed the girallons to clean the battle-scarred tower and gather the bodies of the dead.  The girallon knows that Gulthais is within the Heart, but believes that he is trapped there, as only his non-corporeal undead servants can reach him and relay his messages.

The group explores the remainder of the caverns, and defeats along the way several constructs and vile undead.  In the four corners of the underground area they discover the dragon keys, and prepare to enter the Heart of Nightfang Spire.


----------



## (contact)

*46—Unlife, or something very like it.*

The party enters the Heart, and finds themselves within the hollowed core of Nightfang Spire.  They note a hatch on the ceiling, and use flying magic to reach it.  On the other side, they see that the center of the circular chamber is walled in, with a single door leading into it.  The party opens the door, and as usual, Taran is the first to enter the room—but unlike other situations, he immediately feels a sudden weight across his shoulders, and his flying magic fails him.  

“Antimagic,” he starts to yell, when he is distracted by the scene before him.

The circular chamber is quite tall, and ringed at the height of twenty feet by a walkway that runs the length of the sphere.  Upon the walkway a pair of bound and sickly looking humans lie motionless.  Floating above the ground directly between the captives is a massive fleshy organ—a strange disembodied heart some fifteen feet in diameter, beating as if it were alive, and leaking a black, viscous blood.  

The blood pools on the ground in the center of the chamber, leaving a thin ring of unstained stone running along the walls.  Directly opposite Taran across the pool stands a relaxed and composed elf, several shades paler than his normal kin, regarding the fighter with a regal air.  His casual smile reveals rows of elongated and sharp teeth.

“More humans?” Gulthais says.  “Sun and sea, what is my world coming to?”

Taran charges around the ichor-pool toward Gulthais, and slices at the elf with Black Lisa, but Gulthais deftly avoids each swing, moving only enough to let each strike pass by.  On Taran’s last back-swing, Gulthais strikes Taran’s elbow, spinning the stubborn warrior to the ground, his face inches from the black ichor.  Gulthais stomps Taran’s lower back, causing his legs to go numb, and provoking a startled yell from the burly fighter.

“Come in, come in, do come in” Gulthais says pleasantly.  I have a gift for each of you.”

Thelbar unleashes a series of destructive magics, but as his spells reach the opening, they dissipate harmlessly.  “Antimagic,” he mutters.  Taran!  To me!” 

Taran scrambles around the edge of the room on his numb legs, and Gulthais casually follows him.

“I was wondering when someone would just open the damn door,” Gulthais says jovially.  “_Wishes_ really are the curse of lazy wizards.”

As Gulthais moves through the doorway, he begins to radiate a chill light, and he sighs contentedly.  Kyreel and Indy have been waiting for this moment, and level spells at the vampiric elf.  Gulthais tumbles away from the door with blinding speed, and evades the worst of the damage.  He moves toward Kyreel and strikes her several times about the head and chest, stunning her and driving her back.  But fighting outside of the anti-magic field proves too dangerous for the vampire, as Thelbar burns the pale elf with both lightning and fire.

Gulthais staggers away from Thelbar, and is struck at the base of his spine by Taran.  “Sucks, don’t it?” Taran hisses.

Gulthais’ eyes widen with either pain or the memory of it, and he regards the group.  “Farewell, mortals, and I thank you for my freedom.  Next time we meet, I dearly hope we can be more civil to one another.”  He gestures towards Kyreel’s holy symbol, “We are nearly siblings, after all.”  And with that, Gulthais speaks a _word of recall_, and disappears.

With their foe gone, the group takes stock of the situation within the Heart’s chamber.  The two casualties on the walkway are in fact the missing wizards Elminster and Khelben, both of whom are bound, gagged, and nearly dead.  They both have multiple puncture-marks along their arms, and have been severely drained of blood.

Taran carries the wounded pair out of the room, and Kyreel _heals_ them.  After the party has searched the chamber and taken Gulthais’ wealth, they help the shaken wizards to their feet, and bring them before the high speaker Ahl-Ithevia.


----------



## (contact)

*Plot Synopsis for the Spoiler-Impared*

This is the relevant text, relating to the campaign's larger plot, from the group's adventures in the Heart of Nightfang Spire.  This is entirely of our own invention, and contains *no spoilers* for the module:


Later, they find a room containing the remains of a recent massacre.  Taran, ever the pragmatist, is searching the bodies for valuables when one of the corpses stirs and moans.  “Holy Mother of the Pasoun, this poor sonofabitch is still alive!” he shouts. 

Kyreel rushes to Taran’s side, and immediately cures the poor wretch.  Her healing magic brings the elven woman to consciousness, and after a few moments, the party hears her tale:  She is a priestess of a god she refers to as the Great Black Wyrm, or by the name Asharladon.  This tower is, in fact, carved from one of the castaway teeth of her draconic patron, and is itself an unholy relic.  She is not aware that she is no longer within the mortal realm, but recalls that her coven was attacked by elves sworn to Corellon Larethian.  

She describes her religion as being native to the elven pantheon, and her master as the first of all dragonkind.  The rites she describes are evil to be sure, but she sees no contradiction in this fact.  Her religion, she contends, comprises the sum of the wickedness to be found within the elves.

She has not heard of Lolth, but recognizes the deity by her former elvish name, Arunshee.  When told of Lolth’s evil bent, she claims that she cannot believe that it is true.  Arunshee, she says, was the goddess to the night elves— she points at Kyreel.  She was good and kind, a despicably gentle being.

The name Palatin Eremath is known to her as well, and she agrees with the party’s telling of the great battle fought between Arunshee and her sister, but claims it was over a lover’s quarrel between Corellon and Arunshee.  She recalls Palatin Eremath’s eventual scorning of Corellon Larethian, and calls it a great day in the history of the elves.  She claims that her master Asharladon was the only elven deity to stand with Palatin Eremath, and this is why her coven was assaulted, and destroyed.

She says that at the time they were attacked, the gods’ war had raged for long centuries as the mortals reckon time.  Palatin Eremath had been killed, and as an act of rebellion, the faith of Asharladon had built a great tomb for his last faithful on the very spot where Corellon Larethian struck her down—the Great Scar of the Dales.  For their temerity, the survivors of the raid were banished to a timeless demiplane and locked away for eternity.

This news startles the group— not only is it untrue that Corellon Larethian defeated Grummush at this place, but their previously held belief that Palatin Eremath died from wounds given her by Arunshee is false as well!  In a fit of anger, Corellon Larethian attacked his wounded champion, his sister and consort.  He dealt her a mortal blow as a response to her disrespect.  Did the father-god then strike memory of her from the planes because of his righteous indignation, or merely to cover his guilt?

When asked to name her wish for her own future, the elven priestess is clear and decisive—she desires to join her fellows in death, or unlife, as her god will have it.  Taran obliges, while Kyreel turns away.

The deed done, Kyreel speaks briefly about the pantheon of deities native to the Ishlokian faith.  Before the goddess was known to Kyreel as Palatin Eremath, Ishlok was the name by which Kyreel called her.  Ishlok’s faith holds her forth as the mother of all things, but not as the only diety.  Ishlok had three children; Isk, a goddess of great compassion that was represented by the earth; Hustaire, an aloof and uncaring goddess, represented by the elements and magic; and a son, cruel and despotic, represented by the wicked actions of mortal kind.  This son was known as Iiam, and was said to be the father of evil dragonkind.  Kyreel ventures to guess that this Iiam was known to Palatin Eremath as Asharladon, and was slain for the crime of supporting her against Corellon Larethian.

After all, if a goddess can rise from the dead, can she not reward those loyal to her with life after death as well?


----------



## (contact)

Meta-game notes:  As soon as the other DM in this campaign took the group to the Forgotten Realms, I knew that I wanted to make a specific statement.  I remembered with chagrin the old FR modules where Elminster or Khelben would show up at the end of the PC’s adventure in order to save them and resolve the plot.  I wanted the Champions of the Risen Goddess to show up at the end of Elminster’s module and save him for a change!  With the Heart of Nightfang Spire, I got my chance.

The party’s return of Palatin Eremath’s stars to the night sky had attracted the curiosity of the Realm’s great personages, and as we shall soon see, Elminster and Khelben had became embroiled in a deific plot line that they did not understand, and could not resolve.  

Enter Taran, Thelbar, Kyreel and Indy to save the day.

In order to provide a rationale why a pair of powerful wizards could be so helpless, I realized that godly magic would have to be involved.  If Corellon Larethian banished this temple to a guarded demi-plane, and bound Gulthais within a sealed anti-magic zone, it made sense that a wish might get the wizards in, but not out again.  Sort of a Roach Motel for archmagi.

Thanks to the Rat Bastards over at the Aquerra boards for the mechanics of this idea.

The boss-fight needed a re-think if it was to prove any sort of challenge for the group within an antimagic zone.  So I made the main villain a high-level monk, and had gleeful visions of the party fighting him tooth and claw without their magic armor or weapons.  Of course, it didn’t work out that way, but the fight played to my benefit at any rate.  We’ll be meeting that villain again, I’m sure, as the truth of the Risen Goddess and her history with the elven pantheon reveals itself further.


----------



## (contact)

*47—Home again, home again.*

The six figures stand outside the golden doors—Taran with his hands on his knees, still trying to fully gather his breath after taking a vicious blow from Gutlhais.  Indianichus examines the writing on the doors, using a _light_ spell to ward off the long shadows from the cliff walls.  Kyreel, Thelbar, Ahl-Ithevia and Elminster stand huddled, discussing the implications of recent events.  Khelben had excused himself immediately after exiting the demi-plane, and citing pressing business, _teleported_ into the ethers.  

Elminster proves himself more of a gentleman than his arrogant companion, and takes the arm of the elderly elven holy woman, leading her toward the party’s nearby campsite.  As they walk, he tells the group of how he came to find himself the blood-slave of an elven vampire.  

Khelben had contacted him a week ago, and told him that there was a cult making noise in Waterdeep about the mystery of the new stars—claiming that they were responsible, and that the stars heralded the return of an ancient elven goddess.  Worse yet, the rumor was that this cult was preaching an anti-elven agenda, speaking out against the return of the elves to Faerun.  Elminster, always known to be an elf-friend, and widely rumored (true, he asserts) to be one of the primary architects of the Elven Return, determined to look in to the matter, and if there was any trouble, to deal with it.

He conferred with his goddess through potent divinations, and asked her to name the one person unaffiliated with the cult who knows or will know the most about their history, goals and practices.  He was given Ahl-Ithevia, a name he had recognized immediately for her prominent role within her church.  But Ahl-Ithevia’s superiors could not produce her, and told Elminster that she had gone alone to the Great Scar.  Unobserved, he discovered her arguing the golden doors and determined that whatever lay beyond, it would be better for everyone if he crossed the boundary, rather than wait for an elven religious debate to be concluded!  “After all,” he says, “despite rumors to the contrary, I won’t live forever.”

He contacted Khelbin Blackstaff, and confident that they would prove more than a match for whatever they might find on the other side of the golden doors, he _wished_ the two of them into the heart of the matter.  Literally.

Gulthais fell upon them, and without access to their magics, the two most famous wizards of Faerun were essentially helpless.  Gutlthais had drained them leisurely for days, but surely would have soon killed them both.  Elminster the Sage of Shadowdale, and Khelben Arunsun owe the party their lives.

For their part, Thelbar and Kyreel explain the truth of the new stars, and their role in returning them.  They tell their stunned audience about the Risen Goddess, her relationship to the elven pantheon, and her new role as the creator of the _pasoun_.

Ahl-Ithevia is shocked speechless.  After several silent hours where she either meditates or prays, she thanks the group for their assistance, and uses a _word of recall_ to travel home.  Elminster as well, regards the group with a canny expression and takes his leave, promising to be in touch.  Before he disappears, he says “If I can ever be of assistance to you—just call on me.”

The four Champions of the Risen Goddess look at one another, then prepare to head home.

“Hey Thel,” Taran says, “you forgot to ask him about your mage-fair.”

Thelbar smiles to himself and pats his brother on the shoulder.  “Oh, I won’t have to ask his permission for anything ever again, brother.”

----------

Within days, Thelbar has begun construction of his mage’s college at Mistledale.  Taran has returned to the steady ritual of training his Riders, and Kyreel and Indy fall to crafting magic items.  Kyreel enhances the weapons and armor of the Champions, and presents Taran with a _sun blade_—- a bastard sword identical to Black Lisa in size and mass, but magically light.  The sun blade is balanced like a shorter weapon, allowing Taran to wield it in his off hand.  He names his new sword Little Sister, and takes to gleefully engaging his top lieutenants in live-edge sparring matches.  His select group of top-shelf warriors begins making a reputation for themselves as unusually hard men, and tenacious combatants.

Thelbar crafts a _robe of the archmagi_ for himself, deigning not to name it, but assuring the group that his enemies will have more to fear now than ever before.  Kyreel crafts a bastard sword for herself, a _flaming, holy_ weapon.

In all, the group spends three months researching spells, training, crafting magic items, and in the case of Taran, staying drunk and cavorting with Jhanira Barasstan, the local priestess of Chauntea.  Juron and Glim slowly adapt to life as domestic servants, for despite their role helping Taran to train the Riders of Mistledale, they spend the majority of their time keeping up the adventurer’s household, and running errands.

After this three-month span, Indy announces that he can no longer remain with the group.  He is incensed that the party has brushed aside his repeated assertions that his lady-love Evaliegh is in need of assistance.  He announces that if his so-called adventuring companions won’t fly to his aid, he will go it alone.  That next morning, Indy leaves for the _gate_ to Greyhawk, and vows not to return until he has found a cure for Evaliegh’s condition.


----------



## Circle of Crows

You go, Indy!


----------



## incognito

I hope Indy ends up saving the party's bacon as an unintended result of this Balls-y move!

Taran and Thelbar don't give him enough credit!


----------



## (contact)

Indy and Vognu, just after the Druid/Nymph incident.  Note his flowing mullet, the _de rigueur_ 3rd edition halfling haircut.


----------



## incognito

Ribbit!


----------



## Circle of Crows

(contact) said:
			
		

> *Indy and Vognu, just after the Druid/Nymph incident.  Note his flowing mullet, the de rigueur 3rd edition halfling haircut.
> 
> 
> 
> 
> *




    Indy was resurected as :

    1() A Halfling member of the Mexican World Cup Team
    2() A Halfling lesbian
    3() A Halfling ex-member of Skid-Row 
    4() A Hockey player

    Remember, only use No. 2 pencils, please.


----------



## (contact)

*!*

"Indianichus tiene la bola. Abajo del lado izquierdo . . . Al Llamosa en el centro. De nuevo a Indy. Es Indy. ¡Todavía Indy! ¡Él está todo solo, nadie es marca él! ¡Él golpea con el pie!  ¡Goooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooool!  ¡Golgolgolgolgolgolgol goooooooooooooooooooooool!"


----------



## darkbard

**doink**


----------



## (contact)

Below is a repost of Chapter 47, but in its entirety.  Remember when I said that I thought that we weren't as hard on these PCs because they are so old and dear, etc.?

Hah.

Read on . . .


----------



## (contact)

*47—Home Again, Home Again.*

The six figures stand outside the golden doors—Taran with his hands on his knees, still trying to fully gather his breath after taking a vicious blow from Gutlhais.  Indianichus examines the writing on the doors, using a _light_ spell to ward off the long shadows from the cliff walls.  Kyreel, Thelbar, Ahl-Ithevia and Elminster stand huddled, discussing the implications of recent events.  Khelben had excused himself immediately after exiting the demi-plane, and citing pressing business, _teleported_ into the ethers.  

Elminster proves himself more of a gentleman than his arrogant companion, and takes the arm of the elderly elven holy woman, leading her toward the party’s nearby campsite.  As they walk, he tells the group of how he came to find himself the blood-slave of an elven vampire.  

Khelben had contacted him a week ago, and told him that there was a cult making noise in Waterdeep about the mystery of the new stars—claiming that they were responsible, and that the stars heralded the return of an ancient elven goddess.  Worse yet, the rumor was that this cult was preaching an anti-elven agenda, speaking out against the return of the elves to Faerun.  Elminster, always known to be an elf-friend, and widely rumored (true, he asserts) to be one of the primary architects of the Elven Return, determined to look in to the matter, and if there was any trouble, to deal with it.

He conferred with his goddess through potent divinations, and asked her to name the one person unaffiliated with the cult who knows or will know the most about their history, goals and practices.  He was given Ahl-Ithevia, a name he had recognized immediately for her prominent role within her church.  But Ahl-Ithevia’s superiors could not produce her, and told Elminster that she had gone alone to the Great Scar.  Unobserved, he discovered her arguing the golden doors and determined that whatever lay beyond, it would be better for everyone if he crossed the boundary, rather than wait for an elven religious debate to be concluded!  “After all,” he says, “despite rumors to the contrary, I won’t live forever.”

He contacted Khelbin Blackstaff, and confident that they would prove more than a match for whatever they might find on the other side of the golden doors, he _wished_ the two of them into the heart of the matter.  Literally.

Gulthais fell upon them, and without access to their magics, the two most famous wizards of Faerun were essentially helpless.  Gutlthais had drained them leisurely for days, but surely would have soon killed them both.  Elminster the Sage of Shadowdale, and Khelben Arunsun owe the party their lives.

For their part, Thelbar and Kyreel explain the truth of the new stars, and their role in returning them.  They tell their stunned audience about the Risen Goddess, her relationship to the elven pantheon, and her new role as the creator of the _pasoun_.

Ahl-Ithevia is shocked speechless.  After several silent hours where she either meditates or prays, she thanks the group for their assistance, and uses a _word of recall_ to travel home.  Elminster as well, regards the group with a canny expression and takes his leave, promising to be in touch.  Before he disappears, he says “If I can ever be of assistance to you—just call on me.”

The four Champions of the Risen Goddess look at one another, then prepare to head home.

“Hey Thel,” Taran says, “you forgot to ask him about your mage-fair.”

Thelbar smiles to himself and pats his brother on the shoulder.  “Oh, I won’t have to ask his permission for anything ever again, brother.”

-----

Within days, Thelbar has begun construction of his mage’s college at Mistledale.  Taran has returned to the steady ritual of training his Riders, and Kyreel and Indy fall to crafting magic items.  Kyreel enhances the weapons and armor of the Champions, and presents Taran with a _sun blade_—a bastard sword identical to Black Lisa in size and mass, but magically light.  The sun blade is balanced like a shorter weapon, allowing Taran to wield it in his off hand.  He names his new sword Little Sister, and takes to gleefully engaging his top lieutenants in live-edge sparring matches.  His select group of top-shelf warriors begins making a reputation for themselves as unusually hard men, and tenacious combatants.

Thelbar crafts a _robe of the archmagi_ for himself, deigning not to name it, but assuring the group that his enemies will have more to fear now than ever before.  Kyreel crafts a bastard sword for herself, a _flaming_, _holy_ weapon.

In all, the group spends three months researching spells, training, crafting magic items, and in the case of Taran, staying drunk and cavorting with Jhanira Barasstan, the local priestess of Chauntea.  Juron and Glim slowly adapt to life as domestic servants, for despite their role helping Taran to train the Riders of Mistledale, they spend the majority of their time keeping up the adventurer’s household, and running errands.

After this three-month span, Indy announces that he can no longer remain with the group.  He is incensed that the party has brushed aside his repeated assertions that his lady-love Evaliegh is in need of assistance.  He announces that if his so-called adventuring companions won’t fly to his aid, he will go it alone.  That next morning, Indy leaves for the _gate_ to Greyhawk, and vows not to return until he has found a cure for Evaliegh’s condition.

------

As the mage’s college takes shape, Thelbar and Kyreel are able to arrange for the _teleportation_ of the entirety of Palatin Eremath’s Waterdhavian faithful to Mistledale, and provide for their living quarters.  

The party establishes Mistledale as the permanent home for Palatin Eremath’s church in Faerun.  Of course, the church brings with it the statue of the Risen Goddess, liberated from Undermountain, and build an appropriate shrine for the artifact.  The folk of Mistledale are uneasy with the presence of Palatin Eremath worshipping drow in their midst, but in light of the recent peace, come to an uneasy acceptance of their new townsfolk.  

Another month passes by uneventfully, and spring gives way to fall, but one evening the entire town leaves their homes to witness a massive celestial phenomenon—a huge spark shower fills the night sky with a mysterious glowing light, and while no two people can agree on its meaning, everyone who sees the shower is filled with a sense that they have just witnessed something grand.

The next morning, Taran, Thelbar and Kyreel are informed that they have visitors.  As they gather in their parlor, they are greeted by Elminster of Shadowdale, along with a pair of doughty-looking adventurers wearing cloak-pins that identify them as Harpers, members of Faerun’s mysterious intelligence network.

After greetings are exchanged, and the group updates Elminster on their recent activities, Taran asks him, “so what’s with the bodyguards?”

Elminster replies that shortly after the group rescued him from the Heart of Nightfang Spire, he was set upon by none other than Klauth, an ancient red dragon, said to be the oldest and most foul of his kind walking the earth.  Elminster tells them that he was able to escape the encounter with his life, but only by the barest of margins, and has determined to travel with companions by his side for the time being.

The real reason for his visit is revealed when he asks pointedly what the group knows about the spark showers of the night before.  Thelbar explains that he knows nothing more than any other witness to the event, and Elminster seems satisfied with the answer.  He goes on, however, to relate several other mysterious happenings that took place at the same time.

Apparently, there is a second new star in the night sky, this one very near to the star of Palatin Eremath.  This of course, causes men of wisdom to assume that the two events are related, and brought Elminster here.  In addition to the second star’s appearance, mariners off the coast near Waterdeep witnessed another portent.   A huge school of whales surfaced and began an eerie song that lasted for the entire night.  In the High Forest, Harpers adventuring there reported that the trees themselves spoke the phrase “_Praise be Palatin Eremath.  Sharlequannan is reborn._”

The high priest of Palatin Eremath is summoned, but can add nothing to the discussion.  The name of Sharlaquannan is unknown to the faith of the Risen Goddess.  If the goddess is sending portents to the mortal realm, she is not favoring her chosen with any unique insight.  

Elminster thanks the group for its time, and sits down to a meal before he leaves.  During the meal, one of Elminster’s bodyguards approaches Taran, Thelbar and Kyreel with an offer of membership in the Harpers.  The organization, he says, are always on the lookout for capable adventurers who seem intent on furthering the cause of good, and the Champions of the Risen Goddess are considered prime candidates by no less august a personage as Khelbin Blackstaff himself.  The group thanks the man for the compliment, and says that they will take it into consideration, but likely will decline, claiming that their time is not their own, and it is the will of Palatin Eremath that sets their agenda.

After the meal, Elminster and his group take their leave, Juron and Glim return to their interrupted drinking binge, and Taran returns to Jhanira to brag about his invitation.


----------



## (contact)

*The Risen Goddess*

*48—A Dark Offer.*

Several days after Elminster’s visit, the group receives another trio of unannounced guests.  Juron summons the party, telling them that three peasant-folk of unknown origin have arrived begging an audience.  When the group returns to their home, they find the three strangers relaxing in the dining-room under the watchful gaze of Glim.  As the Champions arrive, an old woman, a younger woman and a middle-aged man stand ceremoniously and regard them.

The old woman looks the group over.  “Dark and fell heroes,” she begins, but is interrupted by the male.

“These are the ones who supposedly cut the Spider Queen’s web?” he says, looking the group up and down with a shrewd eye.  “I doubt that.  They are nothing.”

“Look here, fella,” Taran growls and moves toward the man.

Thelbar places a hand on Taran’s shoulder and says in Isenthanian Proper, “Peace brother—these three are not what they seem.  My arcane sight reveals them to be great indeed.  Beware.”  Then in common, Thelbar says, “We do not deal with those who will not reveal their true forms.  Show yourselves, or leave our home.”

At that, the older woman smiles, and baring yellowed teeth, she waves a hand.  In an instant, their _seeming_ is dispelled, revealing three drow.  An ancient woman, wearing the ritual garb of Lloth, a younger drow woman, astonishingly beautiful, and obviously her kin, along with a drow male, dressed in the robes of a wizard.  All three are heavily festooned with weapons and magical items.

“Allow me to introduce ourselves properly,” the old woman says.  I am the matriarch of House Banare, and a high priestess to our dread Queen.  This is my Sword, Nathe, and we are accompanied by Shamath Ilmyrn, patriarch of the city of Szith Morcane.  We have come to enlist your service for our Spider Queen.  Failing that, we intend to kill you.”

Taran, who has been staring intently at the younger drow woman regards the old priestess quizzically.  “What did you just say?  Oh, no you didn’t . . .” But before he can draw his swords, he is restrained for a second time by Thelbar who interposes himself between Taran and the matriarch.

“We do not give any service to the followers of Lolth, and we are not frightened by their threats.  This audience is at an end.”

But the matriarch is unruffled, and she continues as if Thelbar had not spoken at all.  “Your existence is an affront to the entire drow world.  We know you have lived before, and we know that in past times you were the cause of Our Dread Queen’s banishment from this world.  While I find this personally very hard to believe, I am assured by her highest servants that this is true.  In fact, her hatred of you is so great that you are favored above all surface-worlders with her Mark of Death.  It is plainly visible to her faithful, and all who see it are bidden to destroy you.”

She looks squarely at Thelbar.  “I have read your book in the City of Doors, gray one.  I know of your lost empire, and your living children.  I can shade your mark, and remove this curse from your heads.”

“Yeah, so drow won’t try to kill us anymore,” Taran laughs.  “To tell the truth, I kind of like it when drow try to kill us.  Saves us the trouble of hunting you down.”

“If you refer to the outcast whelps you defeated in the Cormanthyr forest, we are not impressed,” the young woman says to him, staring balefully into his eyes.  Taran stares back, his sword hand twitching.

Thelbar regards the matron mother.  “And what brings you to this point of desperation, that you would make such a sacrilegious offer to those you are supposedly bound to kill?” 

“Lolth has chosen to go silent.  I have heard her voice only once in the last two months, and she spoke your names.”

Taran smirks and says, “Are you sure she wasn’t just having a nightmare?”

The old woman continues as if he hadn’t spoken.  “Our Queen is testing her faithful.  Through her silence, she will soon discover who holds true to her ways and who is false.  Even now, the traitors scramble to reveal themselves to her all-seeing eyes.  In the interim, however, enemies of the true drow Queen have seized this opportunity to take some small power and threaten both my people and your own.”

“Yeah, I guess it sucks to be you,” Taran says.  “So why don’t you get the f--k out before I ruin the new carpet.”  He looks at the male drow.  “With your insides.”

“Brother, _please_.” Thelbar says in common.  “How many times must I instruct you to _bide and be still_?”  After a moment, he turns to the matron mother.  “My brother is impetuous and has not understood your offer,” he says in Undercommon.  “Please continue.”

The matron mother smiles thinly.  “This is what you are left with if you do not beat them soundly enough.” She continues in common.  “As I was saying.  The cult of Kiransalee has seized the city of Maermydra, and we have been instructed to compel your service to remove them from this position.  

“In exchange, we will remove from your head the curse-mark of Lolth.”

Taran bursts out laughing.  “Excuse me Thel, I’m really sorry I’m a rude bastard and everything, but you _can’t_ be taking this seriously.  They want us to go to war with somebody because their goddess went to sleep on the job, and in exchange, we won’t be attacked by the people that we generally kill on sight anyway?  Sure.”

Kyreel says, “The matron mother was not finished.”

The old woman continues.  “You will kill Irae T’ssarion, high priestess of Lolth, and you will prevent her from launching her planned assault on the surface worlds.  Maermydra lies directly below our feet, and your community sleeps with the false hope of living to see the next harvest if you do not do as I say.  Commune the truth of it, if you do not believe me.  You will kill T’ssarion and retrieve a child that is her captive.  The child’s name is Sharlequannan, and she is one of mine.”

At this, Kyreel and Thelbar exchange glances.

“Further,” she looks at Thelbar.  “If you assist me with my child, I will reveal to you the location of your children.”

“I do not have children, matron mother,” Thelbar says.  “You are mistaken.”

“No, Thelbar the Grey, it is you who are ignorant.  You do not own your past, and have lost knowledge of it.  But do not look at me askance, it is the goddess you serve who has robbed you of your own truth.”

The male drow steps forward.  “I can offer you directions to Maermydra, and give you these.”  He presents a trio of pendants, carved with a single drowish rune.  “They will mark you to the eyes of the Spider Queen’s faithful, and compel them to render you service.  These runes represent the highest order of her faith, and will be obeyed.”

“And if they are not, the drow in question are not faithful and should die anyway.” The matron mother says.

The mage continues.  “I can outline the likely guardians and obstacles you will face, but I do not know how Kiransalee’s faithful may have changed the city since I saw it last.  Personally, I doubt your worthiness, but who am I to question the will of the goddesses?  If you succeed, the rewards will be great.  Kiransalee’s faith is a wealthy one, even by our standards, and of course you may keep what you can seize along the way.”

“We will consider your offer,” Thelbar says.

“But we serve Palatin Eremath.” Kyreel adds.

“And we will not work against our own,” Thelbar finishes.

“Very well, we will give you until sundown tomorrow,” the mage says.  “We will await your answer here.  Show us to our quarters.”

“Sure,” Taran says.  “Go out that door, down to the crossroads, take a right and keep walking until you die.  You can’t miss it.”


----------



## coyote6

Hey, I didn't know you could take negative ranks in Diplomacy, like Taran did! 

Great stuff (as usual), (contact).

So is this a prelude to City of the Spider Queen?


----------



## (contact)

Yes it is, so SPOILER ALERT-- the next couple of chapters contains elements from the City of the Spider Queen, so if your group is planning on playing it, you should buy your DM Monte Cook's excellent adventure _The Banewarrens_ to play instead of CotSQ, and read this thread.  

The CotSQ presented here has been heavily modified, and ties in rather intricately with the rest of the Risen Goddess' plot lines.  In fact, it's a really huge deal for the campaign, but if any of you don't want spoilers for CotSQ, let me know and I'll post no-spoiler plot summaries for you as we go.


----------



## incognito

meta-game question:

Is it possible for Taran to actually get himself into trouble by being so mouthy?  Or are all NPCs the type to be of a low(er) CR, so he can be contemptous.

Would be intersting to see black lisa-placed where the (dark) sun don't shine.

Thelbar on the other hand, needs to take some macho pills.  I hear louind and clear that he is a careful thinker, but he is getting disrespected in his own house...

Q2. Was there any tension btwn Kyreel, and the Drow?

Q3. WAs there another PC besides Indy who is currenly MIA? [Gorquen?}


----------



## (contact)

> Is it possible for Taran to actually get himself into trouble by being so mouthy? Or are all NPCs the type to be of a low(er) CR, so he can be contemptous.




Oh, no-- those NPCs would have killed us all dead-- I'm guessing they were about 16th-18th level themselves, and we were between 13th and 16th.  If Taran had understood that he might have acted differently, but I couldn’t see any way for him to figure out what *I* already knew at a metagame level. 

But that was the tension point of the scene-- Thelbar could see (via a permanent _arcane sight_) just how powerful those baddies were, but Taran didn't get it.  

Remember, Taran isn't very smart.  He does get his comeuppance though (twice!), so be patient.   After taking some ass-whoopings, Thelbar decides to do something about Taran’s . . . deficiencies, and that pays some dividends.  But we’ll get to that later.



> Would be interesting to see black lisa-placed where the (dark) sun don't shine.




This essentially happens next chapter (or the one after, I forget exactly), so stay tuned.



> Thelbar on the other hand, needs to take some macho pills. I hear loud and clear that he is a careful thinker, but he is getting disrespected in his own house...




Thelbar knew instantly that the PCs were hopelessly outmatched.  He was trying to resolve the situation so that the matron mother didn't have to carry through on her threat to kill us if we turned them down.

Thelbar gets his ass-whup on when he thinks he can win.

And yes, later on it *does* make sense why the goddess (es) would select a bunch of 13th-level nobodies when they already have some 17th-18th level bad-as$es to go to.  You know that had to just *kill* the drow mage—begging favors of his lessers, and do-gooding surface worlders to boot!



> Q2. Was there any tension btwn Kyreel, and the Drow?




Not on Kyreel's part.  The drow can't stand _her_, but she believes in the doctrine of Palatin Eremath --that evil is merely an early stage of all souls' inevitable journey to the good.  But who do the drow hate more, a dark elf sell-out, or the soul who was most responsible for their goddess being banished from the Prime Material?  Kyreel is both of those things, and you can be sure that her current race was chosen as a very, very specific statement.

This story-line is where some of the PCs unresolved past-life stuff starts coming to the foreground.  Nothing is wasted in Palatin Eremath’s faith.



> Q3. Was there another PC besides Indy who is currently MIA? (Gorquen?)




Yes, Gorquen, elven fighter.  She was the woman who adventured with Indy during the infamous “it’s not the size of the cudgel, it’s the heft of the swing” adventure (Chapters 19-21).  Gorquen is played by the woman who plays Prisantha in my Liberation of Tenh game, and only makes very rare appearances at this game.


From Chapter 29:

Gorquen examines the statue, a look of wonderment on her face. "She . . ." Gorquen trails off for a moment and looks at Elita, who has tears in her eyes. "That's my . . . that's an Ahk Velar fighting stance," Gorquen says.

"And look at her birthmark," Elita whispers. "Gorquen, this statue is you."

"Palatin Eremath," Gorquen says, "she is Ishlok!"


Gorquen left the party to shepherd the statue of the Risen Goddess out of Undermountain along with the Ermathian faithful.  That branch of the Ermathian faith is now based out of Mistledale (with the PCs from this campaign), but Gorquen is off on other adventures for her goddess.

Soon, we'll see how what the Champions of the Risen Goddess are doing in the Dalelands are impacted by what Gorquen is simultaneously doing in the High Forest.

This campaign story-line and meta-plot has branched out and been running in three separate D&D games for about the last 2 months.  It's been a really successful experiment, and produced some very interesting scenes.

It also has completely refuted my earlier claim that we are less evil to these PCs than we are to others, but I can’t give anything away . . .


----------



## (contact)

*49—How Little We Know.*

That night, the group debates the best course of action, and their divinations reveal that in essence, the drow have been truthful.  Lolth has gone silent; Irae T’ssarion has taken the city of Maermydra, and plans to launch an attack on the surface.  In the end, it is this last piece of information, along with the name of Sharlequannan that compels the Champions of the Risen Goddess.

“We are decided, then,” Kyreel says.  We must go to this place and do this thing.  The child will come before the statue of Palatin Eremath, that the goddess may gaze upon her.”

“Well, killing drow is usually good,” Taran says, then adds “except for the good drow.  Killing them is bad.”

“Succinctly put, brother,” Thelbar says.  “Your moral compass is unclouded.”  And to Kyreel, “We are decided.  This mystery of Sharlequannan must be unraveled, and our charges here in the Dalelands must be kept safe.”

-----

That night, none of the Champions sleep deeply or well.  Several hours before dawn, Taran rises from his brooding when he hears soft footsteps entering his room.  Nathe, the sword-maiden to the matron mother is standing before him, divested of her traveling robes but still wearing a pair of short swords at her hip.  She moves toward the beefy fighter casually, and with no haste.

“What are you doing here?” Taran asks.  Shouldn’t you be planning something evil, or something?”  When she does not reply, he rises, and places his hand on Black Lisa’s hilt.  “You’re going to have to replace those little knives you carry if you want to fight me.”

“Skill counts more than size,” She says.  “If you draw that blade, I will disarm you,” 

“A smart girl wouldn’t try it,” Taran growls as Nathe steps within his reach.  He stares into her eyes for a long moment.  “Because I’ll kill you dead.”

For a moment, the two warriors regard one another stonily, and then Taran takes her into his arms in a passionate embrace.

-----

The three drow leave as quietly as they came, after briefing the group on their objective and route through the Underdark.  In the dining room, Taran, Juron and Glim begin preparing adventuring packs for the group, while Kyreel and Thelbar _commune_ with Palatin Eremath.  They ask several questions:



“Is Irae T’ssarion actually building an army?”  
_Yes._
“Does she intend to attack the surface with it?”  
_Yes._
“Damn it all,” Taran says, “Now we have to kill her.”


“Will killing Irae T’sarrion lead to Lolth’s priesthood regaining their spells?”  
_Indirectly._
“Goddess curse every last drow!” Taran swears.  “Except you, Ky.”


“Do the forces of Irae T’ssarion await in ambush?”  
_No._
“Does Matron mother want us to succeed?”  
_Yes._
“Does Matron Mother intend to betray us once we have killed Irae T’ssarion?”  
_Yes._
“Do they intend to betray us in the Underdark?” 
_No._
“Will we be able to find allies in the drow cities?”  
_Yes._
“Will these allies be drowish?”  
_Yes and no._
“Will they be found within Irae T’ssarion’s organization?”  
_No._
“Are there any other adventurers seeking this goal?”  
_Yes._
“If left alone, will Irae T’ssarion attack Lolth’s priesthood?”  
_Yes._
“If left alone, will Irae T’ssarion attack the Dalelands?”  
_Yes._
“Is Irae T’ssarion aware of Sharlequannan’s significance?”  
_Yes._
“Does Irae T’ssarion intend to kill Sharlequannan?” 
_Yes, although such a thing would be exceedingly difficult for her._
“Is the priesthood of Lolth aware of Sharlequannan’s significance?”  
_The mother matron is aware._
“Does the matron mother intend to kill the child?”  
_She intends to make the child in her own image._
“Does Thelbar actually have children?”  
_Yes._
“Do Kyreel or Taran have living family from a past life?” 
_No, your loved ones were slain._
“Do the drow actually know the whereabouts of Thelbar’s children?”  
_Yes._
“Do they intend to lead us to the children, as promised?” 
_No._
“Would the children recognize Thelbar?” 
_No._
“Are the children in the prime material plane?” 
_Yes._
“Are they in Faerun?”  
_Yes._
“Are they in the Dalelands?” 
_No._
“Are they warded against scrying?” 
_No._
“Are they safe from the drow?”  
_No, although they have a powerful guardian._
“Is this guardian a friend?”  
_Yes, it is a trusted servant._
-----

Following the _commune_ spells, Kyreel _divines_ a course of action.  She sits still, and composes herself for a moment, then states the course of action aloud.  Within a few seconds, she replies to her own question, in a powerful and resonant tone.

“Mother, pull the future from our eyes and instruct us.  If we seek the course of direct action against Irae T’ssarion, with the goal of killing her, how will we fare?”

“_Those that follow through may receive enlightenment._”

Kyreel looks up and says, “I am satisfied.”

“As am I,” Thelbar says.  “We stay the course.”

Taran stops packing and whines, “Aw, c’mon Ky.  Ask my question!”

Kyreel regards him, then slips back into her trance.  “Mother pull the future from our eyes and instruct us,” she begins.  “If we hunt down and kill the drow who made us that offer, how will we fare?”

“_Their souls hang in the balance, and we may offer them salvation._”

“Well crap,” Taran says.  “Does that mean yes or no?”


----------



## (contact)

*49, Continued*

Thelbar prepares his own scrying device, and after undergoing his ritual, gains a vision of his two children.  A young man and woman, they are obviously twins.  There is something familiar about their features that tugs at Thelbar’s heart, and stirs long-forgotten feelings and memories within him.  He _teleports_ to their location, and is immediately approached by a swarthy human male, who bends a knee and addresses Thelbar as “my lord”.

Thelbar’s _arcane sight_ reveals that there is a powerful illusion on the man, and addresses him.  “You are my servant, and the guardian of these two?”

“I am, my lord.”

“And these are my children?”

“They are, my lord.”

The two youths look at Thelbar curiously, and Thelbar notes the spell component pouches at their waists with a fierce and unexpected pride.

The young woman says, “I do not doubt our noble guardian, but pray tell me, stranger, how we can be confronted by a father who is not familiar to us, and who recognizes us not.  This man does not match your descriptions, Salim.  How is this possible?”

“I have entered the _pasoun_,” Thelbar says by way of explanation.  “I do not remember you.”

“Then we are even,” the young man says.

“I brought them here for you, my lord.” Salim says.  “I have taught them many secrets, and keep them safe from your enemies.  Your Goddess’ name be praised, for it is all as it was said.  You have returned.”

“You are not what you seem,” Thelbar says to the man.

“I am not, my lord.  I came into your service many years ago, at the hands of your magic, which was even greater then than now.  I will serve for many more years, faithfully and well, as our agreement still binds me, whatever form you wear.”  

After a pause where Salim scrutinizes Thelbar closely, he remarks, “I often think what a curious thing it must be to be mortal.  There are few in this multiverse who can match intrigues with me, my lord.” After a moment, Salim continues.  “For that reason, I was given the guardianship of your most precious treasure when you left us to die.  You bade me bring them to this world, and instructed me to wait.  Thus have I done, for many years.  You and your brother angered a great king, and were soon to die at his hand.”  When Salim sees no recognition on Thelbar’s face, he continues, “but the last joke is on him, for your goddess has brought you back, and his patron has not been so kind.  You see, I know where his soul now lies.”  Salim says this last with a decidedly disturbing tone.  

“You have many enemies, my lord, from your many lives.  You collect them the way others might collect treasures or trinkets.  There are many who would wish to have these two, in order to harm you.”

“Yes,” Thelbar says.  “There are drow now who know of you.”

“These drow, my lord, should be the least of our concerns.  They have hated you for only a short while, and their memories, like those of all mortals, are doomed to crumble under time.  I was chosen because there are others like me who would have you brought low, and their memories will never fade.”

“Salim is a devil.  A pit fiend,” the young man says.  “But you turned him from his nature, father, and now he watches over us.  I am Corwyn, and this is my sister Esara.”  He tells Thelbar that they are sorcerers, the magical blood of their lineage brought to fruition by the training provided by Salim.

The rest of the reunion is stilted, and mercifully brief.  Thelbar explains the truth of the Risen Goddess, and entreats both of his children to seek her faith, and commit to the _pasoun_.  Salim remarks that should they ever require aid, he will seek out the church of Palatin Eremath, and bids Thelbar farewell.  “Until all you have told me has come to pass, I serve, my lord.  May your enemies forever swirl in a morass of confusion, and may your path never be known to them.”

-----

The next morning, the group begins the overland journey to Daggerdale, with the weather obliging, and the heroes make good time under a bright sun and crisp fall air.  The trip is surprisingly lighthearted, all things considered, and even Thelbar gets into the spirit of things, favoring the group with a song on his lyre.  He strives to remember music from their past lives, with Kyreel or Taran supplying a melody here, or a verse there.  

As they sight Daggerdale, Taran speaks up.  “Listen,” he begins, “I have to tell you both something.  You’ll probably think I’m crazy.  Hell, I think I’m crazy, but last night I did something that might be bad.”

“Go on,” Kyreel says soothingly.

“I kind of got involved with someone.”

“Yes, you slept with that drow, Nathe” Thelbar says.  “We know.”

“You do?”

“It was obvious, brother.  You are like an open book—one with many pictures.  Do what you will, but do not forget what I told you on your return from Arabel.  Ishlok has blessed us, and set us apart from her other children.  A normal man’s life is not for you.”

“Do you love her, Taran?” Kyreel asks.

“I think I might.  Or, I’m not sure what love is supposed to feel like, but I feel really good about her, even though I think I should feel really bad.  I mean, I might have to kill her later, but I’m starting to think that I couldn’t do it.  That’s love, right?”

“I suppose it is,” Kyreel says.

“But what do I tell Jhanira?  She’s not going to understand.”

“Tell her the truth, of course.  Deceit is well termed a web, Taran.  Our enemies use it as their tool, but the righteous should not touch it.  Jhanira will understand what she is given to understand, but you must not deceive her.  Now, more than ever, the dangers of your life compel you to be fastidious about your own morality.  Self-serving is the dubious luxury of others, and not suited to the goddess’ champions.  Be truthful, and you will truly be a man.”

-----

Thirty miles away, in Mistledale, Juron sits with his arm around Jhanira, breaking the bad news, and offering her his shoulder to cry on.


----------



## Barastrondo

Oh, dear. Taran, Taran, Taran. One does hope that it's genuine love talking, and not just that "exotic drow-love fever" that comes over... well, judging by the popularity of drow supplements, it's come over most of the d20-buying audience. 

I have this sinking feeling that it's all going to end in Taran duplicating Thelbar's father/kids reunion with a couple of half-drow somewhere down the road. Only, you know, with considerably less formal speech.

Or not, but you know. Weird things happen in that Forgotten Realms paradigm.


----------



## (contact)

Heh, heh.  Did I mention she was _really fine_?


----------



## (contact)

*50—Descent into the depths of the earth.*

The party follows Shamath Ilmyrn’s directions to the crypts of Dodrian, just Southeast of Daggerdale.  A series of tombs cut from the living rock, the crypts also contain an entrance into the Underdark, just above the drow city of Szith Morcane.  From Szith Morcane, a great underground passage will lead the characters essentially back the way they came, until they arrive at the drow city of Maermydra, directly beneath Mistledale.

Taking this seemingly convoluted route serves two purposes.  First, it is actually the most expedient, as the Underdark entrances elsewhere in the Dalelands do not give easy access onto the great passage leading to Maermydra, and second, Szith Morcane is a crucial military target.  Firmly under the control of Irae T’ssarion and her followers, Szith Morcane is the most likely staging point for an invasion of the surface.  Therefore it must be scouted at the least, and preferably sacked.

The entrance to the crypt of Dodrian is a pair of plain stone doors, carved into the surface of a bluff-face.  Two free-standing mausoleums flank the entrance, and after scouting around the openings, Taran signals that there are enemies about, and points to one of the mausoleums.

Taran throws open the door, and to no one’s surprise is immediately set upon by a trio of vampiric drow.  There is a brief but furious melee, and one of the creatures almost escapes before its _gaseous form_ is dispelled.

The party searches the once and current corpses, and discovers that they wear military garb, including the house-mark of Irae T’ssarion’s personal guard.  Maps and other patrol equipment indicate that they are advance scouts, spending their days here, and their nights gathering information in the Dalelands.

Taran and Thelbar work out as best they can what this group’s reporting schedule must be, and conclude that it will be some time before these scouts are missed.  If the party is lucky, Irae T’ssarion will be long gone before they are missed.

The party destroys the corpses of the vampiric scouts, and sets up a base of operations inside the unoccupied mausoleum.  That settled, Thelbar memorizes the area for future _teleportation_, and in an instant, returns the group to Mistledale, announcing that the party requires one further magic item if an entire drow city is to be properly sacked—a _portable hole_.

Once back in Mistledale, Thelbar and Kyreel set to work creating the wondrous item, but Taran does not join them.  He has a heavy heart, and is more unsettled than he has been since he fled from the white dragons in the Great Delve.  He walks alone in the forests until the sun sets, and finally manages to gather his resolve.  He enters to the temple to Chauntea, and not bothering to announce himself, barges into Jhanira’s quarters.  Her temple-maidens tell him that she is not available, and their icy demeanor raises the small hairs along the back of Taran’s neck.  

Suspicious, he leaves the temple, and begins to move silently along the trail leading to the small grove where it is Jhanira’s custom to meditate.  Along the way, he scans the ground for tracks, and after a few moments, his face contorts into a grim mask, and he turns back for home.

There, he finds Juron and Glim sitting on the front porch steps, playing a cryptic orcish drinking game with a pile of silver pieces and a masterwork dagger.  “Hey, Taran!” Juron says, “Thel said that you . . .”

“Shut up, you,” Taran says.  He points to Glim.  “And you.  Shut up.  Now, which one of you bastards sold me out?”

There is a long moment of silence as Taran stares at the two men.

“Well?” Taran says.  “You’d better start talking, before I do something you’ll regret.”

“But you said shut up,” Glim protests.  “We was shutting up.”

“We don’t know who told Jhanira about you and the drow lady, Taran, honest!” Juron says.

“Yeah, we sure didn’t do it,” Glim says.

“How do you know that Jhanira knows, then?  I didn’t say she knows.”

Juron and Glim look at one another.  “Aw, Taran, it wasn’t us!” Glim says.  “You know we’d never!”

“Even though she is a fine woman,” Juron adds.  “And deserves a faithful man.”

“What did you just say?” Taran whispers.

“Well, Taran, it ain’t right is all.  It ain’t right how you treat her.”

“How I treat her?”

“You know, jumpin’ into the sack with any thing warm and drowish that comes along.”

“_You’re_ the traitor, you gap-toothed otyugh!”

“Uh, Taran.  Don’t you get all crazy, now—remember what Thelbar said!”

Taran grabs Juron by the shirt and pulls him to his feet.  “I’m going to tell you once,” he whispers into the frightened warrior’s face.  “Next time I catch you talking to Nathe, you go missing.  Get it?”  And with that Taran drops Juron, flings the door open, and stomps into the house.

“That went well,” Glim said.  “He’s in a good mood.”

-----

Taran finds Kyreel and Thelbar sitting in the parlor, sharing a bottle of wine, maps of the region spread out before them.

Thelbar looks up, “Have you heard the news, brother?  Cormyr and Sembia have gone to war.  They claim to be fighting over ancient ethnic territorial disputes, but there are rumors of a rogue dwarven hero-cult in the middle of things.”

“Well, what do you want me to do about it?” Taran says as he heads up the stairs.


----------



## (contact)

*50, Continued*

In five days time, the _portable hole_ is completed, and the party is ready to begin in earnest their campaign against the drow.  As expected, Taran finds no new evidence of activity outside of the crypts, but the inside is guarded by several fell monsters, including abyssal spiders and a crying drow woman.

Crying drow woman?

The party discovers her sobbing to herself in a roughly-hewn cavern, and holding a small bundle.  Confused, Kyreel approaches her.  “Be still, milady.  What is your problem?”

“The problem?” She says, pulling a wand from the bundle.  “_You just walked into a trap_!”

“If I only had a silver piece for every drow who has told me that,” Taran mutters to himself as he whips his swords from their scabbards.  The drow woman whirls to face on Kyreel with a fiendish grin, and raises her wand, but Kyreel is too quick for her.  She Smites the drow with her holy sword, and drives the woman back before her spell can take effect.

Two drow fighters come rushing out from a hidden alcove, forming a bodyguard for a cackling male wizard.  Taran leaps at the crude phalanx, and there are a few confusing moments during which the area becomes a whirl of blades, _hasted_ footwork and cries of pain.  But they are all drowish cries, and Taran emerges from the melee unharmed.  In the meantime, Thelbar has managed to _charm_ the male wizard, and calls for a succession of hostilities.

The suddenly helpful wizard introduces himself as an exiled spellguard of house Morcane—the ruling house of Szith Morcane, prior to the recent coup.  He confirms that Irae T’ssarion and her White Death  have taken the city, and are preparing it as a launching point for an assault on the surface.

The city, he says, is reached via a nearby sinkhole.  The sinkhole represents the White Death’s  most remote guard-post, and gives way to a series of tunnels that lead to the city proper.  Szith Morcane is built into the side of a massive chasm, with a myriad of cave openings all linked together by the web of a gargantuan spider.  But intruders must beware, he warns the group, only certain of the spider’s strands may be stepped upon.  Outsiders run the risk of stepping in the wrong place and becoming a meal for the legendary beast. 

The party gets a good description of the city from the man, and discusses bypassing it altogether, but determines that whatever leadership and commanders make Szith Morcane their home, they must die.  Taran points out how debilitating the loss of forward command elements can be to an army preparing for a huge assault.  Wiping out the White Death in Szith Morcane could set Irae T’ssarion’s war plans back by months, and buy the heroes more time to get to her.

The captured drow wizard suggests to the Champions that they should let him lead the way to Szith Morcane’s wizard order.  He tells them that the head of his order is a mage by the name of Solom Ned’razak, and is no friend to the followers of Kiransalee.  Certainly Solom would be interested in an alliance with such powerful and worthy individuals as yourselves, he coos.

“Wow,” Taran says in Isenthanian.  “What a bootlicker.  What did you do to this guy?”

“Never you mind, Taran.  The issue at hand is, do we trust them?”

“We can trust them to betray us at thier first convenience,” Kyreel says.  “I myself will not enter into any committed alliances with wicked beings such as these drow.  We do what we do here we do for our own purposes, remember?  I will not be indebted to evil.”

“I agree,” Taran says.  “Let’s just go in there under the pretense of alliance, then do the whole village.”

“That is a base deception,” Kyreel complains.  

“We will tell no untruths, nor lead them along with any false promises,” Thelbar says.  “We will state  flatly that we desire nothing less than the dispersal of the city’s population and the collapse of all tunnels leading to the surface.  Likely he will spit in our face, which is where your fine plan comes in, brother.” 

Turning to his charmed minion, Thelbar returns to speaking Undercommon, “Lead us to Solom Ned’razak.  We would speak with him, and make him an offer.”

The party fights one group of sentries, and sneaks past another before they come to the massive chasm that is Szith Morcane.  No description could have prepared them for the reality of it—a massive lightless cavern that is more _felt_ than _seen_, its vast presence large enough to sustain its own air currents and change the complexion all sounds heard within its expanse.  As promised, a bewildering labyrinth of web-strands connect the uncountable cave openings, and disappear into the darkness in nearly every direction.

The _charmed_ mage leads the group unerringly to an opening,  heavily carved and worked with runes.  Once inside, the Champions are hustled quickly past surprised drow apprentices and through several secret doors and stairs.  “Stand aside!” Their guide says to no one in particular, “we have important business with Solom Ned’razak!”

“I suspect you’re going to get quite a reward for this,” Thelbar says.

“I suspect you are right surface-worlder,” the drow replies.   “I suspect you are right.”

-----

Solom Ned’razak stares balefully at the _charmed_ mage.  Tall and thin, Solom is bundled in magical robes and garments, and several separate arcane effects cause his very person to glow with a dull, multi-hued throbbing light.  Directly behind him, a small drow woman leans on a spear, and is examining the group with a critical eye.

“You brought these . . . outworlders here, Shamath Ahl’Nathak?”

“Yes, my lord,” the mage crows.  “It was I who . . .” 

Solom Ned’razak points one long, spindly finger at his underling, and a moment later, the _charmed_ drow is simply gone as if he never was, in his place a thin wisp of powdery dust.

Solom Ned’razak regards the group.  “You have come to dispose Irae T’ssarion of her ridiculous war fantasies, I assume.”

“If you mean kill her to ensure the safety of our surface communities, you are correct,” Thelbar says.  “And we have a few requirements that you could help us with.”

“I am not accustomed to granting favors.” Solom drawls.  “My answer is no.”

Thelbar does not indicate that he has heard the drow’s refusal.  “You will personally organize the evacuation and abandonment of this city, and then collapse all tunnels leading to the surface world.  I am prepared to be flexible with regards to the timeline.”

Taran stares at Solom Ned’razak, one hand casually resting on Black Lisa’s hilt, a smug smirk on his face.  “C’mon, skinny.  _Say no again_.”

Solom makes no verbal reply, but does not need to, as  his mastery of the subtle drow sign language is unparalleled.  Before any of the Champions realize that he has even given the order, he _hastes_ himself, and rips a _chain lightning_ through the group, knocking Taran backwards and provoking a cry of pain from Thelbar.  His bodyguard leaps at Kyreel, and before Taran can pull the two drow apart, the bodyguard has opened several terrible gashes across Kyreel’s belly, and the cleric of Palatin Eremath teeters on the verge of death.

His robes still smoking from the electrical pulse, Thelbar grabs his companions and  _teleports_ the Champions of the Risen Goddess back to the sinkhole in the crypt of Dodrian, where they collapse to the ground, shaken and demoralized.


----------



## coyote6

"Hey, you! Big evil wizard guy, of great but unknown power! Do what we say, or else!"

Now that's (over)confidence!


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## incognito

oh...oh...oh...OH YEAH!

the first update, 48, was masterfull.  Exactly the type of stuff those evil plotting drow would do.  MY bad guys never screw themselves over liek they should (mostly becasue my PCs kill them before the flag of truce is out)

for 49

Q1. How many commune spells are being busted out?
Q2. Are there updated PC stat blocks for Taran, Thel, and Kyreel somewhere?

Finally!  We see the PCs (specifically Taran), acting more human,  - getting his freak on with the Drow body guard, and later, threatening his retainers (how's thier morale now?)

for 50

Q3. I can't remember, when did Taran get involved with Jhanira?
Q4. YOu allow two item creators to 1/2 the time of item creation?
Q5. How is charm handled in your game?  BY the std rules threatining action (gee, like killing one's bodyguards!) imposes a 
 -5 penalty to the save DC.  

general notes:

I love the NPC ineraction with the enemies, allowing the players to understand some of the Drow social Dynamic.  

Q6. Does Thel realize that Drow have SR? He must right? (having cast spells at them)...

Aaargh!  So much to ask about in these posts!  Damn, you take a few days of the boards and (contact) gets all prolific on your ass...  Je-SUS

annyway, maybe more later, maybe I'll just sulk.

I love this thread


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## (contact)

Incognito-- you wanted Taran to get slapped down for being so mouthy and you got it! Solom Ned'Razak punked us out so bad that we just ran for the hills.  

*Q1. How many commune spells are being busted out?*

Two, IIRC, plus a pair of _divinations_.

*Q2. Are there updated PC stat blocks for Taran, Thel, and Kyreel somewhere?*

Yes and no-- I have stat blocks from after about chapter 55 or so.  I'll go ahead and put them up.  At the time of Chapter 50 Kyreel is 13th level, Taran is 14th and Thelbar is 15h.  Everyone has raised a level or two since this chapter.

*Finally! We see the PCs (specifically Taran), acting more human, - getting his freak on with the Drow body guard, and later, threatening his retainers (how's thier morale now?)*

Thier morale had better be on speaking terms with their survival instinct if they want to keep on staying drunk on Taran's tab.  Juron sold Taran up the river with Jhaneria, trying to put the make on her!  

Taran has always had a weakness for the female persuasion. Thelbar's history with his children and their mother (more to be revealed later, I'm sure) has turned him gun-shy when it comes to love-- he's become the cold fish, while Taran chases skirts wherever he goes.

But Taran's philandering hasn't been too much trouble for him up until now.   Of course, it occurs to me as a player that Nathe might be hustling Taran, or setting in motion some drow plot within a plot either against her matron mother, or against the adventurers, or both.  Taran isn't quite smart enough at this stage to figure that out, but certainly Thelbar has considered the possibility that his brother is being played for a fool.

Thelbar would reason that if your enemies believe that you don't know what they're up to, they're more likely to reveal themselves in the long run.

I think Taran's #1 character defect isn't his lack of relationship saavy, it is his "adventurer's entitlement".  He views everyone who _isn't_ a hard-core adventurer as somehow beneath him, and his relationships (sexual, platonic or political) reflect this fact. 

He treats Juron and Glim essentially the same high-handed way that he treats the High Councillor of Mistledale, the stable boy, or Ahl-Ithevia the prophet-- a vaugely condescending protectiveness that is dependant on their continued obedience.

If he had more wisdom, he'd be something like Don Corleone in the Godfather movies-- the benificent tyrant.  You have to show Don Corleone respect at all times (or loose your life), but if you do, he'll take care of you.

With this attitude, Taran is really incapable of equal relationships outside of his adventuring companions.  Jhaneria gets on him about this a little later on, and Taran comes out of his rationalization bag with his deeply held (but damn flimsy) conviction that he is special because he kills the things that go bump in the night.

*Q3. I can't remember, when did Taran get involved with Jhanira?*

Jhanira was introduced in Chapter 26 when the PCs first arrive in Mistledale, and the logs specifically mention that Taran was "staying drunk and cavorting with Jhanira Barasstan, the local priestess of Chauntea" in Chapter 47.

In game, they became involved shortly after Taran's appointment to Lord High Protector, but it was really a background thing.  (Until, of course, Juron and Glim started making trouble for him by ratting him out).

*Q4. YOu allow two item creators to 1/2 the time of item creation?*

We have the PCs spend time relative to the actual cost, not the market price of the magic item.  Thelbar has the Magical Artisan (Wondrous Item) feat, which reduced the overall out-of-pocket cost of the portable hole to around 5,000 gp.

*Q5. How is charm handled in your game? BY the std rules threatining action (gee, like killing one's bodyguards!) imposes a 
-5 penalty to the save DC. *

Charm works that way in our game as well.  Aside from our unique interpretations or misreading of things, we don't use any significant house-rules--  in this case, the drow just missed his save.    Of course, that's still pretty easy to do . . . Thel's 1st-level Enchantment spells are DC 22, and this might have even been a charm monster spell . . .

*Q6. Does Thel realize that Drow have SR? He must right?*

Of course-- many of his spells are failing against these drow (and some even worse foes we encounter later), but he has been fairly successful in these early lower-level encounters.


----------



## incognito

I can't wait for a pregnant Jhanira and Nathe get into a hair pulling, eye scrathing contest over who Taran Loves "best"

Or better yet, move Nathe to the demi-plane of "screw you father over with accelarated child maturing" and have Taran face a young mouthy drow version of himself...

..and Thel, poor Thel, only exists for his studies...maybe he needs a nice drug or gambling addiction to make an honest man out of him.



Naw, I don't like seeing  Taran get the tar singed out of him with chaing lightning..._I love it!_

Now I can go back to hating  those evil, good-for nothing, duplicitous drow that need a good tendon-severing beating, like only a mysogonistic, self-recriminating, mass-murder like Taran can deliver!

Long Live Palatin E. and her misguided champions!  Down with Paladins and Elves...

uh, yeah, that's it!


----------



## (contact)

*I can't wait for a pregnant Jhanira and Nathe get into a hair pulling, eye scrathing contest over who Taran Loves "best"*

My DM strongly intimaded, that despite Taran's bravado (and the 'kiss me you fool' moment it provided), Nathe would probably have mopped up the floor with our favorite 'worst case scenario'.  Jhanira I don't know about, but I think she's a few levels shy of a double digit CR.

On the up side, assuming he can stay alive, Taran should level once or twice before he's done playing Lolth's lackey.  Maybe at the end of this adventure he'll be in good shape to deal with his new girlfriend once she decides she's had enough of his lame excuses and late nights out with the boys.


----------



## incognito

Hey there, cowboy, my quote lines are missing!


----------



## Barastrondo

incognito said:
			
		

> *I can't wait for a pregnant Jhanira and Nathe get into a hair pulling, eye scrathing contest over who Taran Loves "best" *




Oh God, it's become a Jerry Springer episode.

Now I'm picturing Nathe and Jhanira with hugely moussed trailer-park hair, and Taran as this sullen guy with a molester mustache and a mullet... but Indy's the one with the mullet... so confused...


----------



## (contact)

*Hey there, cowboy, my quote lines are missing! *

(squints)  They ain't missin'.  They just ain't around is all.

*and Taran as this sullen guy with a molester mustache and a mullet...*

There's a wonderful sketch by Craig Mullens (www.goodbrush.com) that he calls the "Jungle Knight", that I always imagined Taran looking very much like.  An earlier version of the sketch was much darker, and with less contrast-- it looked like a hawk-nosed individual with a full moustache-- exactly like I imagine him.

I'll have to try and do these characters some justice with a painting or two of my own one of these days.

If you haven't, do yourself the favor of checking out www.goodbrush.com.  Craig is the man.

*Oh God, it's become a Jerry Springer episode.*

You know, what's funny is that most of human interaction could be a Springer episode.  But because it's Springer, we get to look at the folks on that show and smugly think "Not me baby, no way."

But how much of European feudal history was driven by these same basic issues-- She married me, but she's sleeping with him, so I'll have him tortured to death, which makes her mad so she throws in lots with my enemies, who want to take what I have.

You can either throw a chair or throw an army at the problem, depending on your means.

At least, that's my take on world culture.  Definately, that's my take on these characters (and the characters of the LoT as well).  Yeah, they blow things up and are richer than God, but they're still not very evolved individuals in some ways.

But there are also mal-adaptive quirks that would get you imprisoned or killed in our world that get you fame and fortune in the D&D world!  Like being an egotistical sociopath who loves extreme danger (*coughTarancough*)


----------



## Joshua Randall

I am amazed that the whole campaign consists of only two people! How does this work logistically? Does the person who's DMing always control all the PCs except the one being controlled by the other player?

I like that the heroes approach things head on. Giants causing a problem in the mountains? Seek 'em out and slaughter 'em. Drow planning a military attack? Tell their leader to abandon his base, or else. It's refreshing to see PCs who aren't beating around the bush, wondering what's in it for them. What's in it for them is GLORY AND RENOWN! Not to mention the fun of playing.

It must be great fun to be able to plop in anything from FR, Greyhawk, and random D&D adventures at will. Planar travel, teleportation, those wacky FR portals - neat. But at the same time, the story is kept cohesive because it focuses on the PCs.

You also seem to have a real flair for exciting combats. To what do you attribute that? Years of practice, or some trick of the trade? And, this may seem like an odd question, but when you write in the story something like "Taran stabs his sword deep into the bugbear's neck" - is that what Taran's player actually said, or did he just say (like most players) "I hit him". I'm always trying to get my players to be more graphic in their combat descriptions, with mixed results.


----------



## (contact)

*I am amazed that the whole campaign consists of only two people! How does this work logistically? Does the person who's DMing always control all the PCs except the one being controlled by the other player?*

First of all, I know this guy better than anyone else living and breathing on planet earth-- we grew up together from infancy, and are brothers in all but blood.  So we understand what it takes to work with each other in a creative way-- we game together, and we have a business together, etc.  

We've done the 'trade off DMing chores' deal for the 16 years we've been gaming, so the kinks are worked out at this point.  

Generally, the person DMing runs 1 or 2 PCs as NPCs, and the player runs the other 2 or 3.  Recently, we've cut the party down to 3 players to ease some of this burden as the characters become high level (and highly complex).  

We've played these PCs long enough that there's no real strong sense of individual PC ownership in terms of role-playing.  Indy is my character, but my DM knows what Indy would do in any situation, and has free rein to run him as he sees fit.  I create and level Indy and Taran, but they are not always my "voice", if that makes sense.

In recent episodes, I have had to play Kyreel and Thel more often than usual because they would just "get" more of the intrigue.  If I (as a player) figure out that villain A is setting us up to kill villain B to advance Evil Plot X, then in-game that's Thelbar doing the talking.  But if I figure out an amusing and cocky way to say, "I'm going to kill you next, punk" that's Taran talking.

Of course, the D&D "solve the game" type of strategies are left to the person playing. 


*anything from FR, Greyhawk, and random D&D adventures . . . but at the same time, the story is kept cohesive because it focuses on the PCs.*

And it helps when the larger plotline actually spans the game-world.  This story could have been run *anywhere*, as is, which means we get to run it anywhere we decide.  In this case, we chose FR and Greyhawk.  No doubt the home-brew campaign world of Isk (Ishlok's original home before she came out of her deific closet) will get explored before this is all over as well.


*You also seem to have a real flair for exciting combats. To what do you attribute that? *

Hm.  I don't know if they'd seem as exciting if you were at the table with us, but we do try to really challenge each other with unusual set-ups and monster tactics.    Having 2 people instead of 5-6 helps things move quickly from start to finish.  Also, having Taran in your group keeps the fights from dragging out too long.  He's a broccoli chopper for sure.

I also just cut the boring fights from the logs altogether.  When you see a sentance like, "The party encounters several trolls and a particularly foul imp along the way, and butchers the creatures before reaching the throne room" you know that those fights were boring.

You'll notice that most of the fights in modules get this treatment.  I don't know if I'm just missing the point or what, but what is the deal with the 10-12 dull ass encounters in every WotC module?  Usually, my DMs sense of versimilitude won't let him have monsters next door to one another not help each other out, so we wind up fighting the lot of the baddies in one go anyway.


*when you write in the story something like "Taran stabs his sword deep into the bugbear's neck" - is that what Taran's player actually said?*

Yes.   I'm much more explicit with my gore and combat details than my co-player, but over the years I've gotten him used to my cinematic embellishments, and he's taught me not to break the crunchy rules while I do it.   I do try to keep the gore to a "PG-13" boundary in the logs.

Ditto for the sex scenes-- we gloss over the happenings and use euphamisms wherever possible.  KnowwhatImean?


----------



## (contact)

Just created a Risen Goddess Rogues' Gallery thread.

The characters are current to the game, but not the logs, and are a level higher than the current story hour chapter.


----------



## (contact)

*51—The Adventurer’s Trinity:  Preparation, Surprise, and Overwhelming Force.*

Kyreel is able to _cure_ herself, and the group retraces their steps until they are back at the sinkhole near where they encountered the crying drow.  Thelbar advocates attacking again in the morning, this time trying to approach unseen.  Taran agrees, but is concerned that the drow will make some sort of immediate reprisal, and attempt to harry the party and keep them from taking the initiative.  Taran proposes that the party place the _portable hole_ on the cave wall in an area of deep shadow where the opening can face the sinkhole.  Then, the group will climb inside it and wait in ambush for the drow strike force.

Taran’s strategy and knowledge of drow tactics is sound.  Only a few short hours after the group settles in, a large fighting band of drow emerge from the sinkhole.  Paradoxically, they are dressed in the uniforms of the White Death, Kiransalee’s army, but have certainly come hunting for the Champions of the Risen Goddess, as they are garbed for a surface-world assault.

A double-score of drow warriors, along with four horrific ghoul-like skinless undead are led by both a cleric and a wizard from the Szith Morcane mage’s guild.  None of the drow recognize the pitch-black hole at floor-level for what it is, and the party is able to slip out of the _portable hole_, and creep up behind the drow column.

Thelbar proves at once that he can quicken _haste_ and _chain lightning_ as well as any other wizard, and adds a _feeblemind_ for the wizard to boot.  Kyreel’s _holy smite_ and _flame strike_ make quick work of the cleric, and other spellcasters.  Taran, as is his custom, waits until his companions have unleashed their spells before charging forward to mop up any survivors.  Predictably enough, the drow column is nearly wiped out before they can marshal a response, and the rest of the fight is an anticlimax.

Not wishing to take any chances, the party returns to the _portable hole_ to rest and make plans for the monring.

“There is some wicked force in that place,” Thelbar says.  “An entity of some sort.  I heard its voice in my head, when we spoke to Solom Ned’razak.  It said “Kill him and free me, and I will give you great rewards.”

“Yes, I heard it also,” Kyreel says.

“If Solom Ned’razak is binding demons, this plays to our advantage.  I suspect we will be likely to have more success _scrying_ the thrall than _scrying_ the wizard.”

-----

And so, the next morning, Thelbar _scrys_ the possessor of the voice heard in his head, and as he suspected, he sees a large fiend, trapped within a summoning circle.  The fiend stands some 9 feet tall, judging by the other furnishings in the room, and is a jackal-headed creature, covered in fur, and possessed of an extra set of arms ending in wicked-looking pincers. 

After watching the room for a few moments, Thelbar _teleports_ the group to the location, and despite their _invisibility_, they are immediately spotted by the fiend.

“Ah, I thought you would be back,” it intones, its foul voice buzzing about in the party’s heads like a swarm of carrion flies.  “Have you considered my offer?  Ned’razak is too much for you, but not with my help.  Free me, and I will take his mewling soul with me to the Abyss once we have rended him limb from limb.”

“We doubt your trustworthiness,” Kyreel states, “and are not in the habit of making deals with fiends.”

“You wound me,” the creature says.  

“Tell us what you know of Ned’razak, and we will determine for ourselves if freeing you is a desirable option,” Thelbar says.

“Ah, yes, bargaining for _information_.”  The fiend says this last word with dripping contempt.  “I should have suspected no better from one who has sat a throne in Baator.  Do I surprise you?  _Do I unman you_?"” The fiend pauses, but there is no response.  “Ned’razak is a diabolist, the worst sort of summoner.  He has licked the boots of his baatezu masters and begged them for a vision.” the fiend continues, “They told him that you are deeply hated by the nine princes.  Congratulations on that, by the way.  They told him that you are the one who displaced Belial.”  The name of the arch-fiend is itself an _unholy_ word, and even despite the summoning circle’s protective hedge, sends tremors through the bodies of the party.  The fiend laughs slowly, a rolling and oddly seductive chuckle.

“Devils are so pathetic,” he finishes.

“No deal,” Thelbar says.  “We kill Ned’razak, and then we see about you.”

Taran creeps through the door of the summoning room, using all his stealth, and leads the party back to the chamber where they were so ingloriously defeated mere hours before.  Ned’razak’s bodyguard stands on watch just outside of an open door, her swords in hand.  The drow have been put on their guard, no doubt by the summoned fiend.  Taran creeps past her, and notes the slight shimmering outline of an _invisible_ figure lurking in a corner of the room beyond.  He leaps forward and seizes the mage, shouting “Thel! Over here!”

Thelbar’s customary _feeblemind_ takes sudden effect, and Taran finds himself holding on to a nearly defenseless old drow man.  The bodyguard does not fare near as well with her master gone, and after another brief exchange, she lies dead on the floor.

The party quickly loots both the bodies and the mage’s room with a practiced ease, stuffing everything that looks valuable or radiates magic into their _portable hole_.  Finishing that, they sneak out of the mage’s school, and head toward the highest point of Szith Morcane, the spider-shaped temple that was once a home for the worship of Lolth, and now houses Irae T’ssarion’s White Death.

They move through the complex with an efficiency born of long practice, and put to the sword and spell all drow within.  The place is crawling with undead, and more than its share of vampires.  During the temple’s final resistance, a drowish high-priestess standing behind a fearsome-looking death knight and a large contingent of vampires taunts the party.

“The goddess you serve is dead!” she says, making a reference to the spider-queen pins the party wears.

“The goddess we serve is Palatin Eremath, and she’s already been dead,” Kyreel retorts.

Taran whirls his sun blade above his head, and the enchanted blade produces a sunlight radiance that confuses and scatters their vampiric foes.  The death knight, even without his vampiric allies, proves to be a vital and fearsome combatant.  There is something disturbingly familiar about his carriage and fighting style, although none of the characters can put their finger on exactly what it is.

The remaining priestess drops a _blade barrier_ on the party, but cannot pin any of the heroes down with the spell.  Taran scuttles underneath the whirling fan of blades, and says “Nice _blade barrier_.  Y’wanna see mine?”  There is no save for half.

After Taran finishes with the priestess, he assists Kyreel with the death knight, and soon the servants of Kiransalee in Szith Morcane number only a handful of undead, scattered to whatever strange winds blow through the lightless world of the Underdark.

The group makes a search of the temple, and discovers several pieces of communication to the priestess from none other that Irae T’ssarion herself.  In the letters, T’ssarion refers to the woman as “daughter”, and entreats her to stand fast against “whatever surface-dwellers may come”.  The followers of Kiransalee expect an attack from adventurers, but there is no mention of any specifics.

In the heart of the place is a lost temple to Lolth, sacked and _desecrated_.  The entire place gives off an exceptionally unwholesome chill.  No doubt the massacres and sacrifices that accompanied the recent overthrow of Lolth’s faithful had this place as their epicenter.  Now, the sanctum is so foul that according to the tracks, not even the perpetrators of the crimes can stomach the place long enough to make any use out of it.

Truth be told, with their military objective achieved, it was only greed that drew the Champions of the Risen Goddess into such a horrible place.


----------



## Victim

Blade Barrier is save negates, not save for 1/2.


----------



## (contact)

"No save for half" is a running gag for our group.


----------



## Joshua Randall

> *“Ah, yes, bargaining for information.” The fiend says this last word with dripping contempt. “I should have suspected no better from one who has sat a throne in Baator.  [...] “They told him that you are deeply hated by the nine princes. Congratulations on that, by the way. They told him that you are the one who displaced Belial.”*




What's that all about? What does the fiend know about our heroes' past lives that they themselves do not? (Or was I just not paying attention earlier?)


----------



## incognito

> Truth be told, with their military objective achieved, it was only greed that drew the Champions of the Risen Goddess into such a horrible place.




Please tell me that much of the treasure the party took is twisted and cursed, or has horrifying side effects...

Your friendly neighbor on the eastcoast, incognito...


----------



## thatdarncat

incognito said:
			
		

> *
> 
> Please tell me that much of the treasure the party took is twisted and cursed, or has horrifying side effects...
> 
> Your friendly neighbor on the eastcoast, incognito...
> 
> *




I suspect someone has been reading a Vile book...


----------



## Galfridus

How do you desecrate an temple to Lolth -- place flowers on it and sing happy songs?


----------



## (contact)

*Please tell me that much of the treasure the party took is twisted and cursed, or has horrifying side effects...*

Treasure?  Treasure's too good for 'em!

*How do you desecrate an temple to Lolth -- place flowers on it and sing happy songs?*

Hm, drow hippies (insert CoC SAN check joke here).  But how do you sing We Shall Overcome in the elvish 14-tonal scale?

Kiransalee had desecrated Lolth's temple when the White Death took the place.  I guess it'd be like a good diety _hallowing_ another good deity's temple.  

(Not that the good deities do that sort of thing, of course.)


----------



## (contact)

*Chapter 52*

*52—The Pasoun in Miniature—the Left Hand of the Goddess.*

Dark stains cover the walls of the place and obscure the carvings and relief sculpture, coagulated blood filling the cracks and crevices.  The bodies of Lolth’s priesthood lie where they fell here, blood-trails giving mute testimony to whatever feeble attempts to flee were made by the lost.

The stench of carnage is almost overpowering, and as the party picks their way through the bodies, it becomes more and more apparent that nothing of value could be within such a vile place.  Most of the bodies have been looted, their jewelry and finery in many instances cut from living bodies with a maximum of cruel butchery.

The group is rapidly reaching the conclusion that there is nothing of value in this place, when a frail and shrill keening is heard.  At first, it is a helpless sound, and the party’s protective instincts are irrationally triggered, but after a moment, the noise rises in both volume and violence as the wispy, semi-present form of a drow woman rises from the carnage at the back of the room.  Tears of deepest black streak her anguished face and she opens her arms to the group, screaming the whole while.

Kyreel levels her hands and invokes Palatin Eremath, bringing the light of the Goddess to the dead elf, and destroying her form.  Thelbar slowly rises from where he had crouched, his hands over his ears, but Taran does not stir.  His corpse lies lifeless among the bodies of Lolth’s priesthood, frightened literally to death by the banshee’s wail.

Taran’s corpse is interred without any ceremony within the _portable hole_, and after another quick sweep of the White Death’s stronghold to ensure that there are no survivors, Thelbar _teleports_ himself and Kyreel back to the crypts of Dodrian. 

The next morning, Kyreel lays Taran’s body out on the stone slab serving as a coffin for the mausoleum’s occupant, and invokes the blessing of Palatin Eremath to restore Taran to life.  When the ritual is complete, Taran sits up with a groan, and looks about him.

“What in all nine hells happened to me?  I feel like a dragon swallowed me and passed me through.”

“You were slain by the wail of a banshee,” Kyreel says.  “But I have invoked the Left Hand of the Goddess.  You are reborn.”

“And I have a birthday gift for you, Taran,” Thelbar says with a warm smile, handing Taran a silver circlet.  “I took this from the head of Solom Ned’razak.  It will increase your mental prowess, unless I am mistaken, and I am rarely mistaken.  Grow used to it, for I will expect you to wear it at all times.”

Taran takes the circlet and puts it on his head, then smiles to himself.  “Wow.  This is . . . extraordinary,” he says in a soft voice.  “Everything seems so . . . clear to me.”

“And we have another gift,” Kyreel says.  “Wear this cloak.  It will enhance your sprit, and lend authority to your words.”

“It will also strengthen your connection with the dragon-soul you share your body with, I suspect,” Thelbar says.  “Galathonriel will be well pleased.”

The party hikes back to Mistledale, a newly intelligent and more charismatic Taran scouting the way and chuckling to himself.  “Wait’ll Juron and Glim get a load of me,” he says to himself.  “All this and brains, too.”

-----

But Taran’s mirth and warm feelings are short-lived.  When the group approaches their home, they are stunned by an unexpected sight—their home is reduced to rubble, destroyed so thoroughly as to more closely resemble a quarry or landslide than a stone structure.  Also completely demolished is the construction for Thelbar’s wizard’s school and the new temple to Palatin Eremath.  No stone stands upon a stone, and the entire area gives off a powerful and disquieting presence.

“I’m . . . not going to kill anyone, Thel,” Taran says.

“Goddess be praised,” Kyreel gasps.  “This ground is _hallowed_.”

“But not to Ishlok,” Thelbar says.  “What happened here.”

“I’m not going to kill anyone,” Taran assures the group again.  “I’m just not going to kill anyone.”

The party searches through the rubble for a several minutes, but nothing is salvageable. Regrouping, they walk into the center of town.  As they pass, the locals look away, as if embarrassed or ashamed.  The group spies a number of tents set up in a clearing at the edge of town, and recognize the followers of Palatin Eremath moving among the temporary structures.

Within the tent-town, the party is surrounded by the faithful, and after weathering a confusing barrage of questions, are approached by the high priest.  He takes them into his private tent, and tells the party what has transpired in their absence.

“Two days ago,” the priest says with a grim tone, “Three riders approached Mistledale, and demanded to speak with you.  When I told them that you were away, they leveled accusations that you three are in the service of Lolth, and that you consort with demons.  They said that you even have fiends in your service.  I gave this the lie, of course,” he says almost apologetically.  “But they would not listen.  They claimed that their gods confirmed their accusations, and that our faith was an affront to all the good men of Faerun.”

“Their gods?” Taran asks.  “They served more than one?”

“Oh yes,” the priest continues, “there were three of them—Elgin Trezler, he called himself ‘the Voice of the Dawn’, a high priest to Lathander, an elven wizard and prophet representing Corellon Larethian—he gave his name as Enae Enhallo.  Last was the knight Jumdash Dir.  Perhaps you have heard of him?  He is the abbot of the Abbey of Swords in Battledale, and is said to be very well-known in the Dalelands as the greatest paladin amongst the order of Tempus.

These three ordered us out of the temple, and we had no choice but to obey them.  They rained spells on your home and our place of worship, and made the very earth shake.  Jumdash Dir invoked his god, and our homes were destroyed.”

“Were any of our people hurt?” Taran asks, in a soft and distracted voice.

“No, my lord,” the priest says.  “We were given time to evacuate, but were not allowed to rescue the Temple’s regalia.  Our ritual objects were destroyed.”

“The statue?” Kyreel asks, referring to the artifact of Palatin Eremath.

“It was unharmed,” the priest says.  “Alone amongst our possessions, the statue was not molested.  Although I suspect it was not for lack of trying.”

“And then?” Thelbar asks.

“Then they instructed us that we had a fortnight to leave the Dalelands, else we would be considered a hostile faith.”

Taran cracks his neck and whispers, “Hostile?  Oh, they have no idea.”  

Thelbar regards the priest.  “And what of Mistledale?  What of the people here?”

“They were instructed to lend you no further aid, lest they, too, be marked as blasphemers.  Jhanira, the priestess of Chauntea, communed with her goddess, and reported that their accusations were true.”

“Oh, great.  This is just what I need right now,” Taran mutters.

The priest makes a ritual bow, and says  “Instruct me, lords. I am greatly confused. Is it true what they said about you?”

“These are confused times, my friend,” Kyreel says.  “Know this; what we do, we do for our goddess and her alone, and if such is unpalatable to the other faiths of this land, then so much the worse for them.  Ishlok be with us, her name is above all names.  We will set this to right, be assured.”

“Hell yes, we will,” Taran mutters under his breath.  “With blood, and fire and pain.”  To his companions, he says, “Look, I’ll deal with the High Councilor and see what I can’t do to get this stupid town ready for the drow, once we’re gone.  You two look into what options we have for our people here, then we’ll regroup and prioritize our ‘to do’ list.”

“Well thought out, brother,” Thelbar says, smiling.  “For the time being, we must take pains to insure the safety of the faith.  Be not rash.”

“Oh, I won’t be,” Taran says, tapping his new circlet with one finger.  “I’ve got a plan.”

Taran marches to the High Councilor’s residence, glaring at the townsfolk along the way, and demands an entrance.  High Councilor Haresk Malorn receives him in his parlor.

“Lord Protector!  We had nothing to do with this tragedy, I assure you!”

“Aw, hell, Haresk.  I know you didn’t, and I’m not angry with you,” Taran says.  “Tell me what happened.”

“The three holy men came, and said horrible things about you.  The priest of Lathander left word that he wishes to speak with you.”

“Yeah I bet he does, but never mind what he wants.”  

“They told me that you were a great danger to us, and that you’d bring destruction upon us.  They said you served Lolth, and consorted with _fiends_.  Taran, you should know that Jhanira has _communed_ the truth in their words.  This is a terrible thing.”

“Well, Haresk, see it’s . . . well, okay.  It’s true what they said, but it’s not true at the same time, if that makes sense to you.”

“It does not, I’m afraid,” The High Councilor says.

“Okay, it’s like this,”  Taran begins pacing the room, his feet subconsciously following the seven-stepping fighting pattern made famous by the former Royal Blademaster of Nyrond (may his body someday be found).  “There are good guys, and then there are bad guys, right?  But there are also _good_ bad guys and _bad_ bad guys.  Sometimes the good guys have to work with the good bad guys against the bad bad guys, who are the worst.”

Taran stares at the High Councilor for a moment, and after a satisfied grunt, he continues.  “Right now, there is a group of drow massing an army beneath our feet, and they intend to sack the Dalelands.  They’re the bad bad guys.”

“Oh, dear.”

“But we’re on it, so don’t worry.  Here’s the deal—the bad bad guys aren’t worshipping Lolth.  They hate Lolth and Lolth hates them back.  So for now, we’re on Lolth’s side, even though we’re really on our own side.  See?”

“I suppose,” the High Councilor says doubtfully.  “I’ve tried to convene a council of the Dales, but the other towns refuse to meet with us.  And there’s more, Lord Protector.  Yesterday, two men came to see me.  They were _harpers_, and they said that we’re not to help you in any way if we know what’s good for us.  They seemed very sincere.”

“Yeah I bet they did, but never mind them.”  Taran thinks for a moment, rubbing his chin, then continues.  “Okay, okay.  I’ve got this figured out.  We’re going to stop this drow army if we can, and here’s what you’re going to do.”

“I attend, Taran.”

“First, you need to set up plans for an evacuation.  If these drow attack, you’d better hope that you’re ready to run like all the demons in the abyss are chasing you—because they will be.”

“I understand.”

“Now, you’re going to fire me as the Lord Protector.  Then you’ll go tell those damn Harpers that you fired me.  They’ll know whether you’re lying, because they are experts at it, so don’t.  Tell them what I said about the drow, and tell them that if they don’t get off their candy elven asses and get you some help, you’re all going to die.  They’ll believe your story because it’s true.  Got it?”

“I suppose I do, but . . .”

“Now fire me.”

“Er,” The High Councilor sheepishly stammers.  “You’re fired?”

“Fine!  I hope the drow kill you all!”  Taran says.  “Make sure to tell them I said that, okay partner? Okay, I think we’re done here-- good job.  See you at dinner.”

------

Taran leaves Haresk Malorn’s house, and walks to the temple of Chauntae.  The temple maidens inform him that Jhanira is waiting for him at her scrying pool.  Taran enters the open courtyard and sees the young priestess dressed in her ritual regalia, dangling her fingers into the basin of collected rainwater.

“Ah, our esteemed Lord Protector,” Jhanira says without looking up.  “Have you come to complete your betrayal of those who trusted you?”

“Jhanira,” Taran says softly.  “I understand that you’re upset right now . . .”

“No, I am not upset.  I am confused and concerned, but I am far past being upset with you.”

Taran fidgets nervously, and looks around the room.  There he finds no immediate danger, no insane and cackling wizard or rampaging dragon demanding his attention.  He sighs, and turns back to the small woman with a fearful but determined grimace.

“I am many things today,” Jhanira says, “but upset is not one of them.  Chauntea has given me many visions.  They have not been as virulent as those received by many of the other faiths, but they hold the same misgivings.”  Jhanira cups water in her hand, and regards it as it slips through her fingers.  “That priest of Lathander – Trezler – he left word that he wishes to speak with you.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

After a long pause where she regards Taran for the first time since he entered, Jhanira continues.  “I will be sad to see the temple go, and I will loose many friends as a result.”

Taran sits next to Jhanira on the lip of the pool.  “Look, Jhanira.  You know us—you’ve seen how we live and what we bring to a community. Can you truly believe that we are wicked, or serve the cause of evil?  We are going, yes, but only because that is what the safety of Mistledale, and the safety of our people demands.”

“Where will you go?” Jhanira asks.

“I don’t know, that’s not my job,” Taran says.  “But it doesn’t matter.  There’s going to be fighting wherever we go-- there are no safe places for us now.”  Taran stands up again, and begins to pace a circle around the pool.  “The things they said about us might be true at the surface, but they don’t mean what those bastards say they mean.”

“They tell me that your goddess consorts with Lolth, and thus you are wicked.  What else could that mean?”

“Well, hell, Jhanira, they’re sisters.  _Of course_ they talk with one another.  Haven’t you ever known somebody to have a sibling that falls from the fold?  Palatin Eremath doesn’t say to shun evil, she says to teach it the good.  What authority would that command have if she didn’t do the same for her own kin?”

Taran stops pacing and stands in front of Jhanira.  “We’re going to deal with this mess, but first we have a more immediate threat.  The drow are massing an army that is poised to attack the Dalelands, and these self righteous dogma-slingers are busy making our lives miserable while we try to protect their faithful!”  Taran looks at her.  “I’m going back down there soon, and I might not survive.”

Jhanira regards Taran but says nothing.

Taran continues.  “If I was confident that we could whip these drow, I’d keep my mouth shut, but I’m not.  If we can’t stop them, the Dalelands are in big trouble, and the people of Mistledale are going to need you.  You’ve got to help them figure out a contingency plan in case this place is overrun.  If the people can’t retreat faster than that drow army can advance, you’re all going to die.”


----------



## incognito

> ...but Taran does not stir. His corpse lies lifeless among the bodies of Lolth’s priesthood, frightened literally to death by the banshee’s wail.




No!  Not Taran...not like that!  Fighter's die honarably in combat!  Oh, the humanity!

Edit/Side note: Kyreel does not have the Sun domain, nor double a Banshee's HD - how did she destroy the Banshee?

Divine Agent: from MotP?



> “Two days ago,” the priest says with a grim tone, “Three riders approached Mistledale, and demanded to speak with you. When I told them that you were away, they leveled accusations that you three are in the service of Lolth, and that you consort with demons.




Incognito's eyes go wide (and devils., he thinks..)

(un)Holy crap this DM is cool.  It's the good/good schism.



> Taran continues. “If I was confident that we could whip these drow, I’d keep my mouth shut, but I’m not. If we can’t stop them,...[snip]...you’re all going to die.”




Errr...wow, if that's Taran saying that...gods...

I'm sensing a commune or two in the upcoming sessions...
I wonder if the Mayor has any clue...
I wonder what the reprecussions of the churces 

And I'm mad at the priests of Correlian - Cor's misleading them on purpose!  Bastard.  Not fit to be a greater diety.  Yet ANOTHER reason to hate elves...

oh, a minor questions is this line: “It will also strengthen your connection with the dragon-soul you share your body with, I suspect,” Thelbar says. “Galathonriel will be well pleased.”

Just a nod to the fact that Taran is a sorcerer? or is there a Dragon living inside him?


----------



## (contact)

incognito said:
			
		

> *Edit/Side note: Kyreel does not have the Sun domain, nor double a Banshee's HD - how did she destroy the Banshee?*




She cast _raise dead_ on the Banshee.



> *Incognito's eyes go wide . . .  (un)Holy crap this DM is cool.*




Isn't he, though?  Seriously, I feel lucky.  He really is the ish, particularly when he gets a large, epic storyline in mind.  Remember, this is the guy who ran our Temple of Elemental Evil 2 campaign.  So, yeah, he rocks.

As a point of note, my last tour behind the screen was the _Heart of Nightfang Spire_ run, where I took his Risen Goddess plotline and threw in this wrench-- It was Corellon Larethian who killed Palatin Eremath, not Lolth, and several other more minor elvish gods (including an elvish god of evil!) were killed or banished along with her.

As you can see, he took my 'tweak' and ran with it.  I imagine we'll keep him behind the screen until we play out the current plot-arc.  




> *oh, a minor questions is this line: “It will also strengthen your connection with the dragon-soul you share your body with, I suspect,” Thelbar says. “Galathonriel will be well pleased.”
> 
> Just a nod to the fact that Taran is a sorcerer? or is there a Dragon living inside him? *




From Chapter 8: Left adrift, Fine Manners are proved to be a function of a full belly.


_(Taran's) second dream is reoccurring and much more pleasant.   In that one he recalls the friendship of a silver dragon, a being who—he is sure— was a boon companion in this misty half-remembered life. As his dreams intensify, he seems to undergo a subtle physical alteration. He finds that through concentration he can enhance his speed and stamina, or cause a faint shimmering of silver dragon scales to rise on his skin, toughening his hide.  The dragon’s name is Galathonriel, and their souls, it seems, are intertwined._

(Meta-game note:  those are the 1st levels sorcerer spells _expeditious retreat_ and _shield_.)

From Chapter 11—Bidding farewell to a life of crime.


_Galathonriel (as that was the sword’s name) was the soul of a silver dragon, placed into a weapon that he might continue to oppose his enemies after death.  Many fighters will tell you that their sword is their best friend, or that they trust only their blade.  In Taran’s case, this was literally so.

It burned at Taran, and hurt him, that Galathonriel could not have a body to fly free, and live the life he so fondly remembered.  Through a series of elaborate adventures, Taran managed to find a way ‘between the worlds’, and speak with the powerful spirits charged with shepherding the souls of the dead.  A bargain was struck, and Galathonriel was given a new body, and a new life.
Somehow, through that process, part of Taran’s soul remained with the dragon, and part of a dragon’s soul was left in the man.  In this life, as Taran grows in stature, elements of Galathonriel’s primal magical gift are bubbling to the surface, reflected in Taran sorcerous abilities.

If Galathonriel was still alive when the remnants of Taran's army was dashed upon the rocks of the Ishlokian Imperial Guard, Taran cannot recall. The Lord of Rethmiir (called The Dragonslayer, called Scion of the Blade), Taran Tar-Ilou was executed as a war criminal by the High Justicar of Her Glorious and Most Radiant Goddess Ishlok, Protector of Her Holy Empire, in the Fall of the year 1122 Founding.

He was reborn of whole cloth in Greyhawk City, a world away from his home, charged with a great and terrible purpose.  Galathonriel, it seems, is still with him, integrated into the new whole._

These are references to Taran's previous-life adventures, and Galathonriel was a core NPC and one of the great joy/tragedies of Taran's adventuring career.  Taran did manage to free his one true friend and return him to dragonkind, but in so doing lost Galathonriel's companionship.  Dragons fly as they will, they do not spend their days hanging from the hip of surly fighters.  So it played out as sort of an inverse Puff the Magic Dragon scenario.  Puff grew up.


----------



## incognito

*She cast raise dead on the Banshee.*

Does that work?!  Hmmmm...

The best part about your DM is that he is totally justified.  Thel/Taran have slapped at the primarly Elven deity, Thel has a PIT FIEND watching over his children.  Taran had sex with (talk about consorting with the enemy!) the Drow....

...Hey now!...

..And now they are on a Drow's mission (not to mention wearing the posessions of the felled Drow...

Q: if you were a drow item crafter - and you made a pwoerful sword, ring, cloak, shield - wouldn;t you engrave it with "pro-Drow" designs?  I bet you would, and I bet they did.  

Again I say: No! Not Taran...not like that! Fighter's die honarably in combat! Oh, the humanity!

As a side note (contact) does it worry you that _feeblemind_ and Banshee's causing death to a fighter type are making themselves known in this story hour as well?  Or perhaps I have ruined the best suprise of all.  the Liberators, and the Champions are _on the same team_ shall we say?

Hmmm.....


----------



## (contact)

incognito said:
			
		

> *She cast raise dead on the Banshee.
> 
> Does that work?!  Hmmmm...*




Yes.  _Raise dead_ is like _slay unliving_.  



> And now they are on a Drow's mission (not to mention wearing the posessions of the felled Drow...




They also have specific holy items to Lolth designed to compel obediance and assistance from any Lolth-worshippers they encounter along the way.

*From Chapter 48: A Dark Offer.*


The male drow steps forward.  “I can offer you directions to Maermydra, and give you these.”  He presents a trio of pendants, carved with a single drowish rune.  “They will mark you to the eyes of the Spider Queen’s faithful, and compel them to render you service.  These runes represent the highest order of her faith, and will be obeyed.”

“And if they are not, the drow in question are not faithful and should die anyway.” The matron mother says.



> *Or perhaps I have ruined the best suprise of all.  the Liberators, and the Champions are on the same team shall we say?*




And if you recall, there were other "outsiders" in Greyhawk-- the Ishlokians  (their name, of course was taken from the name of the Risen Goddess back on the old campaign world).  Ishlokians were the ones who killed Taran in his last life, and most likely killed Thelbar and the others as well.  These Ishlokians had arrived on Greyhawk _en masse_, and through mysterious means, when they fled some sort of cataclysm in their old world

The Ishlokians were at the root of all the trouble in Ratik, and had declared behind the scenes that "Ishlok" was merely another name for Pholtus of the Blinding Light, and that they and the Pholtans were lost spiritual siblings.


----------



## Barastrondo

Here's what _I_ like about this latest wrinkle.

One of the things I like best about fantasy, and D&D in particular, is the chance to mess around with religion, specifically pantheism. It's just so much fun (speaking as a worldbuilder) to try and devise a system of how the gods interact, and that extends into preventing plenty of opportunity for conflict on the mortal realm. 

One of the things that I've generally found somewhat disappointing about the Forgotten Realms deities is that the evil gods tend to be very disorganized, treacherous and overall inefficient, whereas the good gods tend to cooperate well and support one another. That's sensible on a "good is good and evil is bad" level, but it does tend to beg the question of why the good gods haven't just done away with the evil ones by now. They (seemingly) have more worshippers, they're better organized, they don't betray each other, and they're of an equivalent power level (if not stronger) — they should be totally dominant, and that's just not as interesting. If evil isn't as strong and effective as good, it's not really as much fun to oppose it; it's certainly not worth the same bragging rights. The solution has generally been to "make more powerful bad guys," but that's not really satisfying.

Hence, why this latest plot twist appeals to me so much. The gods of good demonstrate some fallibility, as do their followers. It totally makes sense, and it helps make the overall structure of Faerunian religion make a little more sense in the process. Because if this sort of thing is happening all the time — then _that's_ why evil is still in the running. Very gratifying. 

Of course, even that isn't as amusing as the implications of Thelbar giving Taran a mental-boost item and telling him "I expect you to wear it _at all times_."

("Thanks, bro. This is really… HEY!")


----------



## (contact)

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> *One of the things that I've generally found somewhat disappointing about the Forgotten Realms deities is that the evil gods tend to be very disorganized, treacherous and overall inefficient, whereas the good gods tend to cooperate well and support one another. That's sensible on a "good is good and evil is bad" level, but it does tend to beg the question of why the good gods haven't just done away with the evil ones by now. They (seemingly) have more worshippers, they're better organized, they don't betray each other, and they're of an equivalent power level (if not stronger) — they should be totally dominant, and that's just not as interesting. *





Or that implies that a worshipper-centric outlook isn't really what the gods are about.  If the evil guys are disorganized and generally fewer than the good guys, the whole diefic struggle on the mortal plane probably isn't the real indicator of godly power.  The PCs could just be an afterthought (albeit a self-centered afterthought with delusions of primacy).

Obviously, that's not this campaign's paradigm.



> *Of course, even that isn't as amusing as the implications of Thelbar giving Taran a mental-boost item and telling him "I expect you to wear it at all times."
> 
> ("Thanks, bro. This is really… HEY!") *




Taran says, "You know, I just realized, you guys've been making fun of me all this time."  

Thelbar has always given his big, thick-headed brother all kinds of greif.  When confronted with Taran's confession of involvement with the drow, Thelbar tells him, “It was obvious, brother.  You are like an open book—one with many pictures."

But hey, now that he's smart, Taran can involve his worldview in all the philisophical discusssions, which was the real role-play motivation to give him that item.  He really does have a concrete worldview, and he's expressed it consistently, but he hasn't been really smart enough to press his points.  (Of course, he'll also get a couple extra skill points each level to help catch up on all his Ranger skills, and that's a good thing.)

You'll see that his new circlet doesn't prevent foot-in-mouth disease once he has to go deal with Jhaneria, though.  Heh, heh.


----------



## incognito

> Of course, he'll also get a couple extra skill points each level to help catch up on all his Ranger skills, and that's a good thing.)




Careful with that axe, Eugene.  The second Taran takes that circlet of, the skill points are gone for good.  My Dm does not even allow me to calculate them temporarity in there.

...becasue even if you don't role play it, a PC's gotta shower and chance some of the time.


----------



## (contact)

Taran sleeps in his armor, too.



I think my DM will let it slide-- he's a big softie.


----------



## (contact)

*53—All games have players, but not all players have game*

Taran sits with Jhanira, holding her hands.  “Jhanira, I need you to come on in out of the cold.  I need you to jump on the team, and come on in for the big win.”

“You know I can’t stand it when you talk in clichés.  It means you want something.”  Jhanira removes her hands and places them in her lap.  “You should go.”

“Okay,” Taran says.  “I’ll go.  But about that other thing.  I’m in love with her, Jhanira.”

“I don’t care.  This is not my concern any longer.”

“Okay, then.  I guess this is goodbye.”

“I guess it is.”

“I won’t be around much,”

“I guess you won’t”

“And, uh . . . _don’t sleep with Juron or Glim_.”

“What?”

“Trust me, they’re just no good.  They’re a pair of lyin’ backstabbin’ drunks, the both of ‘em, and they’ll just treat you cruel.”

“Do you really think you can barge in here toss around a few clichés and start making demands, Taran?”

“Don’t think of it as a demand, just think of it as really good advice.”

“I can’t believe you!  You’re jealous that your _followers_ might get their hands on something you’ve had.  That’s so small, Taran.  That is a really puny thing to say.”

“No, no—not all my followers, just them two.”

“What, are you afraid they’ll show you up?  Are you afraid they’ll be more man than you?”

“That’s a laugh.”

“You are _such_ an egotist.”

Taran jumps to his feet, his cheeks flushed.  “Egotist!” he screams, spittle flying from his mouth.  “Does an egotist risk his life thousands of feet below the earth,” Taran stabs his finger at Jhanira to punctuate his words, “just to . . . keep  . . . you . . . safe?”  Taran rips open his shirt to reveal scars along his chest.  “Does an _egotist_ fight three f--king dragons –- three! –- or cast a spell to save his friends even though he was surrounded by gigantic four armed carnivorous fiendish gorillas _and knew he was going to be killed_! Huh?”

“Giant four-armed . . .?  What on earth are you screaming about?”

“Well?  Does an _egotist_ stay out for days at a time on long-range patrols just to make sure your fat ass is _safefromthef--kingdrow_?  Huh?”

Taran glares at Jhanira, his eyes wide and his breathing labored.  

“My _what_?” she says softly as she stands up.

-----

Thelbar and Kyreel are looking over maps of Faerun, discussing possible places to relocate the church.  Kyreel asks about to the high forest, and Palatin Eremath’s lost temple there.

“It is still overrun by the fiendish elves,” Thelbar says.  “Still, the High Forest might make a suitable home for us.”

“I wonder, what about Gorquen?  Wasn’t she adventuring in the north?” Kyreel asks.

Thelbar _scrys_ Gorquen, and sees her standing inside a large stone room, talking with another elf neither heroes recognize.  “We could _teleport_ to her, and see what she knows about all of this,” Thelbar suggests.

“Shall we wait for Taran?” Kyreel asks.

Just then, Taran’s voice is heard, faintly and at a great distance.  His words are unclear, but his emotional state is not.  He is screaming.

“I think we’ll leave him here,” Thelbar says.

A few moments later, Taran and Kyreel are standing in front of Gorquen.  Startled by their sudden appearance, she draws her sword, but sheathes it at once.  “Thelbar!  Kyreel!” she exclaims.  “You have need of my blade!  I’ll prepare at once!”

“No, no, my dear,” Kyreel says.  “We are here at peace.”

“Or something resembling it for the moment,” Thelbar says.

Gorquen introduces her companion as Ilwe, an archer-priest of Solonor Thelandira, elven god of warfare, knowledge and stealth.  After formalities are exchanged, Thelbar briefs Gorquen on the recent happenings; she, in turn, tells her friends about her doings since last they met:

-----

After leading the faithful of Palatin Eremath from Undermountain, Gorquen helped them establish the church at Waterdeep, and learned many of the same things about her goddess’ history that the Dalelands-based adventurers came to know.  She received visions from the goddess, and followed them to the Far Forest, just east of the High Forest, the former center for the lost elven kingdom of Earlann.  Along the way, she met Ilwe, called to the area by similar divine sendings.

They encountered a wandering drow cleric of Lolth, no less than Alardia Banare, the daughter of the matron mother herself!  After defeating her, Gorquen attempted to slay the foul priestess, but found her hand was stayed by some unseen force.  Ilwe, thinking his companion’s hesitation to be misplaced compassion, moved to kill the woman, but was also mysteriously held back.

The drow regaled her captors with tales of debauched cruelty, but could not force them to kill her.  Crying, the pitiful drow confessed that she was on the run from her kin, and had taken to the surface hoping to evade them.  It seems that after a cruel ritual involving a fallen human paladin, the priestess had become pregnant, and it was at that time she lost her ability to regain spells.  Thinking, wrongly, that she had offended Lolth somehow, and reasoning correctly that her sisters would murder her in her moment of weakness, she fled her city and became a wanderer.  By the time the adventurers found her, she had grown desperate and suicidal.  Like her captors, she had been unable to take her own life, and had hoped her vile litany would provoke them into performing the deed.  

Death By Adventurer.

The duo keep their captive with them, and arrive at an ancient complex, nestled in the base of the Star Mountains.  There, they encountered fiendish elves, no doubt kin to the ones Taran and Thelbar fought months ago while raising the goddess’ star.  Gorquen names these elves as the lost house Dlardrageth.  After many battles with the fiendish elves, she was able to learn the sad tale of Tar-Elentyr, a fallen elf seduced, and eventually betrayed by demons.

Tar-Elentyr was at one time a mortal elf.  He was the greatest Divine Champion to Palatin Eremath before she was slain, and was the war leader of her followers.  He served under the direct command of the celestial entity Scaladar, one of the “first made”, the immortal race which was the precursor to elves in the heart of the elven pantheon. 

When Palatin Eremath fought in the Kin-Wars, Scaladar was at her side, and when she was struck down, he went mad with grief, and cursed the elven father-god Corellon Larethian for a murderer.  Corellon struck Scaladar from the heavens, and banished his soul to the abyss.  But Scaladar was too strong to be destroyed, and in time, he came to embrace his prison, and grow to power there.  At this time, Scaladar began to think again on the mortal realm.

Tar-Elentyr, meanwhile, had sworn vengeance on Corellon Larethian, and all his worldly followers.  He had spent out his long elven life waging an increasingly desperate war for revenge, but had not seen much success.  His bitterness and loss primed him for the now-demonic touch of Scaladar, and when his former master called him back to service, Tar-Elentyr sold his soul.

He fell to the worship of Scaladar, and was given the charge of an abyssal horde, which he bred with his elven followers.  This mixed-blood army grew strong, and eventually laid siege to the temple city of Myth-Iskok, the former center of Palatin Eremath’s worship, now a place taboo to the elves.  

When Palatin Eremath was killed, Corellon ordered her sacred places pulled down, and those that could not be destroyed were sealed and guarded by his first-made.  Myth-Iskok was such a place, and had been kept hidden from the world since the goddess’ fall.  Tar-Elentyr breached the seal, but whatever he found within was too much for him.  He retreated, and over the next age was eventually beaten by the followers of Corellon Larethian and the armies of Earlann.

But their victory was costly, and weakened Earlann so badly that when Hellgate Keep was opened, the elven kingdom was doomed.  Earlann fell, and its elves entered the retreat, never again to be seen in Faerun.

Gorquen and Ilwe found Tar-Elentyr in the dungeons beneath this place, brooding on his failures and gnawing at his bitterness like a rag-toy.  Gorquen challenged the fallen Champion, and defeated him in honorable combat.

“I saw myself in him,” Gorquen says.  “His fighting style, his carriage, and even in the intensity of his dedication.  That it would bring him so low to love his goddess so much . . . I was greatly moved.  I knew then and there that I must become a Divine Champion to our goddess, and could only do so through victory.  Ishlok invested my hand, and I triumphed.”

As he lay dying, Tar-Elentyr begged Gorquen to tell him how such a one such as she could have defeated him.  She replied that it was not her will, but that of Palatin Eremath that laid him low.  Upon hearing the name of his former goddess, Tar-Elentyr wept, and called out that if she truly lived again, he would do anything to be reunited with her.  Gorquen gave him the knowledge of the _pasoun_ and the teachings of the Risen Goddess.  Then and there, Tar-Elentyr committed his soul to Ishlok, entered the _pasoun_, and lived no more.

“I am not ashamed to say that I cried to see it,” Gorquen says.  “He was misguided, and committed many evil deeds, but I pray for his soul every day that he may one day return to his former glory, and aid our side in the conflicts to come.”

“Ishlok be praised,” Kyreel says.  “Her ways are great, and she forgets not her children.”

“We discovered a remarkable thing in the chambers beneath this place,” Gorquen says.  “A lone tree grows—a tree of magnificent proportion in a place void of sun or sky.  It speaks to me, and has shown great knowledge of our faith, and the goddess’ ways.  It is a paragon treant, abandoned here since the time of the Kin-Wars, patiently awaiting its goddess’ return. 

“I call it the Sage tree,” she says blushing, “as I cannot pronounce its name.  It was shortly after I defeated Tar-Elentyr that the spark shower occurred, and I clearly heard the sage tree speaking.  It said, ‘_Praise be Palatin Eremath, Arunshee is reborn_’.”

“Gods above,” Thelbar mutters.  “Sharlequannan is Arunshee.  Lolth has entered the _pasoun_!”


----------



## Krellic

It's really interesting what you're doing with the 'traditional' mythology, even more interesting how you seem to be fitting CoTSQ into your campaign.  

I await further installments...


----------



## Vurt

(contact) said:
			
		

> *“Gods above,” Thelbar mutters.  “Sharlequannan is Arunshee.  Lolth has entered the pasoun!” *




Oh.  My...

Well, _this_ is a deliciously interesting turn of events!

-- Vurt


----------



## incognito

> A few moments later, Taran and Kyreel are standing in front of Gorquen. Startled by their sudden appearance, she draws her sword, but sheathes it at once. “Thelbar! Kyreel!” she exclaims. “You have need of my blade! I’ll prepare at once!”




Next time I want to get the drop on one or more of my PCs, I'm going to simply have one of thier "friends" teleport in (who will really be someone using the _Alter-self_ spell for a +10 to thier disguise check.)

The evil cohorts will be invisible, of course...or something...


Thanks for the idea (contact)!


----------



## Vargo

Great.  Now instead of Buff-Scry-Teleport, it'll be Buff-Alter Self-Scry-Teleport...


----------



## (contact)

I'm stealing that idea right back, Incognito.


----------



## incognito

> I'm stealing that idea right back, Incognito.




Hey!  Wait a minute!  We have Counter-_yoinking_ now?


----------



## incognito

Oh wait!

Role-play question...did Taran's player (not sure which of you is playing him right now) _really_ tell his ex-grilfriend not to sleep with his henchmen in game?

That got to be the best-role-playing I've ever seen, if so.

Especially if Taran frothed at the DM...

And NEVER, ever mention the "at-fay, ss-ay" factor in mixed company!

yikes!  She may coup de gras his sorry "ss-ay" for that remark!


----------



## (contact)

Since the Heart of Nightfang spire, I've been playing, and yes that is exactly what Taran said.  

Then she called him an egotist, and he went ballistic.  Taran thinks that everyone should be so grateful to him for fighting evil that they should just roll over and let him act a fool.

Invested priestesses of the Earth Mother don't always agree with that assumption.



> Yikes! She may coup de gras his sorry "ss-ay" for that remark!




She kicked him out, and told him not to come back until he was ready to apologize.

Yeah, like that'll ever happen.

-----


Would it be evil if:

1.  Taran and Thelbar sent a message to the remaining drow in the nearby Cormanthyr forest, explaining that they wish to cease hostilities since they have been removed from their position as protectors of Mistledale; and are regrettably unable to clarify the issue of succession as there is no pending candidate.

2.  Taran recruited the best and brightest of the Riders of Mistledale to follow him and serve his cause?

3.  Taran and Thelbar dumped all of the treasure and cashed in all of their gold into the Dalelands, thereby devaluing the local currency?

4.  Taran and Thelbar left Juron and Glim in charge of the local militia?


----------



## incognito

> Would it be evil if:




You asking rhetorically?  'cause at least one of those things is pretty evil (with the small "e"), and more than one is certainly chaotic.


----------



## incognito

Alas, our father (contact) has forsaken us...


----------



## (contact)

No, no-- I'll post an update tonight, I promise!


----------



## (contact)

*54—The Ermathan Pantheon, a family affair.*


“If Lolth is reborn, then this child . . . ” Kyreel says.

“Yes,” Gorquen says.  “The child carried by the Banere woman was her very goddess.  That is why she lost her spells, and why Lolth has gone silent.  We realized this as well, but the knowledge came too late.  The drow gave birth that night, under the spark shower, and the next morning, we were set upon by her kin, led by none other than your matron mother Banare.

“We fought them, of course, and I called the matron out, but she would not do me the honor.  I noticed that she was staring at something over my shoulder, and looked genuinely afraid.  When I turned, I saw that the newborn child was in the hands of another drow priestess—a worshipper of their foul deity to the undead, Kiransalee.  This woman had used our battle as a distraction, and escaped with the child.”

“Irae T’ssarion,” Thelbar says.

“No wonder Lolth spoke our names,” Kyreel says.  “She is searching for a savior, and not one of her former faith!”

Gorquen says, “As the drow fled with the child, the strangest thing transpired.  The infant looked right at me and _breathed on me_.  It felt like a warm spring breeze washed over me there in that cold stone place, and I found myself comforted. I had lost the fight, but I felt like I had just taken a victory from a hated foe.”

Thelbar asks to see the Sage Tree, and is taken before a majestic and wonderful oak, its roots cast deep through the crumbling and ancient stone floor.  The tree shines with a radiant health, despite its unsuitable environment.

“Speak one question, and I shall answer you,” the tree whispers, an unfelt wind passing through its branches.  “I know all things that are sure to the minds of mortals, and many more things that are not.  Speak it, and know.”

“I have a question, revered one,” Kyreel says as she steps forward, “and I must know for sure.  Is Sharlequannan the reborn essence of the former goddess Lolth?”

The tree rustles, and the sounds form words heard as much in the mind as by the ears.  “Sharlequannan is the name of Lolth.  Lolth is the name of Arunshee.  Thus, Arunshee is reborn as Sharlequannan.  When Palatin Eremath defeated her sister, our goddess took from Arunshee her very goodness as a retribution.  Left with only the anger in her heart, Lolth fled the heavens for the Abyss and perpetrated great wickedness.

“When you placed the stone of Palatin Ermath into the night sky, our goddess returned to her sister what had been taken from her in ages past.  Brought to a knowledge of how far she had fallen, but unable to reconcile herself with what she had become, Lolth realized her only option was to submit herself to the _pasoun_.  Praise be Ishlok, mother of all things made and unmade; Lolth is reborn.

“Like any infant, Sharlequannan is vulnerable, and subject to influence.  Also, in the same manner of other powerful entities who enter the _pasoun_, she has come back with a greater potential for strength.  This renewed potential is why you two continue to return as champions for the goddess.  As above, so below.  

“The matron mother wants to restore Arunshee to her former evil, but Kiransalee wishes to consume her essence, and subsume it within herself.  Irae T’ssarion has a similar goal, but hopes to cannibalize the child herself, and ascend to divinity.  

“There is your answer.  Go, and be at peace.”

Thelbar steps forward.  “We have another concern, great one, and I have a question.”

“Speak it, Tar-Ilou, and know.”

“Where is the best place for the home of Palatin Eremath's worship in Faerun?"

“The best place for the worship of Palatin Eremath to have a home is in your heart.  But I will give you the answer you meant to have.  The Many who refuse to acknowledge the One have much to fear.  In the North of the High Forest stands the sacred city of Myth Iskok.  There you will find little peace, but you will find freedom.  Myth Iskok is the home of Palatin Eremath, but all of the multiverse is the home for Ishlok.  There is your answer.  Go, and be at peace.”

-----

After their encounter with the Sage Tree, Gorquen gives her companions a walking tour of the whole complex.  She explains that she is turning Tar-Elentyr’s former abode into museum– while the rest of his demesne fell into ruin, the fallen servant of Palatin Ermath obsessively kept all the artwork and regalia relating to his career as a Divine Champion in pristine condition.  It amounts to a priceless treasure of ancient lore, and it has inspired Gorquen.  She has determined to become Palatin Ermath’s new Divine Champion, a title worthy of her dedication and talents.

While Kyreel says a private prayer alone with the Sage Tree, Thelbar converses with Gorquen’s companion Ilwe.  As a cleric of Solonor Thelandira, the archer-priest’s belief structure has lately been shaken to its core by the recent revelations.  He states that he was greatly perplexed by his god’s seeming disloyalty to the elven pantheon.  He prayed that he might have a revelation of the truth of the matter, and has learned that his god no longer serves Corellon Larethian.  Solonor Thelandira has joined the new order, and entered the _pasoun_.  The Ermathan pantheon is born, and currently numbers five deities—Palatin Ermath herself, Solonor Thelandira, Arunshee along with her daughter Eilistraee, and the dark god Asharladon, known to Thelbar, Kyreel and Gorquen as Iiam. 

Thelbar takes in this news, and opines sagely, “This is going to get very ugly very quickly.”

Ilwe says, “I have been instructed that my place is with the Divine Champion of Ishlok.  We cannot aid you, for there is much to be done here in the Far Forest, but know that our prayers and blessings go with you, as you walk the goddess’ high road.”

Thelbar and Kyreel wish Ilwe and Gorquen luck on their journeys, and promise to check in from time to time, then _teleport_ back to Mistledale.

-----

They return to find Taran pacing the tent set aside as their abode, with a half-empty bottle of wine in his hand.  Taran says, “Hey there you are!  I was wondering where you got off to.  Jhanira called me an egotist!  Me!  Can you believe it?”

Kyreel and Thelbar look at one another.

Taran continues with his rant while pacing around the room.  “Well, I told her . . . you know what I said?  I said egotists don’t risk their gods-damned lives in the bottom of gods-damned dungeons, or lie up to their eyebrows in mud for weeks at a time on long-range hunter-killer patrols, days behind the drow lines.  I keep her ass alive, and does that sound like an egotist to you?”  

Thelbar regards Taran earnestly.  “You lost the argument, I take it?”

Taran squints at Thelbar, but says nothing.

“Well, brother,” Thelbar says, “An egotist is usually defined as someone who speaks much of himself or magnifies his own achievements or affairs.  Do you think this description fits you?  

Taran squints at Thelbar.

“An egotist might fight to protect others, and even risk his own physical well-being for greater glory, which is still a form of self-interest.  You are thinking perhaps, that she meant ‘self-centered’, but even had she called you that, your argument wouldn’t hold up.  Self-centered people risk themselves for what they perceive as the greater gain every day.”

“Now wait a minute, Thel.” Taran says.  “By your logic, what action could any of us take that couldn’t be considered self-serving?” 

This uncharacteristic rebuttal from the beefy fighter draws Kyreel’s attention away from her meditations. “Actions taken in the true name of the Goddess, and for her will, are not self-serving,” she says.

“But why do we serve her, if not out of self interest?”  Taran asks.  “We say that our path is a better path for all people, and so it benefits the individual.  That makes it a higher form of self-interest, but self-interest all the same.”

“So, according to you,” Kyreel says, “the healer and the blackguard occupy the same moral position.” 

“No, they are morally opposed.  But their motivations are similar.  They both seek the same thing, self-fulfillment, but choose different paths to achieve it.  But that is splitting hairs.  I _can_ say with all practical finality that the healer’s path is better than the blackguard’s.”

“And how can you say that?” Thelbar asks, with a rare grin on his face.

“Because I won’t kill the healer on sight.  See, Thel, _I am the object lesson_.”

“You _are_ an egotist.” Kyreel says.

“Well, she still should be thanking me for saving her bitchy ass from the damn drow,” Taran mutters.


----------



## thatdarncat

(contact) said:
			
		

> *54—The Ermathan Pantheon, a family affair.
> Ermath herself, Solonor Thelandira, Arunshee along with her daughter NAME, and the dark god Asharladon, known to Thelbar, Kyreel and Gorquen as Iiam.
> *




Interesting name for Arunshee's Daughter, (c) 



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> This uncharacteristic rebuttal from the beefy fighter draws Kyreel’s attention away from her meditations. “Actions taken in the true name of the Goddess, and for her will, are not self-serving,” she says.
> *




That headband is starting to pay off


----------



## Krellic

Great stuff, I really like the way that the Risen Goddess is chewing up the traditional, and somewhat dull, Faerunian pantheons.


----------



## (contact)

thatdarncat said:
			
		

> *Interesting name for Arunshee's Daughter, (c) *




Ha!  "NAME" is my shorthand for any person, place or thing I can't remember the proper noun for when I'm first writing up the logs.  The goddess in question is Eilistraee.  I apparently didn't edit very thoroughly in my haste to keep my promise to Incognito.

I blame society.

I will edit the log for future readers, but nice catch, TDC.

Note also that Gorquen is in the "Far Forest", not the "High Forest".


----------



## thatdarncat

(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> 
> Ha!  "NAME" is my shorthand for any person, place or thing I can't remember the proper noun for when I'm first writing up the logs.  *




I do the same, but with ____'s. I usually add a "smack me if I don't fill this in" after too. Yay absent mindedness



> *
> I blame society.
> *



Sure, why not, everyone does! Better to blame society than admit that we know about the grey men and their twisted elder god...


----------



## Joshua Randall

I'm so confused.  But in a good way.

I never really paid attention to the Forgotten Realms, so I don't know about the pantheon. However, (contact), I like what you are doing with this. It rings true to human pantheistic history, at least as far as my limited education enables me to undestand it. Gods acting like mortals - fighting, coupling, changing allegiances - are far more interesting than static ultra-good and ultra-evil deities.

Is Taran an egotist or an *egoist*?


----------



## (contact)

JERandall said:
			
		

> *Is Taran an egotist or an egoist? *




I would say he is both!  You make the call:



*e·go·ist* (n.)

1. One given overmuch to egoism or thoughts of self.

2. (Philos.) A believer in egoism.

-----

*e·go·tist*  (n.)

1. A conceited, boastful person. 

2. A selfish, self-centered person. 

-----

e·go·ism  (n.)  

1. The ethical doctrine that morality has its foundations in self-interest. 

2. The ethical belief that self-interest is the just and proper motive for all human conduct. 

3. Excessive preoccupation with one's own well-being and interests, usually accompanied by an inflated sense of self-importance.


----------



## Joshua Randall

*Egotism v. Egoism*

Heh. Now all we need is a huge discussion of Ayn Rand and my work here will be complete. 

But seriously - it does sound like Taran is espousing egoism as a philosophy. Perhaps the "huge discussion" already took place in (contact)'s game?


----------



## Piratecat

I'm finally catching up -- and it's _soooooo_ good.


----------



## (contact)

*Re: Egotism v. Egoism*



			
				JERandall said:
			
		

> *But seriously - it does sound like Taran is espousing egoism as a philosophy. Perhaps the "huge discussion" already took place in (contact)'s game? *




The discussion in question is pretty much the only in-character talk we've had about Taran's beliefs, but I think that brief passage sums up Taran's point of view fairly well.

He also has a convoluted notion about the importance of fealty, and exactly how the "ideal state" should be structured, but that's an argument for another day.

What Taran really needs is a like-thinking companion.  (hint, hint)



> _Originally posted by Piratecat_
> *I'm finally catching up -- and it's soooooo good.*




I told you!    It gets much better, too, so be sure to check in.  Elminster turns out to be a pretty cool NPC, after all.    I'm almost ready to make several rapid updates in a row.  We're about 5 sessions ahead of my logs, which means about 10 updates (the way some of these sessions have been running-- yikes!)

Also I've kept round-by-round notes on the fighting, and since the battles are so epic, I've logged them essentially as they played out at the table.  That means the updates will tend to go:  Big ass fight / Role-play world events / Big ass fight / Role-play, etc.

Let me know, gentle readers, what you think-- in the past I've tended to just hit the highlights of the brawls.  If you like the detail, speak up, and if you don't like it you don't really have to be gentle.  (I'm about 80% Taran and only 20% Jespo anyway.)


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## golem

mmmm detail


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## (contact)

*55—A neighborly visit, threats and all.*

The next morning, the three Champions of the Risen Goddess hold a strategy meeting, and determine that they wish to know more about the divine conflict, specifically about the demonic ex-servant of Palatin Eremath, Scaladar.

Thelbar says, “I cannot _vision_ him, as the spell is not known to me.  But we are not without recourse.  I think it is time we called in a favor.

That afternoon, the group stands before the tower of Elminster, sage of Shadowdale, and knocks boldly on the door.  To their surprise, the sage himself answers, dressed casually, and without his customary pipe and hat.

“You’re a bit behind schedule, aren’t you?”  Elminster says.  “I expected you two days ago.”

“We’ve had numerous affairs demanding our attention,” Thelbar says.  “Had I known we were keeping you . . .”

“Numerous affairs of greater import than the destruction of your home?” Elminster asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes,” Kyreel says.

“We have come for a favor, revered sage,” Thelbar says with a bow.

“They always do,” Elminster mutters to himself.  “Come in, come in.  You might as well frighten me where it is warm.”

The party is led to a cozy study, a bit cramped for all the books, whirligigs and half-finished meals it contains, but the group manages to find places to hunker down and relax.

“I need _vision_,” Thelbar says.

“I suppose I could help you,” Elminster says.  “But it is a taxing spell for an old man like myself, and not a thing to be taken lightly.  Who do you wish to _vision_?”

“I would never ask a wizard of your years to cast spells for me, great sage,” Thelbar says.  “I wish to purchase a scroll of _vision_, that I might make my own divinations.”

“Ah, but I gave that business up a long time ago,” Elminster says, a twinkle in his eye.  “Much easier on the writing elbow, you know.  Give me a name, or I’m afraid I cannot help you at all.”

Thelbar, wishing to put an end to the sly cat-and-mouse exchange, says “Arunshee.”

Elminster pauses, suddenly solemn and suspicious.  “Casting divinations on the gods is neither a healthy or sane past-time, Thelbar Tar-Ilou,” he says. 

“Neither is toying with me when direct questions would suffice, revered sage,” Thelbar says.

“Arunshee is not herself,” Kyreel says.

“Yes, the wise ones say she is dead,” Elminster says.  “But how such a thing might have come to be remains a mystery.  I suspect you know much about this matter, if the Harpers’ accusations about you are true.”

“Gods-damned harpers,” Taran says.

“Lolth has died, and Arunshee is reborn,” Kyreel says.

“Lolth has entered the _pasoun_,” Thelbar says.  “She has returned as Sharlequannan, and it was her birth that the portents marked.  Our accusers are misguided, and their accusations are hollow.  Of course we attend ‘Lolth’.  Lolth is sister to our goddess after all, and has been reborn from a desire to walk the path of good.  We intend to shepherd her and keep her from those drow who would have their Spider Queen back, or worse.”

Thelbar smiles at Elminster’s blank expression, then says, “Palatin Eremath is healing old rifts, and bringing her allies to her side.  But we do not have the whole of it, and if we are to prevent the worst we must have the whole of  it.  _Vision_ the name Scaladar, and share with us what you find, revered one.”

Elminster agrees, and disappears into the recesses of his tower.  Taran rolls his eyes once Elminster leaves, and makes disparaging hand gestures, then mimics a harp-playing court buffoon.  Kyreel scowls at him, and pinches his arm.

A few moments later, Elminster returns, his eyes narrow.  “I feel as if I have been tricked, Thelbar Tar-Ilou, and I like it not.”

“Tricked, revered sage?” Thelbar says.  “I assure you no such intent crossed my mind.  Scaladar is the fallen right-hand to the goddess Palatin Eremath.”

“Indeed he is, Tar-Ilou, and my _vision_ confirmed this fact.  But he is better known by his other names:  Orcus, demon prince slain by Kiransalee and reborn to the world as Tenebrous.  He has returned from the dead as well, but not quite like your goddess.  Your Scaladar is an undead god.”

-----

“I do not hold with the party line regarding you three,” Elminster says, after the group has finished their meal of exotic cheeses, hard-baked bread and spiced wine.  “I have heard the accusations made in public, and I have heard the accusations made in private.  Fortunately, my superiors would have me remain aloof, and do not expect me to become involved in these sorts of quarrels.

“As for myself,” he continues, “I cannot find any fault with a reclamation of the Far Forest, and the elimination of the fiends that inhabit it.  Further, the rebirth of the Spider Queen can only be to all of our benefit.  But this thing with the other good faiths of the land—can it not be repaired?”

“They started it!” Taran exclaims.  “Tell them to rebuild my house, buy me new furniture, and replace my trophies.  Then we’ll see who doesn’t get the hard side of the hand.”

“My brother speaks the truth,” Thelbar says.  “For my part, I think you are more astute than to ask the ones who neither instigated nor participated in a quarrel if it can be mended.  I think you mean to find out how we will respond.”

“I do,” Elminster admits.

“We have greater concerns than these priests and their frothy allegations.  When we have ensured the safety of our people, and all those who are under the _pasoun_, then we shall see.  I am not the cleric that my companion is, but I am cleric enough to know that the affairs of the gods must be left to the gods.  We will remain faithful to our goddess’ teachings.  In absence of her clear intent, we will approach this quarrel simply, as would any thing in nature.”

“I hear the threat implied in your words, Tar-Ilou,” Elminster says.  “Can I not implore you to be at peace?”

“Our hearts are not closed to nonviolent resolution,” Thelbar says.  “But we would require a show of good intent that rivals their show of hostility in order to be fully convinced that such a peace is possible.  Do you think that is likely to happen?”  After several moments pass where Elminster makes no reply, Thelbar continues, “Neither do I, revered sage.”

Taran leans forward and says, “Hey, if you kick the manticore, you’re going to get the tail.”

-----

The party leaves from Elminster’s home, and heads for Daggerdale.  Along the way, Taran scuffs at the ground and curses from time to time, bemoaning the loss of his home, and its prized furnishings.

“I’d just gotten the downstairs study together,” he whines.  “the Turmish rug was _perfect_ with the stained-wood cabinet.  And now that Sembia is at war, how am I supposed to replace them?”


----------



## incognito

> Taran rolls his eyes once Elminster leaves, and makes disparaging hand gestures, then mimics a harp-playing court buffoon.




This should read "(contact) rolls his eyes once Elminster leaves, and makes disparaging hand gestures, then mimics a harp-playing court buffoon." as I can SO clearly see our much loved DM/Player doing just this -  not neccesarily in character!

Is it just me or has Taran developed a personality in these past few months, instead of just being the whirling fiend of death?

I, too, blame society 

While I don't want to see him (Taran) become Indy, I do certianly appreciate the fact that there is the potential for Thel-Taran discussion now.

On the other hand, Paladin-hating is a fun and healthy pastime   Join in!



> This uncharacteristic rebuttal from the beefy fighter draws Kyreel’s attention away from her meditations. “Actions taken in the true name of the Goddess, and for her will, are not self-serving,” she says.




Yeah, Kyreel, the checks in the mail, ok?  Sucker.  

Getting back to our good-buddy though - it think from chapter *54* we were thnking Taran might be an:

*e·go·ist (n.)*

1. One who uses cheaty Psionics-Handbook powers (like expansion) to boost thier fighting abilities; powers are derived from the STR attribute...

Which in Tarans case, is like a Bull's!


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## blargney

Just thought I'd let you know that I read this story hour every time it gets updated, it's among my very favourites!  (Maybe even _trampling_ Liberation of Tenh..)

I really enjoy the _pasoun_ hack-around to the problem of main character death... It's brilliant!  I'm always looking forward to the next update

-blargen


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## (contact)

*56—Back to the grindstone.*

When they arrive at the Crypts of Dodrian, the group composes themselves, and outlines their strategy—they will return to Szith Morcane, and use _invisibility_ and _find the path_ spells to _fly_ both unerringly and unseen toward the drow city Maermydra.  The patriarch Shamath Ilmyrn had described the journey between Szith Morcane and Maermydra as taking “. . . five sleeps for a drow, twice that for sun-gazers.”  The party hopes to cut that time to two days using magical means.

They slip through Szith Morcane unseen, and fly for over an hour, through a winding maze of caverns and underground passages.  _Darkvision_ allows them to see the terrain as do the drow themselves, and they are all struck by the strange and alien beauty of the world beneath the surface.

Kyreel gestures for the group to halt at the entrance to a series of smooth oblong caverns, adjoined by thin, funnel-like tunnels.  Thelbar, the only member of the group who can _see invisible_, notices Kyreel’s signal, then tugs on the short length of rope attaching him to Taran, and the group comes to a stop.

Kyreel traces her length of rope back to her companions and whispers, “I see a pair of ettins along with some sort of larger giant.  They appear to be on guard.  My spell indicates that we must travel directly past them to continue.  Do we attempt to sneak past?”

“We shall try,” Thelbar says, “but in all likelihood, we will be spotted.  Be ready.”

Thelbar’s prediction is right on the gold piece, and no sooner are the adventurers within the range of the ettin’s darkvision, than the giants spot them, despite the group’s _invisiblity_.  The larger figure is seen to be a fire giant, but differs from the followers of King Kovas in that he shows signs of a fiendish ancestry. All three giants are wearing a familiar moon and skull heraldic device, one that squares with the description Gorquen gave of Tar-Elentyr’s fiendish followers.

Thelbar strikes the beasts with a _chain lightning_ burst, and the ettins cry out in pain, but the arc of electricity does not seem to harm the larger giant in the slightest.  Kyreel’s opening spell volley is disrupted, as she foolishly waited until the giants were within their prodigious arms’ reach to begin casting her spell, and she is struck to the ground.  Taran leaps upon one of the two headed beasts, weathering an attack of opportunity as he does so, but kills the ettin straightaway.  Thelbar points his finger and attempts to _disintegrate_ the fire giant, but again his spell fails to take effect!

“This is rich,” the fire giant laughs.  “My friends, to me!  We are attacked by halflings—what sport!”  And to the adventurers he says, “Wait until Kurgoth gets a hold of you.  You’ll wish you’d fallen on your own swords in your haste to raise a hand against us.”

Well, at least he got the _haste_ part right.

Another three demonic fire giants emerge from an adjoining passageway, each of them grinning ear to ear with a murderous gleam in their eyes. Thelbar points at them, and this time Thelbar’s spells do not fail him.  He centers a _confusion_ spell among them, and while the largest of the trio simply wanders away, the other two fall to fighting amongst themselves.

“Sweet,” Taran says.  “I love it when they do that.”

But his mirth is short lived, for the remaining giant proves more than sufficient to threaten the group.  The giant strikes Kyreel twice more with a huge two-handed sword, and forces the dark elven cleric to retreat from the fight, a _heal_ spell on her lips.

From a circular opening in the ceiling, a pair of disgusting vulture-headed humanoid demons emerge, and swivel their filth-encrusted beaks as they take in the battle.

Meanwhile, Taran lays into the remaining fire giant, and is supported by _magic missiles_ from Thelbar, and a moment later, by Kyreel.  Under their combined effort, the giant falls, and Taran is able to fly toward the demons, and ready himself for their attack.

“You taste familiar,” one of the demons croaks with a voice that grates like sand ground underfoot.  “Haven’t we met before?”

“Maybe you smell that giant's insides on my sword,” Taran suggests.  (Expletive altered for Grandmothers and kids.)

The demons repay Taran’s insult in kind with an ear-splitting screech—a sound so terrible that it conjures images of the very Abyss from which they are spawned.  It is enough to turn a normal man’s insides to jelly, and make a pulp of his courage.  But Taran is no normal man, and he is unfazed by the hideous shrieking.  The bulky ranger mutters, “I’ve heard worse,” then tears into one of the demons, and before it can react, the thing is sundered into several separate parts.

Its companion responds by conjuring several _mirror images_ of itself, but the tactic is a delaying one at best.  With the giants gone, and its abyssal companion destroyed, the vrock’s last moments are brief.

The party follows after the _confused_ giant who wandered away, and discovers that the cavern beyond opens on to a massive underground lake.  The giant can be seen several yards off-shore, piloting a river-boat of giantnish proportion. Intrigued, the heroes fly after their _confused_ opponent, and follow him.  Several hundred yards into the waterway, they are horrified to see a quartet of monstrous tentacles rise out of the water and seize the giant, capsizing his raft, and pulling the bestial creature below the surface!  A torrent of bloody bubbles rise to the surface, and then all is still.

“Gods below, what _was_ that?” Taran wonders as the group beats a hasty retreat.

After returning to the caves now sticky and wet with several giants’ worth of blood, the adventurers examine the holes the two vrocks emerged from, and fly into one of the openings. 

They find themselves inside a similar funnel-like cavern, cut by some unknowable force, and polished to a near perfect smoothness.  The sounds of rumbling, deep bass voices emanates from the opposite opening.  The party moves toward the voices as silently as possible, and emerge into a much larger cavern, they see a bizarre trio of giants.  The most noteworthy is an extremely obese fire giant wearing jeweled regalia and clutching a skull-ringed mace.  This fat giant stands next to a tall, healthy-looking fire giant that might well be the template from which all other fire giants were molded, he is so perfect of feature and body.  Behind them, and standing quite deferentially is a third, unfortunately plain-looking fire giant.

“The dull guy is probably going to die first,” Taran whispers.  “They always do.  Who looks out for the grunts?”

The giants look up at Taran’s whispered question, and notice  the characters.

“I thought I gave orders that we were not to be disturbed,” the obese giant booms in an imperious tone.  “Where are my demons?”

“Sent back to the Abyss,” Kyreel says.  “And you would do well to mark your tone, giant, lest you join them sooner than you would like!”

At this, the two larger giants exchange smiles, and the third follows suit quickly, once his superiors start laughing.  “I fear nothing,” the perfect giant says, “let alone a little drow that does even not come up to my knee.  Have you come to avenge your city little elf, or _do you even know_?  Maermydra burns!  Maermydra has fallen to Kurgoth Hellspawn!”

“Kurgath _Hellspawn_?” Taran asks.  “That’s a stupid name.  You work with demons, and demons don’t come from . . .”

“_Do not speak his name, you have not the right_!” The obese giant screams.  “You should shake in your boots and piss yourselves at the thought that the great Kurgoth Hellspawn might turn his black gaze upon you!  You should . . .”

Then Thelbar _chain feebleminds_ him.

“Okay,” Taran says, “Let’s search the room and . . .”

But the _feeblemind_ does not take effect.  The fat giant is staring at Thelbar, the roiling folds of skin around his face and neck turning from a rusty brown to a deep purple, framing his wide eyes and frothing mouth.  “You . .  insignificant . . .” the massive giant mutters as he slowly moves toward the party, his rod clutched tight in his hand.

Then Thelbar speaks his _power word stun_.

“. . . arrogant . . . knee-high . . .” the giant says.

Thelbar flies to the back of the room, cursing the spell resistance of Abyssal creatures, and invoking a _quickened invisibility_.

Taran flies directly into the fat giant’s corpulent face, and cuts him across his fat-hooded eyes and bulbous cheeks with forehand and backhand slashes.  The giant pulls his head away from the flying adventurer, and swings the skull-ringed mace up from his heels, catching Taran on both the upward stroke and then again on the downward.  

Taran is knocked upside down and then smashed into the ground, where he lies dazed and tries to stand on wobbly legs.  “Thel, help,” he croaks as he takes to the air and tries to focus his vision.

The perfect giant brushes Taran aside with one huge hand, then kicks Kyreel as he takes to the back of the room in two long strides.  He unsheathes a massive two-handed sword and chops into Thelbar, emitting a surprised grunt when Thelbar’s _stoneskin_ prevents the mage from being sliced into Small-Sized pieces.

Thelbar points his hand at the perfect giant, and invokes a beam of _disintegration_.  Unfortunately, the beam has no effect.  Thelbar curses to himself, unleashing a string of blasphemies involving the nether apertures of all giant-kind and a _flaming holy greatclub_.

Kyreel steps forward, and _heals_ Taran, restoring his ribs to their rightful place on the outside of his internal organs, and repairing the spinal damage caused by his impact with the ground.  Taran uses this opportunity to activate his _shield_ and _mirror image_ spells.  “Cast more, talk less,” he reminds himself, as he takes to the air.

At this moment, Thelbar uses a _limited wish_ to transform the stone floor into a pool of viscous, sucking mud.

Properly _healed_ and protected, Taran watches balefully as the obese giant sinks up to his ponderous and sagging chest into the bubbling mud, and then laughs menacingly when Thelbar _dispels_ the effect, trapping the three giants in a prison of solid stone.

“Say hello to those vrocks for me, you f--k.”  Taran flies behind the giant where the enormous beast cannot even reach its arms to defend itself, and gleefully sets to the butcher’s work.  Thick, meaty sounds accompany a series of booming giant screams and Taran’s laborious grunting.

Thelbar _disintegrates_ the smaller giant, who cannot resist his spells, then turns to the remaining enemy.  “You are the most perfect giant I have ever seen, and I would mourn for the world if I had to take you from it.  I offer you this choice: you can either live to father children or die a warrior’s death right now, as you will have it.”

“Must I serve?”

“I would ask you to do nothing that displeases you.”

“Then I choose to live.”

“I cannot free you until I have rested and regained spells.  We will sleep here in this room.  If we are harmed during the night, you will starve to death wrapped in stone, as only I can release you.  Watch over our rest, and in the morning, you will be set free.”

“I agree to your terms, little one.”

“And what of your friends, here?  What was one such as you doing with such a wretched giant?”

“We are a rear outpost guarding the passage into the city of Maermydra for Kurgoth Hellspawn.  The giant you call ‘wretched’ is a great servitor of Tenebrous, and is much loved by both the demon-god and our Lord General.”

“Whoops,” Taran says as he emerges from behind the slumped form of the giant cleric.  The burly ranger is soaked through from head to toe with giant gore, and steam rises off both his drenched armor and the pool of blood that laps at the tops of his boots.  “I think Tenebrous is going to be really pissed then, because I just killed that fat f--ker.”

“And Irae T’ssarion?” Thelbar asks, glad that the living giant cannot turn to see what has befallen his leader.

“She cowers within her castle, but our armies siege her there, and she will fall soon enough.  There is no force that can stand against Kurgoth Hellspawn, for . . .”

“I really wish you’d quit saying that,” Taran says.  “Kurgath’s not from _Hell_, Hell has devils.  Demons _hate_ devils, and you have demons.  That’s like marching to the beat of a dead horse.”

“You’re mixing your metaphors, brother,” Thelbar says.

“Yeah, I know, Thel, but that’s the point.  Calling a demon-lover ‘Hellspawn’ is like mixing metaphors.”

“Ah, I see.  A metaphor analogy.  Congratulations.”

“I think they are using the term ‘Hell’ generically, to mean ‘an evil plane’,” Kyreel says.

“But ‘Hell’ isn’t a generic term, it’s a specific place,” Taran says.

“. . . our armies are invincible!  Kurgoth Hellspawn can not fail!” the giant finishes with a flourish of martial pride.

“Okay, that’s it,” Taran says.  “You know what, I’m going to kill Kurgath so I don’t have to hear his damn name.”


----------



## Vurt

(contact) said:
			
		

> “Okay, that’s it,” Taran says.  “You know what, I’m going to kill Kurgath so I don’t have to hear his damn name.”




OK, I'm confused.

Does this suture closed the whole egoist/egotist arguement or rip it wide open?  

Lovin it...

Vurt


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## blargney

Excellent update, (contact)! 

Mmmm.. story-hour goodness:  high-level smackdown, hilarious dialogue!

-blarg


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## Barastrondo

*Jeeeez...*

This update is full of two kinds of "holy crap!" moments: 

"Holy crap! Look at all the stuff getting thrown at the heroes! They're dead meat!"

...and...

"Holy crap! The heroes are winning!"

It also emphasizes the badassitude of our heroes when there's only  _three_ of them kicking so much fiendish Huge-size butt. I'm starting to think Taran isn't an egotist, he's just remarkably self-aware.

And yet, for all that, the carnage isn't my favorite part of this update — it's Thelbar's insistence that the Platonic ideal of fire giants should survive, to the betterment of the race as a whole. That's just so very cool, in such a detached, wizardly way of looking at the world. It's the little bits like that — the ones that make you wonder if anyone else has ever done something like this in a game, _ever_ — that deserve to be lauded.


----------



## Joshua Randall

> “I think they are using the term ‘Hell’ generically, to mean ‘an evil plane’,” Kyreel says.
> 
> “But ‘Hell’ isn’t a generic term, it’s a specific place,” Taran says.



This exchange perfectly captures the essense of so many D&D conversations. The confusion between general and specific that is at the heart of countless rules arguments through the ages. Can't you hear the petulance in Taran's voice? Now just imagine him in full-on geek mode and... yikes, I resemble that remark!

I am also fond of this quote:



> [Thelbar] centers a confusion spell among them, and while the largest of the trio simply wanders away, the other two fall to fighting amongst themselves.
> 
> “Sweet,” Taran says. “I love it when they do that.”



Ah, me too, Taran. *Me too.*

Edited for no other reason than to subscribe to the thread.


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## (contact)

*57—The lengths to which some adventurers will go to avoid paying a toll.*


The next morning, the perfect giant is set free, and instructed to stay away from Maermydra if it wants to live to a ripe old age.  The party uses a combination of _flying_, and _find the path_ spells to navigate unseen across the underground lake, bypassing a strange spire of alien and liquid architecture rising up from the surface of the water, near the lake’s center.

By the time the adventurers have nearly exhausted the duration of their _fly_ spells, they have made their way across the lake, and into a series of twisting, rubble-strewn passages.  After several miles of this, they are in a narrow passage that opens into the base of a huge, vaguely cylindrical chasm that extends up through the ceiling as high as the eye can see.  At the opposite end of the chasm from their position, another passage continues on in the same general direction.  In the center of the chasm’s floor an iron chime and mallet are set into the ground.

Taran looks at Kyreel quizzically, and Kyreel points upward.  Taran hopefully mimes striking the gong with the mallet, but both Kyreel and Thelbar make a sour face.  Thelbar removes a wand from his belt, and in a minute, the group is once again _invisible_.

Resigned, Taran takes the point, and flies upwards into the darkness.  Some two hundred feet from the bottom, he notices a narrow cave-like opening in the wall.  An eight-foot tall humanoid creature clings to the ledge there, looking for all the world like the result of some drug-induced gargoyle/dire bat/cave lizard love-in.  As Taran flies closer, he notices a disturbing ghoulish pallor to the things’ flesh, as if its strange features weren’t terrifying enough.  He continues upward past another opening in the wall, and finally comes to a stop, hovering directly in front of a much larger cave-mouth.  Kyreel tugs on the short length of rope connecting the party, and whispers in Taran’s ear, “Through there, we must go through there.”

“Of course you must.”  A startlingly non-human voice speaking perfect common oozes forth from the darkness within the cave.  “There is nothing but rabble below or above.  _All roads lead to me_.”

“And you are?” Taran asks, tugging on the rope leading to Thelbar insistently.  Taran feels unseen eyes roam his body.  The sensation is terrifying and slightly erotic at the same time. 
“It is impolite not to ring, but I see that you wear the pendants of the Spider Queen, and I know that you’ve had such trying times.  So I will reduce my normal fee, for pity’s sake.”

“How much?” Taran asks, even as he tells himself, “Wait for it Tar-Ilou. . . _wait for it_ . . .”

“One hundred gold coins per person, plus a special gift.”

“What sort of gift, exactly?”

“_Wow me_.”

Thelbar incants the words to his _quickened haste_, then casts a _horrid wilting_ into the cave opening.  The spell sucks the moisture from the air and every living thing within the area of effect, producing an ambient sucking noise and provoking a startled, draconic screech.  

“How’s that wow you, fu . . .” Taran starts to ask.

Suddenly, Taran’s mocking question is cut short as a cloud of cloying, inky blackness envelops the group, drawing the warmth from their flesh and leaving a vile, unnatural chill in its place.  Instantly shaken and spiritually weakened, the party realizes the caliber of menace they are facing, and begin a panicked attempt to engage the still unseen enemy.

Kyreel casts about for her friends within the dark cloud, and moves to invoke Ishlok, hoping to _dispel_ the blackness.  But as she begins to cast her spell, she is seized by a pair of huge unseen jaws filled with razor-sharp teeth.  She looses the thread of her incantation, and the spell fizzles harmlessly, producing no result at all.

But Thelbar is not so near the creature, and has a _dispel magic_ of his own, followed by a _stoneskin_ spell.  The cloud of darkness disappears, and Kyreel and Taran realize that they are completely surrounded by the serpentine coils of a pitch-black dragon, its onyx scales polished to a mirror-like sheen.  The dragon reels its head back in one whip-like motion, and regards Taran and Kyreel with its piercing, predatory gaze.  “_You are in my eye_,” it hisses.

Both heroes are seized with a panicked and unreasoning fear that seems to well up from the smallest parts of their mind unbidden and irrepressible.  Taran scrambles away from the thing, fumbling with his sword-belt, but Kyreel freezes in place for a moment, staring at something reflected in the dragon’s scales.

Thelbar is not so affected, however, and levels a _feeblemind_ at the serpentine beast.  When his spell fails to penetrate the dragon’s natural magic resistance, Thelbar _limited wishes_ a second _feeblemind_ at the dragon; he knows that over time, the odds slowly tip in his favor.  But the dragon is too strong, and it resists Thelbar’s best spell for a second time!


_Meta-game note:  20s never lie._
As the trio of adventurers adjust to the dragon in their midst, the thing speaks a single word of eldritch power, and opens a small tear in the air, through which it darts, only to emerge from a similar hole within its lair, facing the group.  It opens its mouth and releases a vomitous burst of darkness that seems to flow forth in a stream entirely too large for such a serpent.  The blackness burns right through armor and burrows deep into the marrow of the bone, causing an exquisite and lingering pain that remains with its victims, and hobbles their endeavors.

As the midnight vapors recede, the group sees a swarm of humanoid creatures flying toward them from beneath their feet.

Kyreel levels her holy sword at the dragon lurking in the recesses of the cave mouth, and invokes a _searing light_, but the spell strikes the scaly beast and provokes nothing more than a self-satisfied rumbling.  Taran flies toward the thing and slashes at it ineffectually, but his _mirror images_ soon prove to be useless against the creature and the dragon tears into him with claw and fang, then recoils into the back of the opening.  

Thelbar seizes the dragon with a _dimensional anchor_, and satisfied that the it will have one less trick up its scales, opens a _confusion_ spell in the midst of the figures below, and their charge instantly dissipates as gargoyle-things begin lazily drifting in all different directions.

The dragon screeches its displeasure at this event, then launches itself out of its cave and flies directly at Thelbar!  For an instant, the flying wizard is completely surrounded by a buffeting, rending, enraged dragon; the beast tears into the mage and lashes him with its tail as it flies down deeper into the chasm.  Fortunately, Thelbar’s _stoneskin_ shields him from the worst of it, and after a moment, he gains his bearings again as Taran fires arrows at the fleeing dragon.

But another group of gargoyle-things is emerging from the nearer opening in the chasm wall, and one of the first group throws off the _confusion_ effect, and charges upwards.  The gargoyles swarm around Thelbar, following the dragon’s lead, and Taran is obliged to _fly_ at them in order to protect his brother.  As he attacks, one of the creatures (the particularly hideous one spotted on their approach to this place) showers Thelbar with a breath-weapon of its own—the life-draining black cloud leaves little doubt which side of the family it received its deadly halitosis from.  Taran whirls his swords in an elegant mandala of pain, and manages to distract a few of the winged monstrosities.  Kyreel invokes a _holy burst_ in the center of the flying swarm, and breaks their momentum, sending several of them reeling.  

Despite all this, Thelbar keeps his eye on the dragon, and as the creature flies back toward the melee, he sends a _chain feeblemind_ arcing through the swarm, ending at the dragon.  Both the dragon and its child are unaffected, but the rest of the gargoyle-spawn are not so strong of will.  Three of the newly infantile creatures fly for whatever safety their miniscule intellects can imagine, but one of them lapses into an unreasoning rage and flies directly at Kyreel, forcing her to focus her attention away from the greater foe.

The dragon wings upward, lashing out at Thelbar as it passes again, but with Taran occupying the rapidly-diminishing swarm of enemies that surround them, Thelbar is free to attack the dragon with both a _fireball_ and a _lightning bolt_.

Unfortunately, both spells fail to take effect.

“Goddess take the Underdark and everything in it!” Thelbar curses.  “Must _everything_ here have spell resistance?  What twisted mind created this place?”  

Thelbar invokes a _quickened invisibility_ before the dragon can swoop back at him and moves away from the fight.

The dragon’s blindsight doesn’t reach far enough for it to keep track of the fleeing mage, but being an adaptive sort of nightmare, it seizes on a new target—Taran.  The dragon swoops past him, cutting his skin with its claws, missing his throat by mere inches

Kyreel has been watching the back and forth attacks from her vantage point inside the dragon’s cave, and she seizes this moment to act.  She disengages from her _feebleminded_ opponent, and chases after the dragon, determined to take the fight to it, and neutralize its advantage.  She has some success, and the dragon cries out in pain or possibly fear—for at that moment, Taran has finished the last remaining gargoyle and turned his attention to the dragon’s spawn.  It is an obvious mismatch, and the hideous wyrm proves those sages who claim that dragons have no parental instinct wrong by flying directly toward Taran and attempting to rescue its child from the deadly swordsman.

This proves to be both the first, the greatest and the and last tactical error of its long life, as it is now in a position to be targeted by all three adventurers.  Kyreel invokes a _recitation_, tipping the odds for her companions, and finishes the spell with a mighty sword blow that nearly severs the dragon’s tail in two.  

The spawn flies beneath Taran, and outside of the reach of the burly fighter’s swords, opens huge gashes in his legs and back.  Taran ignores this danger for the moment, and miming the intricate footwork he so resolutely practices when on the ground, he slips between the dragon’s claws to strike at its underbelly and neck.  Thelbar, ever an optimist, begins the first of a stream of _magic missiles_, reasoning perhaps that persistence is the last recourse of the innafectual.

In that moment, realizing its vulnerability, but unwilling to abandon its child, the dragon ceases attacking for a moment to protect itself with a _mirror image_ spell.  But Kyreel just as quickly _dispels_ the effect, and Taran takes the opportunity to do what he does best; cruelly humiliate his opponent and abandon his tactical advantage in favor of an overzealous application of violence.  He turns to the dragon’s spawn and lashes out.

There is no save for half.  The child falls down the chasm, spinning out and passing outside of the range of the party’s _darkvision_.

The dragon cries out with a truly ear-splitting wail of rage and pain, and as its lifeblood drips from its underside to splatter on the ground below, it flies upward, obviously intending to abandon the fight.  Taran curses, but before he can give chase, Thelbar concentrates his will and invokes a _cone of cold_ at the fleeing beast.

This time, his spell penetrates the creature’s resistance, and the suddenly frost-encrusted beast tumbles into its lair, passing from sight but not yet free of the small terrors that have disrupted its life, killed its child, and intend to kill it as well.

A few seconds later, a resonant metallic sound is heard, as the falling dragon-spawn strikes the mallet and gong that summon its parent, an irony lost on the fleeing and terrified beast.

Kyreel and Taran fly after the dragon, and find it attempting to gather magic items and treasure from its lair in preparation for a long vacation somewhere safe, like Myth Drannor.

Kyreel flies forward, and lays her hands on the thing, discharging a burst of healing energy, hoping that a creature so closely connected with the life-draining negative material plane must be vulnerable to beneficent magic.  Her theory goes untested, as a moment later, Taran is upon the beast and drives both blades deep into its serpentine form.  For a moment, he looks for all the world like some bizarre animal-tamer, trying to stay upon the back of the writhing dragon, but the creature’s death-throes soon subside, and Taran is left lying still, both of his hands on the sword-hilts buried into the creature’s back.

“I feel like sh-t,” he says to no one in particular, as his friends fly into the cavern and collapse, shaking from the battle and from the lingering effects of the dragon’s life-draining breath.


----------



## Galfridus

Combat detail works very well; keep it up.

You have a knack for making fights seem unwinnable right up to the moment where the heroes turn the tide.


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## (contact)

Galfridus said:
			
		

> *You have a knack for making fights seem unwinnable right up to the moment where the heroes turn the tide. *




Heh, I usually think they are unwinnable right up to the moment where we turn the tide.


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## blargney

Thank you (contact)!  I love this story
-blarg


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## (contact)

*Chapter 58 . . . smells like teen spirit.*

*58—If you siege it, they will come.*

Of course, a dragon’s lair is one of the safest places in the Underdark to sleep, provided you are sure that the dragon itself will not interrupt you; most creatures of any intelligence will shun the place, and all the native predators are likely dead by the dragon’s claw and fang.

In this case, Taran suggests that once he takes the thing’s head completely off, they can be pretty sure that it won’t be giving them any more trouble.

-----

The next morning, the group takes stock of the dragon’s treasure, searches the lair of its spawn and allies for good measure, and dumps the loot unceremoniously into the _portable hole_.  Kyreel is able to call upon Ishlok to renew the group’s life force, and throw off the effects of the dragon’s breath weapon.  After Taran takes one more longing look at the remains of his most recent and greatest dragon fight, the group continues their airborne journey through the Underdark.

“You know what,” Taran says.  “I feel rich.  Do you think we’re rich yet, Thel?”

“I think if we are not now, we soon will be,” Thelbar replies.  “All we have to do is survive.”

-----

Kyreel’s _find the path_ leads the group unerringly through the maze of passages and caverns, and after several hours journey, they arrive at the gates to Maermydra.  They are within a long passageway, at the end of which lie the twisted ruin of the city’s gates.  The curious stench of burning fungi and cooking meat can be detected, and Taran says, “That’s not barbecue you smell.”

“What’s barbecue?” Kyreel asks, but before Taran can reply, she grabs his arm.   “There, just beyond the gate—you cannot see them yet, but I make them out.  There are four giants.  They wear the device of Kurgoth Hellspawn.  They must be guards.”

Taran creeps forward silently, abandoning his flight to better utilize his stealth.  He notes the disposition and attention of the four giants, and satisfies himself that there are no ready reinforcements lurking just beyond the gates.

After receiving Taran’s briefing, the party spends the time to fully prepare themselves for battle, showering themselves in spells.  _Stoneskin, mass haste, improved invisibility, divine might, mirror image, magic circle from evil, displacement, righteous wrath_  and more are cast, but they are all trumped when Thelbar _flies_ into sight of the creatures and rips through them with a _cone of cold_ followed by _chain lighting_.

Apparently the gods heard his earlier complaints about spell resistance, because the giants absorb nearly all of the eldritch energies, and before anyone else can even move forward, all four giants are dead.

“Damn, Thel,” Taran says, sheathing his suddenly superfluous weapons.  “I didn’t know you could do that.  I mean I knew you could do that, but not like _that_.”

The group picks through the giant’s tattered bags, and liberates the obligatory pair of moldy cheeses, then moves through the gates into Maermydra itself.

The drow city occupies the ground of a massive cavern, fully one whole mile in length, and nearly half that in width.  At this moment, Maermydra is lit by numerous fires burning throughout its sprawl, along with patches of multi-hued luminescent fungus.  The air above the city is filled by roiling clouds of smoke from the many camp-fires and burning buildings.  The whole of the place is further illuminated by patches of luminescent fungus that shed multi-hued radiation throughout the cavern.  Along either side of the cavern, wide ledges run the length of the place, and are occupied by larger buildings of alien architecture, most of them damaged or destroyed.  The smell of cooking meat, strong in the passage is nearly overwhelming inside the cavern, and the party is forced to cover their mouths and noses, lest they choke and gag.

“How do you take your dead elf?” Taran jokes, to no one in particular.  

The group moves stealthily into the ruined and burned drow city, allowing the occasional scuttling drow survivor to pass by unmolested.  They investigate the nearest large fire, and discover that it is a camp site, containing several score of goblins, bugbears and ogres, who fight amongst themselves and torment drow prisoners.  Several dark elves are staked to shabbily-built crucifixes, left to slowly die for the amusement of the invading army.  Among this general chaos, several giants laugh and joke with one another, including a trio of blue-skinned ogres who conduct themselves with an unusually civilized air. 

Taran counts the campfires he can see, and projects a total number of well over one hundred giants in Maermydra, along with ten times that many goblinoids and other camp-rabble.

“Now how the hell do we deal with this,” he wonders aloud.

After leaving the camp, the party ventures deeper into the ruined structures comprising the city’s most dense quarter—no doubt the homes of the poor, and an unlikely place to find looting invaders.  There, they spot a young drow boy, scavenging for food amongst the ruined shell of his former home, its walls kicked in by a giant’s boot.

“You there,” Thelbar says to the boy in Undercommon.  “Don’t be afraid, we mean you no harm.  We have come to set ourselves against the creatures who have done this.  Tell me what happened here.”

The boy looks for a moment like he intends to flee, but after gazing into Taran’s hard, cold face, thinks better of his reaction.  “Who are you?” he asks.

“Shut up and answer his question,” Taran growls in common.  His words are not understood, but his meaning is clear.

The boy is silent for a moment, then says, “There was a struggle between the noble houses—one house took the castle, and within a week the gates were shattered and giants sacked the city.”

Thelbar continues, “Where is Irae T’ssarion?”

The boy looks perplexed.  “House T’ssarion was destroyed years ago.”

“And the followers of Kiransalee?” Thelbar asks.

“They are trapped in the castle, and the giants siege them there.  But Kiransalee’s touch is upon them yet, for the giants fear what is inside.  The giants fear us now as well, for the drow they have slain rise to haunt them.”

When Thelbar translates this last part, Taran shudders.

The boy says, “I can help you fight these giants.  There is a man you must speak with, one who can bring you knowledge of the Hidden.”

The party agrees to wait for this man, although they caution the boy that any treachery will be severely rewarded.  After an hour passes, the party hears a drowish voice from a shadowed corner of the ruined home.  

“What do surface beings want with the Hidden in Maermydra?”

If they are surprised by the unnoticed presence of an unseen drow, the party gives no notice.  Thelbar moves toward the voice.  “We are friends of the drow here in Maermydra.  The followers of Kurgoth Hellspawn have made enemies of us, and we would know more of what has transpired here.”

“I am aware of certain concerned citizens of Maermydra that want to see the city taken back into the hands of true drow.  They could assist you if you could provide assurances.”

“You see that we wear these pendants of the Spider Queen,”

“I do.”

“You are a follower of Lolth?”

“I am.”

“Then these pendants compel you to assist us,”

“That . . . remains to be seen,” the voice drawls.  “Our Queen’s charms and trinkets are as silent to us as the goddess herself .”

Thelbar suppresses a smile.  “We are here to break this siege, and remove Irae T’ssarion from power.  You are either with us, or underfoot.”

“Your words are confident,” the drow says with an air of disbelief.  

“A habit,” Thelbar says to the unseen drow.  “One that as yet has not proven problematic.”  Thelbar gestures widely and continues.  “We have already wiped out the White Death in Szith Morcane, and punished them for planning to attack the surface.  We will collapse the tunnels leading to the surface when we have finished here, and those drow will have no further contact with our people, for good or ill.  You can either join us here and now, or pass your days wondering whether we consider you a threat or an inconsequence.”

The drow pauses, considering Thelbar’s declaration, then says, “There is a fiend in the air.  It is pain, and fire; it is Kurgoth’s creature.  Destroy it, and I will believe that you are capable of what you claim to be about.  Then, I will take you to the Hidden.”

Thelbar frowns, and says, “No.  We are here to help you, not to serve your bidding.  If you don’t wish to participate in the retaking of the city, then we will proceed without you.  Perhaps your goddess will be merciful for your failure.”  He turns to his companions, and in common says, “We go.  Prepare your things.”

The drow speaks quickly, “We are in a dangerous position, and we must be sure that those we grant aid to are worthy of the challenge.  If you cannot defeat the fire demon, then you will not survive what is in the castle.”

“Very well,” Thelbar says.  “The demon must die, that much is sure.  We will kill it, but we do not serve your bidding.  May you live long enough to repent your lack of faith in your goddess’ chosen emissaries.”


----------



## Joshua Randall

*Re: Chapter 58 . . . smells like teen spirit.*

What Thelbar said in the story:



> “Your words are confident,” the drow says with an air of disbelief.
> 
> “A habit,” Thelbar says to the unseen drow.  “One that as yet has not proven problematic.”



What Thelbar really meant:

*"Bring it!"*


----------



## incognito

so much to say, so little time...

The champions of the Risen Goddess have been such busy bees!



> May you live long enough to repent your lack of faith in your goddess’ chosen emissaries.




May I be so quick on the uptake as a player to think of quips like these...


----------



## (contact)

incognito said:
			
		

> *May I be so quick on the uptake as a player to think of quips like these... *




Yes, it was a Darth Vader moment.


----------



## incognito

"Do NOT fail me again, drow emissary" 

or 

"Don't be too proud of your precious Kurgoth Hellspawn; the ability to destroy a drow city is insignificant when compared to the power of Palatin Emerath"

 

How close WAS that dragon fight, (contact)?  I'm having a hard time judging when the Champions are in trouble, or when Taran is simply in the single digit hit points...

Also, a quick "how does your game work" question.  If you are hit by a level draining affect, does it rob you of your ability to cast a highest level spell (like, going from L15, to 14 would?).  Many people feel this is a painful pill to swallow...


----------



## (contact)

It wasn't super close, in terms of hit points, but Kyreel had 8 negative levels, and Taran and Thel had 4 each, so it was starting to look like the dragon was going to win the fight-- when Kyreel touch-attacked the sucker, she needed a 20 to hit!  

Re: spells-- we didn't learn until we looked up the neg. levels rules about halfway through that fight that Thel was supposed to loose spells.  What we ended up with was the spellcaster looses 1 spell at the highest level he currently has prepared for each neg. level recieved.  

That fight was tactically very interesting, and a unique challenge due to the level-draining breath weapons.



> "Don't be too proud of your precious Kurgoth Hellspawn; the ability to destroy a drow city is insignificant when compared to the power of Palatin Emerath"






"I find your lack of faith . . . _disturbing_."


----------



## (contact)

*59--So does he go to Hell or the Abyss?*

*59—“And in the blood-red corner, wearing a really pissed-off expression, weighing in at three thousand six hundred and fifty four pounds . . .”*

Taran leaves the building, intending to scout the city before the group makes another move.  He moves unseen through the wreckage, and observes several of the giants’ bivouacs.  He observes the city’s keep at some length, and takes notes on the multitude of camps surrounding it.  As he nears the far end of the city, he spies a distinctive oval-shaped building—it is the largest building in town, and as he nears it he hears a multitude of goblinoid voices raised in a bloodthirsty cheer.  Intrigued, he flies up and onto the lip of the stadium to observe the fighting.

In the center of the stadium, three tentative ogres armed with long-spears are holding back a rare monstrosity; a massive elephant that towers over the ogres and bellows menacingly.  The creature exhibits several demonic traits, including a reptilian skin and tendrils of thick smoke that expel from both its fore and aft-- it is decked head to toe in spiked fighting armor, and charges toward the ogres with an enraged bloodlust; a fiendish dire war elephant.  

_A fiendish dire war elephant?_

But before Taran can ponder the strange battle too closely, he notices a huge figure sitting in the seat of honor—a fire giant to be sure, although an unusually large and tough-looking fire giant with glowing eyes, and massive leathery bat-wings protruding from its back.  The giant’s skin gives off a faint acrid stench that brings tears to the eyes of his retinue. The giant is flanked by four other red-eyed fire-giant bodyguards and a retinue of heavily armed ogres, some of which chew on their own flesh in a symbiotic rapport with their battling bretheren.

“Kurgath the Abyssal,” Taran says to himself, before he _flies_ back to his friends, almost forgetting to hide in his giddy schoolboy excitement.

“Ky, Thel, let’s go!” he says.  “I found Kurgath, and we’ve _got_ to kill him.”

His companions look at Taran dubiously, but his description of the events convinces them.  Kurgoth is at his leisure, enjoying his cruel sport and apparently giving no thought to the siege.

The group prepares itself in a manner similar to their first entry into the city, and Thelbar _imbues_ Sarte with spell ability.  Thus armed and readied, the group moves _invisibly_ toward the coliseum on foot, using _spider climbing_ and Taran’s prodigious strength to climb to the lip of the coliseum, directly above Kurgoth Hellspawn, and his vile entourage.

Once in position, the heroes observe that the scenario is almost exactly like Taran had described it.  One of the gladiator ogres is dead, another severely wounded, and the third is running like a deva’s nose in Hell.

Kyreel begins the assault without any further ado.  She calls forth a holy _recitation_ that impacts Kurgoth and his retinue with a physical wave of discomfort, judging from their reactions.  She creates a _magic circle versus evil_ and invokes her Family domain granted power (gifting everyone standing within ten feet of her with a dodge bonus to AC).  Taran unleashes a pair of _slow_ spells from a wand, and mires the assorted giants and ogres in an insubstantial etheric bog, reducing their ability to respond.  Thelbar uses his _improved invisibility_ to maneuver unseen into an advantageous position, then  _feebleminds_ Kurgoth.  The hateful giant champion shows no signs of mental enfeeblement, however, so Thelbar follows his spell with a _limited wish_ that invokes the same effect, but with better results.  

The fiendish giant’s frothy spittle slows to a trickling drool, and abandoning all but the most base hostility, Kurgoth turns to face his foes with an unintelligible bellow.  Sartre, for his part, flies above the general chaos, and levels an imbued _confusion_ spell into their midst, sending the assembled ogres and giants into a bloodthirsty frenzy of wandering off.

Then things get ugly.

Kurgoth Hellspawn leaps to his feet and proves the old adage that there’s no “quit” in, “I’m going to rip your intestines out with my bare hands”.  He charges Kyreel, punching her in her entire upper half with one meaty hand,  knocking her from her perch atop the coliseum wall, and sending her spiraling to the ground eighty feet below.  

There goes the dodge bonus.

A quartet of unusually aggressive ogres charge the two remaining characters and lay into Taran with barbaric screams.  Fortunately, Taran’s _mirror images_ fend off the worst of the assault, but several of the phantom Tarans take enough of a phantom beating that they cease to exist.  What had been a small gathering of images around the thick-necked ranger swiftly becomes first a ménage-trois, and then a tête-à-tête.  It’s lonely fighting giants, after all.

Taran lays into one of the ogres, and slices below the waist, cutting in rhythmic strokes up the length of its torso.  The giant screams and reels backwards, kept alive only by its barbaric rage.

As if answering some unspoken command, the fiendish dire elephant abandons its battle on the coliseum floor and trumpets a gravelly challenge, charging toward the larger melee.  The beast plows through the barricade separating the stands from the sand, and tears into the assembled goblins seated there—themselves the lucky survivors of a furious melee to get the “good seats”.  Whether the elephant intends to protect its master, or is simply jealous that it might be missing out on the larger carnage, only Orcus can say for sure.

The fire giants attending Kurgoth move into the melee as well, although the _slow_ spells leveled on them prevent them from doing much more than that.  One particularly willful giant leans over the lip of the coliseum wall, and tears a chunk of the rock free, flinging it down onto Kyreel just as she starts to stand up and clear her head.

Thelbar, still unseen by his foes, strikes Kurgoth with a _hold monster_, and the infantile brute is suddenly frozen in place, only the continual stream of really evil saliva running from his mouth giving notice to an observer that he is no titanic sculpture.  Thelbar finishes by arcing a _lighning bolt_ through the ranks of assembled giants, who have cued up for a chance to smash Taran into a well-equipped smear.

Sartre fires a _magic missile_ spell at the ogre so recently deprived of most of its blood, and that proves more than the creature can bear.  It falls to the ground at Taran’s feet, hoping no doubt to help his fellows gain traction within the rapidly-expanding pool of its own blood.  Its friends stomp on its body without hesitation.

One of the ogres plants his boot square on the neck of his fallen friend and levels a blow that bypasses Taran’s protections, and knocks him back into the coliseum wall with crushing force.

Meanwhile, Kyreel has regained her feet, and without any _flying  magic_ at her disposal, she charges  on foot into the coliseum through a nearby entrance, wading past the smartest goblins in the audience—the ones who decided to leave the fights a little early to avoid traffic.

Fortunately, she enters the stands only a few feet beneath where her companions are battling giants, but unfortunately, she finds herself directly in the path of the charging elephant!  The tusked titan lowers its head, leveling a the spikes on its barding, and attempts to trample her.  Kyreel scrambles out of the way, and manages to avoid the worst, then draws her sword and calls upon the _divine might_ of Ishlok.

Taran places his back against the wall and digs in, weathering a series of giant attacks, then responding in kind.  Another ogre falls, joining its companion beneath the feet of the giant horde.

Thelbar _color sprays_ the group of them, stunning a pair of the giants attacking Taran, then sends a _prismatic spray_ through the other half of the fight.  One of the giants is killed outright, another is banished from the material plane, and several others are burned by acid.  The dire fiendish elephant is momentarily obscured by arcing bolts of electricity, and trumpets its displeasure, its beady red eyes indicating that it believes that Kyreel is somehow responsible for its pain.

Of course, Kyreel isn’t, but the distinction quickly becomes moot, as she cuts into the beast with her _flaming holy sword_ before it can retaliate.  The elephant (“I think I’ll call him Jumborcus, mommy!”) rises up on its hind legs, and smashes its fore-legs into the darting cleric.  Kyreel is knocked backwards, and only barely escapes being crushed beneath its massive feet.

Taran moves forward into the mass of _slowed_, _stunned_ giants, and singles out the lone brute still able to do him much harm.  Competence is negatively rewarded when you’re Evil.  Taran cuts the creature several times, opening the arteries along the inside of its legs, and sending the giant reeling backwards, left to wonder how such a small being could _hit . . . so . . . hard_.

Sartre has flown to the aid of Kyreel, and _magic missiles_ the elephant.  Kyreel takes advantage of the distraction to slip inside the lashing trunk and drive her sword deep into the fiendish creature’s skull.  Elephants never forget, but when you stab them in the brain, they do tend to die.

Thelbar drops a pair of _fireballs_ on the remaining giants, and as they fall, Taran darts amongst them, delivering the coup de grace to any survivors, and finishing Kurgoth Hellspawn.

By this time, the goblinoid spectators have gone from bloodthirsty voyeurs to surprised voyeurs to terrified potential combatants.  Reasoning wisely that if Kurgoth and his minions cannot stand up to the heroes, they have better chances of living to someday breed if they run far, far away.  What had been a trickle of goblins becomes a flood, as the coliseum does its best impression of a vomitorium, and empties itself of its contents in a sudden flood.

From the city comes sounds of war-horns, and shouting giantish voices.  Taran climbs up to the lip of the coliseum and spots several groups of giants gathering together, and starting to move against the flow of goblins toward the scene of the disturbance.

“Thel, we need to get out of here, _now_!” Taran shouts, and before the group can even catch their breath, Thelbar places his hands on his companion’s shoulders and _teleports_ them back to their hiding-place amongst the ruined buildings of fair Maermydra. 

-----

After Kyreel tends to their wounds, the group is lying low and attempting to project a solid plan of action against the remaining giants, and then against Irae T’ssarion at the center of the siege.  A rough list is drawn up, with the demon of fire and pain in the sky at the top of it.

But the group does not need to kill anyone else to prove their might to the shadowy members of the Hidden.  A few hours into their rest, as the commotion in the surrounding city finally dies down, a familiar drow voice emerges from the shadows, this time accompanied by a face.

“It seems you are what you say you are,” the drow says, as he steps into the light of the party’s small fire.  “I am Hanadah, leader of the Hidden.  You seek entry into the castle?  I can give it to you.  Irae T’sarrion has set a ward of _forbiddance_ upon the place, but the ward can be bypassed by those who possess the proper word.”

“And that word is?” Thelbar asks, with a slightly self-satisfied tone.

“_Umdra_, great one,” the drow says.  And may the White Death fare no better against you than did Kurgoth Hellspawn.”

“Hey, don’t look so down,” Taran says, grinning ear to ear.  “We’re going to kill the balor anyway.  We’re pretty much going to kill everything.”


----------



## blargney

*Holy cr@p!!*

Dear Mr. (contact),

Thank you.
*bouche bée*  ( ==  == WOW.  BEST.  POST.  EVER.)

-blarg


----------



## Joshua Randall

> “It seems you are what you say you are,” the drow says, as he steps into the light of the party’s small fire. “I am Hanadah, leader of the Hidden. You seek entry into the castle? I can give it to you. Irae T’sarrion has set a ward of _forbiddance_ upon the place, but the ward can be bypassed by those who possess the proper word.”
> 
> “And that word is?” Thelbar asks, with a slightly self-satisfied tone.
> 
> “_Umdra_, great one,” the drow says.



Hmm... something smells fishy here, to me. I think Hanadah might be sending the PCs into a trap, or giving them the word that will cause the maximized _glyph of warding_ to blow up in their faces.

Then again, I'm a suspicious and cynical person, so I could be wrong.


----------



## (contact)

*60:  Better than watching kobolds fight over a copper.*

*60—Maybe they’ll all be dead in the morning.*

That night, Taran remains awake while his companions sleep.  He leaves the campsite, and takes up a position where he can observe the city as a whole, and Irae T’ssarion’s stronghold in particular.  He notices an unusual amount of giantish activity, and after a couple of hours of uneventful waiting, he watches a titanic struggle ensue.

As the armies of Kurgoth Hellspawn slowly mass around the castle, a hideous corpulent demon pushes its way to the front ranks.  Once there, it performs a wicked incantation fueled by sacrificial blood.  The ritual seems to strip the majesty from the place, and even as the last strains of the demonic chanting fade away, the armies surge forward in a huge assault, as hundreds of giants, ogre magi, ogres, bugbears and goblins attack the defenses of Irae T’ssarion.

But the defenses prove up to the challenge, as ghosts, revenants and other free-willed undead man the castle walls, wreaking havoc among the goblinoids.  Beholders emerge from within the castle and use their magic to disrupt and destroy huge swaths of the attacking army.

Vrocks swoop down out of the smoke-filled heights of the cavern, and attack the key defense points, and within moments there are signs of fighting from within the castle.  But just as things look the worst for the defenders, a massive skeletal dragon emerges, and passes over the assembled hordes.  Goblins and bugbears break morale, and flee in all directions.

The balor emerges from the haze far above the fighting, a terrible creature radiant in all its flaming majesty.  With an unholy scream it lays into the dragon; the two terrors tumble to the ground, ripping and rending one another, crushing their allies as they fight.  Irae T’ssarion’s spellcasters open up on the giants—_cones of cold_ and _lightning bolts_ tear through their ranks, but the giants give as good as they get, flinging rocks into and through the defenders.

After a lengthy struggle, the balor destroys the dragon, and lets out an exultant yell, both hideous and glorious at the same time.  The balor leads his attackers in a surge forward, and they overrun the castle’s defense, but suddenly the balor is simply _gone_.  And in that moment, the battle is decided, and the invading army begins to slip away from the siege like evaporating water.  Or blood.

Taran watches the castle for a few more minutes, until he is satisfied that the defenders do not intend to pursue the fleeing army.   Thus assured, he slips out into the city, and follows a group of bugbears as they run head-long away from the castle, all thoughts of looting banished from their minds by sheer terror.  One bugbear lags behind, and in an instant Taran is on him.

“If you run, I’m going to kill you.  If you fail to answer any of my questions, I’m going to kill you.  Do you understand?”

The bugbear looks around for his companions, then realizing he is alone, weighs his options for a moment.  Taran fancies that he can hear the bugbear’s mental gears turning.  Slowly and with an audible creak, but turning nonetheless.

“I do,” the creature finally says.

“What is your name?”

“Hahtzhak, first lance for big reserve Company.  We last to go in, first to retreat!” he says with a flourish of pride.

“Tell me what just happened here Hahtzhak,” Taran says.

“Um, the drow assassinate Kurgoth.  Ixilt rally troops, and tell us . . .”

“Ixilt is the balor?”

“Um, yeah,” the bugbear says.  “Fire demon.  Him very great and powerful.  Him say tonight was the night, they no longer mock us with defiance.  Him words, me swear.  Me like drow okay.  And humans!  Me like humans good!”  When Taran does not skewer him, the bugbear continues.  “Then Ixilt call one of his kind from Hell . . .”

“The Abyss,” Taran interrupts.

“What?”

“Demons come from the Abyss.”

“. . . Okay.”

“Please go on, Hahtzhak.”  

“Ixilt call a devil that come take down spell keeping us from the castle.”

“And then?”

“We fight big fight, but me not fight.  But we win fight anyway, then albino ghost come out, she send Ixilt away.  Everybody running for home now.”

“Kurgath died in the coliseum,” Taran says, fingering his chin.

“Um, yeah.  Him not supposed to be in show.”

“But where did he _live_?  Where is his treasure kept?”

“Me no know.  Maybe Ixilt take.  Or vrocks take maybe.”

“Gods curse them all.  You know, Hahtzhak, if you put a sword through somebody, you expect to get their treasure.  Am I right?”

“Of course, that is the natural order of things.”

“Yeah.  Yeah it is.  Do _you_ have any treasure?”


----------



## dpdx

This is a GLORIOUS Story Hour. Oh. My. God.

I know you've been asking people to read it, (contact). I'm sorry I didn't earlier. I won't make that same mistake twice.


----------



## incognito

uhhh..contact?



> Thelbar drops a pair of *fireballs* on the remaining giants



(emphasis mine)
Those are Fire Gants, right?  as in:



> Fire Subtype (Ex): Fire immunity, double damage from cold except on a successful save.




A good update otherwise!  Although I do wonder what Kurgoth Hellspawn could've done if he'd had 1/2 a chance.


----------



## (contact)

Thelbar _fireballed_ the ogre barbarians.



> Although I do wonder what Kurgoth Hellspawn could've done if he'd had 1/2 a chance.



From what I understand, Kurgoth was a naaaasty bastard, and my RBDM souped him up a notch or two.  

So, he probably would have slapped us around, and made Taran call him "Hellspawn".


----------



## incognito

> Thelbar _fireballed_ the ogre barbarians.




Oh!  That's ok then! 

Let's go with my current favorite "adventurer" moment!



> Taran :“Gods curse them all. You know, Hahtzhak, if you put a sword through somebody, you expect to get their treasure. Am I right?”
> 
> Bugbear: “Of course, that is the natural order of things.”
> 
> Taran: “Yeah. Yeah it is. Do you have any treasure?”


----------



## (contact)

dpdx said:
			
		

> *This is a GLORIOUS Story Hour. Oh. My. God.
> *




I'm glad you like it!  I see Indy's game-winning run down the left flank made it in to your .sig as well.   It's even funnier when you imagine a 3-ft. halfling running *flat out*, with his mullet trailing behind him.  



> *I know you've been asking people to read it, (contact). I'm sorry I didn't earlier. I won't make that same mistake twice.*




That's great, but unfortunately, there won't be any more story hours for you to ignore my urging to read-- you've read them all!


----------



## (contact)

61—Into the heart of unquiet.

Taran returns to the group and sits brooding until Thelbar and Kyreel have finished their morning preparations.  He then relates the events of the night before.  Kyreel enters into a _communion_ with Palatin Eremath.

“Mother, pull the future from our eyes and instruct us.  Is Irae T’ssarion in the castle?”  
_No._
“Can Irae T’ssarion’s current location be reached through the castle?”
_Yes._
“Is Sharlequanan with her?”
_Sharlequanan awaits you._
“Are we in any danger from Sharlequanan?”
_That is unclear._
“Does Irae T’ssarion have powerful servants that Taran did not see?”
_Yes._
“Are these powerful servants undead?”
_Yes._
“Is Irae T’ssarion on this plane?”
_No._
“Is Irae T’ssarion on a border plane?”
_Yes._
“Is this border plane a demi-plane?”
_No._
“Is this border plane the etheric?”
_Yes._
“Other than wraiths and ghosts, does Irae have allies that exist in the etheric plane?”
_Yes._
“Does Irae T’ssarion have a permanent gate to the etheric plane within her stronghold.”
_Yes._

Kyreel ends her _commune_ and relates the answers she received.

“Okay,” Taran says, “If she is in the ethereal plane, we can get to her via _teleport_ assuming you can make us etheric, Ky.”

“I can, but not for long.  Ten minutes, maybe more.”

“If any of us’re still fighting in ten minutes, we’ll be glad to come back to the prime.”  Taran looks at Thelbar and Kyreel.  “Are you ready?  Today is a good day to die.”

-----

Kyreel invokes Palatin Eremath, and the goddess shepherds  the heroes instantly and safely into the ethereal plane.  The atmosphere is colorless and gray, and they can see a wispy, insubstantial representation of the physical world all around them, although they cannot interact with it.

Thelbar prepares the group with _protection from spells_—a new abjuration that he assures them will ward them from dire spell effects.  “We will need this if we are to tame this beast in its lair,” he says.  “Make yourselves ready, and I will _scry_ our target.”

After an hour has passed, Thelbar looks up from his scrying pool, and places a hand on each of his companions shoulders, looking squarely into their eyes.  He smiles to himself, liking the focus and dedication he sees, and after favoring his closest friends with a warm smile, he _teleports_ them to Irae T’ssarion’s most sacrosanct haven.  Taran and Kyreel have no warning of what they are to face, and spend a few crucial seconds readying spells and trying to orient themselves in their new environment.

They find themselves inside a large circular chamber, entirely real and solid in the etheric plane, the walls of which are lined with the rotting corpses of several male drow, _animated_ and consigned to an ignominious eternity serving the White Death as hideous candelabra.  The light from the candles clutched in their rotting hands illuminates a massive giant’s skull set into an alcove, blackened by fire, and covered with suspicious stains.  Upon the skull rests a cradle woven from an unidentifiable fibrous matter, and decorated with disagreeable twining symbols. 

Directly behind the skull and cradle, and flanked by the zombies is a mural depicting Kiransalee herself.  The vile drow goddess of undeath is depicted as a six-armed beautiful vampiric drow woman.  Her image extends down to the floor, and well into the room itself.  The illusion is convincing enough that for a moment Taran thinks that the mural is somehow actually reaching for the cradle.

In the center of this scene is a ghastly pale elven woman, of drowish feature, but entirely bleached of color.  She is naked from the waist up, her lower half covered only by a wispy translucent fabric that dances about her as if it is blowing in some unfelt breeze.  Standing protectively in front of her are a pair of drow males, dressed in elven armor and clutching cruel-looking polearms.  Their glassy skin and un-blinking eyes betraying their undead state as well.  They appear to be ready and expecting trouble.

“What is this?” the drow woman asks casually, a bemused and distant tone to her voice.  She sneers at Kyreel, and hisses the drow word for “race traitor”.

Kyreel responds by chanting the most holy of Ishlokain invocations, the Truth of Making.  “_No Light, no Darkness, no Dawn, no Dusk_,” she begins.

Irae T’ssarion reels back from the prayer, and screams, “Lolth protects you not!” as she raises her hands in a symbolic plea to Kiransalee.  “I crush them with your will, my goddess,” she murmurs, with a sensual purr.  Thelbar feels a sudden tremendous pressure compressing his body from every direction, bearing down into the center of him.  He gasps, and says a silent prayer of his own in thanks for his _protection from spells_ as the pressure lessens, then dissipates.

Just as Irae T’sarrion relinquishes her _implosion_ spell, Thelbar feels a new sense of unease that rapidly peaks into a buzzing pain, and just as rapidly fades.  No caster is immediately obvious; Irae T’ssarion’s bodyguards are leveling their weapons, and the zombies give no notice that they are even aware of the presence of the characters.

“_From the Beyond, came One.  From this One sprouted the Many.  And this Many brought us Creation._”  

Thelbar responds to this spell assault with an barrage of his own:  He fills the room with a _sunburst_, obliterating the zombies, and searing away chunks of flesh from the three drow in the center of the room.  He follows this with a _prismatic spray_, its multi-colored bands leaping and twining across the chamber.  Streams of acid and electricity strike one of the drow bodyguards, and rip it to shreds.  Irae T’ssarion is burned, and while her wispy garments catch fire and flash away, she seems to avoid the worst.

Irae T’sarrion backs away from the trio of adventurers, and _heals_ herself.  As she does so, her revenant ally raises its weapon and calls down an _ice storm_ onto the heads of its opponents, then touches Irae T’ssarion, _hasting_ her.

Taran determines to level the killing field, and uses his _wand of haste_ to place the spell upon himself and Kyreel as well, so that all the combatants move and attack with a preternatural speed.  Kyreel, still chanting to herself, closes the distance to Irae T’ssarion, and cleaves into the ghost with her _holy flaming_ sword.  “. . . _Our goddess brought the Many to the Beyond, and closed the circle of Making._”

A lone vrock is _summoned_ by an unseen opponent directly behind Kyreel—it leaps upon her back, tearing at her shoulders with its claws, and blinding her with its filthy wings. 

Thelbar, glaring at Irae T’ssarion with his _arcane sight_ yells, “She is mortal!”  Satisfied, he invokes a _feeblemind_, but the spell cannot penetrate her drowish spell resistance.  Discouraged, he _disintegrates_ the vrock assaulting Kyreel, turning it to a wisp of dust in an instant.

Taran leaps into the fray, and after booting the revenant out of his way, cuts into Irae T’sarrion once, then twice, opening wicked-looking wounds along her arms and chest.

The ghost-woman only laughs at this development.  “Kiransalee will not be foiled by the likes of you!” she sneers.

Taran regards her with a cold stare then glances down at his two swords.  “Your daughter was,” he says, raising his eyebrows and stepping forward.

Kyreel moves to a position where she can look into the cradle; whatever she sees there holds her for a moment, and she bows her head, despite the presence of two armed enemies at her back.  They lash out at her, taking advantage of their attacks of opportunity to score wounds along her shoulder.  Kyreel gasps, although whether it is from the wounds, or something she sees in the cradle, none can tell.

Once again, Irae T’ssarion is forced to step back and _heal_ herself, but this time she follows the spell with a _fire storm_ that sweeps the room with a sheet of intense flame, singing her foes despite their protections.  Immediately afterwards, a familiar thin crackling sound is heard, and the sickening sensation of a _horrid wilting_ pervades the room.

“The witch did not cast that spell!” Thelbar yells.

“The baby!” Taran says.  “They _horrid wiltinged_ the baby!  You _bitch_!”  He stumbles forward then, severely dehydrated and wounded badly from the rain of spells.

At that moment, two suits of full plate armor, animated without any apparent occupants, rise through an opening in the floor at one end of the circular chamber.   Sartre wheels past them, and dives toward Taran, _curing_ him with an _imbued_ spell.  As the owl lends aid, Taran feels a tug at his mind—a mental compulsion that he manages to throw off.

Thelbar rises up to his full height, and levels his finger at Irae T’ssarion, speaking a _power word stun_.  The ghost-drow staggers back and a sigh escapes her lips as her eyes glaze over.  Taran seizes this opportunity, and strikes with a snake-like quickness, burying Black Lisa into her skull, splitting her head in two through to the lower jaw.  He releases Black Lisa, and as Irae T’ssarion begins to fall backwards, he whirls around, pulls a wand from his belt, _fireballs_ the armored specters, drops the wand and completes his circle by grasping his sword hilt again.  With a whip-like contraction of his heavily muscled arm, he frees his sword, shattering Irae T’ssarion’s skull into red, gelatinous pieces.

“Bitch.”

Kyreel lays her hands on Taran and uses her own _curing_ magics to complete the task Sartre began.  As she does so, Thelbar rips a _chain lighting_ into the spectral knights, destroying them, and _disintegrates_ the skull, causing the crib to fall roughly to the ground.  “Demi-lich,” he says by way of explanation.


----------



## Joshua Randall

> Thelbar rises up to his full height, and levels his finger at Irae T’ssarion, speaking a _power word stun_. The ghost-drow staggers back and a sigh escapes her lips as her eyes glaze over. Taran seizes this opportunity, and strikes with a snake-like quickness, burying Black Lisa into her skull, splitting her head in two through to the lower jaw. He releases Black Lisa, and as Irae T’ssarion begins to fall backwards, he whirls around, pulls a wand from his belt, _fireballs_ the armored specters, drops the wand and completes his circle by grasping his sword hilt again. With a whip-like contraction of his heavily muscled arm, he frees his sword, shattering Irae T’ssarion’s skull into red, gelatinous pieces.



Now *that* has got to be in the running for the Single Coolest Combat Round (tm) award. Way to go, Taran!


----------



## dpdx

(contact) said:
			
		

> *I'm glad you like it!  I see Indy's game-winning run down the left flank made it in to your .sig as well.   It's even funnier when you imagine a 3-ft. halfling running *flat out*, with his mullet trailing behind him.  *




Oh yeah - funnier yet imagining him in the green of la Seleccion, with Andres Cantor making the call - although either my knowledge is failing me, or 'Llamosa en el centro' would be a turnover. Better Marquez or even Blanco. Still, Indy looks like a 3-foot Luis Hernandez, so it fits.

Still, when I read it, it stood out as the funniest thing I'd ever read on this board. And as long as it still makes me laugh, it will be in my .sig.

Congratulations on an outstanding Story Hour. One question: the baby is Sharlequannan/Arunshee/post-Lolth, correct? I wasn't clear on whether it lived through the latest combat.


----------



## incognito

question



> ...assuming you can make us etheric, Ky.”
> 
> “I can, but not for long. Ten minutes, maybe more.”




then:



> (once in the etheric)
> "Make yourselves ready, and I will scry our target.”
> 
> After an hour has passed,..."




What happened here?

Also, Thel casts scry as a mage right?  So he nees the 1,000 GP mirror, not the font, but heck, he could store that in a portable hole, or whatever. 

Also confused by Taran's full round actions.  took an attack (Which somehow killed a freshly healed Irae), then a move equivalent (sheath a weapon), drew a weapon (the wand) - a move equivalent, used the wand (standard action), then dropped it (free action), drew his weapon (move-eqiv, again), and attacked again.

Not that I don't think Taran could do it (esp. with a few liberal interpretations of feats, or a house rule or two), I just don't understand what happened...

Why did the Zombies die in the 3d6 sunburst?

What happened to the "other" drow guard?

Where was the Revenant?

Protection from spells is L8!  Is Thel a L15? Wizard already?

Is Irae, not really a ghost, then?


----------



## (contact)

dpdx said:
			
		

> *Still, Indy looks like a 3-foot Luis Hernandez, so it fits.*



He does, huh?


> *One question: the baby is Sharlequannan/Arunshee/post-Lolth, correct? I wasn't clear on whether it lived through the latest combat. *




The characters are assuming that the baby is Sharlequannan, but it remains to be revealed whether the baby is in fact the Risen Goddess, or just some poor withered, scorched and horribly burned NPC.


> *What happened here?
> 
> Also, Thel casts scry as a mage right? So he nees the 1,000 GP mirror, not the font, *



Ah, details.    Chalk that up to writer's error.  They went etheric after the scry and before the teleport.



> *
> Also confused by Taran's full round actions. took an attack (Which somehow killed a freshly healed Irae), then a move equivalent (sheath a weapon), drew a weapon (the wand) - a move equivalent, used the wand (standard action), then dropped it (free action), drew his weapon (move-eqiv, again), and attacked again.*




He didn't sheathe his sword, it was still stuck in Irae T'ssarion's head!  1st action:  Kill Irae, Quick Draw, bonus partial action: fireball.  The rest is flavor.



> *1. Why did the Zombies die in the 3d6 sunburst?
> 
> 2.What happened to the "other" drow guard?
> 
> 3. Where was the Revenant?
> 
> 4. Protection from spells is L8! Is Thel a L15? Wizard already?
> 
> 5. Is Irae, not really a ghost, then?*




1. Because they are generic Size-M zombies.  Also, remember that sunburst does d6/level (25d6 cap) to undead.  Thelbar's sunburst _mauled_ that fight!

2. Killed by spell and weapon, I assume.  They took a sunburst and prismatic spray back-to-back, and I think one of them was either obliterated outright or sent to another plane.  That would be a writer's error.  I blame society.  It's also possible that either Taran or Kyreel (or both) creamed them.

3.  Both of her bodyguards were revenants.

4.  Yes, 17th level during this fight, IIRC, but he may have even been higher.

5.  I'm not sure what she was.  The impression I got was that she was a ghost, and therefore "corporeal" on the Etheric plane.


----------



## dpdx

> He does, huh?




Yeah, if you willingly suspend disbelief that halflings don't carry classic Aztec facial features. Works for me, anyway. Hair looks blond in the picture, too.


----------



## incognito

Champions L17+  -> no wonder they stomp things so easily!

d6 per level from Sunburst to undead!  You are SO right (contact), what was I thinking!  I know what happened to the 2nd drow guard now!

plop...



> 5. I'm not sure what she was.




what ever she was...she's gone now...




and good for Taran, mixing up the magic and the hack.  Yeah!  Death to the the enemies of the Champions.

....and you gotta feel bad for the baby...I have a feelign your dm is about to ...ahhh...do unfotunate things to the PCs now...


----------



## Schmoe

Hey (contact).  Great story hour!  I just finally finished reading it, and it only took me two weeks.  That first page took a week by itself.  

Anyway, I wanted to chime in and say that I really like the theme of this campaign.  My current campaign is on a similar track, exploring the mysteries of the pantheons and the role they have had on the world.  It's very cool to see some of the contortions and convolutions that have been revealed in this story.  I don't know how much of the "truth" you two already know based upon your prior adventures with these characters, and how much of it is still being decided, but it's a fun ride.

A couple questions:

1.)  Whose idea were the hyper-aggressive gnomish barbarians?  Talk about coming out of thin air...  

2.)  I was going to ask about _Raising_ the Banshee, and the 1 minute casting time of Raise Dead, and the fact that the soul has to be willing, and the fact that the spell explicitly states it doesn't work on undead creatures, but then I remembered what the theme of this campaign is, and I realized it doesn't really matter.  

3.)  Wow, does Feeblemind suck, or what?  Are there any plans for bad guys casting _chained_ Feebleminds, and the like, in the near future?

4.)  Sorcerer/fighters.  First (or second?) Heydricus, now Taran.  It's an odd combination on the surface, but apparently quite effective.  Do you find that this combination significantly enhances the power, or simply diversifies the character?

5.)  Indy is cool.

6.)  Vognu was cooler.

7.)  Was that "perfect" fire giant a *paragon* fire-giant, or simply a bad-ass?

8.)  When are you going to update again, d***it?!


----------



## (contact)

Schmoe said:
			
		

> *Hey (contact).  Great story hour!  I just finally finished reading it, and it only took me two weeks.  That first page took a week by itself.  *




Thanks-- it's always gratifying to see folks migrate from the LoT over to the RG.  Glad you're enjoying the SH so far!  



> *I don't know how much of the "truth" you two already know based upon your prior adventures with these characters, and how much of it is still being decided, but it's a fun ride.*




The "truth" of the _pasoun_, and these character's particular role in the Ishlokian faith is already established, but the "truth" about Ishlok's former incarnation is entirely new . . .  I was sideswiped by that revelation!



> *
> 
> 1.)  Whose idea were the hyper-aggressive gnomish barbarians?  Talk about coming out of thin air...
> 
> 2.)  I was going to ask about Raising the Banshee . . . I realized it doesn't really matter.
> 
> 3.)  Wow, does Feeblemind suck, or what?  Are there any plans for bad guys casting chained Feebleminds, and the like, in the near future?
> 
> 4.)  Sorcerer/fighters.  First (or second?) Heydricus, now Taran.  It's an odd combination on the surface, but apparently quite effective.  Do you find that this combination significantly enhances the power, or simply diversifies the character?
> 
> 5.)  Indy is cool.
> 
> 6.)  Vognu was cooler.
> 
> 7.)  Was that "perfect" fire giant a paragon fire-giant, or simply a bad-ass?
> 
> 8.)  When are you going to update again, d***it?! *




1) Um (looks around).  That was my idea.  The whole Elemental Air adventures was my baby.  Whenever you see things that make no sense at all with anything that came before it?  (Raises hand.)

2) Essentially, it just seemed *right* to both of us that _raise dead_ would act like a _finger of death_ against the undead, so there it is.  I'm sure we could have written a rules-legal fiat for this if we'd cared to, but I think it's wise not to get too caught up in after-the-fact rationalization.  It made sense at the table, so that's how we played it. 

3)  Thelbar is *terrified* of _feeblemind_ and keeps a _ring of counterspelling_ expressly for this purpose.  

4) Very much like Heydricus, although Taran is a ranger/sorcerer.  I think that the combination is really cool, and something like the psionic warrior-- if the fighter/sorcerer has an opportunity to get his spells up, he'll kick the single class fighter's ass, but if not . . .

Taran's spell list focuses on defensive spells -- _shield, endure elements, mirror image,_ and _displace self_ being popular choices.


5 & 6)  Maybe we'll see Indy more later . . . 

7) I belive a paragon, but again, I'm the player.  What I *know* is that he looked like the absolute epitome of everything a fire giant is supposed to be, so maybe that means that he had a 20 Cha and max hp or something . . .

8)  Later tonight, ok?  But go check out the LoT update first!


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> 
> 7) I belive a paragon, but again, I'm the player.  What I *know* is that he looked like the absolute epitome of everything a fire giant is supposed to be, so maybe that means that he had a 20 Cha and max hp or something . . .*




Yesterday was new miniatures day at the local game shop, and they'd gotten in a new fire giant mini from Reaper that was so cool that my wife not only picked one up (she's not normally into all monster figures), but she pronounced it "the Platonic ideal* of all fire giants."

I, of course, said "Ah, like in the Risen Goddess."



*Of course, he's ugly in the face, but to us, that's part of what fire giants are supposed to be all about. The "perfect fire giant mini" is one that's perfectly strong, brutal, well-dressed and ugly.


----------



## (contact)

*Chapter 62*

*62-It ain't over until the fat baby sings.*

Just as the group is catching their breath, Taran feels a second tug at his mind.  He experiences a sudden and strong compulsion to cut into Kyreel with his sword.  For just a moment, he feels a nearly overwhelming surge of hatred for his beloved companion, but fortunately some reserve of mental fortitude helps him resist the impulse.  "Uh, I don't think you got it, Thel," he says.  "Somebody's making me want to do bad things."

"The child?" Thelbar wonders, and cautiously approaches the crib.

As all eyes turn toward the rune-worked crèche, a pair of _prismatic sprays_ tear into the group, first one then another directly afterwards!  Fortunately, the group's _spell resistance_ allows them to resist the worst effects, although they are burned with acid, electricity and fire.  The source of the _prismatic sprays_ shimmers into existence, as a finely-coiffed drow wizard _levitates_ up through the opening in the floor, at the opposite side of the chamber.

"Well, now we know," Taran says, taking the drow's appearance as the solution to the mysterious spell casting.

But as he is charging toward the wizard, a cloud of inky blackness spreads throughout the room, as an _unholy blight_ takes effect.  Taran closes the distance, and Kyreel calls upon Ishlok to _turn_ any undead still remaining in the room.


_Meta-game note:_  And she did so with spectacular success, affecting 28 HD of undead creatures!  After a pause where the DM flipped through his notes only to shake his head with a wicked smile, I said, "I'm disgusted that you had to look that up."
Kyreel's turning attempt is resisted by a tremendous surge of negative energy, and she cries out, then casts _detect undead_, hoping to locate the source of such a powerful undead force.  Taran closes the distance with the enemy mage, and cuts him horribly, provoking a cry of pain from his impeccably groomed lips, and mussing his carefully set hair.  "It's only going to get worse for you," he says.  "I'd advise you to surrender and spill your guts . . . or I'm going to spill them for you."

The mage holds his hands up to cease hostilities, and says, "I'm curious."

"About what?" Taran growls.

"Why you would kill my daughter."

At that moment, a figure emerges from the shadowed alcove behind the cradle, and takes a sneak attack at Kyreel.  Unfortunately for the hidden drow rogue, the attack misses horribly, and Kyreel whirls on the balls of her feet and _smites_ the rogue, cutting into his flesh and ending his life in an instant.

Another buzzing _destruction_ spell shakes Thelbar's form, and while he is able to resist the effect, he lets out a cry of frustration.  "Be quick!" he yells to his brother.

"She had it coming," Taran says to the mage, as he grabs him roughly by his collar.  "And so do you, you evil f-ck.  So here's your only chance.  You run like hell and tell everybody you see that Irae T'ssarion is dead, and the Champions of the Risen Goddess are _bad ass_.  You got that?"

"All I ask in return is that you leave me my family's ring.  My daughter wears it on her left hand."

"It is slightly magical," Thelbar states, having looked over Irae's corpse with his _arcane sight_.  As he says this, a magic circle in the center of the chamber activates, and a hideous rider emerges through the very floor.  The rider is a feral and barbaric looking drow male, swinging a _flaming_ spiked chain over his head, and he is mounted on a hellish war-horse that exudes a brimstone smoke from its nostrils and prances eagerly on flaming hooves.  As this happens, a trio of identical drow clerics to Kiransalee emerge from the hole in the floor, directly next to Taran.

"Evening, ladies," he says gleefully as he releases the mage and cleaves into the three women.  He kills one outright, and on the backswing of that blow, turns and strikes the mage, knocking him to the ground.

"You treacherous worm!" the mage screams with a mixture of rage, pain and fear.

"Hey, you didn't tell them what I said to say," Taran laughs, then mutters to himself, "Plus you asked me for a magic item.  That's like spitting on an adventurer's mother."

Thelbar invokes a _limited wish_, hoping to rob the drow wizard of his mind, but the man resists Thelbar's spell, and opens his hands, sending a _chain lighting_ through the group.  He follows that with a second _chain lightning_, and for the third time since the fight began, Taran cries out for healing.

"This place!" Kyreel shouts triumphantly.  "This whole place is undead!"

"What the f-ck?" Taran asks no one in particular, as Kyreel charges toward the mage.  Taran stays his hand, hoping that Kyreel will finish the drow, and free him up to attack the clerics, but before Kyreel can reach him, the drow unleashes a second pair of _chain lightings_, nearly killing the thick-necked ranger.

"Goddamnit, Kyreel just kill him!" Taran screams.  Then asks rhetorically, "How many of those does he have?" as he abandons the clerics to focus on the mage.

"He is a sorcerer, Taran!" Thelbar yells.  "He can do that until he dies."

"Okay, that's an easy fix," Taran says and runs Black Lisa through the wizard's chest.  "Done!" he announces.

Thelbar scrambles away from the spiked-chain's deadly arc, as the nightmare attempts to overrun him.  He lances a devastating volley of _magic missiles_ into the rider, and Sartre does the same from his position near the ceiling.  The rider slumps and is nearly thrown from his enraged mount.

Taran and Kyreel both wade into the clerics of Kiransalee, who defend themselves with their weapons, but after a moment, they are killed, adding to the litter of bodies and growing pool of drow blood on the chamber's floor.  Thelbar moves clear of the nightmare, and joins his companions.

As he does so, a foul creature emerges from the circle just behind the fiendish horse.  A short, and squat drow male, its head is crowned with a mass of writhing snakes, and it flexes eight hairy spider-like limbs that protrude from its torso in all directions.

Thelbar _cures_ Taran with a pair of _faith healings_ and starts to give an order, when suddenly a mass of whirling razor-sharp planes of force fill the room, as the spider-thing waves its multitude of limbs in a grotesque parody of spell casting.

"Into the hole!" Taran yells, as he dives for safety through the opening in the floor.  His companions follow him, and using _flying_ magics, prepare a nasty surprise for whatever may follow.  The sound of the whirling blades ceases suddenly, and a moment later, the spider-thing emerges, torso first through the hole.  The creature does not stand a chance, as all three Champions assault it with spell and sword.

They scramble back into the chamber, and Kyreel _dismisses_ the nightmare, freeing the group up to take stock of their situation, and approach the cradle.

"Please Goddess let the baby be all right," Taran says, wondering to himself if even a divine infant could have survived the rain of spell effects that have blasted, blackened and shredded the crèche.  Kyreel is the first to approach the crib, and with a maternal gasp, falls to her knees in front of the tiny drow child.  She is soon followed by her companions, and soon, all three of the Champions kneel before the baby.

"I . . ." Taran says, his voice catching in his throat.  "I can give no greater gift."  And with that, he removes Black Lisa, and places his dearest treasure across the infant's chest.

"Nor I," Kyreel states, as she likewise lays her _holy, flaming_ sword across Black Lisa.

Thelbar removes his _robe of the archmagi_, and swaddles the child, swords and all, saying, "May these things protect and serve you now and forever.  Sharlequannan, sister to my Mother, and newborn Goddess, I praise your birth."

There is a great and lasting moment of stillness, and the trio of adventurers are filled with a profound sense of purpose and well-being.

A voice fills their hearts, as clear to them as if it were whispered into their ears.  _"No truer gifts could be made.  Take these things, made greater for the fact that they were freely given, and serve me."_

The group retrieves their weapons and clothing, discovering new traces of divine power coursing through the items.  "Arunshee's Kiss," Taran says lovingly, renaming his sword.

_"Wear it and serve me well,"_ the voice vibrates through their being.  _"Destroy this place, for it displeases me.  Serve me and prosper, or spend your lives out in my cause.  So are you commanded, so must you obey."_


----------



## ThoughtBubble

Wow.


----------



## Schmoe

(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> 8)  Later tonight, ok?  But go check out the LoT update first! *




Already done


----------



## (contact)

*63—A new form, a new way.*

 Newly healed by the goddess’ will, the group moves into action.  Thelbar takes strips from the clothing of the fallen enemies, and forms a crude sash, to carry the divine infant, while keeping his arms free for spell-casting.

Taran considers suggesting that an invulnerable baby might make better protection for someone likely to be involved in melee, then reconsiders before uttering the blasphemous notion.  He busies himself with throwing the corpses of the fallen into the _portable hole_ for later looting, and hopes that the child cannot read his mind.

The group travels down through the opening in the floor, discovering that the structure they are in is a weird, twisting tower that seems to exist both in the etheric as well as the material planes.  Whatever forces occupied this place must have already made their way to the killing ground above, as the tower is empty of enemies.  They pass through a _gate_ into the material plane, and venturing toward the heart of the place come across a massive orb of pulsing, hungry blackness that floats high above the floor of a large misshapen chamber.

Kyreel places her hand upon the forehead of the infant, and with a quick prayer, invokes a positive energy burst into the orb.  Her guess proves correct as the orb writhes in a manner suggesting pain, and vomits forth a cloud of writhing shapes—scores of wraiths grouped together into a hideous mass.  The wraiths surround Thelbar, sucking at his soul, seemingly drawn to him by the presence of Sharlequannan.  He retaliates with _magic missiles_, and Taran rushes to his side, cleaving into the nightmarish mass with Arunshee’s Kiss and his _sun blade_.

Kyreel focuses on the orb, radiating positive energy in a continual invocation of her goddess.  The orb responds with a ray of inky darkness, that dims the cleric’s radiance, and leeches away part of her soul.  Kyreel cries out in pain, but refuses to back away.

As Taran and Thelbar wear down the cloud of wraiths, Kyreel and the orb exchange bursts, positive for negative, and both slowly diminish.  Soon, the wraiths are dispelled, but Kyreel is greatly weakened, and while her faith remains strong, her spirit is overwhelmed; Kyreel falls to the floor, her soul wrenched bit by agonizing bit into the void of nothingness.

Thus does she die.

Taran swings his _sun blade_ above his head and fills the chamber with a _sun burst_, and Thelbar uses a _spectral hand_ to cast _curing_ spells into the orb.  Weakened by Kyreel’s onslaught, the orb cannot withstand this new attack, and after a moment, the thing collapses upon itself and implodes with a massive concussive force that pulls the adventurers off their feet.

As they stand on wobbly legs and regain their bearings, Thelbar clutches his chest.  “The child!” he shouts.  “Where is the child?”  He and Taran search about frantically, but find themselves completely alone in the room.  There is no sign of Sharlequannan or their fallen companion.

“Um, Thel,” Taran begins warily as he turns in circles.  “Where did everybody go?”

-----

An instant later, Kyreel reappears from thin air, hovering slightly above the ground, and radiating a powerful aura that seems to give light to the room without illuminating anything at all.  Taran and Thelbar fall to their knees, struck by a powerful awe, unable to meet the gaze of their former adventuring companion.  They glance at one another, marveling in the strangeness of it all, and noticing that each of them bears a strange new visage—familiar, yet changed.  They both shed a soft, pale light, and their features show signs of celestial heritage.  They prostrate themselves and kiss the goddess’ robe, stained at the hem with her enemies’ blood.

“_All opponents shall flee before us, Tar-Ilou, and I thus shall I reveal myself to my people here_.” Kyreel’s familiar voice is resonant with a divine presence, somehow familiar and entirely strange at the same time.  “_They shall be led to a new home; guide them to the sun and the moon that calls still to their elven blood.  They shall enter the pasoun, and take the grace of the mother, or they shall die—forever in servitude to fell powers and wicked spirits._”

Sharlequannan levitates forward, and leads the two bewildered adventurers through the former stronghold of Irae T’ssarion.  Along the way, glimpses of terrible monsters are gained, then instantly obliterated.  Undead, beholders, golems and ghosts are all destroyed suddenly and without mercy.

At the gates to the castle, they come upon a startled male drow, dressed head to toe in demonic plate armor, and armed with a huge greatsword.

“_Khuumar Banishedspawn, Divine Champion to Kiransalee, kneel before me or go to your goddess in pain and fire,_” Sharlequannan intones.  The blackguard immediately falls to the ground, casting aside his sword.

“Spare me, great one,” he whimpers.  “I will serve you!”

Sharlequannan approaches the drow, and places her open palm above his head.  “_You are less than nothing to me until you have atoned for the stain upon your soul.  Serve me and show your worth, fail me and despair; for Lolth is risen and Arunshee is reborn.  Join these, my champions.  You will follow them and learn their ways, for they are pleasing to me._”  And with that, the reborn Sharlequannan, called Arunshee by the drow, disappears and all is still.

The blackguard looks up and regards the brothers Tar-Ilou, then makes a soft choking sound.  “What have I done?” he mutters.  “Kiransalee, my dark queen—I have betrayed you.”

“Shut the f-ck up and quit whining,” Taran says.  “We just upgraded your sorry ass.”  Taran kicks the blackguard’s vile _unholy_ weapon away from him, and points to the drow’s other armament, a small dagger strapped to his side that glows with a foul greenish light.  “What the f-ck is that?” he says.

“I . . . I am a specialist with the dagger,” the drow says apologetically.  Taran snatches the blade from its sheath, and laughs.

“What are you, a sailor?”  He flings the blade away.  “Get real.  And take that armor off while you’re at it.”

-----

After Khuumar complies with Taran’s demands, Taran pulls him close.  “Get this.  You’re with us now.  Cross me, and I’ll kill you.  Give me a reason, and I’ll kill you.  If you think Arunshee gives a damn about you, this is me laughing at you, got it?  Please her, and you’ll be all right.  Fail her, and you can take your chances in the afterlife.”  Taran looks at Thelbar, and shares a smile before turning back to the humbled drow.  “Personally, I think Kiransalee will f-ck you sideways for what you just did.”

At that moment, the group hears the voice of Arunshee from beyond the castle’s gates.  Rushing outside, they see the divine form of the goddess, familiar and unknowable, hovering above the city.  Despite the smoke, every inhabitant of the place can see her clearly.

“_I am Lolth, and I am Arunshee.  I bring a new way to my people, and all those who embrace it shall live forever in my graces, blessed to embrace the right of their holy birth.  Those who reject it are cast out, never to walk the surface; left to misery and squalor below the earth.  My champions are among you, obey them as you would obey me.  Obedience is life, and my due.  Reject me and suffer an eternity of torment at the hands of those who love you not.  So has it been spoken, so let it be._”

And with that, the goddess Arunshee vanishes, never again to be seen by the inhabitants of Maermydra, save for within their fevered dreams.

Taran and Thelbar hear the unspoken voice of Arunshee in their heads, “_Take my children to the surface, they are in your hands.  Do not fail me._”


----------



## blargney

Awesome.  Thank you for writing your story, (contact).
-blarg


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> *As Taran and Thelbar wear down the cloud of wraiths, Kyreel and the orb exchange bursts, positive for negative, and both slowly diminish.  Soon, the wraiths are dispelled, but Kyreel is greatly weakened, and while her faith remains strong, her spirit is overwhelmed; Kyreel falls to the floor, her soul wrenched bit by agonizing bit into the void of nothingness.
> 
> Thus does she die.*




Sigh. I don't care if the "compassionate drow" card has been overplayed or not, I'm gonna miss her.



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> *“I am Lolth, and I am Arunshee.  I bring a new way to my people, and all those who embrace it shall live forever in my graces, blessed to embrace the right of their holy birth.  Those who reject it are cast out, never to walk the surface; left to misery and squalor below the earth.  My champions are among you, obey them as you would obey me.  Obedience is life, and my due.  Reject me and suffer an eternity of torment at the hands of those who love you not.  So has it been spoken, so let it be.” *




Arunshee is beyond Old Skool. She's Old Testament.


----------



## blargney

*psst.. hey (contact)!*

Whaddaya think, could you hook me up with some stats for your PCs?  I just want to try it.. This stuff's not addictive, is it?

-blarg


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## (contact)

Blarg, I'm sure you're a "social" reader, so help yourself.  The Risen Goddess does have a Rogue's Gallery thread, and I would direct you there to witness first-hand how I've tricked-out my favorite PCs.

For your satisfaction, the stats there for Indy are current, as he hasn't been adventuring, and I posted current stats for Khuumar and Taran at the bottom of the thread.  Right now, the story hour is about 5-8 posts and one or two levels behind the actual campaign.  

As of today, Taran is on the verge of 18th level, and Thelbar is fast approaching 20th.  Most likely, these PCs will go Epic, and remain in play until this spring.  As you now know, Kyreel has become the vessel for the Risen Goddess Arunshee, and Khuumar has temporarily joined the party.  In fact, over the next few updates, the brothers Tar-Ilou pull together quite the menagerie of high-level semi-trustworthy NPC adventuring companions.

-----

You know, if you're reading the last couple of posts, you might start to wonder -- which Risen Goddess are these characters really the champions of?  The thought *has* crossed my mind, and I suspect only time will tell.


----------



## (contact)

As an additional note, to try and impart some of the "ohmyfreakinggodthatissocool" factor that I felt when playing through this last update:

Kyreel, in her 2nd edition incarnation, was a male human paladin.  Being a rather nostalgic pair of gamers, we'd played through an updated Descent into the Depths of the Earth.  In the final fight against Lolth, Taran was killed (go figure) and Thelbar succumbed to a _fear_ effect, and spent the fight crying for his mommy in the corner of the room.  

In the end, only Kyreel was able to resist Lolth's magic, and he put her avatar to the sword-- in our game, that means she's *banished*; barred from the Prime for one hundred and one years.

Needless to say, Lolth *hated* the Champions of the Risen Goddess with a passion, and Kyreel's incarnation as a female drow seemed to me at the time to have been a less-than-subtle dig from Palatin Eremath to Lolth.

Now, of course, I see it for what it is-- a message, and an offer.

_"I will give you the thing that took your life, and make it unto an instrument for your rebirth"._


----------



## Schmoe

(contact) said:
			
		

> *"I will give you the thing that took your life, and make it unto an instrument for your rebirth". *




ohmyfreakinggodthatissocool

Say no more


----------



## blargney

(contact) said:
			
		

> *Blarg, I'm sure you're a "social" reader, so help yourself.*




I don't read in polite company... but toss me in a biker bar, and I'll start reading everything in sight.


----------



## incognito

> You know, if you're reading the last couple of posts, you might start to wonder -- which Risen Goddess are these characters really the champions of? The thought *has* crossed my mind, and I suspect only time will tell.




The thought crossed my mind as soon as the robe kissing and what not came about.

Q: how many _chain lightnings_ does it take to ruin Taran's day?
A: More than 4!!!


----------



## dpdx

Nice to see Taran's manner hasn't changed since he got all white and glowy.

So Arunshee and Palatin Eremath are on the same team, now, right? Does this mean the Tar-Ilous are Arunshee's champions AND Palatin Eremath's?


----------



## (contact)

dpdx said:
			
		

> *Nice to see Taran's manner hasn't changed since he got all white and glowy. *




Well, I did edit out the part where Taran goes around passing out "hugs not blood" stickers, and encourages the evil drow to stop beating their Inner Children.


----------



## (contact)

*64*

*64—Wrapping up loose ends, and leveling the scales.*


Khuumar is placed into the gentle hands of Taran, for reeducation and moral edification.  Taran sifts through the bodies within the _portable hole_, and arms Khuumar with suitable weaponry.  The two soon find that despite their differences, they share a common love for battle that proves to be the basis for an emerging friendship.

Thelbar tells the two of them that he will go and prepare the way for the citizens of Maermydra to make a new home with the followers of Ishlok in the Far Forest.  He promises to return in two days time, then _teleports_ away.

Thelbar arrives on the outskirts of Mistledale, sometime in the middle of the night.  He makes himself _invisible_, and thus unseen, he returns to the site of his former home, and settles in to await the dawn.  With the coming of first light, he renews his _invisibility_, and undertakes a careful search of the ruined building, remembering it how it was, and taking careful notes as he goes.  He _Spellcrafts_ the wreckage, nodding to himself.  Finally, he removes a single budding plant, the last living reminder of the garden that was once his pastime, and places it gently within an empty spell component pouch.  He walks to where the Thayvian golems still stand guard, and makes them _invisible_ as well.  He commands them to follow him, and travels to the camp for Ishlok’s worshippers in the Dalelands.

There, he dispels his _invisibility_, and meets with Malwyn, the high priest to the goddess Ishlok.  He relates the general details of his recent adventures, and asks the priest about the readiness of the faithful.  Malwyn tells Thelbar that he has prepared the refugees for a journey to the Far Forest, and in the meantime has done some further research on the three men who destroyed their home.

The three of them were no loose association of like-minded clerics, he says, but instead were adventuring companions.  Elgin Trezler was the Patriarch of Lathander at Myth Drannor, and founded the great temple there devoted to reclaiming that fallen city.  In fact, it was within Myth Drannor that the trio spent most of their adventuring careers, and the rumors from the North are that they are as fearsome a bunch of hard-fighting adventurers as Cormanthyr has ever seen.  Jumdash Dir is called a paladin by the people, but in fact he is a Champion of Tempus, a fighter devoted to his god but without the paladin’s trappings.  Enae Enhallo is himself a devoted lay follower of Corellon Larethian—he claims to be a prophet, and as of yet has not been reprimanded by the elven church, so perhaps it is true.  Whatever the case, he is not a cleric to the elven High Father, but a powerful wizard.   

As to their current whereabouts; Jumdash and Enae have chosen to Winter in the nearby Abbey of Swords, while Elgin Trezler has returned to Cormyr, land of his birth, to assist in the war effort there.

Thelbar muses on this new information, and tells Malwyn to spread the word around the refugee camp:  quietly gather your belongings and make your way to the camp-ground at the center of camp.  Be silent, and say your goodbyes to Mistledale, for you will greet the dawn far, far from here.

Once the refugees are gathered, they step into Thelbar’s _teleportation circle_, and emerge within the Grand Hall of Gorquen’s newly-conquered stronghold.  Thelbar turns control over the two golems to Malwyn, and places the lone plant that he removed from the remains of his former home into the hands of  the high priest.  Thelbar instructs him to plant it wherever he locates the central temple to Palatin Eremath, and set the two golems to guard it.  

That done, he returns to the Underdark and collapses the Crypts of Dodrian using earth magic, sealing off that entrance to the drow realm forever.

Mistledale awakens the next morning to find the followers of Palatin Ermath gone without a trace of their passage.  If they wonder to themselves about the mystery, Thelbar never knows.

-----

While Thelbar is busy with the refugees in Mistledale, Taran and Khuumar are busy in Maerymda.  They attempt to restore enough of the appearance of a semblance of order to say that they tried their best, and when that doesn’t work out, they call upon the Hidden.   

Hanadah is located, and presents a close companion of his, another shadowdancer rogue.  The four characters slowly herd the survivors into the area least infested with undead, and begin picking through the war’s leavings.  They banish or kill all the drow aristocrats judged to be too irrevocably evil to ever reform (including those drow who are simply hated so much by the Hidden or Khuumar that they tell Taran they are irrevocably evil).  That done, Taran abandons his original plan of organizing the drow into hunter/gatherer groups and sending them out for supplies, and instructs the remaining refugees that the coming winter will be cold and hungry, and they are all to scavenge as much food as they can find without resorting to violence.

Some of them comply.

Satisfied, Taran starts teaching Khuumar his favorite drinking game, and settles in to await his brother’s return.  Khuumar cheats, but Taran does not notice.  While they are busy getting drunk, the remainder of the populace is likewise engaged.  Mind-altering drugs are a staple of drow culture, and nearly every drow citizen of Maermydra uses them to some degree.  The recent siege had halted the drug trade, and the population’s resulting mass-withdrawal added to the chaos of war.  Now, the drow are free to sack and loot the homes of their dead kin, and they do so with a vengeance.

Thelbar arrives to find his brother predictably inebriated, the populace either looting or incapacitated with drug-use, and the fires still burning.  Nodding to himself, he begins to prepare a _teleport circle_.

-----

As the last of the drow refugees step through to the other side, they are greeted by Malwyn and Gorquen, Thelbar takes Khuumar and Taran aside.  He relates to them what he has learned about Elgin Trezler, Jumdash Dir and Enae Enhallo.

Khuumar perks up at the mention of the Abbey of Swords.  “Oh yeah, those guys.  I know a back door into the Abbey—from the Underdark.”  Khuumar smiles at his companion’s surprised expressions.  “Oh yeah, I’ve fought ‘em before, they’re fun.  And I’d be ready to do it again.  Who are these worms?”

“Same guys who smashed our home, and kicked us out of the Dalelands,” Taran says.

“They trashed your home?”

“Yeah.”

“Then they got it comin’.”

Taran smirks.  “Yeah.”

“Big time.”

Taran grins. “Yeah.”

“First, we must see to Szith Morcaine,” Thelbar says.  I have sealed it away from the surface, but the followers of Lolth there must be given the same choices given to the drow here.  After all, we are responsible for undoing their society.  We cannot proselytize to all the drow, but I feel we are obligated to Szith Morcaine.”

“Hey, I’m _from_ Szith Morcaine,” Khuumar says.

“Then you shall be our spokesperson.  Be about yourself, this is your first test.”  

“Hey, ordering around sniveling worms is what I’m best at,” Khuumar says with a courtly bow.

And with that, Thelbar _teleports_ the group from one fallen drow city to another.

After looking into the mages’ guild, and putting to the sword the wizards who had established themselves as the nominal rulers of Szith Morcaine, Thelbar offers the survivors a new home in the Far Forest, and an apprenticeship under him.  They readily agree, and after the normal drow boot-licking takes its course, the group convenes a city-wide address, delivered from the wizard guild’s balcony overlooking the massive chasm.

Khuumar regards the assembled citizens with a sneer.  “The old ways are gone,” he shouts.  “The time has come for us to take back the thing which was stolen from us, and without which our hearts will never cease to hunger for revenge—our rightful place under the sun and moon!  We are to return to the way we were, by the will and intent of Lolth, our Arunshee, the one true goddess for the drow!  Follow us now or _be damned_!  Cast aside your slaves, for all must be made free.  Cast aside your petty squabbling, for a new enemy unites us!  I am forming a new noble house; House Szith Morcaine, named in honor of this city, with myself as head!”

Taran and Thelbar  exchange worried glances.

“You may either join my House and follow me to freedom, or wallow in your cowardice forever, to live the rest of your lives in darkness, wondering always what glories your failure has cost you.  Be with me,” He says, his voice rising to a scream, “be with Arunshee, _or be thou cursed among drow_!”

Khuumar turns to Thelbar with a proud expression on his face.  “There, you see.  I can change,” he says.

Thelbar scowls at him and steps forward to the podium.  “People of Szith Morcaine.  Know you this:  You are creatures of free will, and may decide your fate, each being to themselves.  We will take those among you who are willing to the surface, to a forest far from the contrivances of the Underdark, to a new home and a new way.  It is a way of freedom, and peace.  Those who do not wish to make this journey may remain, or may flee the city, as they see fit.”  Thelbar turns to Taran.  “Brother, something militaristic here would be appropriate,” he mutters.  

“What?  Oh, of course,” Taran says.   He places his hands on his hips and swaggers forward, slowly surveying the assembled drow.  “This thing we ask of you is not a path for cowards or weaklings,” he says.  “It will be hard.  It will be dangerous.  You will struggle, and some of you will die.”  He pauses for effect.  

“Others among you will beg for death before this is over.  But those who triumph we be gifted with a rare honor.  You will be the first amongst your kind to live in peace under the sun.  You will make a mark in history so great that no enemy will ever be able to erase your passing!”  His voice rises to a scream.  “You will have glory, and your works will live forever!  Now who is with me?”

There is complete silence from the crowd.  

Khuumar leans in.  “My people don’t yell, Taran—yelling attracts wandering monsters.  And I don’t think they like you.”


----------



## Joshua Randall

*Re: 64*



> And with that, Thelbar _teleports_ the group from one fallen drow city to another.



[nitpick]Doesn't the Underdark suppress or scramble teleportation magic?[/nitpick]

With Khuumar in the group, the Champions of the RG have a new dynamic. Khuumar is, as noted, a lot like Taran - a blustery fighter-type - and a big contrast from Kyreel. Will the group's balance shift more in the direction hack first and philosophize second? Or will Thelbar craft another Headband of Intellect, for Khuumar?


----------



## Vargo

*Re: Re: 64*



			
				JERandall said:
			
		

> *Will the group's balance shift more in the direction hack first and philosophize second? Or will Thelbar craft another Headband of Intellect, for Khuumar? *



Hate to say it, but I doubt a headband will do him much good - with Taran, his chop-first-talk-second attitude came from a lack of thought, but in Khuumar's case, he seems to have thought about it and decided he likes being the big bad bloodthirsty monster.


----------



## blargney

*Re: 64*



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> “Hey, ordering around sniveling worms is what I’m best at,” Khuumar says with a courtly bow.
> 
> Khuumar leans in.  “My people don’t yell, Taran—yelling attracts wandering monsters.  And I don’t think they like you.”




I _like_ this guy.
-blarg


----------



## (contact)

*Re: Re: Re: 64*



			
				Vargo said:
			
		

> *
> Hate to say it, but I doubt a headband will do him much good - with Taran, his chop-first-talk-second attitude came from a lack of thought, but in Khuumar's case, he seems to have thought about it and decided he likes being the big bad bloodthirsty monster. *




Taran still chops first!  But with his headband, I'm able to rationalize him having a broader intellectual life, and applying better tactics.  

Re: Khuumar-- you're exactly right.  Khuumar is Chaotic Evil, and came to his 'enlightenment' through fear and intimidation (the drow way).  He's now expected to get with a Neutral Good program, so we'll see how it works out for him.  Hanging over his head is the spectre of a really pissed off Kiransalee.

Re: Teleport in the underdark.  We decided that it was *boring* to have to play through the long marches.  For some situations it makes sense (approaching Maermydra, for example), but once the meat of the adventure is over?  Well . . .

We could say, "Okay, three days pass and you're there", but instead we said "Okay, your teleport works fine."


----------



## incognito

Originally I hated Khuumar for a being a snivelling boot licking worm.

Now I like him, for threatening to kill the weaker dow - who cower in front of him like snivelling boot licking worms.

How messed up is that?  But at least we have a 'Paladin free' party.

BTW: I totally agree about the underdark, the ix-nay on teleport, can easily be rule 0'd for teleportation circle at the very least.


----------



## dpdx

It's tough to keep track of the cast, sometimes, but I love this Story Hour.


----------



## (contact)

*65 -- Pen pals!*

65—Diplomacy without teeth is called ‘surrender’, after all.

By the time that the first few chaotic hours have passed, several fights have been broken up, and the drow refugees are appointed to their temporary quarters within the huge dungeon that recently housed several hundred of their fiendish kin.  ‘Group leaders’ have been appointed, more for the look in their eye and willingness to take the job rather than any verifiable merit.

Khuumar wades through the ranks of the drow, informing them that they are now part of House Szith Moraine, and berating the worst of the addicts for their weakness.  He calls it “edification” rather than “verbal abuse”, and Taran accepts his explanation.

In the meantime, Taran and Thelbar meet with Gorquen, who relates an interesting tale of her own.  Shortly after the Underdark group defeated the Nightmare Orb of Irae T’ssarion and released the infant goddess from her bondage, Arunshee appeared before Gorquen.  As she had with Taran and Thelbar, Arunshee used the body of Kyreel for her avatar.

The goddess informed Gorquen that she had placed her breath within the elven Champion when last they were together, as safekeeping against the foul plans of Irae T’ssarion.  While Gorquen was battling with the last of Tar Elentyr’s foul allies, she carried the goddess’ essence within her.  Thus, Kiransalee and her high priestess were unable to do any lasting harm to the babe, their violent and expansive imaginations notwithstanding.

“_I am reborn, and I have come for what is mine_,” the goddess told her.

In an instant, Gorquen felt some of the rightness within her pulled forcefully out.

“_And now I have part of you, as well_,” Arunshee said.  “_But I no longer take where I will not give_.”  And with that, Gorquen felt a sensation long-missed, but never forgotten:  wings upon her back!  Sleek, ebony wings, in every way as perfect and beautiful as the wings ripped from her in her former life, but jet black where the former were white.

“_Black suits me_,” Arunshee said, and then disappeared.

“I like your new wings, Gorquen,” Taran says.  “They look good on you.  Very slimming.”

-----

That evening, as he settles down to sleep in their new home, Taran takes off his boots for the first time in days.  He looks at them, stained to the calves with blood.  So many foes, so many stories.  The foul, corpulent fire-giant priest of Tenebrous, Kurgoth Hellspawn, Irae T’ssarion and her clan.  Taran determines to set them under glass, and keep them as a trophy.  “The boots tell a lot about a man,” he says to himself.  “Mine say, ‘_don’t f-ck with me_’.”  And laughing to himself, he falls into the deepest sleep of his young life, dreaming of Arunshee, and Nathè .

----

The next morning, the group has pulled the bodies of their enemies from the _portable hole_, and divested them of their magic items.  They take a careful inventory, keeping what they like, and equipping Khuumar as befits his new role beside the Champions of the Risen Goddess.

That evening, Thelbar and Taran hold a secret ritual, in which Thelbar makes _permanent_ a _Rary’s telepathic bond_ between the two.  “All the better to think to you with,” Thelbar says laughing.  

After a long telepathic debate as to their next course of action, the two of them prepare a letter, to be sent to Elgin Trezler, Enae Enhallo, and Jumdash Dir.  



Gentlemen,

We have the honor of addressing you from our new home far to the North.  We greet you with the North Wind at our back and the holy names of Palatin Eremath, Arunshee, Lathander, Corellon Larethian and Tempus upon our lips.  May this missive find you well, and at peace.

We are at this time greatly concerned for your reputation, as many of the slanders you have spread about us are patently untrue.  We are, like yourselves, engaged in the adventuring profession, and understand how such a life leads one to swift action, oftentimes before all of the facts can be determined.  

Therefore, we consider your destruction of our home, and our subsequent banishment from the Dalelands to be nothing more than a well-intentioned mistake, honestly made, and absent of any genuine malice.

We are prepared, as good and right-thinking individuals, to offer you an opportunity to make amends for the unfortunate and ill-considered destruction of our home and property.  An inventory follows, containing both the items of note ruined by your act, and the property value of our holdings in Mistledale, as well as a modest sum to encompass duress and inconvenience.

The total amount is one hundred thirty three thousand gold pieces.  We will pass the winter awaiting your decision, but expect you to have obtained the requisite funds by the beginning of Spring Rites or first thaw in Arabel, whichever should pass first.  You will understand that due to the precarious financial position you have put us in, we cannot at this time afford to be flexible as to the due date for settlement.

We hope that this winter finds you well, and may your gods and goddesses smile upon you,

Taran and Thelbar Tar-Ilou.



“_They’re gonna be pissed, Thel_,” Taran thinks, laughing to himself. 

“_We shall see, but I suspect you are right_,” Thelbar replies, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.  Then out loud he says, “Gods help them if they come after us now.  These drow are all in the throes of a foul temper—the sun burns them, their drugs cannot be had, and food must be rationed.   I suspect they would tear the three to pieces before the first self-aggrandizing proclamation made it out of their mouths.”

“Yeah,” Taran says wistfully.  “Hey, you know who else needs a boot up their ass?” he asks.  “The Harpers, that’s who.  But I don’t want to write them a letter—we have to sell magic items anyway, so why not do it in Waterdeep?  That way we can say ‘hi’ to Khelben what’s-his-staff and put him on notice too.”  Taran stretches and yawns.  “You know, I’m really starting to like Faerun.  I really am.”

-----

The two brothers _teleport_ to Waterdeep and hire a guide.  Their guide assists them in obtaining accommodations, then leaves them at the gates to the Thayvian Enclave.  The Enclave is a huge affair, an entire city-block walled and patrolled by dour-looking Thayvians dripping with magical armament and _permanenced_ enchantments.

After presenting the impressive list of magic items recently snatched from the clutches of dead elves, the group gains admittance, and are shown a decadent courtesy that includes . . . well, anything.  After partaking of all the food, drink and dancing girls they can stomach, they are ushered into a meeting with a high-ranking Thayvian representative.  Thelbar’s _arcane sight_ reveals that the saturnine man is a wizard of the highest caliber, and not a man to be taken lightly.

He is glad to make the acquaintance of such a pair of worthy individuals, he purrs, and hopes they understand that the Red Wizards would much prefer to barter for magic or services rather than spend the entirety of their liquid coinage on a wagon-load of magical items.  Thelbar acquiesces, and the two wizards draw up a contract that includes the establishment of a Thayvian enclave in the Far Forest.  (Provided, of course, that the local threats to life and limb can be . . . “managed”.)  

In the end, the Red Wizards agree to enhance Arunshee’s Kiss (“Give her the best possible enhancement”, Taran instructs them), and turn over the debt-marks of several Waterdhavian construction houses to assist in the building of Taran and Thelbar’s new home.

After their business with the Red Wizards, the two boldly knock on the door at Khelben Blackstaff’s house.  Or rather, they ask one of the friendly young guards at the gate to his estate if he would journey the quarter-mile to the main house and inquire if Khelben is home.

“Tell him the brothers Tar-Ilou request an audience at our earliest convenience,” Thelbar says.

“_Hey, Thel_,” Taran thinks, using the _telepathic bond_.

“_I know what I said_,” Thelbar replies.

Khelben sends the boy back with the message that he will be glad to have them for tea, implying that they are welcome to visit, but not for very long.  Taran and Thelbar trudge up to the main house, passing several smaller outlying cottages as they go by.  Khelben, as it turns out, is actually taking tea, and offers the brothers a cup along with some delicate biscuits. 

“_What is this, the uncomfortable wing_?” Taran wonders silently as he fidgets in his hard-backed chair.

The grim brothers relate the gist of what they have learned about the Risen Goddess and her family since they pulled Khelbin from the clutches of the deranged vampire Gulthais.  He nods attentively, but does not speak.

“The elven god Solonor Thelandir has joined our Mother in the _pasoun_,” Thelbar says.  “In fact, the Eremathian Pantheon now numbers five:  Palatin Eremath, Arunshee, Solonor Thalendiir, and the goddess Eilistraee.  In addition, the lost elven god Asharladon, known to us as Iiam, stands with his mother Ishlok.  Great changes are afoot, Khelbin, and we must all play a role.”

“Which brings us to my point,” Taran says.  “It’s your Harpers, Khelbin.  You know they strong-armed us out of Mistledale?”

“I did not order it, if that is what you mean,” Khelbin says.

“Well, I’m sure you didn’t, buddy,” Taran says through a smile.  “And let me just set my usual tact aside since we’re practically blood brothers.  Us saving your life and all.  I have some good advice for you, and you ought to listen close.”

Khelben smiles, but his eyes remain hard.

“What you need to do, see, is back your Harpers all the way off of us.  Set them on somebody less likely to end their careers on a sour note. ”

Khelben drops his smile.  “I would deeply regret any violence, Taran,”

“Not as much as the entire rest of your organization would,” Taran says, his smile never leaving his face.  “I’ll just cut out the diplomatic talk for now, because you and I have some history.  So we should be sure that we’re clear.  I’m not the Zhentarim, and when I’m provoked, I don’t plot and scheme.  I remove the threat from this plane of existence.  I don’t believe the fairy-tale that you don’t have influence with your Harpers, so what you should do is suggest that they spend their time and energy doing something productive, and leave us alone.”

“We do not threaten you, Khelbin,” Thelbar says.  “We understand that mistakes are common in any large organization, and we hold you no personal ill-will.  What my brother is trying to say is that we intend to keep our solitude, and as always will favor direct methods over surreptitious ones.  Our faith teaches us that ‘_deceit is well termed a web, and the righteous should not touch it_’.”

“I see,” Khelbin says.  “And what is next for you, then?  Retirement in the Far Forest?” 

“Oh no, nothing of the sort,” Thelbar says.  “We have unfinished business with the Matron Mother in Menzoberranzan.”

“_And her fine-ass bodyguard_,” Taran thinks to his brother.

“The largest drow city in this part of the world,” Khelben muses.  “I think you’ll find that it is surprisingly cosmopolitan, all things considered, although access is closely monitored.  When you are ready, come see me again.  I can help you gain entrance into the city.  It is no mean feat, even for two as . . .” he looks at Taran,” direct as yourselves.  Call upon me, and I shall gladly assist you.”

“See there,” Taran says, “We’re all good friends.  I like you okay, Khel.  Better than that old guy, anyway.”

As they leave the house, Taran says, “Sometimes I just want to kick wizards in their goddamned smug teeth.  Except you, Thel.  I love you.”


----------



## Hammerhead

*Re: 65 -- Pen pals!*



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> *
> As they leave the house, Taran says, “Sometimes I just want to kick wizards in their goddamned smug teeth.  Except you, Thel.  I love you.” *




So true, Taran, so true. Most wizards do need a kick in the teeth.

Great update! I wonder if the Champions will pursue righteous vengeance (Kill) against those who destroyed their home. I don't think they will pay the gold. So I guess Taran will just have to retrieve compensation from their bloodied, still-warm bodies.


----------



## blargney

Curse you, (contact).  You made me laugh out loud while my girlfriend was studying, and I was on the receiving end of a Withering Glare (Su) as a result.  I hope my head grows back soon.

-blarg


----------



## Barastrondo

*Re: Re: 65 -- Pen pals!*



			
				Hammerhead said:
			
		

> *
> 
> So true, Taran, so true. Most wizards do need a kick in the teeth.*




That's pretty much what _I_ was going to say. 

So let's see… our heroes are sticking up for drow (and not good-aligned rangers, neither), being polite to Thayvians and rude to Harpers, challenging the champions of good deities, acting in the interests of a formerly-known-as-Evil deity (who hasn't kicked the habit entirely yet, it seems) and (worst of all!) seriously disrespecting wizards. 

Either (contact)'s trying to violate every single rule that Forgotten Realms fiction authors must abide by (well, except those that coincide with the Eric's Grandmother Rule), or the brothers Tar-Ilou are made out of that rare material known as Anti-Faerun. Not enough of it to annihilate the poor game world in one single cataclysmic explosion, of course...

...but one big explosion is boring, and many little explosions make for better serial entertainment.  

I eagerly await the next Toril-shattering Kaboom.


----------



## incognito

Methinks (contact) and his DM asre just challenging the perceptions of the classic faerun, which is pretty 2 dimenisonal with it's good guys and bad guys if you ask me.

Although one has to wonder with Thel spareing pretty Fire Giant, and Taran schmoozing it up with drow 'hidden' assasins.

It would be the best joke of all time to have a revleaed thread in which Taran and Thel are simply Neutral Evil, rather than neutral good.



> deceit is well termed a web, and the righteous should not touch it’.”




"righteous" indeed...


----------



## (contact)

You know, for all intents and purposes we play an alignment-less game, and while we love the FRCS, the whole rest of the setting has gone by the wayside-- neither of us read the novels, and we never really played the 2e version . . .

-----

So is Taran evil or good?  It's a challenging question, and I could make a case for either alignment!  

Is he good?  Well, he kills a *lot* of Evil stuff, shows signs of sincere familial affection, and has given his treasure away to NPCs that touch his heart strings.  But on the other hand, he revels in slaughter and mayhem like any good CE would, and is extremely callous about loss of sentient life.  Contrasting that Chaotic flavor, he demands the sort of organization from his adventuring buddies and underlings that you'd associate with a Lawful character. . .

We would have axed alignment alltogether, except so many of the D&D mechanics are dependant on it.  So you read these characters' alignment as carrying the disclaimer "For the purposes of spells spell-like effects, and planar travel only".


----------



## (contact)

*66- "I've got friends in low places . . ."*

*66—Mother, I’m home!*


Their business with Khelbin Blackstaff settled, the duo return to the Far Forest, and Taran hardly complains about the lack of dancing girls once they arrive.

Thelbar sets to researching spells and crafting a few magic items, both for Taran and himself, including a pair of unique circlets.  “These hold the spell _gentle repose_ within them,” he says.

“Uh.  What for?” Taran asks.

“Would you have your _clone_ decay while it awaits your death, brother?” Thelbar replies, as he brandishes a wicked-looking scalpel.  “Now hold still, this will only take a moment.”

Taran and Khuumar while away a carefree month breaking up drow riots, training an elite shadow-elven expeditionary force for local scouting and defense, and gambling away Taran’s fortune.  The first of the Waterdhavian builders arrive, and work upon the new home for the Champions of the Risen Goddess begins in earnest.

Khuumar, Gorquen and Taran establish regular sparring sessions, with Taran and Gorquen concentrating on aerial combat.  Taran takes the majority of the sessions with either opponent, but it is many times only through a liberal application of deceit and treachery.  Khuumar proves a surprisingly honorable combatant, considering his heritage, and it is often he and Gorquen scolding Taran on a point of fighting etiquette.

Taran also establishes Winter Survival Training for his cadre of fledgling rangers.  To the drow, it is a triple-cursed affair.  Not only is it bright, but it is cold enough to kill the reckless, and they are often wet.  Having no word for snow in their language, they call it “the burning dust”, or more poetically, “grandmother to the _ice storm_” (the spell being well known to them).  Taran is dubbed “Arunshee’s Kiss,” and while he assumes the name is a respectful reference to his sword, it is a play upon the old phrase “Giving Them Lolth’s Kiss,” which was a euphemism for torture; Taran is a relentless taskmaster.

All in all, it is nearing mid-winter when Thelbar emerges from his studies, and announces that he is ready to take the group to Menzoberranzan.  There, they will settle their unfinished business with the Matron Mother Banare, and as Taran puts it, “Bring Nathè  to my side.”

“Whether she cares for it or no,” Khuumar says.

“Mind your tongue, drow,” Taran fumes.

Khuumar laughs, amused by Taran’s emotional reaction.  “You know, if you were smart you’d liberate you a nice, pliant human slave girl.  Like one of those the playthings kept by those Red Wizards you like so much.”  Khuumar smirks.  “Drow woman’s going to _bring you pain_.”

“Pfeh.  I don’t take advice from you on love.”

“You make sense only when you’re bleeding or something?  You’re in love with a _drow_, moron.  A woman like Nathè , you’d better put her in fear of her life first thing you do, else she’s going to _run you cruel_.”

“We don’t hurt the people we love here on the surface.  We only harm the people that harm us.”

“Same difference to a drow,” Khuumar shrugs.

“It’s not!” Taran says, warming to the argument.  “You love the people you trust, and you trust the people you love.” 

“Which makes you vulnerable to them.”

“Exactly.”  Satisfied, Taran leans back.

“You’re such a fool, Tar-Ilou,” Khuumar says.  “I knew you were stupid, but I’m surprised to see that you’re a sucker.  What you don’t know about drow women could kill a dozen men your size.”

-----

Thelbar _teleports_ the group to Waterdeep, just outside of the _dimensional anchor_ surrounding Khelbin Blackstaff’s  estate, and they trudge the long drive up to the main house.  Once there, they are greeted by the manor’s master, politely if not warmly, and led through a complex of rooms beneath the house.

“_Wizards and dungeons, wizards and dungeons._” Taran thinks to his brother.  “_They all pretty much have them don’t they?  What’s the deal with that?_”

“_Well, it’s counter-symmetrical,_” Thelbar replies sagely.

Khelbin proves true to his word, and provides the characters with the rune-carved stone tablets that indicate a visitor has passed through Menzoberranzan’s outlying checkpoints, as well as giving them a brief outline of what to expect.  He leads them to a _portal_ that he tells them will give out in the center of the city, very near the fane of Lolth.

“You can’t miss it,” he says wryly, as the characters step into the _portal_.

-----

And so they do not.  Menzoberranzan is truly spectacular, a massive city underground, rivaling Waterdeep itself for size and grandeur.  The city is built into a multi-tiered cavern complex, each individual tier large enough to hold the entirety of  Mistledale, and still have room for one of the ostentatious palaces favored by the drow nobles.  Massive stalactites and stalagmites are also worked, providing towers that reach hundreds of feet into the air.  The whole of the place is busy and bustling, lit by a pleasant glow from phosphorescent fungi, in the drow fashion.  The characteristic elven eye for beauty and elegance is present, made all the more strange by the inequity and evil it houses.  The temple to Lolth is the most impressive structure in the place—the compound stretches so far to either side of the main gates that the individual figures guarding its walls can no longer be seen.

Taran, Thelbar and Khuumar approach the temple gates boldly, and their obvious lack of subservience provokes an instant challenge from the multitude of guards there.  Crossbows and lances are leveled at the characters as they approach, and one guard steps haughtily forward, intent on teaching these outsiders a lesson.

“Be on your best behavior, Khuumar,” Taran says.

“_These guards are powerfully armed_,” Thelbar warns mentally.

“This is my culture, human,” Khuumar replies.  “And my people.  I know their ways better than you.”  Khuumar stands still, his hands crossed behind his back, and he fixes the approaching guard with a withering stare.  “I could take them,” he assures himself.

“What business do you have with our Queen of Spiders,” the guard demands with a threatening leer.  “Speak quickly, or suffer!”

“Well,” Taran drawls, as he stares flatly at the guard.  “We . . . have . . . come . . . to see . . . the Matron Mother.”

The guard narrows his eyes, perhaps taken aback at the audacity of the request, and the implied insult with which it was delivered.  If he expected cowering servitude, this will prove to be only the least surprise of what will turn out to be a long, trying day.  Taran displays the pendant of Lolth, given to the group the last time they met the temporal and spiritual leader of the drow capitol, and smiles.  

“So chop, chop,” he says.  “We’re already late.”

The group is taken into the Temple, and led to a central chamber, an audience hall of sorts, if one ever needs an audience with several hundred people.  The massive room is decorated with murals depicting the most depraved acts, and the looming presence of the Spider Queen is implied, rather than depicted directly within the artwork.  The effect is beguiling and unsettling in turns.

The group is left to wait, and long minutes pass without any sign of courtesy or even acknowledgement.  Finally, and without fanfare, the Matron Mother appears, looking to have aged in the time since the heroes saw her last.  She is flanked by a wiry male swordsman on her right, and Nathè on her left.

Her greeting is terse and to the point.  “You have failed.  I do not see a child in your midst.”

Thelbar smiles, a thin and cheerless expression, and replies, “We did not fail.  We killed Irae T’ssarion . . .”

“That petty rebellious trash?”  The Matron Mother says.  “I care little for the life of Irae T’ssarion, and even less for your role in ending it.  I sent you for the _child_, and you have not delivered on your promise.”

“Oh, as to that.  We did liberate Sharlequannan, but the child proved . . . _willful_.  If she has not seen fit to contact you,” he opens his hands, “what can I tell you?”

At this moment, a pair of drow, one male and one female, emerge from a side door to the rear of the party.  The male wears the robes of a wizard, and the female is dressed in the vestments of Lolth.  Her resemblance to the Matron Mother is uncanny.

“Ah, excellent,” the Matron Mother crows.  “Pay attention my children; you will see what happens to those that fail us.”

“Like you failed _your f-cking goddess_?” Taran growls at the Matron Mother.

The male fighter steps forward, an angry flush darkening his features.  “Show your respect!” he yells.

“What respect?” Taran replies, placing his hands on his sword hilts.

The drow smiles at Taran’s pugnacious stance, and opens his hands, palms up.   “Any time you’re ready,” he says, a deadly stare punctuating his smug grin.

The Matron Mother barks, “Stand your ground, Dantrak!”  And to Taran, she says, “You could not cross blades with him.  He is first sword.”

“Oh, yeah?  Well I’m the _last sword_,” Taran says, with a cold edge to his voice.  His eyes hold the drow’s stare.

The moment stretches, then the younger drow woman speaks.  “Mother, I have been thinking,” she purrs.  Her features bespeak a lifetime of cruelties, gleefully perpetrated, alongside a deep sense of confidence.  

“_She has access to 9th level spells,_” Thelbar thinks.  “_Both young ones  do. But the Matron Mother is without spells altogether._”

The young woman continues.  “You said our time would come when the child is delivered.  It is not these who have failed, it is _you_ who are weak.  _You_ have failed us.  _You_ have failed your people!”

In that instant, Nathè turns and whips two swords from their scabbards.  Before anyone can react, she attacks the Matron Mother, cutting her twice with _flaming_ and _frost_ weapons!  Dantrak whirls, shock and surprise clear on his face.

“Tenebrous favors us above all others!” the young priestess screams.  “There is a new god for the dark elves!”

“Nathè , don’t do this,” Taran says.  “We have a home for you now, with _me_!”

Dantrak is easily the fastest swordsman Taran has ever seen.  In an instant, he has drawn his own swords, leapt to the Matron Mother’s side, and cut Nathè  deeply.  “Treacherous bitch!” he growls.

Khuumar, as one who understands that betrayal is the common coin of all drow trade, is unsurprised by the turn of events, and takes advantage of the moment to close the distance to the Matron Mother—but once there, he does not attack the elderly drow, but rather sunders Nathè’s flaming sword with a single blow from his own two-handed blade!  

“I told you so, Taran, you dumb bastard!”  Khuumar yells.  “You should pay me to nursemaid you!”

A drow female appears from out of the shadows, directly behind Nathè  and Dantrak.  “Hello, mother,” she says, and runs the Matron through!  The ancient drow cleric is badly wounded, and raises her hands feebly in front of her.

Thelbar _hastes_ himself, and sends a _feeblemind_ streaking at the male wizard, but the drow’s innate resistance foils the spell.

Taran stands stunned, and sees Nathè  give a subtle drow sign, “Help me.”  He draws his own blade, and looks indecisively at the fight—on one side of the room, his lady love duels the best swordsman he’s ever laid eyes on, and on the other, a pair of drow that present the infinitely more dangerous threat.

Dantrak says, “We will spend a lifetime torturing you for your audacity!”  Exactly which of the treacherous drow he intended his threat for is not clear, however.  So many traitors, so little BAB.

Nathè  stabs her sworn protectorate for the second time, and flees from the melee toward Taran. But as she does so, Khuumar seizes the opening, and destroys her other sword.  “Bitch,” he says.

Nathè  runs to Taran’s side, her eyes wild and flaring.  She is flecked with warm blood and she smiles into his face.  In that moment, Taran has never seen a woman look so beautiful.

“I love you,” he whispers, and places Arunshee’s Kiss into her hands.   

“Isn’t it curious how events can turn so fast, mother?” the cleric asks, then points a single perfectly manicured finger at Thelbar.  The familiar sensation of an _implosion_ presses in on him, but Thelbar resists the spell.  And just at that moment, the wizard completes an invocation and everything seems to stand still.

Then the _time stop_ ends.

A massive array of spells fills the room with sudden effect.  The Matron Mother, Dantak, the hidden assassin and Khuumar are struck with a _horrid wilting_, a _maximized fireball_, and a _lightning bolt_ all at the exact same instant.  Taran, Thebar and Nathè  are blasted by a _cone of cold_, and separated from the mage by a _wall of force_.  The mage himself is instantly cloaked by a _shield_ spell, _stoneskin_ and a _globe of invulnerability_.

Nathè dies immediately, falling against Taran’s side as she collapses.

“I have waited hundreds of years to do this!” the mage screams.  “Satisfaction, at last you are mine!”

Dantrak is withered, scorched and blasted and dies within the whirlwind of spell effects, unable to resist the withering rain of magic. Khuumar is badly hurt, and falls to his knees, only his pride keeping the pain from his lips.  From the ground, he lashes out at the rogue, crushing her ribcage, and finishing what the mage failed to do.

But the wizard is not finished yet, and he says to the Matron Mother, “_Die_.”  His _power word_ snuffs her life from her form, and she falls across the corpse of her would-be assassin.

“_Uh, I’m killing him first I guess_,” Taran thinks to Thelbar.  “_Give me the word_.”

Thelbar _disintegrates_ the _wall of force_, and thinks, “_Go_.”

Leaping forward, Taran charges the mage, but despite the wizard’s confident disregard of the fighter, Taran proves that not everything that can’t be cut can’t be killed.  He drops his _sun blade_ at the last instant, and tackles the mage, taking him to the ground, and locking his arms in what he hopes will be the first of several brutally painful submissions.

“Hold him down,” Khuumar yells, “I’m coming!” And he begins to move across the room.

Thelbar speaks a _power word_ of his own, and the cleric is _stunned_—she reels backward, disoriented and unable to focus.  At that moment, the chamber’s main doors fly open, and a pair of drow guards standing outside the room take in the scene.

“Murder!” one yells, obviously making his bid for Understatement of the Year.  The other sounds the alarm, proving that drowish pragmatism is still kicking, even if drowish chivalry has long since rotted away.

Taran begins to work on the mage’s neck, cranking it painfully and choking the air from the drow.  Khuumar rushes to his side, and readies his sword for a killing blow.

Thelbar approaches the guards, and says “Hold!  I have great news!”  He then casts _charm monster_ and _dominate monster_.  Both spells take effect.  The _dominated_ drow moves to the cleric, and carefully places his polearm over her heart before punching it through.  To the _charmed_ guard, Thelbar says, “Keep your fellows from entering this room.  If you can hold them for a few moments, you will be First Sword in the new order!”

Thus assured that all this murder and betrayal will work out in his favor, the guard gratefully turns to his new task, closing the doors behind him.

Khuumar runs the mage through, nearly piercing Taran in the process.  “We’d better get scarce,” he says, “before that guard goes down.”  Helping Taran to his feet, he says, “Tough break about your little camp-follower.  Better luck next time, hey?”

Taran scrambles to his feet, shoving past Khuumar and his gloating smirk.  He begins grimly placing the bodies of the fallen into the _portable hole_.  As he does so, Thelbar crosses the room, touching each of the companions in turn; by the time the temple guards kick aside the bolt-ridden body of their former comrade and throw open the door, there is nothing visible within the room but blood-smears and  broken weapons.

Unseen, the trio of adventurers _flies invisibly_ out of the temple into the city, and in a matter of moments, _teleports_ home.


----------



## Joshua Randall

*Re: 66- "I've got friends in low places . . ."*



> [...] just at that moment, the wizard completes an invocation and everything seems to stand still.
> 
> Then the _time stop_ ends.
> 
> A massive array of spells fills the room with sudden effect. [...]
> 
> “I have waited hundreds of years to do this!” the mage screams.  “Satisfaction, at last you are mine!”




Heh. The first time I read this, I thought the wizard was elated about getting to cast _time stop_, not about blasting the Matron Mother. 

"I've played this character for two-and-a-half year, and now that I'm 18th level, I'm sure as hell casting Time Stop the first chance I get!"


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## incognito

you know, it's amazing to me that elves have this ultra-long lifespan - becasue they certainly kill each other with a zeal that borders on human.

I'm waiting for Taran to have Nathè raised - you know it's coming.

Also: _Time Stop_ is such a dangerous spell, especially when you use it in conjuntion with 'save or die' spells.

So too the _power words_ - no save, only verbal components.  Drow MAges could've walked around in Full Plate and unleashed that Mojo.

I'm impressed to see Khuumar sundering weapons - it's a great tactic (esp with power attack), if you can break out of the mindset that you are destroying your spoils of war.

Questions:  
The 'first sword' guy - he can;t really be all that better than Taran, right?  Maybe he has 1-3 BAB on him, but there's only so many levels you can have.  Was there anything that made him so fearsome?

If Khuumar's player (that's you, (contact), right?), getting a kick out of the role reversal -> Kyreel?

I am a little unsure of the 'sides' in the Final battle.  Was it:

Side A) Matron Mother, The First, the two 'charmed' guards, Thel, and Khuumar

Side B) Nathè, the Wizard who _time stopped_, the Cleric who didn't do a dammed thing, and the assasin in the shadows, who ran the matron mother through (but did not kill her).

Side C) Taran, who helped Nathe, and killed the wizard.


----------



## (contact)

*Re: Re: 66- "I've got friends in low places . . ."*



			
				That Guy in Disguise said:
			
		

> *Questions:
> The 'first sword' guy - he can;t really be all that better than Taran, right? Maybe he has 1-3 BAB on him, but there's only so many levels you can have. Was there anything that made him so fearsome?*




An assload of feats?  Taran is about 3 BAB points off a standard fighter, and I'm guessing that the First Sword was higher level than Taran as well.  My DM said, "you've never seen a faster or better fighter than this guy".  Had he made some saves, we might have had an opportunity to find out just how buh-dass he really was.

I don't think Taran could have stood up to him in a one-on-one fight buck-naked and armed with rocks and sticks, but Arunshee's Kiss is a freaking _nasty_ weapon, and once he's buffed up, I'd take Taran over any fighter of his level, easy.



> *If Khuumar's player (that's you, (contact), right?), getting a kick out of the role reversal -> Kyreel?*




Absolutely.  Khuumar is a bastard of the first order.  He's making Taran look like a soft-hearted sweetie.  He is evil, to be sure, and swinging the party's moral disposition strongly to the South.  They've found the evil guys more hospitable than the good guys so far in the realms.



> *I am a little unsure of the 'sides' in the Final battle. *




Side A) Matron Mother, First Sword.

Side B) Nathe

Side C) The Cleric, Wizard and Assassin

Side D) Khuumar

Side E) Taran and Nathe

Side F) Taran and Thelbar


----------



## incognito

yet another story hour that should never leave the front page


----------



## dpdx

Side G) Harpers, Khelban and Elminster?


----------



## Ruined

Great interaction with Khelban, (contact).  I'm in the midst of reading the story from the beginning, and it is excellent. I'm on ch. 33 now, whittling it away.


----------



## (contact)

*67-Swimming Upstream*


Taran punches Khuumar square in the mouth, his knuckles scraping across the interior face-guard of Khuumar's helm, ripping a gash in his hand.  Khuumar stumbles back, a confused expression on his face.

"That's for Nathè , and _you're on notice_," Taran says, pointing his bloody finger at the drow.  "Next time, you better learn who the real enemy is, or it won't be just my hand you get."

"It's a wonder your mother didn't just eat you when you were born, Tar-Ilou," Khuumar says with a sneer.  "You're so . . . _simple_."

"I thought you were going to say 'whipped'," Taran says.

"That, too," Khuumar admits.  "You know, you're right about Nathè , I think."  Khuumar affects his best pious expression.  "If I could do it over . . . I'd just kill her and sell the swords."

Taran jumps on Khuumar, and the two go to the ground before Thelbar strikes Taran across the back with his staff.  "Stop it.  Both of you," he demands.  "Now clean up, relax and be back here by sundown-- our business is not finished."

Of course, Taran and Khuumar's business is not finished either.  A few minutes after they leave Thelbar, with Juron, Glim and about thirty silent drow in attendance, Taran and Khuumar are stripped to the waist, fist-fighting in the forest snow.

The match is surprisingly even, and despite Khuumar's unfamiliarity with beating people who aren't bound hand and foot, he holds his own.  Taran's rugged and concise boxing style is counter-pointed by Khuumar's long, loping swings.  The drow takes the worst of the fighting at first, but soon, one of his haymaker punches connects-- Taran's legs wobble slightly and he is forced onto the defensive.

Juron and Glim cheer.  The drow watch quietly.

Khuumar cannot take advantage of his opening, and a few seconds later, Taran is back on the press, using head-butts and finger-gouges to great effect.  He staggers Khuumar with a severe whip-like body shot, and before you can say "my henchmen just lost 40 gold pieces", Khuumar is on the ground.  Taran keeps pummeling the drow even as he falls backwards, battering him into unconsciousness.

Once Khuumar is down, Taran stands over him, and slaps him lightly until he wakes up.  "Hey, Khuumar," Taran says.  "Hey, wake up."  Once Khuumar sits up, and he can follow Taran's finger with his eyes, Taran says, "You're a bastard, and that's what you get for talking bad about Nathè."

"She's no damn good," Khuumar says through a mouth-full of cuts, just now beginning to swell.  "None of them are, Taran.  I'm doing you _a favor_, you simpleton."

"You suck, Khuumar!" Juron yells.

"Yeah!" Glim agrees.  "Nice dive, you bum."

-----

When they arrive back at the party's temporary quarters, Thelbar has laid the bodies of the fallen drow out on a large stone tablet.  Stone grooves cut into the rock drain away the last of the blood from the now-cold corpses.  The bodies have been stripped of magic and treasure, all relevant items set neatly aside.

Thelbar glances at the two mangled fighters as they enter.  "Who won?" he asks.

"Who d'yhou thonk whun?" Taran asks indignantly, through the working side of his mouth.

"You look like a Calvary charge ran you over." Thelbar says.

"Yeh, bhut thook at him!" Taran says, pointing to Khuumar.  

Thelbar _cures_ both combatants, muttering to himself all the while.  The adventurers review the looted magic items, their most likely function, and determine if any of the three of them are interested.  It is a rich haul indeed.  _Bracers of blinding strike_ are the most valuable single item, but surprisingly, they go unclaimed.  "I bet Gorquen would love those," Thelbar says.  "We should take pains to share this treasure with those of our faith.  After all, it will do the Goddess no good in the coffers of Thay."

Taran nods and looking over the loot says, "You know something, killing guys is like getting a free birthday.  This is my present from my sword, and I'll pretend this one is from Khuumar, to say 'thanks' for kicking his ass."

"F-ck you, Tar-Ilou," Khuumar says.

Suddenly, the two arguing men are silenced by a rare stillness that seems to radiate out from a point, and fix all three adventures with a profound calm.  The moment stretches into an eternity, and is gone as quickly as it came.  Kyreel stands before the bodies of the fallen drow, ignoring the trio of adventurers behind her.  All three heroes lower their eyes, without thinking.  The goddess still wears Kyreel's adventuring robe, stained at the hem with the blood of those who opposed her rebirth.

"_My most faithful_," Arunshee says.  "_So dark, so sad._"  After a moment, she gestures to Matron Banare's  blasted corpse.  "_Look upon your goddess, your mother._"  The Matron Mother sits up suddenly, as if waking from a frightful dream-- her most mortal damage is healed, but her other wounds are not.  Blood begins to rush anew from her cuts and seep through her burned and blackened skin.  She winces for a moment, then looks her goddess in the eye.  The Matron Mother falls to her hands and knees before Arunshee with an expression of abject terror on her face.

"Great Goddess forgive my failings," she sobs.  "I have never known you."

Arunshee turns away from the old drow woman.  "_You must find the forgiveness yourself Heshalth, for I do not absolve sin.  Spend the rest of your long life thinking about your evil.  Only when you are at peace with yourself may you be at peace with me.  Until that time I forbid you from using either spell or weapon upon pain of eternal suffering and damnation.  May you have every opportunity to succeed; if you are diligent, perhaps  I shall someday give you the _pasoun_.  If you fail, woe to your immortal soul._"

Arunshee turns to the three adventurers.  "_Know this, and tell it to all.  Any who raise a hand against my daughter Heshalth raise a hand against me.  Fear her as you would fear me, and spare her nothing that may help her become well._"

Taran steps forward, and touches Nathè's corpse.  "Aunt," he pleads.  "I love her."

Arunshee regards him with a knowing smile.  "_You would dash a seedling against a rock, Tar-Ilou, but I would deny you nothing this day.  So be it._"  And with that, Nathè  opens her eyes, well and strong and full of womanly vigor.

"_Does Tenebrous believe he can stand against us?_"  Arunshee gestures, and the remains of the four dead drow vaporize into a fine, slightly acidic mist.

"Aunt, can I ask you something?" Taran says.

"_You make a false distinction._"

"What?  I mean, I do?  I was going to ask you about attacking the adventurers who sacked our house.  Would it be right?  They are good, not evil."

"_What is good or evil?  In the pasoun, such divisions are moot.  There are those who are of us, and those who struggle against us._"

"Yeah," Taran says.  "Oh, yeah."  He smiles widely.  Arunshee touches his cheek, and heals the lingering marks from his recent fighting.  

"_My eyes will be upon you at all times,_" she says.  At that moment, a statue of Arunshee appears directly next to the artifact of Palatin Eremath.  "_And this shall be my home.  Attend me, now.  *A thousand mortal deaths are preferable to my disappointment.*_"  And with that, she disappears.  

The former Matron Mother begins to cry.

"She's do different," Khuumar says softly.  "And yet, the same."

"And she likes me better than you," Taran whispers directly into Khuumar's ear.  "So watch your ass and don't ever give me another reason, or next time I'll send you back to the last goddess you sold out."  

Taran scoops Nathè  into his arms, and twirls her around the room.  "I brought you back, baby!" he chirps.  "Let's dance!"


----------



## blargney

Taran rules.  He sounds like the kind of character that would be an absolute BLAST to play!  

-blarg-ilou


----------



## incognito

> Taran scoops Nathè into his arms,...




"Whoa! Nathè, is that a dagger in your bodice or are you just glad to sneak attack me?"


Also, I like Khuumar more, and more.  Takes a Taran beating, and is still "That chick is no good, dude."  What kinds of balls-y statement is it to say "If I could do it over . . . I'd just kill her and sell the swords."    Sweeeeet.

On the other hand, more anti-Palatin momentum: 



> "What is good or evil? In the pasoun, such divisions are moot. There are those who are of us, and those who struggle against us."
> 
> [snip]
> 
> "My eyes will be upon you at all times," she says. At that moment, *a statue of Arunshee* appears directly next to the artifact of Palatin Eremath. "And this shall be my home. Attend me, now. A thousand mortal deaths are preferable to my disappointment." And with that, she disappears.




emphasis mine - but WTF is up with Arunshee usurping P-E's highest leveled champions.  Is the name of this story hour Champions of the Risen Goddess, or Champions of the...oh wait...there are a lot of geddesses rising lately...


----------



## (contact)

Blarg-Ilou!?  lol  



> "Whoa! Nathè, is that a dagger in your bodice or are you just glad to sneak attack me?"




  It's a dagger.



> Also, I like Khuumar more, and more. Takes a Taran beating, and is still "That chick is no good, dude." What kinds of balls-y statement is it to say "If I could do it over . . . I'd just kill her and sell the swords."  Sweeeeet.




Khuumar's fun.  Khuumar vs. Nathe is something to see.



> but WTF is up with Arunshee usurping P-E's highest leveled champions. Is the name of this story hour Champions of the Risen Goddess, or Champions of the...oh wait...there are a lot of geddesses rising lately...




It kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it?  Champions of the Risen Goddess -- that's what it says on the door . . .


----------



## (contact)

*Chapter 68*

*68—Passing a long winter, in the heart of cold.*


The day after Arunshee’s appearance, the magic items taken from the drow wizard disappear.  Thelbar had set them aside for special study, but sometime in span of a few hours, they vanished into thin air.  Or back into the arms of their master.

“Surely he had a _clone_,” Thelbar postulates.  “No doubt he has set himself up as the new lord of Menzoberranzan.”  The Matron Banare, now known to the world as Heshalth, refuses to comment on the matter.  She slips into a deep depression, and while her wounds are slowly and painfully healed using mundane means (as magic is forbidden to her), she goes silent, and accepts no visitors.

Several weeks pass uneventfully, then a messenger brings a pair of replies to the letter.  Elgin Trezler writes simply that he wishes to speak of the matter in person, come the Spring.  Jumdash Dir is more direct.  He writes (sic):

The only reperation you will have from me is at the tip of my blade.  Repent or be destroied.
“Fair enough,” Taran says.  He and Khuumar begin planning an attack on the Abbey of Swords, and train a hand-picked drow strike-force for the assault.

Ilwe summons Thelbar into a meeting, and shares some disturbing news.  Shelveras, the drow deity known as “The Black Bow” has joined the fight against the Eremathan pantheon.  Shelveras is a young god by elven standards, newly made for his dedication and zeal against the drow.  He is an archer god, like Solonor Thelandira, but he is no god of the woodland.  The Black Bow hunts in the Underdark, and his followers swear undying enmity and genocidal warfare against all dark elves.  As a true elven supremacist, it surprises no one that he would see Arunshee’s return and the drow reclamation of the Far Forest as the blackest artifice and an affront to all elvenkind.

Nathè gets along miserably with the rest of the group, provoking some ugly scenes with Khuumar and Gorquen in particular.  She comments one day on Gorquen’s armor—the suit Gorquen took after defeating the Matron Mother’s Sword when the Mother attempted to steal away the infant Arunshee.  Ironically, it was Gorquen’s defeat of the First Sword that earned Nathè her promotion, but if the drow woman knows any gratitude, she keeps it hidden away deep within her heart, guarded by taunts and barbs.

“I’d love to smite her,” Gorquen mutters after one such encounter.

“Get in line behind me,” Khuumar says.

Taran and Nathè set themselves up with accommodations far from the others where their loud lovemaking and even louder arguments will disturb no one.  Taran’s mood gradually blackens, and he begins to long for Spring.

As a counterpoint, Gorquen and Ilwe’s relationship blossoms into a true romance, warming the hearts of their companions and even softening Gorquen’s temper to a degree.  They truly seem to enjoy one another, and spend long hours planning their next adventures, come first thaw.

And, like it must, first thaw eventually arrives.  But with it comes further disturbing portents.  A huge dwarven army takes to the march, abandoning their halls in the Silver Marches, and heading South at a prodigious pace.  Taran leads a delegation out to assess their intent, and is told that they march on Cormyr, to seize a site there proscribed by their father-god Moradin, and prevent all entry, come armies or the legions of Hell.  Their priests tell them that Moradin himself has ordered this thing, and they can follow no other course but obedience.

This bodes poorly for the Silver Marches, as dwarven strength was a key component holding back the orcish forces in the region.  Without their dwarven allies, things look grim for the human and elven settlements just North of the high forest.

Thelbar broods over this news, and states that this dwarven abandonment will signal the collapse of the Silver Marches.  The area is governed by a loose confederacy of humans and elves in the towns of Silverymoon, Everlund, Sundabar and Nesme.  King Obuld Many-Arrows and his orcish hordes are bolstered by giants and are certainly bent on conquest.  Without the buffer of the Silver Marches the far forest is assured of having its enemies both within, and without.

----

The date set out by the letter fast approaches, and Taran and Thelbar determine to hear out Elgin Trezler and determine his intentions before moving against Jumdash Dir and Enae Enhallo.  Taran proposes this strategy:

“What if we go one step further, and actually give aid to Enae in defending Cormyr?  Certainly the dwarves from the East who have allied themselves with Sembia are after the same thing the Northern Dwarves are.  If their assault can be blunted, and turned back, even Moradin won’t need a whole army to protect the place, and some of those dwarves can come back to fight for their home.  We can undercut both troubles at once, forestall an orcish takeover, and make an ally of Elgin Trezler in the process.  With Elgin in our debt, what ground will those other bastards have to stand upon?  We will have proven our good intent, and as everybody knows, it’s damn hard to assassinate the character of bonafide war heroes.  

“And why couldn’t we stop this war?  Hell, if we’ve learned anything the last few months it’s that you can really wreck anybody's carefully crafted plan if you just start at the bottom, and kill your way up.”

Thelbar applauds this idea, and they determine to travel to Cormyr immediately. “Without Khuumar and Nathè,” he adds.

Taran says, “Good idea.  Gods know what kind of trouble they’d get us in to, and an adventure without any damn drow in it would be like taking a vacation.”

Thelbar mentions  the young woman Lilline, the widow Taran gifted his treasure to after being touched by the diary discovered on her husband’s corpse in Undermountain.  She lives in Arabel, just a short overland trek from Suzail and Elgin Trezler.  He _scrys_ her, and spies her discussing fabrics with her eldest son in a quaint store-front.

They _teleport_ to the site, careful to remain _invisible_ until they can exit the building.  Then, the _invisibility_ is dispelled, and they walk into the shop, which they now see belongs to a rug merchant.  Lilline is in fact the merchant in question, and after an astonished greeting, she explains that she has parleyed the gold Taran gifted her with into a prosperous business.

Taran introduces his brother, and Thelbar compliments her on her business acumen.

She seems somewhat suspicious of the brothers' new otherworldly appearance, as the favor of Arunshee radiates off of them, giving them a celestial quality, and marking them as something slightly other than fully human.

Taran speaks with her young son, and encourages him to pursue his dreams of becoming a great knight some day.  “You could be a Purple Dragon,” Taran says.  “But you have to remember—what is the most important trait of any knight?”

“His strong sword-arm!” the boy squeals.

“No, guess again,” Taran says.

“His . . . mount?”

“No, child.  A true knight must always have his integrity.  If he is honest, fulfills his promises, and strives to protect others, the gods will bless him with a strength that cannot rust, and will never be lost.  Do you understand?”

The boy assures Taran that he does, and Taran gives him another sack of gold.  “Give this to your mother once we have gone, with our blessings.  And always remember, your father fought for the good at all times.  He never ever did anything wicked, and he was obedient to his parents.  You must strive to do the same.”

As they leave the shop, Thelbar cynically comments that it will be a miracle if the boy doesn’t rush out and spend the gold on masterwork adventuring equipment before the sun is even down.

“Well hell,” Taran objects.  “Don’t you wish someone had given _us_ three thousand gold pieces to gear up with when we were starting out?   Remember my crappy sword, and that creaky leather armor I used to tear around in?”

“That was armor?” Thelbar says.  “I thought you were just naturally filthy.”

“Cheap shot, brother.  I remember the spell book that you had to rescue from the camp-fire and how you kept the cover on with spit and a prayer.  A little gold is a good thing for a boy.  At least he won’t get killed because he can’t afford to cover his head.”


----------



## blargney

Naturally filthy.  This story rocks
-blarg


----------



## Joshua Randall

Wow, this story gets better and better. I'm starting to need a list of _dramatis personae_ just to keep up with it. Which is a good thing! I like complex stories with lots of characters.

The conversation between Thelbar and Taran about their crappy first-level equipment was, well, *priceless*. Heh heh.


----------



## (contact)

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> *Wow, this story gets better and better. I'm starting to need a list of dramatis personae just to keep up with it. *



*

Your wish is my command:

A Glossary of the People and Places of the Risen Goddess.*


----------



## Piratecat

Hooray!


----------



## Dakkareth

I'm only on page two at the moment, but I can already say, that this story hour is fantastic. Especially this Pasoun thing linking the present to the past (campaigns) brings an epic feel to it.



> “It matters little,” Thelbar whispers




That line a really cool feeling to it. It really shows, how Thelbar has outgrown the humble beginnings (again) and now wields enough power to even in a defeat know, that he cannot be stopped. I especially liked, how it could as well have been attributed to a villain ... 

-Dakkareth


----------



## Dakkareth

> “Okay, it’s like this,” Taran begins pacing the room, his feet subconsciously following the seven-stepping fighting pattern made famous by the former Royal Blademaster of Nyrond (may his body someday be found).




That was really cool ... shows his nature as fighter and with raised intelligence he's become even cooler than before ...


----------



## Dakkareth

So I finished reading this story hour so far ... 

<Insert mighty praise here>

(I'm not good with words in such situations)

-Dakkareth


----------



## (contact)

Dakkareth said:
			
		

> *(I'm not good with words in such situations)*




But half of your total posts are in this thread, so that tells us something.    Thanks for the kind words!

Welcome aboard, and remember "Take it one level at a time, kill everything and move on!"

The co-DM/player for this game also ran a _classic_ that was chronicled on this board as well: The ToEE2 campaign.


----------



## (contact)

*69—Friends in high places.*


The temple of Lathander in Suzail embodies and exaggerates both the best and worst of Lathander’s faith.  It is a place of healing, and light—a temple to the needs and hopes of the common folk.  Within its embrace, the faithful renew their good hearts, or seek warm refuge from times of trouble.  When viewed within Lathander’s light, each day is a new beginning, and all great things that are to _become_ must first find expression as a dream.  But as with all dreams, some things might have been better left undone and forgotten.

The faith of Lathander is often criticized for overblown ostentation, and this temple, as befits the home of the church, is grand beyond all necessity.  The overall effect is that the sheer reach of the place minimizes its impact.  A lone voice can be raised in beautiful song, but a thousand voices striving to outdo one another become merely a din, to be disregarded and cast from the ear.  The temple is gilded with precious metals, and festooned from every corner with bright-colored decorative artwork, each piece striving to praise Lathander with a louder voice than the devotional next to it.

Taran squints at the temple, rubbing his eyes and frowning.  “Cormyr needs a war chest?  They should just sell this temple for parts.”

Thelbar seems amused by the cacophony of wealth, and replies, “who would buy it?  The Sembians?”  He boldly strides toward the vestibule opening.  He is met there by a pleasant guardsman, who politely inquires how Lathander’s chosen might be of service.

Thelbar states simply that he is here to meet with Elgin Trezler, and presents the Voice of the Dawn’s most recent correspondence as proof.  

“Yeah, we’re pen pals of his, from the North,” Taran says.

The guard covers his surprise well, and runs off to carry the message.  Forty-five minutes later he returns, and explains that Elgin Trezler is in a meeting.

“Tell him take his time,” Taran says.  “We’re patient.”  The gate-guard ushers the duo into a massive chamber, hung floor to ceiling with paintings and tapestries, and bids them wait while he fetches refreshments.  Several minutes pass before the guardsman returns, short of breath, and apologizing for the long walk to the temple’s kitchens.  Taran stares dejectedly into his empty cup as another hour passes while they wait for Elgin Trezler  to arrive and answer for his action against the Champions of the Risen Goddess.

“I liked the Thayvians better,” Taran says.  “They’re evil expansionist scum, but at least the chairs were comfortable.”

-----

If Taran is hoping for a belligerent and aggressive enemy, he hides his surprise well.  Elgin Trezler is seen to be a smallish man, dark of complexion, with large, full eyes bespeaking a lifetime of struggle and compassion in the face of wretched misery.  Despite himself, Taran likes the man right away, and clasps his hand in a warm embrace, noting with pleasure the thick calluses on the palms of the priest.

“Gentlemen, you do me a great honor coming here,” Elgin begins, “and it is my devout hope that we may come to terms this day.  Too much trouble has gone between us, far too much, and for nothing.”

“You have considered our offer?” Thelbar asks.

“I have, and while I must say it is fair, I regret to inform you that I cannot hope to make monetary reparations at this time.  Cormyr is at war, and my personal finances have been given to the cause.  The wealth of the church is not mine to give, despite my lofty title.  I am a provincial priest in many ways, and my true role is on the front lines in the struggle against despair.  Lathander favors me well, but I have little say within the ranks of His bureaucrats, I’m afraid.”

“Aw, hell, Elgin,” Taran says, blushing at the priests’ forthright humility.  “We padded those numbers anyway.  We don’t need your money, we’re stinking rich.  We were just pickin’ a fight is all.”

“I hope that I may mend the harm with a sincere apology, good sirs,” Elgin says.  “I was wrong about you, and I was very wrong about your goddess.  You have been misrepresented in high councils, and I am partly to blame.”  Elgin removes a small, dented flask from his breast-pocket, and offers the brothers a drink.

“Your _pasoun_ troubles many faiths.  In essence, it holds that the gods enslave the souls of their faithful.”

Thelbar nods.  “It is true that all meaningful choice for an individual dies with their body, yes.  Ishlok—Palatin Eremath offers souls the right to choose for an eternity.  Those who grow to enlightenment are ultimately freed from all bondage, temporal and spiritual.”

“You call the gods thieves and vampires,” Elgin says.

“Are they not?” Thelbar counters.  

“You speak of the death of the gods,” Elgin says.  “This is incendiary talk.”

“The _pasoun_ could be termed a death, but it is really a completion of life.  The mulitverse is a womb, a shell that is to be revered but left aside when no longer necessary.  The gods have established an entropic pregnancy where the womb feeds upon itself. Palatin Eremath teaches us that this condition is temporary.”

Elgin Trezler smiles, and continues.  “We were all wrong about you, and I understand that now.  I have divined the truth about your relationship with that fiend, and I am stunned.  I have dealt with many fiends in Myth Drannor, and I have yet to see any of them reclaimed.  I embrace you and your faith, in the name of Lathander.”  

“We are truly pleased to hear this, Elgin,” Thelbar says, “and for our own part we have come to help rather than oppose you.”

“Yeah, we like you now,” Taran says.  “We’re here to stop the war for ya.”

“You are . . . what?” Elgin stammers.

“Easy,” Taran says.  “We’ve got it figured.  You know about the Northern dwarves marching on you?”

“I do.”

“Do you know why?”

Elgin sighs.  “I do.  The dwarven home to the North.  The Eastern dwarves allied with Sembia seek the same goal.”

“Then we get there first.  We deal with whatever has those damn hairy runts’ beards in a twist, send the Northern dwarves home, and kill Eastern dwarves until they change their mind.  Sembia will have to fold up their tents and go back to rubbing their own copper.”

“I am not sure I understand,” Elgin says diplomatically.

“My brother favors a simple approach,” Thelbar says.  “We believe that there is something in that Delve that both dwarven armies intend to fight over.  We would remove this thing, and restore peace among them.  Without her dwarven allies, Sembia could be forced to accept a diplomatic solution.”

Elgin frowns, then nods.  “You are confident.  This Great Delve is more properly called Kor’En Eamor—the title means ‘First Home’, or literally ‘Seat of all Dwarvenkind’.  The Steel Regent has declared that it is the property of Cormyr.  She intends to use the wealth of the forgotten place to fund her war effort.  She believes that a vast trove of magical arms and armament can be found there.”

“Go on,” Thelbar says.  “What keeps the Regent from her plunder?”

“The place is . . . cursed.  By Moradin’s hand, we believe, although we do not fully understand.  I have _communed_ some truth of it; there is a divine entity that resides within the Delve.  It is malign and hostile.”

“Great,” Taran says with no trace of irony.

“You should know that the dwarven armies do not seek the same thing regarding Kor’En Eamor.  The Easterners seek to colonize it, while the Northerners seek to prevent such a happening.  These Northerners are led by a great priest of Moradin, and have vowed to destroy Cormyr if she stands in their way.  The Steel Regent has refused them passage, and this Spring we face war on two fronts.”

“Okay,” Taran says.  “There’s diplomacy for you.  If you want to get anything done in this world, you usually have to subvert the damn rulers.”

Elgin continues.  “The past Autumn went poorly for us—a combined force of Eastron dwarves and Sembian mercenaries made their way through Thunder Gap, despite our Cormyrian generals’ assurance that the feat was impossible for such a large army.  Their commander, more giant than dwarf if tales be true, stole a march on us and we were caught in a pincer.  Sembia annexed and subsumed the Southern Dales, even having the temerity to move their national capitol to the front!  Thankfully, Wheloon held and we beat them back.  Archendale is still free and fighting, but they cannot be re-supplied.  

“For the Spring offensive we’ve massed ourselves along the Wyvernwater and sent adventurers to reinforce the resistance fighters in the Hullack Forest, but I don’t expect the Northern front to hold against the Sembians, nonetheless both enemy armies.  If these Northern dwarves wish to march on us in truth, they would get as far South as Arabel before we could show them any fight.”

Taran nods his head and makes eye contact with his brother.  “With our help, you won’t have to.  I don’t see them trying to occupy any of your country save for the northern mountains,”

“The Storm Horns,” Thelbar says.  “They will be forced to raid South for supplies in any case, so it makes little difference whether they mean to occupy Arabel.”

Elgin continues, “Just before our enemy made Thunder Gap, the priests of Moradin within the ranks of the Eastern dwarves were killed _en masse_, and the dwarves have blamed Cormyr.  Of course, we did no such thing.  We believe that they are deceived, but do not know by whom.  The gods are mostly silent on the matter.”

“And this Great Delve?” Thelbar asks.

Elgin shrugs.  “Most of our information comes from a group of chartered adventurers we have sent into Kor’En Eamor.”

“Can we contact them?” 

“Possibly.  They have suffered appalling casualties.  We believe they have abandoned the mission.  Of the two survivors we are aware of, one has returned to her ancestral lands to prepare for war.  The other is a drow, and quite temperamental.”

“Yeah, they all are,” Taran mutters. 

“Perhaps we might succeed where these others have failed,” Thelbar says.

“I believe you can, Tar-Ilou,” Elgin replies.  “I do.  But there is a man you must speak with first.  He is the head of our faith, and a living saint.  He has broken his silence to request an audience with you.  Please, be our guests for the night, and at dawn, you can meet with the Light of the Morning.

“Hey, Elgin,” Taran says.  “Is it true you cut your teeth in Myth Drannor?”

“It is,” Elgin says with a quizzical smile.  “Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m _terrified_ of Myth Drannor—and there isn’t much in this world that scares me anymore.  I mean like squealing little-girl scared, Elgin.  Myth Darnnor . . .”  Taran shudders.  “You know what, I think you’re coming with us.  We’ll go to this Delve, and sort the mess out.  That dungeon can be whipped.  You just sent the wrong guys last time.”


----------



## zoroaster100

*Cool!*

Few things are as satisfying as turning enemies in to allies.  And is it just me or don't the names for priests of Lathandar always come out sounding nice.  A saint called Light of the Morning....nice.


----------



## (contact)

*70—Dawn.*


The brothers sleep deeply, and dream of sunrise, childbirth and laughter.  All too early, the dawn breaks, and with the first light, the temple to Lathander becomes fully active.

“Hey Thel,” Taran mumbles as he turns over.  “We were at home, but old, and Nathè was smiling at me.”

“That was only a dream, brother.  Go back to sleep.”  Thelbar dresses, and leaves his room, finding an attendant priest waiting to take him to his morning audience.

“This is quite an honor, revered sir,” the priest tells him as they bustle through the temple’s halls, a host of servants, priests and worshippers making way for the duo.  “The Light of the Morning does not receive outsiders.  Lathander occupies his full attention.”

Thelbar is led to Elgin, who takes him to a chamber at the top of a tower.  Inside the room, a small, withered man is tending a box of flowers, lovingly stroking their petals, and sprinkling water among their roots.

Elgin bows deeply.  “Light of the Morning, I have brought Thelbar Tar-Ilou, as you requested.”  He leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

The small man turns to Thelbar, and smiles kindly.  He is plane-touched, the light of dawn suffuses his being.  Despite his size, he seems to fill the room; gazing at his face, Thelbar has the sensation that nothing else of any substance is present.  It is a pleasant sensation, warm and secure.

“Elgin has told me much of what you have discussed,” the old man beigns, “and the Morning Lord has enlightened me as well.  Be at peace, and share your friendship.  You are among allies now.”

Thelbar smiles, but does not reply.

“This is a new dawn for Faerun.  As with all beginnings there much uncertainty.  I see great storms, terrible storms.”  The frail priest smiles as he caresses the leaves of a bright yellow Glorysun.  “But where would be without those storms?  Look at my flowers; they need rain and they need the winter.  I believe we have nothing to fear—Lathander has assured me of this.  Of course, there are many others who do not share my outlook.”

The Light of the Morning regards Thelbar then, looking into his eyes.  “You please the Morninglord, as does your goddess.  As you serve Ishlok, so do you serve Lathander.”

Thelbar opens and closes his mouth.

“Does that surprise you?  Good.  I love a surprise, myself.  Tomorrow, I will make a great announcement, and you are to be the very first to hear it:  Lathander has joined the _pasoun_.  The faithful of Lathander will be given a new doctrine.  We embrace this great freedom, and the blessings of the Morninglord will follow you throughout your many lives.”

Thelbar pauses for a moment.  “There is talk of a Godswar.  Do you believe this will come to pass?”

“The misguided will see hate, young soul.  They mistake a gift for an insult, and no wisdom of mine will turn them from their course.  The old friendships will wash away, and the unfaithful will turn from the morning light.  Borders will be reshaped, and kingdoms will fall.  Until now, we have been blessed to have some cooperation between the good faiths.  The gods have agreed to this . . .”

“Because they are enslaved to us, as we are to them,” Thelbar interrupts.

“Lathander is neither slave nor master.  The souls of his faithful have been cast into the _pasoun_, and may choose him or not, as they see fit.”

“And how has your god fared?”

The Light of the Morning smiles.  “The sun rose today, did it not?  The sun shines just as brightly behind a tempest, even if we cannot always see it.”

Thelbar returns the old man’s smile.  “I have a gift for you, my new friend.  This is a book of Ishlokian prayer.  I have kept it with me since I came into this life.  I hope you find it as precious as I have found it instructional.”

“I am honored.”  The Light of the Morning places the book on a side-table, and clasps his hands.  “Elgin has told me that you intend to put to rest this disturbance in the dwarven Delve.  Kor’En Eamor is a sad place, terribly sad.  It needs the dawn, for therein walks a dead god.  Mark me carefully, outworlder.  She is entropy given purpose, and she has brought the multiverse’s worst to her bosom, to suckle on dust and suffering.”  

Thelbar pauses, his hand caressing the folds of his cloak.  “Whatever troubles the Delve, it must be given rest, else these dwarves will never settle their feud.  Cormyr is caught between the hammer and the anvil—war with these dwarves is a madman’s dance, and Sembia pipes the tune.”

The elderly priest motions out the window, gesturing toward the Royal Keep.  “Regent Alusair is one of Lathander’s children, as is Caledni, her closest advisor.  I know the character of their hearts, but I cannot say that either of them will agree with your intentions—temporal borders are not often drawn along religious lines.” 

“I will speak with them, revered one, perhaps I can persuade them.”

“I do not think it likely.  Very little persuades the Steel Regent when she believes in her cause. ”

Thelbar nods.  “It is said, ‘Sages are impoverished, and the world of men is bought and sold by fools’.  But Ishlok teaches us that the mortals struggle most fiercely against the inevitable.  They will be back, and in time, they will grow wise.”

The old man places his hands on Thelbar’s shoulders.  “You are well-loved by your mother goddess, and she favors you with insight.  I have been visited by shadows of your former self, and I must say that you have come a long way; my congratulations to you.  I am pleased to consider that our faith has allies such as yourself.  Be well, Thelbar Tar-Ilou, and may you walk always in the dawn light.”


----------



## dpdx

Yay! More moral/alignment ambiguity! Yay!

[/Special Ed]


----------



## coyote6

Now this is the way to run a Godswar. None of that silly "overpower" stuff. Just straight up strife in the heavens.


----------



## (contact)

Lathander and Solonor Thelandira are the two most prominent Good-aligned gods to join the _pasoun_ so far.  Arunshee is quite famous, but (probably) Evil.

(Actually, f-- that, she's definately Evil, but she's still cool in my book.)

Arunshee brought her daughter Eilistraee along, and Palatin Ermath brought her kids as well, Iiam (NE) and Hustare (TN).

So the _pasoun_ is starting to look like some kind of a deific Springer episode-- two sisters reconciled, dragging along their scruffy kids with no daddies in sight.  In fact, the only male is Palatin Eremath's Ex., but I guess they hooked back up now.  

So who's throwing the first chair?


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> *Lathander and Solonor Thelandira are the two most prominent Good-aligned gods to join the pasoun so far....
> 
> So the pasoun is starting to look like some kind of a deific Springer episode-- two sisters reconciled, dragging along their scruffy kids with no daddies in sight.  In fact, the only male is Palatin Eremath's Ex., but I guess they hooked back up now. *
> 
> 
> 
> 
> 
> Whoa. That's a pretty big revelation as far as Lathander is concerned.
> 
> I mean, I suppose we should have guessed earlier (a male god of _birth_? Having the divine incarnation of birth take a male form is kind of like the universe mocking womankind...), but wow.
> 
> On the other (and somewhat less tongue-in-cheek) hand, it's interesting that a couple of chummy Lathanderites are apparently doing more to swing the Tar-Ilous back to the [Good] descriptor than their own goddess(es) have been doing of late. Is this the effect of suddenly realizing that the entire world isn't against you after all?
> 
> 
> 
> 
> *“Hey Thel,” Taran mumbles as he turns over. “We were at home, but old, and Nathè was smiling at me.”*
> 
> Click to expand...
> 
> 
> 
> That's because now you're old and feeble, she's still young and vital, and she's just decided that the time has come to thoroughly kick your ass and run off with the similarly still-young-and-vital Khuumar, you poor sap.
> 
> Or am I the only one (besides Khuumar) who still thinks she's gonna run Taran cruel?
Click to expand...


----------



## (contact)

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> Whoa. That's a pretty big revelation as far as Lathander is concerned.
> 
> I mean, I suppose we should have guessed earlier (a male god of _birth_? Having the divine incarnation of birth take a male form is kind of like the universe mocking womankind...),




And Youth Athletics.  Do not forget that Lathander is the Lavender-and-Rose Diety of Youth Athletics.



> On the other (and somewhat less tongue-in-cheek) hand, it's interesting that a couple of chummy Lathanderites are apparently doing more to swing the Tar-Ilous back to the [Good] descriptor than their own goddess(es) have been doing of late.




Well, with Arunshee you would expect that running around doing her bidding might . . . sully . . . the soul.  Ishlok/Palatin Eremath is kind of divinely indifferent to your current alignment, because her whole rap is that she sees the bigger picture, and knows where you're going to end up.  And since you're either in the _pasoun_ or out, she's got your soul no matter whether you help the old lady accross the street, or help yourself to her food stamps.




> That's because now you're old and feeble, she's still young and vital, and she's just decided that the time has come to thoroughly kick your ass and run off with the similarly still-young-and-vital Khuumar, you poor sap.




And on the next Springer . . . "Somebody get me a potion of longevity, I'm going to beat my bitch!" . . . Have you or anyone you know been jilted because of old age or senility?  Are they a retired epic-level fighter?  If so, call our studios now!



> Or am I the only one (besides Khuumar) who still thinks she's gonna run Taran cruel?




Well, its only you and Thelbar and Gorquen and Juron and Glim and Elgin and Heshaalth and every drow in the High Forest encampment.


----------



## Joshua Randall

*Return to the Great Delve (... of DEATH!)*

I've been re-reading the entire Risen Goddess thread. Such storyriffic goodness. A question:



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> Taran and Thelbar both believe that any further attempt to get into the Great Delve is beyond their means, with two dragons guarding the entrance, and make plans to vacate their base in the lake fortress. The decision is made to seek further adventure in the nearby valley [...]



Shortly aftewards, our heroes passed through a portal and ended up in Faerun. Any chance they will return to Oerth to tackle the Great Delve (... of DEATH!)?


----------



## (contact)

*Re: Return to the Great Delve (... of DEATH!)*



			
				Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> *Shortly aftewards, our heroes passed through a portal and ended up in Faerun. Any chance they will return to Oerth to tackle the Great Delve (... of DEATH!)? *




Hmm . . .


----------



## (contact)

*71*

*71—The morning after the day before.*

After meeting with Lathander’s Light of the Morning, Thelbar and Elgin Trezler are taken in a carriage from the temple to the Regent’s Solarium.  There they meet with Caledni—the Court Wizard is a striking woman, tall and beautiful.  Thelbar admires her for a moment before scanning her with his _arcane sight_.  His spell reveals that she is relatively weak in the ways of magic, and a sorcerer to boot; a small, quiet part of his mind dismisses her outright.  Elgin makes his introductions, and takes a seat on a windowsill.

“I am told that you spoke with the Light of the Morning today,” Caledni says without any preamble.  She neither sits nor offers Thelbar a chair.  “I am busy, but I can do no less than our own living saint, so I have granted this audience.  Your request to meet with the Regent is impossible, however.”

“I am told that you are the woman I wish to speak with,” Thelbar says, mirroring her brusque body-language.  “I will be as plain and direct as I can be.  Cormyr cannot win this war.  You must let the Eastern dwarves pass through your land.”

The sorceress raises an eyebrow.  “You would come here and dictate matters of state to me, _outsider_?” Caledni looks Thelbar up and down, then turns to the window.  “I find this difficult at best, Elgin.  I expected better of you.”

Before Elgin can reply, Thelbar continues.  “Make peace with the dwarves.  The Kings Under the Earth will cast Sembia aside—they have no desire to conquer Cormyr.  They are a colony first, and an army second.”

“So we hear.  I don’t know how you come to decisions in _your_ land, but in Cormyr, we do not determine the course of state on the word of adventurers.  You do not know the aims of these Easterners beyond sell-sword hearsay, and neither do I.  Nor do I accept your demand.”

Thelbar narrows his eyes, and fixes Caledni within his gaze.  “You serve many masters, but none of them well.  This is a courtesy, not a demand.”

“I see no courtesy in you, adventurer,” she retorts.

“Pearls have been cast before you, Caledni.  Look to Lathander on the morrow, for the greatest truth you will ever hear shall come from Him.  What you choose matters little to the world, and not at all to me.  Farewell.”

As they leave the audience, Elgin says, “She knows only what she knows, and no more.  Cormyr is glad to have you, if her rulers are not.  Let us remember the common folk.”  As they return to the street, Elgin waves his arm at the foot traffic.  “If we fail, we may well be standing in New Sembia.”

-----

“So, let me see if I got this right,” Taran says, leaning on one elbow in bed.  His unbrushed hair falls in rough tangles around his shoulder, partially obscuring the heavy fire scarring on his shoulder and chest.  “Lathander joined the _pasoun_, his high priest said there’s going to be a godswar, and then you told the royal advisor she’s an idiot?”

“You have it exactly.”  Thelbar says.  He eats a spring apple, grimacing at each bite.

“They are an acquired taste,” Elgin says apologetically. 

“Great,” Taran says brightly.  “The people, they love us.”  He gestures to Elgin.  “And what are you going to do about your buddies?  They’re not going to like it when they hear you’re running with us.”

“I will miss them,” Elgin says softly.  “They will likely serve best as their gods instruct them.  I cannot hope for reconciliation.  In truth, I would be content with icy stares.”

“Yeah, sure,” Taran says smirking.  “Okay, we go to this Delve, break the curse, then we split the loot between the two dwarven armies, break up their war and save Cormyr.  Sound good?”  He looks at his companions.  “Good.  You know who we should bring?  Gorquen.  I miss adventuring with her prickly ass.  How long ‘till you’re ready, Elgin?”  Taran sits up, and stiffly places his feet on the floor, grimacing as he stretches his back.  “Come tomorrow, we’re going to be spitting blood.”

-----	

The trio _teleports_ to the party’s home in the Far forest, and Taran takes Elgin around to introduce him while Thelbar prepares spells and supplies for the party’s foray.  As the sun falls, and the evening meal is cleared away, the group tells Gorquen of their current plans.

“And we want you to come with us, Gorquen,” Taran says.  “We can’t do it without you.”

“I doubt that,” she replies, her suspicion plain on her face.

“Ishlok came to me in a dream and said you have to go,” Taran says.

“No.”

“Aw, come on, Gorquen,” Taran whines.  “Sack up and get a pair.  It’ll be fun!”

“It will not be ‘fun’,” Thelbar says.  “But if we are successful, our effort will save thousands of lives.”

“I suppose I could be of some worth,” Gorquen hedges.

“Yeah, plus we’ll give you a tenth share of treasure,” Taran says.

“You’ll give me a quarter share!” Gorquen says indignantly. 

“Okay, deal.  Can you be ready in the morning?”

Gorquen pats her prized sword, a weapon consecrated to Palatin Eremath before her fall from elven grace. “I am ready now,” she says with a refined air.


----------



## ThoughtBubble

“Yeah, plus we’ll give you a tenth share of treasure,” Taran says.

“You’ll give me a quarter share!” Gorquen says indignantly.

First real laughter I've had all week. (contact) you've made my day, again.


----------



## zoroaster100

*Good update, give us more!*

Can't wait for how things will go at the Dwarven place for the adventurers.


----------



## (contact)

*72—In the North, all heads turn into the wind.*


Thelbar passes his hand through the stack of sealed documents and sworn statements, scattering them across the narrow, low table.  He checks the title of each paper as if to reassure himself that he has missed nothing.  “I am suspect of Cormyr’s information. These documents read like a field-master’s projections for a silver mine.  If Moradin’s name is known to the scribes of Cormyr, they have surely forgotten how to spell it.”

“Still, I am assured that these papers are the whole of it,” Elgin says.

Thelbar smiles to himself.  “I doubt that, Elgin.  They love _you_ dearly, it is true, but Lathander has frightened them.  My brother and I have made it clear that we owe no allegiance to Cormyr—perhaps we should be more concerned with what was not included in these reports.”

“Like what killed all the adventurers they kept sending in?” Taran asks.  “What we need to do is find any survivors and get a first-hand account.”

Gorquen sets down a roughly drawn map of the mountain passes near Kor’En Eamor.  “How many have died?” she asks.

“Twelve or thirteen, at least,” Taran says.  “And that’s just the official count.”

-----

“I am preparing a _commune_, to be sure,” Elgin Trezler says.  The party is discussing spell repertoires in preparation for their journey.  “And I’ll have ready a _dispel enchantment_.  In my experience, having a companion _dominated_ is a terrible thing.”

“Yeah,” Taran says with a grin, beginning to brag about how especially terrible it would be if _he_ were the one _dominated_, but before he can finish he catches Gorquen’s accusing eye, and falls silent.

“Take it twice,” Gorquen says icily as she stares down her suddenly sheepish companion.  

-----

The party is able to _teleport_ to the temple of Lathander in Suzail, were they are received without ceremony.  From there they use magic (and Gorquen’s new black wings) to fly North into the Storm Horns—the sharp and foreboding mountain range that marks Cormyr’s Northern border.  The mountain range buffers the beleaguered kingdom from a large community of rapacious goblinoids, orcs and giants that occupy the Stonelands on the other side of the mountain. 

Spring comes late to the Storm Horns, and as the altitude rises, the temperature drops.  Snow still covers the mountainside, and a deeply-felt unsettling chill plays amongst the quiet peaks, as if something terrible were always hovering just outside of the party’s vision.

Taran notes several strange weather phenomena, including breezes blowing against the prevaling winds, and thunderheads that form, then dissipate with no storm to show for it.  Elgin explains that these phenomena characterize the Storm Horns, but seem to have increased of late.  The recent winter was brutal and cruel, he says, and even as far South as Eveningstar the cold took lives.

Several miles north of Eveningstar, well up into the mountain, a fading community called Storm’s Rise scrapes a living out of the mountainside near the entrance to Kor’En Eamor, the cream of its youth withered away to war, disease and isolation.

The town is where the maps mark it to be, but the maps do not tell the tale of this unfortunate place.  Built entirely of stone, Storm’s Rise sits on a sharply pointed promontory of rock, isolated by a deep chasm from the mountain around it. Crumbling guard towers lean drunkenly at their posts on opposite ends of a single arched bridge, the only access to the town.  The part of the town accessed by the bridge is also its lowest point.   Storm’s Rise has only one street; a spiral that winds its way up through dozens of individually made stone dwellings until it culminates at a vast manor-house.   As the party flies closer, they see that the town is severely worn down and many of the buildings have begun to crumble and fall away into the depths.  Precious few smoke plumes rise from the chimneys of Storm’s Rise, and there is no foot-traffic at all.

In fact, the only visible villager is a single old man wearing a leather helmet and a half-suit of ill fitting ringmail, leaning on a spear near the town-side guard tower.

Taran signals for a halt when he spies the elderly guard.  The old man is half asleep and does not notice the flying characters.   “Now who the f--k thought this was a good idea?” Taran wonders out loud.

Thelbar grunts his amusement, but Elgin’s voice is soft.  “We are likely looking at the only person in town with free time, and lots of it.”

“That’s a good selection criteria,” Taran mutters and he flies ahead, landing directly in front of the man.  The elderly guard stares at Taran with wide eyes, a startled gasp puffing visibly out from his mouth in the cold mountain air.  Taran regards him, then reaches out and removes the bolt from the man’s crossbow.  “Relax,” Taran says.  He points back toward his companions.  “That’s Elgin Trezler.  We’re here to help.”

The old man’s eyes light up.  “_The_ Elgin Trezler!” he exclaims.  “Praise Lathander!  You must be Jumdash Dir.”

“Jumdash Dir got fired for being an a$shole.”  Taran spits.  “I’m the new a$shole.  Where’s your commander?”

The man replies that he does not know.

“Great,” Taran says, and he signals his friends to approach.  When they land, Thelbar tells them that he has spotted an elaborate garden terrace next to one of the better-kept homes.  The party walks up the winding road to the home, and knocks on the door.   Several moments pass, then the top half of a two-part door opens, and a wizened dwarvish face stares evenly at the group, without fear or surprise.  The dwarf is old, certainly, but there is no trace of senility in his eyes.  His face is round and soft, his beard worn short for such an old man.

“Revered elder,” Thelbar says in dwarvish.  “We are here at the behest of Cormyr and the good folk of the realm.  We have come to offer assistance and have come to you as friends to the dwarven people.”

“Then you should leave,” the dwarf says in perfect common.   “No friends to the dwarves want to be here,” and with that he shuts the door.

“Oh, hell no,” Taran mutters, and pounds on the door again.  When the dwarf opens the door with a flat stare, Taran smiles and says, “You have a nice garden.  It’s obvious to me that you spend a lot of time keeping it up.  The rot-root is going to trouble your spring-bloomers once it warms up a little, but it’s a really nice garden nonetheless.  We, on the other hand, are impatient, willful and extremely violent.”  

Taran stares at the dwarf for a long moment, the smile suddenly gone from his face. The briefest of smirks crosses the dwarf’s features, and he says, “Go see Ashnern in the Lady’s Manor, and leave me be.”

“Was that so f--king hard?” Taran wonders to himself as he walks away from the dwarf.  “Why can’t anyone ever just give it up the first time?”

“Ashnern is a Monstrologist,” Thelbar says.  “A scholar  named as an associate of the adventurers who fell within Kor-En Eamor.  He should be able to provide us with some insight about what to expect within the Delve.”

“And maps,” Taran says.  “He’d better have good maps.”

The party makes the long trek up the winding spiral road, and notice along the way that there is some life to the town after all, even if most of it remains inside, or peers at the group through closed shutters.  The lone road winds around and between the narrow stone buildings of Storm’s Rise, so steep in places that rough steps are cut into the road.  The Lady’s Manor is a small multi-level stone keep whose better days have long since passed.  The outer walls are slowly surrendering to rot-root, a form of destructive vining plant that burrows into cracks in a stone wall, enlarging holes and undermining the structure.  Many of the windows have been broken out, and replaced with slats of wood, or in the case of the upper levels not at all.  

Taran approaches the keep’s side door, and nudges it with his boot.  The door swings open, and Taran looks over his shoulder at his companions.  “Hello?” he yells.  “Ashnern?”  

After a moment, a thin, reedy voice emerges from the darkness.  “Yes?  Who goes there!”

“I have Elgin Trezler here with me,” Taran says.  “We are here to help.”

“Elgin Trezler you say?” the voice chirps.  A small, white-bearded gnome emerges from the darkness, squinting through a human-sized monacle into the afternoon sunshine.  The gnome approaches Taran, looking up into his face.  “You must be Jumdash Dir.  My name is Ashnern, and I am the Sage of Storm’s Rise.”  Ashnern extends a hand, but Taran pushes past him into keep, glancing around the room.

“Greetings, revered sage,” Thelbar says.  “We are here at the behest of Cormyr, and we have come to help you.  My name is Thelbar Tar-Ilou, you have met by brother Taran, and this is Elgin Trezler.”

“_The_ Elgin Trezler!” Ashnern exclaims.  “Great day, Cormyr has heard our plea!  Have you reviewed my letters, then sir?”

“Letters?” Elgin says with a kindly smile.  “I regret that I have not.”

“My proposal?” Ashnern asks.

Elgin shakes his head no.

“Then you are not here to reinforce the garrison?”

“We were unaware that you required reinforcements,” Elgin says.

“Cormyr has no reinforcements to send in any case,” Thelbar says.

“And we’re better than reinforcements anyway,” Taran says.  “We’re going to whip this Delve for you.”

“Are you now,” Ashnern says warily.  “A god’s curse lingers on the Great Delve, stranger, and there is no glory to be found within that place, only death.  But it is more than just cursed, however mightily so—I believe that Kor’En Eamor is the Dwarvish hell.  Were you wise, you would flee from this place and never return.”  

Taran looks at his companions with raised eyebrows.  “What about the adventurers who made it out?”

“One has returned to her homeland, the other lost her spirit.  She is here, if you would speak to her.”

“We would,” Thelbar says.  “And we would see your work, as well, friend gnome.”

Ashnern narrows his eyes, and clears his throat. “Well, as to that, I am not sure what you might gain from my meager scribblings, great one.  I think it better if you do not.”

“My brother is polite, but that does not make it a request,” Taran says.

“Please, Taran,” Gorquen says.  “This man is a great scholar and wizard.”

“I am a scholar,” Ashnern says.  “My skill with magic is slight.”

Thelbar leans close.  “Do not worry Ashnern, I am a wizard and my skill with the pen is slight.  I do not publish.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

“Then we will begin with the names of the dwarvish fallen.  I meant to chronicle them all, but I stopped after fifty thousand.  I have not the heart to continue.  I believe that Alvodar Cursebreaker memorized them all, and it drove him mad.”


----------



## (contact)

*73—Old enemies have new friends, and old friends have none.*



“Alvodar?” Taran says.  “That name is familiar.”

“It must be a coincidence,” Thelbar says.  “We knew of an Alvodar who took the name Cursebreaker, but he was not from this world, nor from this lifetime.  His name was given to us in conjunction with another abandoned dwarven Delve.”

“Really?” Ashnern asks.  “Kor’En Eamor _is_ a portal to many worlds.  Alvodar was the last king of this place, but his appellation was false, I’m sad to say.”

“Wait a minute,” Taran says.  “Are you telling me that this is the same damned delve?”

“I am not telling you anything,” Ashnern begins, taking a sagely breath and raising one finger into the air.  “Rather . . .”

“Our dragon!” Taran interrupts the gnome.  

“Dragon?  What dragon?” Gorquen asks.

“The adventurers that I was advising faced several dragons within the Delve,” Ashnern says.  “There was a nest of frost wyrms, an entire family.  They were under the care of a giant mystic.  I recall it well, though I never saw them.”

Gorquen looks at Taran.  “What dragon?” she asks.

“While you and Indy were helping the druid,” Taran says.  “We let a dragon slip through our fingers.”

“Did you just say ‘Indy’?” Ashnern asks softly.

“You remember the fight differently than I do brother,” Thelbar says.  “We were lucky to escape with our lives.”

“But that dirt worm killed Rex!” Taran protests.  “We hate it, don’t we Thel?”

Thelbar nods.  “We do.”

“Oh, _that_ dragon,” Gorquen says.

Ashnern lights a candle, and leads the group into a large library.  “I have many artifacts and rubbings taken from the Delve.  I have translated them, and compiled them onto scrolls, for ease of reference.  The ancient dwarves kept no tomes, preferring to record anything of importance onto stone.  But Alvodar kept books—a product of his association with humans and elves, I believe.  One in particular you may find illuminating.  I did not recognize your names at first, but now I do.  Here we are,” he says, carefully opening an thick leather-bound book.

The gnome clears his throat and reads aloud.  “The humans Taran and Thelbar defeated Axultur, Scourge of Greshk and Father of a Thousand Burning Nights—and that is where our Lord Alvodar tasted death for a second and final time, praise his name with stone and steel.” Ashnern looks at the stunned adventurers.  “It continues as you might expect . . . his body brought back to the mines by friends, his life story recorded, the usual state burial.  They entomb him with this very book.”  

Ashnern flips forward through the pages.   “Here his eyes open, and he resumes the narrative himself.  He writes, ‘_She is alive, alive beyond death.  The name that Moradin kept from my ears, I have seen her.  Indy swore she died in her struggles, but now she has brought me to her.  I must silence the call.  I must confront her and give her peace.’_”  Ashnern looks at his audience.  “Merkatha found this book—it was in the tomb of Alvodar Cursebreaker, Last King of Kor’En Eamor.”

“Alvodar was from our world!” Gorquen says.  “An outsider like us!  And he _knew_ you.”

“And that bastard dragon is in there,” Taran says.

-----

Thelbar and Gorquen remain with the gnome to look over his scholarly notes, while Taran and Elgin Trezler seek out the sole remaining witness to the Great Delve—a drow woman by the name of Merkatha.  They find her sitting alone with her feet on a table in Storm’s Rise’s only inn.  She is lithe and haggard, her elven features made ugly by the heavy scarring that mars her face and neck.  Several knife handles protrude from her plain clothing and the tops of her filthy boots.  She stares at the two adventurers balefully as they enter.

“Whatever you’re after, you don’t want it.  Go away,” she says in greeting.

Taran removes his swords, and sets them on the table in front of her as he seats himself.  “We are here on the authority of Cormyr, and we’re here to investigate the Great Delve.”

“Well, I didn’t think you were here for the scenery,” she snarls.

“Please, Merkatha, tell us what you know,” Elgin says soothingly as he sits down.

“How many months you got?” she says.

“All of them,” Taran says.

“I’ve seen a half-score of adventurers like you lost in that Delve.  And they all went in bright-eyed and bushy tailed.  They died screaming, or they didn’t see it coming.  But they’re all dead now,”  she puts her feet on the ground.  “So f--k off.”

“We are all hardened adventurers, Merkatha,” Elgin says.

Taran leans toward her.  “He’s right.  You know, I walk around bunched up like a spring all the time.  In a place like the Delve, I kill everything I see, and I get to be free.  Along the way, I do some good for some people, and I get rich.  Whatever’s in that Delve, it oughta be worried about me.”

The drow snorts.  “I’m touched.”

Elgin smiles at her.  “Please, Merkatha, tell us what you know about the Delve.  We are seasoned adventurers, not amateurs new to our weapons and prayer books.”

“That’s what everybody says,” Merkatha growls.

“Oh yeah?” Taran reaches out and unsheathes Arunshee’s Kiss.  The keen sword is so sharp that it whines as he passes it through the air.  “Is this everybody’s sword?”

Merkatha watches him with disdain.  “That is a fine weapon.  Do you mean to torture me with it?”

Taran laughs.  “I don’t torture people, sister.  I kick a$s, and I walk point in the baddest adventuring group you’ve never heard of.”

“Do you know traps?”

“Only the hard way,” Taran smiles.  “I don’t do traps.  I make the bad people wish they weren’t, and I do it with style.”

“You won’t last a single day walking point in the Delve, human.  You should read Fernal’s journal.  I watched him die.”

“It seems the suffering of others is the only thing that loosens your tongue,” Elgin scolds.  “You are forthcoming with dire predictions, yet you will not give aid to those who seek the Good.”

“There’s a whole other world out there, Merkatha,” Taran says.  “Puppies, sunrises and falling in love in springtime.”

“I don’t believe in such a world.”

“You are not wise,” Elgin says.  

“A wise man would be afraid of that Delve,” she replies.

Taran snorts.  “A wise Delve would be afraid of us.”

“Say that to Ceredain when she takes you.”  Merkatha stares at Taran.

“I will.”

“You won’t have the breath.”

“I will.”

“You won’t.”

“Really,” Elgin says, exasperated.  “What can we do to assure your aid?”

Merkatha stares at Taran for a moment, then turns to Elgin.  “Can you raise the dead?”

“I can,” Elgin says.  “But the soul must embrace the _pasoun_.”

Merkatha rolls her eyes.  “Of course they must agree with you.  You are _faithful_, after all.  Myself, I used to worship Kiransalee.”

Taran cocks his head, and places his hands on the table.  “That’s what they call a bad answer, Merkatha.”

“But, the bitch never came through,” she says.  “So now I worship Shelvaras.”

Taran laughs, relaxing.  “That’s an even worse answer.  Gods be good, but you’re dumb as a stone.  Shlevaras hates only one thing more than he hates us, and that’s the drow.”

Merkatha shrugs.

“Your friend,” Elgin says.  “Where is his body?”

“Mixed up with fur and firewine in a pile of gnoll sh-t, I imagine,” Merkatha says.  “He died in the delve.”

-----

Over the next two days, Thelbar pores over the research provided by Ashnern the sage.  Merkatha finally relents, and agrees to accompany the party into the Delve, provided they do what they can to recover and raise the bodies of  her fallen friends.  Taran emerges from his room one sunny morning, and proudly shows Gorquen the drow sign that Merkatha has been teaching him.  _There’s more than 10_, he signs.  _Run for your life_ and _Every man for himself_.  “Isn’t it great?” Taran asks.  “Merkatha says I’ve got the basics.”

Merkatha also produces the journal of “Fearless” ‘Fernal, an adventuring companion of hers that kept a day-to-day account of his experiences within Kor’En Eamor.  The bloodstained and heavily gnawed-upon journal proves light reading, and within a day, all four members of the adventuring party have read through it at least once.

-----

“That Dragon Caller,” Taran says.  “He had several dragons under his control, and you killed all but the big one, right?”  Taran and Merkatha stand on a balcony outside of Ashnern’s study.  Taran paces, but Merkatha leans on the stone rail overlooking the outer pavillion.  Inside, Thelbar and Ashnern are discussing the translation of the Dwarven writings discovered within the Great Delve.

“That’s right,” Merkatha says.  “The big one came after us, and the priest summoned a Celestial to deal with it.  In exchange, we were to get rid of Lord Ilthais, which we did.”

“But you didn’t see it die.”

“I saw an angel swear to kill it, isn’t that enough?”

“Let’s hope not,” Taran grins.  “That bastard dragon owes me blood.”

Merkatha pauses for a moment, and spits into the air over the rail.  “Didn’t say whose blood, dumb f--k.  You know, your accent is familiar.  I couldn’t place it at first, because you’ve always got something big to say about yourself, and you never talk smart.  But I met somebody who sounds just like you and your owl-eyed brother.  T’sdeal, her name was.  We found her where the gnolls got ‘Fernal, and she said she came in a _portal_ from her world.  Maybe you should go have you a look, and then you can shut the f--k up.”  And with that, Merkatha leaps over the edge, and disappears into the night.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Woo hoo! Mere days after I post my question about the Great Delve, (contact) comes through with not one but TWO updates. 

I see that Liberation of Tenh has also been updated!

AND I got paid today. It's truly a great day.


----------



## blargney

Man, your ranger is sounding more and more like a serial killer.

-blarg


----------



## coyote6

(contact) said:
			
		

> *“Wait a minute,” Taran says.  “Are you telling me that this is the same damned delve?” *




Don't you hate it when Events Converge? 



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> Ashnern flips forward through the pages.   “Here his eyes open, and he resumes the narrative himself.  He writes, ‘_She is alive, alive beyond death.  The name that Moradin kept from my ears, I have seen her.  Indy swore she died in her struggles, but now she has brought me to her.  I must silence the call.  I must confront her and give her peace.’_” [/B]




I'm not recalling -- does this refer to some event related in an earlier chronicle? If so, which? Or is it some evil GM foreshadowing? (Retro-shadowing? Retro-foreshadowing? Whichever.)


----------



## (contact)

> _Originally diagnosed by blargney _
> *Man, your ranger is sounding more and more like a serial killer. *




Yes, I think if Taran were alive in our society, he would be considered a serial killer.  He relishes fighting, getting hurt and dominating his enemies.  That's part of the moral ambiguity of this campaign-- if Taran's pointed at the bad guys you love him, but . . . and when he isn't, who can deal with him?

It's also sort of a way to come to grips with some of the baseline assumptions in D&D (characters fight all the time, characters get more powerful, characters get rich) in a way that makes sense to me without pretending that standing calf-deep in blood and risking your life on a regular basis is normal.

Also, just because Thelbar is more reserved and less of a goon doesn't make him the soft-and-fuzzy one either.  Taran and Thelbar don't disagree about goals or methodologies very often.



> _Originally posted by coyote6_
> I'm not recalling -- does this refer to some event related in an earlier chronicle? If so, which? Or is it some evil GM foreshadowing? (Retro-shadowing? Retro-foreshadowing? Whichever.)




This would be retro-foreshadowing for you, but these "historical" events have all been played by us in the past.  There have been 3 seperate campaigns detailing the Great Delve:

1) A classic game that ran in '92, and featured Indy's first incarnation as a tomb-raiding (ark-raiding?) thief.  Later, characters from that campaign (Alvodar Cursebreaker and Indy) joined Taran and Thelbar and eventually helped them prosecute their disatarous war against the Ishlokians (which we will learn more about soon).

2) A brief foray into the Great Delve in this campaign (the Risen Goddess), and

3) A full 3e Great Delve campaign that ran recently from levels 1 through 12, the logs of which will be part of this Story Hour in the form of "Fearless" 'Fernal's journal.  I will post the journal in about 3-5 updates over the next couple of weeks.  That will bring you guys up to speed with what we as players already know about Kor'En Eamor.

When you read that journal, all will be made clear.  You will learn about Ceredain and Hepis the Great and why Kor'En Eamor is the dwarven Hell.

-----

(p.s.:  Merkatha is played by the woman who plays Gorquen in this game, Prisantha and Thrommel in the LoT, and Helene's mom in RL)


----------



## (contact)

*Great Delve 1*

This heavy, leather-bound journal is thoroughly stained by blood, particularly the last thirty pages.  This stained section, along with half of the back binding, is completely obliterated as the book has been heavily chewed upon by a dog-like mouth.


*THE GREAT DELVE*
(Being, in part, the Journal of Fatherless ‘Fernal, late of Zhentil Keep, in his Endeavors to Explore the Great Delve and Catalogue and Describe the Monsters found Therein.)

-----
_Cursed are those who have forgotten the Great Father 
For they will never find home and hearth
Cursed are the brothers and sisters of these 
For they must bear with them the sins of the fallen_
-----

_Flamerule the 3rd, Dalelands Reckoning 1372_

What a wondrous place this is!  A mountain-town of idyllic serenity, the whole of it carved by the hand of a single dwarven craftsman by the name of Winterbeard, if the tales can be believed—wrestled from the living rock over the course of several human lifetimes.  

Of course that’s what Enkil believes, and he keeps telling us that there must be a secret exit from this place, as no self-respecting dwarf would build a town with only a single bridge connecting it to the rest of the world.  I suppose that if Moradin truly whispers in his ear, he would know.

We’ve had our audience now, and blood on blood!  The Lady of Storm’s Rise is nothing but a child!  Lady Tess keeps an entirely servile elder seneschal, appropriate for her station and all, but it seems quite unnatural to me for the old to serve the young.  A girl that new to her Springtime wouldn’t have lasted two days in command of anything in Zhentil Keep!

The child rules the grandparents here.  This town is nearly deserted, its young lost to war and disease.  The elders cling to the mountainside like lichen because they know no other life.  The child-lady commands a town of old dodgers and wrinkled prunes.  Perhaps it is the frigid air that makes them so stubborn.

This high up, the air is pleasantly cool, although my companions complain about it incessantly, bundled to their noses in their animal-skin robes.  It must be entirely painful to be cold, judging from their expressions.

Selise was the first to join with me, granting her consent as I promised her gold, glamour and glory in an Eveningstar taproom.  If this young noblewoman from the Hullackswood is half as deadly with a bow as she claims to be, she’ll make me rich.  She has a strong tactical mind as well; although I believe her youth restrains her voice.  

Selise is shadowed by a sprite that answers to the name Truffle.  Fey sorcery is beyond me, but I suppose faeries are lucky, and I will need plenty of luck if I am to realize my ambition to become the greatest dungeon-explorer of all times!

She delights in the drying ink-- I must take care not to shut this book too swiftly, lest I press Truffle between its pages like a flower.

There seems to be some mystery regarding a local band of adventurers who went into a nearby dwarven ruin, and were subsequently murdered in their sleep.  Some of the locals seem to wish that we would not disturb those ruins, apparently fearing more skullduggery.  Their concern is quite provincial and charming, but after all, if folks stopped striving every time people were murdered in their sleep, there would be no Zhentil Keep!


_3 Flamerule_

This journal is a gift and favor for the sage Ashnern, a Monstrologist and all around likeable old coot.  His wide-eyed wizardling niece and nephew are both as gullible as the day is long, however, and hungry for fame.  Adventurer material if I’ve ever seen it!  They might be useful as replacements for the rain of fallen companions that is sure to come.


_4 Flamerule_ 

Enkil, the cleric of Moradin, has been on about the dwarven metallurgical hegemony and its value to the bearded folk _all_ morning.  I think I shall strangle myself with my own moustache in order to escape his mono-rhythmic droning.  More later.

-----

Why, I never!  That Vendovyne _continues_ to belittle our journeys here.  She would have _me_ made responsible for every ill wind that blows across our path, simply because it was my vocal musings on the desirability of the adventurer’s life that convinced her to sign the Cormyrian charter!  It’s not as if I  her to accept the year’s service we agreed to . . . and it is not as if I  the griffon who made off with the supply mule.  After all,  the hardened soldier.  Wouldn’t “stopping the 600 lb. predator” be her job, after all?


_5 Flamerule_

The wonder of it all pounds against my heavy heart, but for now, I am writing with a shaking hand.  I wasn’t expecting the majesty of the halls, and I wasn’t ready to watch my companions die.  I am not prepared for this place.  The traps are completely beyond me, and only luck has kept me alive so far.  I dare not tell the others what I have deduced about this Delve.  Gods of All Things, is this what adventuring really is?

Where is the halfling?  

In Eveningstar I signed my charter, and convinced the others as best I could.  I regaled them with promises of wealth and danger, and they cast their lots with me.  But my hand won’t stop trembling.

(Three pages of drawings and notes on pit-traps and pressure-plate mechanisms follow.)


6 Flamerule 

Fitzbit was the first to go, but no one was particularly stunned.  I hate writing th (passage obscured)


7 Flamerule 

Two days of rest have stilled my trembling hands, and regular draughts of the local’s peculiar grain alcohol and goat’s milk mixture have restored my courage somewhat. I am ready to preserve for posterity a record of our first foray into the Great Delve.

We discovered the entrance at the end of an otherwise unremarkable box-canyon.  A quite natural-seeming opening proved to be anything but, and it concealed a pair of grand doors opening on to a massive hallway.

 Fitzbit fell to a band of dwarves guarding the entrance to the great passage.  The agitated gnome was no surprise casualty, and I think we all imagined he would bleed himself out somewhere soon enough.

I do feel sorry for his sister.  Powers that Be have blessed her with boon companionship.  Even now that stunning bard Chance, and the distrustful sword-worshipper Vai console Bitzfit.

Perhaps Tickler was wiser than us all, announcing her retirement (to run a bakery in Storm’s Rise of all things!).  Still, she is missing out on a life filled with excitement and wonder.

I will attempt to reproduce what we have seen, but as a Monstrologist’s observation-book I fear this journal will fail.

Dwarves are not a people for subtlety, judging by the sheer scale of this place.  If Enkil were still alive, I’m sure he’d say, “Would you praise _your_ God softly, fiend?”  And I’d assure him that I would not, as if I had one.  I envy men of faith.  I hope that he is with Moradin now; although I fear there are darker winds about this Delve than just three dead companions.

The passage into this place is unimaginable.   A heavily trapped highway underground, that’s what it is!  We walked for _hours_ along a single passage, straight as an arrow, before we made it into the entry hall.

When I write ‘entry hall’ my mind still conjures the receiving-room of a nobleman’s estate, or the crowded span of a Zhentarim guild house.  But this entry hall could have kept the rain from the _entire_ Western Way Market in Zhentil Keep!  We approached from the south, and never in all my life have I seen such a place.

The Great Highway opened into the chamber, its sides supported by massive statues of dwarves supporting huge pillars on their backs with the whole of their heads radiating an amber glow through their eyes and mouth.  There was not a shadow to be found in the entire room. 

I measured the place at over one hundred paces in width and twice that away from the entrance.  Along both lengths, a most elaborate mosaic details some sort of history of the place, and the Dwarves that built it.  Enkil examined it at length, and I’d meant to get his thoughts once we were safe.

These mosaics are composed of stones so small, and so cleverly fit together as to make the whole indistinguishable from a painting at ten paces.  The forms are quite natural, and so faithfully rendered as to trick the eye; and one finds oneself jumping from time to time as a figure is mistaken for an actual being.  

There is none of the flattened perspective and overwrought runic work characteristic of the normal dwarven burrow decoration.  In short, it wouldn’t even be taken for dwarven art, save for its utter _dwarvenness_.  If you don’t understand this, Ashnern, you will once you have seen the mosaic.

In the center of the entry hall a massive compass is set into the stone floor.  A mosaic depicting the element of fire represents the direction North; South is water, East is air, and West is earth.  The meaning of this mandala is lost on all of us.


_8 Flamerule_

Enkil said that the whole of this place is a prayer to Moradin.  _He called it a _Dak’qis_—the ancient clan-law that mandates the first and best part of all sacrifices be given to the dwarven Father_.  This Delve must have been built to be the first and best part of all dwarven homes.  

But if it is so grand, why have all the dwarves here done us violence, with blasphemies against the name of Moradin on their lips?  These dwarves are fearless and remorseless.  Their survivors claim allegiance to a figure they call Hepis the Great.

This Hepis is said to be some sort of ancient betrayer of the right-thinking dwarves.  Enkil said Hepis is just a figure from Dwarven apocrypha, and not a historical personage.  

I say that dwarven allegory and dwarven history are too readily confused in the minds of the stout little men, and neither is to be taken for fact.

We fought a half-score of the blaspheming dwarves at the north end of the entry hall, along with their sorcerer.  Enkil was dead before he hit the ground, but Vendovyne bled out slowly in front of me.  I tried to help her, but our foe prevented it.  Vai we were able to save once we drove the dwarves away.

We go back in tomorrow.  I cannot sleep.


----------



## coyote6

Yikes. It's Return to the Temple of Elementally Evil Dwarves -- now with all the body count and twice the angst of the original!

Good stuff.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Ah, the dead guy's journal; staple of many a Lovecraftian tale. A journal is also an incredibly useful way to disseminate information in a D&D campaign. (Not necessarily _correct_ information - but that's for the PCs to find out the hard way.)

Hmm. It's too bad Ydni -- er, I mean Indy -- isn't here to contribute his archaeological insights. Or maybe he is/was here? I'm confused about the whole "Great Delve that exists in both Faerun and Oerth" thing. But, I'm eager to find out more.


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## Schmoe

This is getting eery.  First Gnomer and Gnomishic and the Temple of Elemental Evil.  Now Fitzbit and Bitzfit and the Great Delve cum Temple of Elemental Evil.  I'm curious to see how this plays out.  I wonder if Fatherless Fernal's group had the same disastrous luck as Heydricus and Jespo's group did.


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## (contact)

*Great Delve 2*

_8 Flamerule_

I was born in, and raised by, Zhentil Keep.  My father was a baatezu—a cornugon I believe, rewarded for some service to the Lord of Murder with the rape of a half-dozen priestesses.  My mother alone among them bore fruit, and I was born.  

My birth was enough to set her above the others of her rank, but not enough to force her to keep me.  I was given to the streets seven months before the Time of Troubles took Bane from the world.  Zhentil Keep taught me the meaning of deprivation, and the difference between obedience and loyalty.

I do believe I have outlived my mother.


_9 Flamerule_

The traps along the great highway are disabled by hidden machinery _at least_ four hundred paces away.  What engineer could build such a magnificent device?

The survivors of our fight with the blasphemous dwarves are to the north and east of the entry hall, although their area is different from the other parts of this place in that it shows signs of decay and disrepair.  

Once we can agree on a strategy, we will go after them, and avenge our Noble Dead!


_9 Flamerule_

Enkil is back!  Even the hands of Death are like a sieve in this mysterious place!  We were dragging our casualties toward the entrance of the place when we spotted him.  He almost got shot for his trouble, but fortunately Selise had the presence of mind to call out a “who goes there” before we attacked him.

He claims that the blow that struck him down did not kill him at all, for Moradin snatched his soul from its vessel before the axe struck.  Enkil found himself in another room in the Great Delve, although it seemed he had been thrust into the past, during a time when the house of Moradin here fell to the usurper’s knives.  He witnessed a score of dwarven clerics, Moradin’s clergy to the last, dead in pools of their own blood—a handful of soldier-types stood over them, picking through their mouths for gold.

Of course, Enkil laid into them fiercely, but they cut him down, and as he lay dying for the second time, he was approached by none other than this Hepis himself, who claimed divinity and offered Enkil life should he turn from Moradin and worship Hepis.

Our boy spit in this Hepis’ eye, of course, and the Usurper King smote him, but again his soul was denied its reward.  Enkil found himself in some sort of shadowy purgatory, along with the souls of the other Moradin priests killed there.

The twenty priests told Enkil that it was he that must “go back”, as his body had not yet rotted away to nothing.  They could return him to his life, but at a tremendous cost:  in so doing, they condemned their own essences to the Void, never to know Moradin’s Paradise.

It strikes me as horribly tragic, and I would never have believed it, save for the living proof of Enkil’s return from the dead.

Enkil says that his soul is now bound to the place, and that he will wither and die if he leaves it for more than a few days.  He seems well enough content, but has hinted that his soul, too, will be forfeit to the Void should he be slain a second time.  That must be a heavy burden.

Enkil chants the names of the twenty fallen priests like a mantra, and has begged us to memorize them, that their sacrifice never be forgotten.

If his story is true, does that mean that we now do Moradin’s work?  Do we oppose this godling Hepis?  Fire and Torment, all I ever wanted was to be rich!


_9 Flamerule_

Some force or effect keeps the halls perfectly clean.  The bodies lie where we left them, but the blood is gone.  No dust disturbs this place.  Does that seem curious to you, Ashnern?  It surprises me.  I had always imagined adventuring would be a filthy business, but you could accrue more soil on ones’ feet dashing from bed to closet across Lady Tess’ bed chamber than in this place.  Not that you are likely to do either anytime soon, but you see my point.


_9 Flamerule_

In all the excitement, I forgot to tell you how we came by those casualties, Ashnern.

We returned to the place where we had found the fleeing dwarves and gave them a sound fight, although their sorcerer was certainly mad as a hatter.  The fellow had managed to animate a dozen everburning torches along with a stone altar!  When we laid into him, the very furniture leapt to his aid, and we were beaten back.

But this group does not surrender easily, I tell you, and after another night’s rest, we were upon them again, and this time victory was ours!

We have brought with us Bern, a cleric of Kossuth and road-companion to Fitzbit’s sister.  For a fire-priest, he seems to be a stable fellow, and a deadly combatant.  He is joined by the swordswoman Vai, and with my wits and Selise’s deadly bow, I think we will show this Great Delve what real adventurers can do!

The Northeastern section of this level must once have housed priests.  I think we found the body of a truly ancient dwarven turn-coat.  It is preserved most perfectly where it lay, and we all agree that the dwarven cleric was smote with holy flame—no doubt his justly deserved punishment from the Dwarven All-Father!  

Carved into the wall above this priest is the phrase “_No Peace for the Lost Children of Moradin_”.  I am hoping that this does not mean that we should expect undead, but I am sure that it means just that.  Fortunately, Enkil makes for two priests in our group, assuming he is no undead creature himself, cleverly misleading us to please some Dark God (well, Ashnern, that’s what _I_ would do if I were a Dark God).

Whatever Enkil may be, we’re glad to have him, since we needed his hammer to smash a guardian statue that was stubbornly protecting my treasure!  We found a few potions, a wand, a magical dwarven helmet (given to the newly living, of course), and a ritual cup with this phrase etched into it:


_“Like a great vein of iron / My roots run deeper than any mountain”._


Enkil says that the cup is a symbol for this very Delve.  When questioned, he hemmed and hawed about dwarven lore and ancestor veneration relating to the gods.  I was not truly able to understand (in fact I was not listening), but I think the gist of it is that these dwarves worshipped their Delve as the mother-symbol of their creation.  Moradin is the father, yes, but the First Home is the mother.  

Caverns . . . womb.  Womb . . . caverns.  It all makes sense, really.  Cup, vessel, womb, home, mother, etc.  After all, it isn’t the body of the father that sustains the young!  (Except for some of the more foul races where the children overwhelm and eat their sire.)

But I digress.

This revelation has really thrown Enkil into a sputtering, beard-wringing frenzy.  He can’t decide if it is more blasphemous to continue on in this place or to walk away from it.  The dwarves pride themselves on being so constant and unchanging, but now we’ve stumbled upon an ancient dwarven home with artwork unlike anything dwarves produce today, and new gods to boot!

I suppose that when you find out that you’ve had it all wrong for so many years, it can really ruin your day, but frankly, it has always struck me as strange that dwarves, like the elves, have a father-god but no mother.  Don’t most bastards have mothers without fathers?  

Hepis was a mortal dwarf who set himself up as a “god” in this place through base treachery and murder.  He is no longer worshipped, but lives on as an apocryphal symbol for “wretched traitor”.  Meanwhile, this ancient Dwarven home is a lost goddess altogether, leaving the entire dwarven race to prance about exclaiming, “We have no mother!”, much like I used to on the streets of Zhentil Keep.


----------



## (contact)

*Great Delve 3*

_10 Flamerule_ 

If this is illegible, I blame my mule.

We are on the road to Eveningstar, with a cart full of ill-packed glass works from the artisans of Storm Rise, and we hope to trade them for a pretty copper in Cormyr.  Selise continues to insist that Storm’s Rise _is_ Cormyr, and I continue to point out that Cormyr’s border extends only as far as its ability to enforce its Laws.

If it wasn’t for arguing, I suspect I would die from the lack of talking.  At least when I’m in the Delve, I can lean back and listen to Enkil ramble on.  The Dwarf is not with us, as he believes that he will wither and die should he leave the Delve.

(A series of mathematical figures follow)

Twenty-five hundred gold crowns!  All for taking the trouble to bring glass down the side of the mountain.  Granted, we had to kill several goblins to get here, and the glass we are trading amounts to half a lifetime’s worth of accumulated craft, but nonetheless, things are finally starting to fall out well.  Perhaps now I will not be lynched by my own adventuring band.

Of course, both Bern and Enkil would string me up from the nearest tree in the swish of a Baatezu’s tail if they knew that I have secretly sold dwarven artifacts from the Delve.  I believe that Selise sees the necessity for profit, and she certainly has a noblewoman’s inbred expediency about her.  But the others simply do not understand—this “liberation” of a dwarven hall is a mercantile venture, nothing more.  Adventurers don’t throw their lives away in the musty depths for Rightness or Glory, despite their drunken tavern-tales to the contrary.  _They do it for the gold_, and I intend to see to it that my companions have plenty of reason to stay with me in this mysterious place, because I need every last one of them.  I even need willful half-wits like Ketcherin.

Have I mentioned Ketcherin?  No?  Well, that is because I don’t like him.  The crusty caver calls himself a ranger, but doesn’t know twigs from turtles about herbology.  If he’s to be believed, he found his way into the great delve through the Underdark, which means that these Dwarves dug deeper than I thought.  

At any rate, while we count our coins in Eveningstar, the fool caver is trying to gain the attention of that mysterious dwarf Winterbeard who supposedly built Storm’s Rise (and now never speaks).  When we left, they were standing face to face in a thickly-bearded staring match, with Ketcherin staring at the mute, and the mute staring through Ketcherin, and neither willing to back down.

For all I know, they are at it still.

Dwarves.


_10 Flamerule_ 

I won’t say I hate _all_ bards.  I’m not the sort to make a gross generalization about the lute-plucking simpletons, just because the better part of them are overly celebrated for matters of no consequence.  I won’t say it, even if it is true, because it would be uncharitable toward what’s-his-name.

Selise has purchased a dress for the Lady Tess, and I think the two will become friends, which of course would be of benefit for all of us.  Having friends in High Places is a must for any ambitious adventurer, in my opinion.  For after all, won’t the time soon come when the Lord or Lady in question has to contend with that quiet and unsettling inner voice reminding them that they are no longer the greatest power in their own realm?  A wise adventurer has either made friends with the noble, or made vacation plans.  Thank Providence for Selise—my relationship with the Lady Tess is strained—I think she cannot abide the infernally plane-touched.


_11 Flamerule_

Chance has been acting _so_ strangely in town, first spurning me, then taking up with that indigent singer—perhaps she is a doppelganger?  It certainly bears watching.  At any rate, I shall soon be rich, and perhaps then I shall patronize that little golden-haired lute-polisher only to assign him to some remote corner of the world and then dismiss him without pay.

Chance will regret not having me someday, I am sure.


_12 Flamerule_

Even if it is really such a huge issue that the goblins we killed on the way here were fighting under an previously unknown emblem, why would anyone with sense needlessly wake their companion up before noon to tell him?  Really, Selise.  

We make Storm’s Rise tomorrow.  By now, Chance and her minstrel are on the road to Arabel, and good riddance to both of them, I say.


_13 Flamerule_ 

Wouldn’t you know, they are still at it!  Ketcherin should be commended for his persistence if not his intelligence.  We are the heroes of the moment, but don’t tell that rascal dwarf.  Tickler now has a lifetime supply of ingredients for her bakery, and I daresay she’ll cut us quite the bargain for the results.

I suspect that Ashnern wanted more monsters and less journal from this Monster Journal.  Perhaps I should make you a present of some of the brandy I’ve brought back with me to ensure that I remain under your fair-light, eh?

You’re certainly not getting any of my cigars.


_13 Flamerule_

Damn that Ketcherin and his self-righteous dwarven entitlement straight to the depths of Moradin’s Darkest Hell.  And that is all I will say about the matter.


_14 Flamerule_

So much has happened; I’m not sure where to begin.

I think the drow must certainly have more good-aligned members of their race than the majority would like to admit.  I say that because of how many drow you see making their way in adventuring bands.  Many more than, say, good half-orcs, yet half-orcs don’t have a fraction of the reputation the dark elves have. 

But I digress.

First and foremost, upon returning to the delve we made a beeline to the area North of the Great Hall.  There we found a throne room, but it is no place a living king would willingly sit.  There was this massive life-like representation of the Dwarven Father Moradin himself, studded with gems, standing behind a carved throne that was capped by a dragon’s head sculpture with diamonds the size of my manly-stones for its eyes.

Of course, I felt that little bearded ferret’s eyes boring holes in my back, as if I were the only one among our little band who loves his gold. _A plague and pox on all dwarves_, I am simply the honest one.

And what dwarf has any room to lecture another about propriety when it comes to financial matters?  He simply thinks that due to my heritage, he can attack my character and I will find myself friendless.  Sadly, he is right.

But I digress.

Relief sculpture along the walls continues the marvelous contrivance from the entry halls, and in this case it gives the impression of a horde of dwarves lurking just at the corner of your vision, all intently facing the throne.  It’s simply spellbinding, a masterful effect.  Dwarves are renowned for their craftsmanship, but these ancient ones were artisans as well, and in equal measures.  The beauty of this place is simply unparalleled in my experience.

We searched what seems like hundreds of rooms.  It was probably only thirty or so, but nothing jumped out to kill us, and the place was completely devoid of treasure.

It was certainly the lair of those degenerate Hepis dwarves, as we found their crossed Forge Hammer and Axe symbol in several places.  All in all, I counted 40 bedrolls and packs, but I’m quite sure that we haven’t killed 40 of them yet.

The Royal Chamber frightens me.  We know that this was once the home of the Aq Med, the First House and First Children of Moradin.  The dead bodies of this place’s former rulers are still lying where they fell. Like the other ancient corpses we have discovered in the Great Delve they are perfectly preserved, and completely bloodless.

Perhaps we are wrong, and our lifeblood is not our own, but on loan to us from our Creator.


----------



## zoroaster100

Interesting. 
So it is not just the Elven and Human pantheons that are having ancient mysteries revealed.  Will there be upheaval in the Dwarven pantheon as well?


----------



## (contact)

MUUUUWAH haha ha haaaaaa.


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## (contact)

*Great Delve 4*

_14 Flamerule_

Now this Dumathoin is my kind of deity.  The dwarven god of wealth keeps none of his treasure in his temples, yet the place is about nothing else.  Marvelous relief sculpture here.


_14 Flamerule_

Beyond Dumathoin’s realm, we overcame a pair of animated statues that were lurking at the end of a long corridor.  They guarded a massive vault and armory.  There is a fortune in master-crafted weapons and armor abandoned here, exactly the sort of wealth that calls adventurers forth from their hearth fires!

But Ketcherin says that the treasures of Kor’En Eamor (meaning “the First Home”—the name the dwarves have given this Delve) should stay with Kor’En Eamor.  Ridiculous.  I say if the dwarves of the First Home loved their treasure so much, why haven’t they taken it to wherever they have been spirited off to?  After all, according to Enkil, we are doing the work of Moradin by putting these degenerate dwarves to the sword, and would Moradin have Himself be known as a miserly employer?  _I think not_.

I think it is _Ketcherin_ who proposes blasphemy, and I told him as much.  Our last words were not pretty, and were he more of a boon companion, I would certainly regret that fact.

Beyond the armory is an entrance to a large natural cavern (where the violet fungus killed Ketcherin), and beyond that a massive fungal forest.  We have not even seen the entirety of the cavern, and perhaps never shall!  There is a waterfall somewhere to the Southeast of the entrance and its roar is a constant companion.

In that place, we were set upon by a pair of creatures that might be the result of a drunken union between a throw rug and a constrictor snake.  All I remember is that everything became dark, but I am told I owe my life to Bern.   At any rate, we killed a pair of the things and dug a shallow grave for the dwarven caver.

I have stuffed one of their bodies into a sack for Ashnern, but I am hopeful that I shall need that sack for more precious tidbits before I see the sun again.


_15 Flamerule_

It may be difficult for you to understand how little light there is in this place, Ashnern.  Of course you know that there is no light underground, but I don’t think you understand what that means.

Imagine, Ashnern, you are in a massive lightless cavern.  The cavern is at least a third of a league in width and depth, yet you can see no more than sixty feet from your own nose.  To complicate this already quite intimidating situation, imagine that a gigantic waterfall fills your ears with its unrelenting hiss, loud enough that you would not hear a division of armored dwarves coming up behind you, nonetheless a stealthy monstrous predator.

If you have imagined this scenario properly, you are in a position to appreciate the excruciating and unrelenting tension that comes from exploring this great cave.

If you can appreciate the tension, you can also appreciate why I was so willing to add the drow to our ranks.  With her superior darkvision, she can give us twice the warning that we might have had.

At any rate, she appeared out of the darkness shortly after the violet fungus tore our previous ranger quite literally limb from limb.  (As a  Monstrologist, perhaps you can tell me why a creature with four inhumanly strong tentacles needs to be as poisonous as the violet fungus is?)

 She claimed she has recently escaped a condition of slavery in the depths below the fungal cavern.  I don’t fully trust her, but she says she’s a scout, and better yet, she’s willing to walk the point.  Frankly, that could be the difference between life and death for me, so I convinced the group she was necessary.  She gave her name as Markessa, I think.  Or Morkotha or Maranna or something like that.  A bitter woman, really, and altogether blunt on the topic of torture and abuse.  I like her quite a bit, and I like even better the prospect of a more appealing target out on point with me. 

Now I need not worry about being stealthy enough to avoid our foes—merely being stealthier than my companion On The Island!

We intend to follow through with our plan to leave the Delve despite meeting the drow.  She has elected to remain behind, camping in the Great Delve with Enkil, as it is the consensus opinion of the group that a dark elf would not find as ready an acceptance from the common folk of Storm’s Rise as she has amongst our group.


_15 Flamerule_

Troubles and tribulation!  The Lady Tess has been stripped of her title and replaced!  Apparently, the teenaged ruler of Storm’s Rise has defaulted on her taxes to Cormyr, and the Steel Regent, in all her wisdom, has appointed one of her adventuring cronies to sit the throne here and guard the pass.  Ilthais Truesilver is his name, and apparently the new Lord prefers his hunting to remaining in town.  

We did meet with his charming young wife Arlewen, who was foolish enough to re-negotiate our adventurer’s charter!

Did not they warn her in Arabel never to bargain with a Baatezu?  But I cannot take all the credit for our newfound freedom, as Selise certainly knows her way around a council.  At any rate, we are now sanctioned by Cormyr herself to do . . . well, whatever we wish.  Life is grand.

Poor Tess is trying to paint a brave face on things, but you should have seen the look on Selise’s face when we were stopped on our way back to town by an armed guard wearing the tabard of House Truesilver.  This Lord has a double score of loyal soldiers with him, and I have made the acquaintance of a few.  Or rather, I have thoroughly aggravated one or two of them with my attentions.  

I’m no great judge of character, but I am fairly sure that Selise is harboring seditious thoughts.

In the morning, we return to the Delve.  We plan to further explore the fungal forest.  By the Gods That Be, that Delve is so much larger than we’d ever imagined!  It is a world to itself, and according to the drow, it is populated by kuo-toa, illithid and worse!


_16 Flamerule_ 

We are resting in this cavern, if you can truly call something ten times the size of Storm’s Rise “a cavern”.  Merkatha assures us that most of the fungus is edible, with only a few varieties poisonous, and even fewer still predatory.  Not that Ketcherin would agree, I’m sure.

Enkil the dwarven cleric of Moradin is still with me, as is Bern the cleric of Kossuth, Selise our erstwhile noblewoman and archer, and Merkatha the drow scout.  The others have found pressing reasons to adventure no further, the cowards.  

We passed through the fungal forest into a dwarven-worked and decrepit area.  Whatever magic protects the Halls of the Aq Med holds no sway here.  These caverns look for all the world like one would expect an ancient dwarven home to look, complete with crumbling masonry and faded frescoes.  Marking the boundary into this area, we discovered the following inscription carved into the wall:


“_Entrance beyond here brings only darkness; for those who are strong and resist Death’s clutches, your survival will weave a web of loss so strong that the world will be caught up in it.  –Alvodar Cursebreaker, once King of the Lost Halls of Kor’en Eamor_”


This cannot be good.

We returned to the fungal forest, and explored a fascinating structure built into the center of it—a suspension platform composed of some translucent material, as hard as stone, and attached to the unseen ceiling of the cavern by thick steel cables.  It is an impressive engineering feat, even to my ignorant eyes.  The strange stone is nearly invisible in the dim light of the cavern, and even walking upon it gives the impression that one is standing on the air.

Atop the transparent ledge stands a massive column—itself ringed with smaller hexagonal columns chased with precious minerals (including mithril and adamantite)!  I won’t deny a slight urge to pry free some of these ancient treasures, but I could palpably feel Bern and Enkil’s cold judgement wash over me.  At the center of the main column is a hexagonal riser, carved with this phrase:


“_Here I stand so all can see the God that I am_.”


What were these dwarves about?  Is this Hepis?  And why does he not sign his work? Atop the riser is an altar, with this inscription:


“_The father must make way so the son can be the father.  In all things this must pass_.”


This altar contains vessels marked with the rune of Ceridain Lifegiver.  We believe that Hepis the Great ascended to godhood here, but was he aided by this Ceridain?  

Enkil says the Lifegiver was a creation of Moradin, the vessel in which he left his breath during his making of the dwarves.  Selise suggests that Ceridain is a classic mother-god, the Womb in which the dwarven people grew forth from the Breath of Moradin.

We know that Hepis was the king of the Aq Med, which literally translates into “First People”.  Hepis was therefore king of the First House, king of this Delve, and by association, king of all dwarves.  Did his mother Ceridain set him up to become a god, to challenge his Father?

Whatever the case, we have determined not to touch the ceremonial vessels, either for curiosity’s sake, or for future sale.  Again, I was out-voted.


----------



## (contact)

*Great Delve 5*

_16 Flamerule_

Here’s an interesting monster for you, Ashnern, and before you accuse me of severing the heads of my foes like a Stonelands goblin, may I assure you that this head is all that there is.  Winged heads, by the gods, and they are not shy about attacking adventurers!  We fought a pack of the creatures, and acquitted ourselves honorably.

After encountering the flying blood-sucking severed heads, we discovered a set of stairs at the back of the fungal forest that led thousands of feet into the air.  In practical terms, it was a journey of several excruciating hours, only to discover that an impassable portcullis bars the passage at the top of the stairs.

The runes above the archway indicate that this passage leads to the halls of the Filas Hali.  Further into the cavern, beyond the opening, another curse-mark glows on the wall, similar to the one we discovered with the dead priests.  It reads:


_“Cursed are those who follow blindly.” _


I write this from the top of the stairs, as frustrated as the rest of my group with our long journey for nothing.  At least we can count ourselves safe this high above the cavern floor, and all this stair-climbing is carving my calves into a shapely perfection that I haven’t seen since I stopped roof-running in Zhentil Keep.  If I could kiss myself, I think I would.

The Filas Hali followed the Aq Med and their blasphemous king into infamy.  “Cursed are those who follow blindly”, eh?  It sounds like the Filas Hali were soldiers, loyal to a fault, placing their duty to their liege above their duty to their Creator.  Woe to them, I suppose, and here we have this worthy lesson for all created beings locked away in their forgotten halls, where none shall see it and it will do no good.

Dwarves.


_16 Flamerule_

I am beginning to shape a theory, would you like to hear it, Ashnern?  This place must certainly have been a dwarven metropolis.  Everyone knows the little bearded fellows are exceedingly clannish, and I suppose that within the First Home of the dwarves (as Enkil translates the proper name of this place) they would be even more so than now.  _More dwarven than dwarven_, if you take my meaning.

Moradin has cursed the place, that much we know. The dwarves here angered Him greatly, most likely by supporting the usurper Hepis in his ascent to godhood.  Perhaps each clan deserves its own curse for its individual failings.  It’s not a cheery thought, but there it is.  Enkil grows more agitated with each new discovery, and I cannot say I blame him.  He questions why knowledge of the First Home has passed from the lore of the bearded folk, and it is a fine riddle.

Still, the adventurer’s life is what it is, and if I wanted safety and comfort I would have remained in Eveningstar and wenched away my new-found wealth.  Onward and onward again, I say.  Discovery is the order of the day.  


_16 Flamerule_

We returned to the fungal forest, and proceeded South.  There we discovered a set of stairs leading down into an abyssal chasm.  Bern cast a divination using a golden chain, and announced that Kossuth wanted us to go below.  Fine by me, but Merkatha became completely unreasonable, stating that she would not go down there for any reason, the God’s will or no.

When pressed, she was completely unable or unwilling to elaborate, although that might have been due to my rather vehement questioning.  I will admit that I have always fancied the tough-talking enforcers of the Zhentarim and their remorseless interrogation techniques.  Alas, I failed to achieve the truth of it, and resplendent in our ignorance, we left Merkatha behind and descended the stair.

At the base of it, we found the bodies of several dwarves and lizard-like creatures arrayed before a portcullis, lying on the stone of a boat-moor.  This strange underground pier faces onto a lake of unknown proportion, although it must be huge, as it is tidal.

But back to the dead dwarves.  Or mostly dead dwarves, I should say.  I was watching the bodies of the lizard-men, supposing some trick, but it was the dwarven corpses who rose from the ground and quite literally sucked the vigor from my frame.  I have never in my short life felt such a demoralizing sensation, and that is coming from one who was birthed in a temple to Bane.

In truth, it was only my terror that kept me from fleeing outright, but credit Bern and Enkil for turning the tide with their faith, and Selise’s sharp-shooting for returning the dwarves to oblivion.

But what strange dwarves they were—plane touched, like myself, although these dwarves were obviously from the Kindly Realms.  Undead celestial dwarves!  Who ever heard of such a thing, Ashnern?  The clan-mark above the portcullis identified these dwarves as Clan Thurarin.

I meant to bring you the head of one of them for your examination, but Enkil forbid it.  You may take the issue up with him.

The portcullis was as impassable as the gates barring the passage to the Filas Hali, and again, looking into the passage we noticed a glowing curse-mark:


_“Cursed are those who profit from the warfare of their brothers”_


Well, on this account Moradin and I are in complete agreement.


_16 Flamerule_

On our way back up the stairs, I attempted to generate some positive sentiment toward our new drowish companion (whose mysterious refusal to follow us below had deepened the group’s suspicion of her).  I pointed out the likelihood that she would die soon enough, possibly taking an arrow meant for me, and that her presence saved us the trouble of recruiting another fighter next time we returned to town.

Unfortunately, my selection of words _may_ have tended toward the undiplomatic side-- specifically, “monster-fodder”, “sacrificial lamb” and “most likely dead within a week”.

It occurred to me as we finished our climb that Merkatha had probably been shadowing us the whole time, and overheard the entire conversation.  

My mother used to say, “those who make enemies of drow shouldn’t make plans for their old age”.  

Of course, she also used to say, “halflings are vermin and should be cleansed from our city”, and “murder is a solution for any disagreement, provided you apply it liberally enough”.  

But I do think she was right about the drow.


----------



## (contact)

*Great Delve 6*

_17 Flamerule_

I absolutely _hate_ goblins.  Wretched little half-men.

No more than three hours ago, we discovered a long worked passageway at the Western end of the fungal forest.  Had I known what awaited me, I surely would have carried myself with more enthusiasm.

No more than three hundred feet along the corridor, I was taken completely by surprise as a pit opened several feet _behind_ me.  What good is that, you say?  No good at all, until the ten-foot hammer swung down from the ceiling like a Smite from the dwarven gods and struck me square in the chest!  I was blown back into the pit, and luckily the momentum from the hammer flipped me completely head-over-heels and I struck the back wall of the pit with my feet instead of my head.

It took me better than an hour to even discern the trigger, so cunningly was it hidden, and I had just fallen victim to the trap!  These dwarves amaze me.


(Three pages of notes on trap mechanics follow)


Beyond the hammer/pit-trap we found that the corridor exited into an open floorless cavern.  Three bridges lead from the ledge we stood on out to a series of platforms that appeared to be floating in mid-air.

Of course, you know and I know that platforms do not float in mid-air, and after traveling a short distance across the bridge, we saw that these platforms were merely suspended, hanging from the ceiling of the cavern like some giant’s party decoration.  The platforms had buildings atop them, and Merkatha and I ventured forth to have a look.

We spotted a pair of goblin sentries, and returned to our group to plan an ambush.  Unfortunately, our well-planned ambuscade did not take into account a _second_ group of goblin sentries, who blew a horn, calling no doubt their entire filthy family upon us.  We did not stay to see who answered the call, and retreated back to the fungal forest.

Thus, I pen this halfway atop the stairs to the halls of the Filas Hali.  We supposed that five thousand or so stairs should be enough deterrent to any goblin counter-attack, and as my watch is the last, so far we have been right.


_18 Flamerule_

Infernal wolves and baatezu fighting alongside goblins?  What is this dungeon coming to?

Upon our return to the hanging city, we noticed that the guard had been beefed up at the exit from the long hallway.  Goblins atop fiendish wolves kept a watch, and wouldn’t you know the mangy creatures scented our approach?

The rest of the fight was a blur, and I only remember wave after wave of goblins pouring out of the city, led by a flying fiend—a spinagon, no less.  We killed a fair number of them, along with one of their leaders, but the fiend and his wolf-riding cavalry were too much.  For the second time in as many days, we retreated from the hanging city and made the long climb up to our perch on the stairs.


_18 Flamerule_ 

Bastards!  We had rested for no more than two hours before the spinagon found us!  The fiend harassed us, and put some sort of vile enchantment on me.  I have never been more scared of anything in my life than I was of the spinagon in that moment, and I fled down the stairs into the waiting arms of a weary goblin brigade climbing upwards. 

I think it would have been the end of this journal, save that I pulled a potion vial from my pockets, and threatened the goblins with what I hoped would look like _oil of fiery burning_.  Next time, I shall not attempt my bluff with an empty potion vial.

Fortunately, by the time I ran back to my companions, Merkatha, Enkil and Bern had driven the thing away.

We are now encamped at the very top of the stairs, and I dread the morning, and its requisite trek back down into the fungal forest.


_19 Flamerule_

After the endless darkness and tension in the Great Delve, I have really come to enjoy the rustic charm of Storm’s Rise.  The local brew is not entirely disagreeable, and there are no Zhents waiting to arrest and torture the first adventurer to find himself drunk and disorderly in the streets.  If my handwriting is sloppy it is because I have been inebriated since my return.

We have met a new companion, a warrior stranded in Storm’s Rise by a merchant’s caravan.  He claims to be something of an outlaw, and liked very much the prospect of disappearing into the Great Delve for a few months.  Maktar Jai is his name, a pirate from Algarond, fleeing Sembian justice all the way to the middle of nowhere.  

Strike that, we are more precisely on the fringe of nowhere, just south of the border to Nothing At All.

You’re probably wondering what really happened to poor Bern.  I will tell you, Ashnern, that a _command_ to “jump” can really be disastrous at an elevation of several hundred feet.

The spinagon ambushed us again as we were descending the stairs, and sent Bern leaping into his the arms of his god.  (If in fact, his god _has_ arms, which I understand is a matter of dogmatic debate.)

But it was a disastrous victory for the spinagon, as we were wise to his other tricks, and this time we sent the little fiend back to Hell.  We found the remnants of his goblin clan at the base of the stairs, apparently unaware that their infernal master had perished.  They fled from us on sight, and we pursued them through the fungal forest and into their Hanging City, which they readily abandoned.  

We must have hurt the goblins much worse than we believed in our first battle, judging by their reluctance to face us.

We did not catch the lice-ridden vermin, because the chase led into a further complex of passageways beyond the Hanging City.  Wiser heads prevailed, and we gave up our pursuit.

A thorough search of the suspended platforms turned up several items of note, however.

The place itself is impressive, a score or so of buildings, some of them two stories tall.  The individual platforms are connected by bridgework.  Many of the bridges have been destroyed, but whether by time or intent, I do not know.  

We discovered a partially intact bridge that led to the lair of the fiend.  There we found surface-world trade goods, along with a merchant’s account book, written in Infernal!  Apparently, the spinagon was conducting trade here in the dungeon.  Just like a baatezu, I said, to find some way to wrench coin from the disadvantaged.  He had several regular buyers, and the fiend had apparently been conducting trade for at least the last hundred years!  The goods we found amongst his treasure were surface-world goods, but of a completely unfamiliar make. Definitely not Cormyrian, and possibly not Faerunian!  The implications of this are not lost on our group.  Does the First Home possess _portals_ to other worlds? Or did the baatezu simply have some means of travel lost with its death?

Unfortunately, my Infernal is as rusty as an orcish stiletto, and I was unable to provide any concrete details about the spinagon’s trade practices.

After gathering the beast’s treasure, much of it in trade bars, we made back for the fungal forest to retrieve Bern’s body.  Unfortunately, the section of the stairs he leaped from overlooked a chasm in the floor of the cavern.  Bern’s body lies next to the corpse of the spinagon, in some unknowable depth.

I must admit I would love the challenge of retrieving it.

The group has determined that we should find Bern’s corpse, and have him _raised_ if possible.  We have decided to send Selise and Bitzfit (the fallen gnome Fitzbit’s sister) to Eveningstar to sell treasure, purchase supplies (including a scroll of _raise dead_), and find out what the grapevine has to say about the Lady Tess and this new Lord Ilthais Truesilver.

Enkil, Merkatha and myself will take Maktar Jai into the delve and see what we can’t do about retrieving the body of Bern.


_20 Flamerule_

We have made a makeshift camp in the armory off the Halls of the Aq Med, and will leave Maktar Jai to guard our things while Merkatha, Enkil and myself attempt to recover Bern’s corpse.  I will go down alone, of course, and it should be an enjoyable climb.  Who knows what mysteries might await me at the bottom of the crevice!


_20 Flamerule_

‘Wealth does not come easily to an adventurer’, they say.  They also say, ‘never bargain with a dragon’, and am I glad that we did not!

The climb to the bottom was arduous, and as I descended lower, I became convinced that the chasm actually opened into a much larger cave that contained part of the underground lake we discovered near the halls of Clan Thurarin.

Fortunately, Bern’s corpse bounced clear of the lake, and was lying on a ten-foot dry outcropping near the water’s edge.  The spinagon’s remains were nearby as well, and after I looted a fine-looking ring and a pair of dwarven-worked bracers from the little leathery corpse, I set about removing Bern’s mangled remains from the wreckage of his armor.  An altogether unpleasant task, I assure you, but quite enlightening in the anatomical sense.

As I was regarding Bern’s inner workings, I noticed a light upon the lake, steadily moving toward me.  Damned if it didn’t look like a sailing vessel!  As tempting as it was to lurk down below and see what the vessel was, discretion has always formed the better part of my valor, and I used a _levitate_ potion to return Bern and myself to the base of the stairs.

Merkatha and Enkil briefly examined the corpse, and we were getting a litter ready for him when a black snake, as big around as my waist, appeared over the edge of the chasm, and asked us if we were prepared to surrender our magic items!  The audacity of some reptiles, I thought to myself, and prepared to shoot the thing right between its eyes, when the scaly beast transformed itself into a dragon and spat _darkness_ upon us.  

Well, it spat darkness upon Enkil and Merkatha.  I was hiding.

We fled as fast as our legs could carry us, and as it turns out I am quite a bit faster than the others.  At any rate, the covetous reptilian horror followed us to the armory, and we were forced into a glorious last stand.  I know that we all felt our last moments were upon us when we saw the black monstrosity slither toward us down that long hall.

Ashnern, you must be thinking, “Ha ha, that crafty rascal ‘Fernal will never die,” and how right you are!  We surrounded the beast, and I ran it through!  It was glorious!  Of course, the others helped, and we were able to slay the dragon, although Maktar Jai was lost.  I am fairly sure the dragon is a young one, because it is no larger than a pair of draft horses end to end, and its tactics were very foolish.  I think I shall be rich after all.


_20 Flamerule_

Upon our return to Storm’s Rise, we discover that we have been invited to dinner with the new lord.  Festivities await!


_20 Flamerule_

I’m not sure which is more dangerous, exploring dungeons or putting to paper one’s thoughts about the Powers That Be.  I suspect that the second is worse, but as I’m never one to shrink in the face of imprisonment or execution, I will free associate:  Loud, smelly, arrogant, boorish and lascivious.

Dinner with the lord was trying, but I do think that the Lady fancies me.  Selise assures me that Cormyrian courtly love does not follow the same patterns as it does in Zhentil Keep, so I must improvise!

Would that I was one of the plane-touched who did not naturally smell of sulfur.


----------



## Krellic

I'm loving this journal, the style and the story are great!


----------



## Piratecat

Fernal is my new hero.  You know those times when you say, "Boy, I wish I was on the other side of the country so that I could play in their game?" Well, this is one of them.


----------



## (contact)

We wish you were out here as well, PC!

Hey, I just posted images of Fernal and Enkil in my art thread, if you'd like to see them.

This was a fun-ass dungeon crawl, but it took a dark turn, as we'll soon see . . .

(Never get off the boat.  Never get off the boat.  Never get off the boat.  Never get . . . )


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## blargney

(contact), this journal is awesome!!  At first I was sort of mystified as to its presence in the thread, but now I'm just enjoying it for the good readin' it is! 

-blarg


----------



## (contact)

blargney said:
			
		

> *(contact), this journal is awesome!!  At first I was sort of mystified as to its presence in the thread, but now I'm just enjoying it for the good readin' it is!
> 
> -blarg *




Thanks, blarg!

Are you still mystified?  Taran, Thelbar, Indy, Kyreel and Rex heard about an abandoned Dwarven Delve waaaay back around 4th level, finally made it there by eighth, got their asses handed to them by a pair of white dragons, stumbled into Faerun and have now found the *Faerunian* entrance of the same damn Delve! 


*From Chapter 4:* 

The traders linger in town for a few days, and Indy hosts them, toasting to their clan, and their Fane.  This troubles one of the dwarves, and after beating around the subject for a proper length of time, tells Indy the following story:

He is from a dwarven hall near Ratik known as the Great Delve.  He, like many other young dwarves were forced to expatriate because his King had gone mad.  The King lost his senses sometime after a visit from a group of strange dwarves who came up from the Underdark, but claimed to be surface dwarves from a burrow far, far away.

The dwarf presents his shield, a gift from the foreign dwarves.  Indy is shocked and transfixed by the glyph.  He is sure he has seen it before, but cannot recall where.  He reacts very emotionally to the symbol, and knows it to be the warren mark of the Filas Hali.  None of the other dwarves recognize this name.
Further, the dwarf from the Great Delve tells Indy that the foreign dwarves had a king – a king by the name of Alvodar.  The name sends tendrils of memory through Indy, and he is sure he has known this dwarf.

The rest of the party needs little convincing, as they recognize the name of Alvodar themselves, though none of them know exactly why.  They are sure that this Alvodar is a being of great virtue, and must certainly be sought.  If the dwarves of the Great Delve are having troubles, and Alvodar is there, then into the Great Delve they shall go.

In the interim, the Risen Goddess and LoT group has run an entire campaign inside this exact same dungeon-- in order to deal with the burden of "player knowledge" we have contrived for the log of Fearless 'Fernal to fall into the hands of the Champions of the Risen Goddess.

Because I won't be adding lengthy explanations every time a new name or place pops up in the RG log, I thought you all might like to read Fernal's journal yourself, in order to get up to your usual high speed.  

They first heard about the Delve at 4th level, and here it is again, staring their 19th-level selves in the face.


----------



## (contact)

*Great Delve 7*

_20 Flamerule_

Ashnern, you should have seen the look on your face when I told you that we killed a dragon in the depths.  Your excitement was a fine reward all its own, and your gratitude even finer.  Now we are in the possession of no less than four potions and a magical wand in exchange for a dragon corpse!  You told me that the wand produces fireballs when pointed at an area, but cautioned me to be careful.  Little do you know that careful is my middle name!

Selise has determined to assist the Lady Tess in the regaining of her ancestral lands.  I’m no revolutionary, but I cannot help but to think that any ruler, no matter how young or inexperienced, would serve better than this abysmal Lord Truesilver.  He is as dense as one of Tickler’s day-old biscuits, and I've known Zhentarim enforcers who were more personable.  And his breath?  Gods in their heaven, I have never smelled such a foul odor emanating from something that was not yet dead!

His wife does seem quite delectable, however, and with any luck I shall have the truth of her!


_23 Flamerule_

Selise made her trip to Eveningstar, and obtained a scroll containing the spell that _raised_ Bern from the dead.  I can say with some surprise that I’m glad to see the gruff old cleric, and I think he’s glad to be back as well.

After playing at being Gods with the body of Bern, we returned to the entrance of the Great Delve and were set upon in a most cowardly (if well-planned) ambush!

Goblin archers and skirmishers had dug in to the cliffs surrounding the opening, and before we even knew we were in a fight, we were riddled with arrows!  Wolf-riders completed the pincer-move, attacking us from within the Great Highway, and I daresay if it wasn’t for Selise’s counter-shooting, and Bern and Enkil’s heroism, none of us would yet live.

The _wand of fireballs_ given to me by Ashnern works fine, although I’m ashamed to admit that I was thinking about the new Lady of Storm’s Rise when he was explaining it to me.  I pointed the wrong end at our foes, and set off a _fireball_ in our midst.  The blast knocked me unconscious, but my friends tell me that it was quite impressive.

Alas, when I awoke, I learned that Enkil has been sent to join the Twenty Martyrs of Moradin that he made us memorize.  He was guarding our retreat into the Delve, when he was struck to the ground and literally de-faced by a goblin’s cowardly coup-de-grace.  If the body wasn’t wearing Enkil’s armor, I would not have recognized it, I’m afraid.

Bern thinks that Enkil should be left in the Temple to Moradin here, along with all his magic!  I argued that we should sell his items, but the party supported Bern.  It is probably just as well, for I confess I am ignorant about Metaphysics, and if Bern says Moradin would be angry with me for selling His Holy Relics, he surely knows best.

But I’m sure that Moradin would not begrudge me the coin value of Enkil’s masterwork armor.  After all, who really wants to worship a stingy deity?


_23 Flamerule_

Thanks to Selise’s quick thinking, we captured one of the goblins, and the little dirty thing was quite informative.  Apparently, these goblins are from the Stonelands, and entirely ignorant of the goblins within the Delve.  They have found a pass through the mountains into Cormyr, and begun to raid through it.  Worse yet, this attack on us was contracted by some human who gave the beasts our description and location!  Would you think less of me, Ashnern, if I brought your name up during our discussion of possible culprits?  Of course, the Lord Truesilver was also mentioned, but whatever mechanisms would place the man responsible with _guarding_ the pass in an alliance with the goblins who intend to exploit it are beyond me.

In addition, the creature told us of a captive, an elven woman that they were fattening up like a liver goose.  We discovered her in a nearby cave, and after Bern _healed_ the worst of her wounds, she volunteered to cast in lots with us.  She fights in the style of her people, with sword and spell at the same time.  Her name is Aree, and she seems to be the worst sort of elf—arrogant, snobbish and aloof.  Much like my mother, although without my mother’s fine appreciation for cruelty.

I suspect Merkatha will murder Aree before too long, if first impressions count for anything.  


_26 Flamerule_

No time for a proper entry—I have a secret meeting with the Lady Truesilver to attend, and I will be Damned if I cannot find some way to smell pleasant before this sun goes down!


_29 Flamerule_

I write this from a very-well appointed chamber in the Royal Suite at Arabel.  We have an appointment with the Steel Regent that she is currently two hours late for, so until she arrives, I will keep busy by bringing this journal up to date.

Our explorations beyond the Hanging Gardens led to a flooded passage, similar to the Great Highway, but under some five feet of water.  Midway along this passage, we discovered a gruesome and mystical sight:  A dwarf, certainly long dead, floats in the air above the flooded passage, dripping a steady stream of what looks and tastes like blood!  (Yes I tasted it, Ashnern, please don’t tell the others.)  Whatever this fellow did to be cursed in this way must have been truly heinous!

Venturing past the corpse through the flooded passages, we discovered a most impressive site, named All Roads Meet by the dwarven runes that decorate the place.  There seems to be a central chamber that extends up through to the top of the mountain, and likewise below to an unknown depth.  A central shaft pierces it in both directions, and there is a moving platform inside that shaft that must be sufficient in size to ferry a score of mounted men.  Along the sides of the shaft are stairs, for those who cannot or would not wait for the platform.

This shaft is the key to the whole of this Great Delve.  Through it, we could ascend to its heights, or plumb its depths, as we see fit.  Of course, we have not fully explored the level that we entered into, and there is a certain school of thought that would argue against leaving unexplored caverns behind you, but temptation fouls the plans of even the wisest adventurers, so up we went.

We’ve made no sense of how or when the platform travels, save that we can hear it rumbling along in the shaft, and we see its tracks.  As we have not discovered the truth of it, we were forced to take the stairs.  The journey upwards took us the better part of a day (if my sense of time is still with me), and I stopped counting steps at three thousand and five.

Once above, we ran afoul of a pair of winged humanlike monstrosities, seemingly carved whole of stone.  We managed to dispatch them, but only with a great effort.  Exhausted, we determined to rest a while, then return to the more familiar Great Cavern, and finish the exploration of it.

As we made our way back to the fungal forest, we stumbled upon a group of dwarven mercenaries—adventurers like ourselves judging from their equipment and the way they attacked us completely without provocation.  Their spellcasters fell to our counter-attack, but their warrior proved to be the cream of the crop.  Honestly, he very nearly defeated us all single-handedly, but in the end we were victorious.  

Sadly, Bern was killed by this mighty dwarf, and his spirit seems to have gone missing.

As we ransacked their warm corpses for magical loot, one of us (I think it was Selise) stumbled upon a most troubling letter.  These dwarves, it seems, were emissaries from a nation to the East.  Here is the whole of it:


_Lord Uqaraq,

Our time is near.  Our forces rally on the human’s eastern border.  We shall push through effortlessly.  Like all humans, they have no stomach for war.  But these are especially weak, as their king is but a babe and they are led by a woman.  

There will be no resistance, and soon we shall be reunited again.  Millennia have passed since we could say this, but now the time is at hand.  Kor’En Eamor will be ours again.  And the Great Father God Hepis will return to lead us out of the darkness.

Hepis’ speed,

Crown Prince Rellerik Strongsoul
Regent and Heir to the Kingdom of Vesper Hall
Scion of the Qarlur Thalbarak _


Of course, you don’t need me to tell you that despite these dwarves’ most fervent wishes the Eastern border of Cormyr is already occupied.  We call that place Sembia, and if this note is true, the Sembians must be in league with these dwarves from Vesper Hall.  It is well known that the Sembians covet Cormyr’s land, and perhaps now they think they have found the allies to help them take it.

“Qarlur Thalbarak” is an ancient phrase that means literally “Treachery’s Killers”.  A dwarven military order?  It seems that the worship of Hepis is not lost to the mists of time after all.  Whoever Lord Uqaraq is, I suspect that he dwells within the Delve, and it was him that the dwarves were seeking when they attacked us.  At least, we know now who the degenerate dwarves we first faced within the Delve belong to, and what they desire.  But I cannot believe that there is an entire dwarven nation worshipping an unknown god.  Perhaps Enkil is wrong, and the dwarves have hidden wicked cults among their number as well?  And if this cult holds sway over the heir to Vesper Hall?  This is exactly the sort of thing that starts wars, I tell you, and wars are notoriously bad for those of us in the adventuring profession.

It is none of my business what these Southerners do with their spare time, and frankly I could care less who authorizes our adventuring charter, but I am starting to fear that this Steel Regent will conscript us, or at the least force Selise into service.

Curse these humans and their half-measured attempts at political contrivances.  Where is a pit-fiend to show them how it is done when you need one?


_29 Flamerule_

You would scold me, Ashnern, but I have given the Lady Truesliver a magical potion from my own treasure hoard.  It a simple _potion of endurance_, good for a few hours’ pleasant vigor, but wasted on her.  Of course, my intent is simply to encourage her to drink any further potions I might offer—surely I can commission a _love draught_ here in Arabel!

Life is grand.


_30 Flamerule_

I knew it.

It is the studied opinion of the Steel Regent that Kor’En Eamor represents a “great and necessary resource for Noble Cormyr”, and that we are to suffer a Royal Command to “explore and secure the treasures of the Great Delve for the current War Effort”.  

Bleh.  As if Noble Cormyr has any say-so within the Great Delve.  Of course, Selise will kowtow to her liege, but at least we are all agreed that the less that oafish Ilthais Truesilver knows about our efforts, the better.  If there is one thing I simply cannot abide, it is supervision.

Alas, Ashnern, the Steel Regent has sent a sage back to Storm’s Rise with us, in the hopes that he can assist you in determining the truth of the Great Delve.  Rath is his name.  He is a pale and gutless fellow, and Merkatha has already terrified the poor lad to his core.  I am amused by his cowardly antics.  I hope you find him more pliant than we have, but I fear he will be useless to us all.


_1 Eleasis_

(Written in a shaky hand)

I am as hung-over as I have ever been.  They certainly know how to light the Midsummer Fires here in Arabel.


_6 Eleasis_ 

While Bitzfit prepares scrolls, and Selise visits her kin, I have been left to prance about after Chance, who is prancing about after that ridiculous bard she is so enamored with.  Gods take us all, she behaves like a besotted schoolgirl, and I none the better.  

To complete our three-part-rod of stupidity, the bard (of course) prances after himself.  To quote the famous poet, “_There are no victors in war / only those who do not succumb_”.  I think we can say the same for love.

Take me back to the Delve, O fates, where at least the beings that want you dead will do you the courtesy of being obvious about it.


----------



## blargney

(contact) said:
			
		

> *They first heard about the Delve at 4th level, and here it is again, staring their 19th-level selves in the face. *




Railroading DM!  Railroading DM! *grin*

Consider me de-mystified!  (thank you!)
-blarg


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## (contact)

blargney said:
			
		

> *
> 
> Railroading DM!  Railroading DM! *grin**



*

He's persistant, I'll give him that.  Actually, we don't *have* to go into the delve, but as it happens, we really want to make this peace with Elgin Trezler, and "solving" the problem with the Northern dwarves would go a long way to putting him in our eternal debt.  In fact, if we can get those dwarves back to the Silver Marches where they belong, then they can bear the brunt of the onrushing orcish horde.

Otherwise, it's orc-overrun city for Taran and Thelbar's latest project in social engineering.  

Finding out that Lathander has joined the pasoun, making Elgin (and by extension Cormyr) kind of a blood-brother to T&T just solidifies it.  We're goin in.

Plus, it's only after Taran has run his big mouth about how much of this dungeon's ass he's going to kick that we find out that it's the *same* *damn* *place* we ran from levels and levels and levels ago.

Taran is now obligated by his own ego to go kick that dungeon's ass.  (I almost wrote "overblown ego", but you know, he's 19th freaking level.  It's not "overblown" anymore.)

As a player, I'm stoked, because I Know What's In There (tm).*


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## (contact)

*Great Delve 8*

_9 Eleasis_ 

I hate Arabel, and don’t mind if I never see it again.  Bitzfit, for her part is maddening, and refused my gift of a magical cloak, claiming that she does not accept gifts from people of my reputation.  My reputation!  She claims to have it from the mouth of both Bern and Chance that I am a being of low moral character.

Low moral character, indeed.

She should beware the dark cliffs of the Delve, for I would not climb alone to recover her corpse.  Accidents do happen, after all.


_19 Eleasis_ 

We are back in Storm’s Rise, and on the morrow, Selise, Aree, Bitzfit and myself will return to the Delve.  We hope to re-join Merkatha and Maktar Jai, then explore the Southernmost end of the Great Cavern, and discover which clan-burrow awaits us there.  

I never thought I would say this, but I really feel at home here.  The air is most often cold enough to put a layer of ice on any water left out overnight, and the simple food agrees with me.

Bitzfit notwithstanding, I am coming to really enjoy the company of my other companions, and we are starting to find some real wealth here.  I have commissioned a hat of disguise that I intend to present to Merkatha.  Perhaps it will be sufficient to make up for past transgressions, and cement the bonds of friendship between us.  It occurs to me how highly these others value friendship, placing it above all other considerations.  Certainly, this plays to my advantage, as a wealthy infernal can have no shortage of friends!

The Lady Tess has gone missing, probably fled in disgrace.  She left no word, but seems to have taken her seneschal with her.  Likely, she searches for relatives or other nobles who will shelter her in the South.  Selise is worried (due to all the goblin activity in the mountains) that Tess may have stumbled into an ambush.

It is interesting to me how important the lives of the noble class can seem to one another.

Tomorrow, we go back into the Great Delve, and shrug off this twin yoke of Politics and War!  Like a novice on my first foray, I am tantalized by my dreams of what is to come!


_Undated entry_

(Written in a clumsy elven script)

Fernal died.  We said a short prayer for his soul, but in truth he had no god.  The gnolls ate him, and left no remains to bury unless you sift their sh-t.  

I commend your soul to whatever fate you have earned for it Fernal, and Kiransalee willing, I will avenge your death as I avenge my own suffering.

-- Merkatha


----------



## Joshua Randall

Wow. I dig the abrupt ending to the journal. Merkatha's terse entry is a perfect contrast to Fernal's long-winded writing style.

I'm looking forward to Taran kicking the dungeon's ass!


----------



## Single Malt

(contact) said:
			
		

> .
> .
> .
> _Undated entry_
> 
> (Written in a clumsy elven script)
> 
> Fernal died.  We said a short prayer for his soul, but in truth he had no god.  The gnolls ate him, and left no remains to bury unless you sift their sh-t.
> 
> I commend your soul to whatever fate you have earned for it Fernal, and Kiransalee willing, I will avenge your death as I avenge my own suffering.
> 
> -- Merkatha [/B]




You know, as wierd as this may sound, this was a really, really sad moment for me. Even though I (sorta) knew it was going to happen. Even though Fernals time in the spotlight has been short compared to the rest of the SH. Even though.....even though.....*sob* Well, I guess you always expect the chronicler to survive, especially one so full of life and ideas and dreams as Fernal.

The matter-of-factness of Merkathas entry just underlines the sadness of it all and the grittyness of an adventurers life that Fernal understood fully (I think). *sob* Hate to see you go, little buddy

You really have a knack for portraying the rougish types (contact), even though I can't remember the name of that unforgettable assassin over in the RttToEE campaign. Kinda contradicting myself here, aren't I. Chalk it up to grief. 

I'll shut up now


----------



## blargney

Poor what's-his-face.  We'll remember him just like that other guy, what's-his-name.

-blarg

ps - How could you ever forget Lucius?!?  *boggle*


----------



## (contact)

*Great Delve 9*

_Eleint the 6th_

(Written in a more steady High Elvish)


Aree pens these words.  I have been given the task of continuing this “Monstrologist’s Log”.  But before you make any further false assumptions, Ashnern, I intend to keep no record of anything that does not stir my own interest.  Make of that what you will.

I will not attempt to clarify past events from the previously maudlin and short-sighted entries.  Eyewitnesses are dying at an accelerated rate, so interview them while you still can is my best advice.


_Eleint the 6th_

We have been threatened by an individual claiming to be the high priest of Moradin.  Not _a_ mind you, but _the_.  He tells us that Kor’En Eamor is taboo—the most proscribed place in Faerun.  None are to set foot within it, especially dwarves.

He was waiting for us at the entrance into the Great Highway as we exited the place, and I think his speech was prepared.  Since we have already broken the taboo, we are now charged by him with keeping other dwarves out.  I can only assume he refers to the dwarves of Vesper hall, who march on Cormyr.


_Eleint the 6th_

The Halls of the Earth and Grain are where we lost ‘Fernal.  He was ravaged and eaten by a half-dozen gnoll lycanthropes in full view of that drow.

The Lord Ilthais gave us one of his retainers in response, a warrior named Shel, whom I suppose he believed was cleverly disguised as just another adventurer.  Fortunately, the gnolls killed her before she could betray us to him.  We killed the gnolls in return, a fair exchange, in my opinion.

In the halls of Earth and Grain, the drow discovered the former home of this Alvodar Cursebreaker.  He is survived by his own writing, found in a hidden chapel to Moradin:


_Great Father I have failed you.  I have forsaken you for your wonders.  Once your scion, now I am lost_.


A fallen priest comes as no surprise in these cursed halls, but there is one true wonder in the Halls of Earth and Grain.  A _portal_ exiting the hall leads to another land entirely.  It is my opinion that it is the Prime Material plane, but not Faerun.  I have chosen not to explore the world beyond the _portal_.

However, I do not need my eyes’ own evidence to deduce that it must be the homeland of the fallen king-priest Alvodar.  His writing and his work are here, along with a throne room, more recently appointed than the rest of the place.  Apparently he did not break the curse of Kor’En Eamor, despite his name.  

If you will refer to the passages detailing the trading venture established by the spinagon Baatezu, and the goods found therein, you will realize that my postulates are proving themselves correct by the moment, Ashnern.  Surrender your pig-headed contention to the contrary, I beg you, before you humiliate yourself any further in futile argument.

The drow met a human wizardess while scuttling around the Halls of Earth and Grain, and this woman claims to be from the other side of the portal, a land she calls Isk.

She has given her name as T’sdeal, and seems a refreshingly educated woman, once one gets past her foreign accent and stilted diction.  The drow terrifies her of course, and it is as if a second sane point of view were suddenly inserted into an ongoing and terrible nightmare.  I daresay I will like her, given time.


_Eleint the 7th_


It is exactly as I have told you, Ashnern, this place is a nexus of _portals_ leading to who knows how many worlds.  Let me note for you the writing upon an artifact we have determined belonged to this Alvodar Cursebreaker.  This is my translation from the Auld Dwarvish, of course.  The Song of Ceridain:


_Like a great vein of iron
my roots reach deep
I touch a thousand worlds
The Throne to All Dwarvenkind

I am their ore, life, their refuge
Of the fabric of the universe
by the Great Father’s hand

 My halls teem with works so great
All other gods weep with envy

Kor’En Eamor_


Note that I do not translate Kor’En Eamor as “First Home” but as “Throne to all Dwarvenkind”.  That is a poetic rendering of the literal “Direction toward which all bow”.  Obviously, they do not mean “all beings” when they say “all”, but rather “all dwarves”.  However, they use the inclusive “Ŝ”-rune, indicating that the subject is the whole of the idea, rather than a specific group.  You can argue if you wish, but my translation is flawless.

Thus, we have the First Home of the dwarves, existing simultaneously as a metaphysical idea, a religious metaphor, and a physical gateway to every place that dwarves reside.  

This tri-part existence forms the crux of my argument, Ashnern, and I refer you once again to the Liven Chroncicles, which you have so passively dismissed.

Further, note that in the original passage, the Throne of All Dwarvenkind is given the personal rune “I”—in the sense of a being, which is a break from the Dwarven tradition of anthropomorphizing works of craft in their poetry, if I am not mistaken.  I will leave it to you to decide if that is relevant, or simply an affectation.  I have a hard time believing that a place can be a being, despite the scribblings of a long-dead poet.

I am preparing to give this journal to our new companion T’sdeal, for her study, and I am sure you will find that your weak contentions will now be doubly opposed.


Undated entry

The seal of Lord Ilthais Truesilver is stamped over the seal of Storm’s Rise.  A scribe’s practiced hand notes:  “_Trnscrbd in entrty, Elient 8, DR 1372_ ”



_Eleint the 9th_

Selise is justifiably angry with T’sdeal for passing this journal into the hands of Lord Truesilver, but there is little he can do to us, as we are currently under charter from none other than the Steel Regent herself.

Tomorrow we are back into the mines, and I will dutifully hunt for what you seek.


_Elient the 10th_

In searching for another way to find the elevator Fernal noted earlier (and the flank of the Kuo-Toan and orcish forces he neglected to mention), we discovered a chamber marked as the Room of Golden Writing.  It seems to be a storehouse for historical lore.  Right now, the group is agitated and desires to get back at the Kuo-Toans.  That drow in particular hates them for what she claims to have suffered at the hands of others like them, but you know what I think of her stories already.


_Elient the 13th_

Kor’En Eamor is a delicate tightrope act masquerading as a bludgeoning tool.

Do you recall the gargoyles that we destroyed on the level above?  They were in an alliance with a band of orcs, led by a powerful outworlder fighter.  His group had previously been part of a second orcish band, which includes the majority of their elites, and is now led by an outworlder wizard, his former boon companion.  At one time they were one larger group, although kept in slavery by the Kuo-Toans.

Several years ago, they rebelled against the Kuo-Toans, and shortly thereafter became masters of the level above.  Some time recently, however, the outworlders had a falling out, and split their band into two factions, and the subsequent fighting quickly settled into a détente.  The warrior allied with the gargoyles, but the wizard had the elites.

The gargoyles were immune to the elites’ weapons and neutralized their advantage, but were not enough in and of themselves to grant their group victory.  And so it remained for several years an uneasy peace.

Then we came along and killed the gargoyles, which disrupted their standoff.  The wizard’s group responded by attacking, defeating and assimilating the other group, and then were able to finish their revenge upon the Kuo-Toans, who were weakened from our own previous raid against them.

By the time we arrived, all the Kuo-Toans were dead, the orcish forces greatly reduced, and the remainder unable to resist us.  Frankly, we could not have played it better than we did in our own total ignorance.

The wizard and his former companion hailed from a world they called Pentak Seline, which means “Dancing Under the Moon”.  They were heavily tattooed and made easy use of magic, as do T’sdeal’s people.  The wizard was a wand-crafter, and had trained several of his filthy orcs to use them.

We’ve slain the wizard, and intend to go back in the morning to finish the remaining orcs.  What I have related of their recent history we learned from the diary of the warrior outworlder, which we captured today.  


_Eleint the 23rd_

Now here’s something for you Ashnern—the wizard also kept meticulous writings, and it was his belief that the Kuo-Toans who were masters of the place when he arrived were themselves previously subjugated by illithidi.

The drow asserts that the mind-flayers still hold the lower reaches of Kor’En Eamor and were her captors.  She states that she reserves the better part of her hate for them, and whether this is her suicidal bent emerging or simply good sense I deem not to care.

This place has been a fertile ground for conquest.  Apparently, over the millennia, uncountable groups have found their way here through the _portals_, and all have discovered that like most prizes, Kor’En Eamor is easier to seize than it is to hold.  

Note this: _No beings can reproduce here_.  They enter as fertile as the day they were born, but once ensconced, they neither grow old nor do they breed.  Food is plentiful, as is the treasure of dwarven past, and warfare is the norm.  Over time, each force is whittled away until it is finally replaced by another group.

We seem to be the latest manifestation of this unnatural natural order.

Are you aware, Ashnern, of any force that can upend nature so?  I am not, save for the will of the gods.  You agree, I am sure, that we have determined an aspect of Moradin’s greater curse upon this place.  Perhaps a return to the Room of Golden Writing will reveal more.

At any rate, I shall see you soon, for we are off to Storm’s Rise in the morning.  Selise is gravely worried about her Lady Tess, and I think she is near to abandoning Kor’En Eamor altogether in favor of a political quest.  So be it, I am myself longing for some other life.  I think that I have repaid my debt to my rescuers, and hope to soon return to my home.  We will converse more on the morrow.  May I find you well.


----------



## blargney

*Re: Great Delve 9*



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> The seal of Lord Ilthais Truesilver is stamped over the seal of Storm’s Rise.  A scribe’s practiced hand notes:  “_Trnscrbd in entrty, Elient 8, DR 1372_ ”
> 
> Kor’En Eamor is a delicate tightrope act masquerading as a bludgeoning tool.




Ahhh.. PC backstabbing.  Gotta love it!  Was the journal supposed to be a secret?

The tightrope line is just awesome  You have a knack for making metaphors!!
-blarg


----------



## (contact)

Prior to this point, the party was concerned that if the boorish and stupid Lord Ilthais found out what was *really* going on in Kor'En eamor, he would do something a) boorish, or b) stupid.

T'sdeal had not been informed about this deception, so when questioned by the Lord, replied "hey, what little I know is all from this book".


----------



## (contact)

(A new handwriting appears, stately and elegant)


_Marpenoth the 3rd, DR 1372_

So much has transpired that I fear will be lost to time should I not write it here.  This filthy book is what must substitute for my own comfortable study, which I likely will not see for some time, if ever.

My name is Ashnern, sage of Storm’s Rise and former pupil to the great Elias the Silver in the Halls of Oghma, Arabel.  I have seen sixty winters come and go, and I believe with all my heart that this past month has been the worst of my life.

So many have died, and now it falls to me to record the names of the fallen.

I put pen to paper from within the Room of Golden Writing in the Halls of Kor’En Eamor, First Home and Throne of All Dwarvenkind.  Tomorrow, I will begin my studies here in earnest, but tonight I must scribe a tale of blackest treachery and perdifery.  Bear with me, sages to come, as much of what I must relate is cruel in the extreme.

The Lord Ilthais Truesilver is a scoundrel of the blackest temperament.  On the night of Elient the 24th, Lord Truesilver arrested the adventurers styled as the Band of the Great Delve.

At that time, goblin and giantish forces from the Stonelands came through the pass, operating under an alliance of the four main tribes there and occupied Storm’s Rise, with the blessing of Ilthais Truesilver.  Lord Truesilver dispatched two large contingents of goblinoids into the delve to search for Ceridain Lifegiver, whom he refers to as Ceridain Death-Caller.

Merkatha witnessed this event, as she alone escaped arrest.

The adventurers, along with myself and my niece and nephew, were placed into the dungeons beneath the Lord’s Manor, and forced to witness a terrible speech.  He announced his intent to find and awaken this Ceridain, and sacrifice us all to dark powers.  Ilthais Truesilver is a devout member of Cyric’s faith, and priest to the Mad God.  Alas, that I saw no sign of such a dark truth.  I was blind, and shall regret my failing for the rest of my days.

His first victim was the Lady Tess, who had been his prisoner since her disappearance some six weeks ago.  They misused her in front of us, then beheaded her in a vile ritual that we were all forced to witness.  Ilthais promised us that one of our number would face the same fate each day until we were all dead.

His allies include his Lady Arlewen, an entity revealed as no human after all.  She is a succubus, a type of fiend often encountered away from the Abyssal planes, charged with the corruption of mortal souls and the spread of evil amongst the Prime Material.

They have several lesser clerics of Cyric with them, all of whom answer to Ilthais, and amongst their number is a blackguard—a true black knight.  Rounding out their unholy alliance, the infamous Sorcerer-Queen of the Stoneland goblins stands with them.  Why such a worthy would deign to trifle with a traitorous priest of Cyric is beyond me.

Aree was their next victim, and was sacrificed to Cyric on Elient the 26th.  May her gods rescue her soul from the damnation that was intended for it.

Fortunately, Merkatha was not passive during this time, and was able to gain intelligence about the goblin occupying army.  They represent a unilateral force comprised of four separate tribes from the Stonelands.  Had I been able, I would have advised her to wait for a division amongst the goblin groups, but she intuitively understood what my studies have revealed.

The tenuous alliance broke down, and internecine fighting broke out within Storm’s Rise.  Merkatha heroically took advantage of this confusion to find us, and liberate us from our prison.  Stranger still, the silent dwarf Winterbeard himself told her of the secret passage exiting Storm’s Rise that we used to escape—the dwarf spoke for the first time in the memory of any living man or woman among us.

We were unable to retrieve the body of Aree, but the corpse of the Lady Tess, rightful ruler of Storm’s Rise, came into our possession.

We made a hasty alliance with a handful of hobgoblins who professed hatred for the Sorcerer Queen, and while the majority of their force returned to the Stonelands to warn their kin about the Sorcerer Queen’s treachery, a pair of them assisted our escape.

In our flight from the Lord’s dungeons, Merkatha was able to steal his _crystal ball_, no doubt the scrying device he had used to keep a watch on us.  Unfortunately, it would not be ours for long.

After a night of heated fighting within the town, the Lord Ilthais had regained control of Storm’s Rise, and sent a seek-and-destroy group out after us.

We defeated this group in an ambush, and I am proud to say that equipped with a pair of wands taken from the orcish forces in Kor’En Eamor, I was able to assist that struggle.

Shortly thereafter, the Lord himself appeared, and we fought with him and his Lady the demoness.  The Lord fled from the battle once he was weakened, but we overcame his paramour, and put her to the sword.

I believe now that Ilthais loved Arlewen in some strange way.  His response to her death was as cruel as it was impassioned.  As retaliation for our small victory, Ilthais ordered his goblin servitors to fling the elderly of Storm’s Rise from the city’s walls.  We were able to witness this tragedy from our hiding place, and I tell you without shame that I was not the only one to shed tears of helplessness and rage.

That next day, T’sdeal used Ilthais’ _crystal ball_ to scry his henchman, the black knight.  We determined that they were still within the Manor, and while I waited for the group at a hidden rally-point, the Band of the Great Delve assaulted the Lord, hoping to finish what they had started.

Selise, Merkatha, Bitzfit, Vai, and T’sdeal, along with two hardy hobgoblin warriors assaulted the Manor.  They dealt a terrible blow to the Cyric worshippers, but were forced to retreat.  Vai, T’sdeal, and both hobgoblins were killed in the assault.

After the failed attack, we quickly fled to Eveningstar to warn the Lady Tessaril of the dire happenings in forgotten Storm’s Rise.  Those of you not familiar with our region may not immediately see the distinction between Tess of Storm’s Rise, and Tessaril, of Eveningstar, but I assure you they are as different as night and day.  Tessaril is a glorious lady, possessing a powerful gift with magic and (if rumors can be believed) a dear friend to the Harpers.


_Marpenoth, the 4th_

The Lady Tessaril heard our news, but had terrible news of her own, which I shall relate here, in an attempt to place our struggle within the broader historical context.

On Eleasis the 10th, the dwarven army from Vesper Hall reached the border to Cormyr and sued for free passage.  On the 20th, the Steel Regent refused them, and declared a state of general war against Vesper Hall.  A half-hearted Sembian attempt to broker peace collapsed, and both sides prepared their forces.

On the 10th of Elient, the battle of Smuggling Stone was engaged, pitting the forces of Vesper Hall against the bulk of the Cormyrian defense.

On the 12th, the entire priesthood of Moradin amongst the Vesper Hall dwarves was murdered as they slept.  The dwarves and Sembians blame Cormyr, who is denying any involvement.

On the 16th, Sembian warships began a general practice of seizing Cormyrian merchant vessels, despite the lack of a formal declaration of war. 

On the 24th, combined dwarven and Sembian forces managed to navigate the Thunder Gap and Way of the Manticore, a feat previously believed impossible for an army to accomplish.  They have since flanked the Cormyrian defenders, and occupy a large section of Southeastern Cormyr.

On the 25th, goblins and their giant allies emerged through the pass and took Storm’s Rise, at the invitation of its Cormyrian Lord.  A gathering of Goblin Nations was convened on the 28th, but subsequently fell apart due to a series of assassinations targeting the leaders of the Four Clans, at the direction of the Sorcerer Queen.

We escaped the dungeons beneath the Lord’s Manor that night.

On the 30th, Ilthais massacred the helpless citizenry of Storm’s Rise in retaliation for the death of Arlewen, and subsequently _animated_ their corpses as walking dead.


_Marpenoth the 4th_

The Lady of Eveningstar promised to send whatever aid she can spare, and has instructed a pair of Lathander’s faithful to join our cause.  The cleric Ashara and her paladin cohort Baeren were able to return the body of the Lady Tess to life.  

Our band now numbers six:  Ashara, cleric and divine emissary of Lathander; Baeren, holy warrior of Lathander; Bitzfit the gnomish druid and transmuter; Merkatha, the drow scout; Tess, the true Lady of Storm’s Rise; Selise, our noblewoman archer; and myself.  My assistant Rath, sent to me by the Steel Regent of Arabel two months ago, joins me here as well.


(A list of the murdered people of Storm’s Rise follows, including their names and professions.)


----------



## Joshua Randall

The Great Delve adventure is starting to sound like _Return to the Temple of Elemental Evil II: This Time, It's War!_

In related news, I've decided that the reason (contact)'s game is so much cooler than mine is that *more people die* in his. Therefor, starting immediately, I plan to kill one PC per session.

(Has there been any research regarding the link between PC death and player enjoyment?)


----------



## dpdx

I don't have the BoVD, but flinging the elderly from the walls (I'm imagining this was done with catapults) sounds like it came right out of that playbook. If it didn't, however, BoVD should be edited to include this tactic. Amazingly and absolutely evil; this Ilthais is one for the legends.

That being said, I can't wait to hear about Taran and Thelbar taking this on.


----------



## (contact)

For the record, since about the time when Elgin Trezler and his buddies smashed Taran and Thelbar's stronghold, the TOEE2 DM has been running the show.

He also ran the Delve campaign, and I think it shows.    The Book of Vile Darkness could have been his book, I think.  His baddies are usually really, really bad.

My baddies are exemplified by the Liberation of Tenh-- evil, to be sure, but kind of pathetic and funny in the long run.


----------



## dpdx

Yeah, Ilthais is King Edmund Longshanks in _Braveheart_ evil, and I mean that as the sincerest compliment.


----------



## (contact)

_Marpenoth the 4th_ 

I sorrow to relate these dark events, and I pray to Oghma that He might give me the wisdom to make some sense of these runes carved into the Room of Golden Writing, in hopes that what I find here may shed some light on our cheerless trial.  


_Marpenoth the 5th _

We made it to the Room of Golden Writing yesterday by fighting through the first war-band sent into Kor’En Eamor by Lord Ilthais.  They were a mixed force of goblins and giants, and have entrenched themselves within the Great Highway.  I suppose I am putting this to paper in an attempt to avoid relating what I have learned, and as a way to understand this transformation I have undergone. 

Quill and Ink, _I love battle_!  I was given wands by Bitzfit and used them to great effect against the goblins.  I used to disparage Fernal’s obsession with danger, but truthfully, I have never felt so alive as when vile goblins are burning beneath my works! 

My frail assistant Rath does not share my newfound passion, and I am sorry to say he took his own life this morning.    


_Marpenoth the 6th _

My hands are shaking.  What I am learning is as amazing and powerful a thing as I have ever read, fantastical histories included.  Oghma’s Steady Mark, the tragedy here is overwhelming.  


_Marpenoth the 7th _

Let me begin my explanation by relating a more recent inscription, found just within the door to this room.  It appears to be the writing of King Alvodar, known as Cursebreaker, the only dwarven king to hold court here since the cursing of Hepis Aq Med. 


He writes:  

”_Here hides the shame of Moradin.  Great father of us all, how you failed your children. _”   


Following this indictment, Alvodar has inscribed the names of the dwarves who died in the civil wars that precipitated Moradin’s curse. There are over 100,000 names, and each one is hand-carved into the rock.  It is my belief that Alvodar was a victim of the same visions that overtook Enkil, although to what extent?  He learned the proper names of an entire dwarven generation, in the First and Greatest Dwarven home.  This Alvodar must surely have died a hopelessly mad dwarf. 

The curses of Moradin are also carved here, although they date from a much earlier time, most likely the end of Hepis’ rein. They are translated faithfully here from the Auld Dwarven:  


_Moradin’s Decree:

All houses loyal to Hepis Aq Med shall never see the sun in freedom again.  They will be reviled by all right and true dwarves, living an eternity in shame and exile.  They will be forever shunned from my heart, left to walk the tangled deep recesses of worlds unknown.  Let them find their homes in warrens abandoned by vermin, to live in constant strife with themselves and their brethren.  They shall feel the hatred that spawns from the lost love of their Father. 


To Ceridain:  

You used your life to conspire against your maker, so you shall have no peace in death.  No birth will grow inside you any more, only decay.  The  corpses of your children will wither inside you but never be gone; you will find no release.  You will rot within your own body for all eternity; you are damned._


Ceridain was indeed a goddess, or a divine entity of some sort.  I am coming to realize that this Delve, this Kor’En Eamor, is Ceridain the Lifegiver—the dwarven feminine force has always been represented by their warrens and stonework, and I now have the historical truth of it.  I am standing within Ceridain Lifegiver right now, a goddess cursed to undeath by her maker. 

The writing continues:  


_To Wulkas Lawgiver  

You are exiled from my graces.  Wander the vastness alone.  Know that your betrayal has led you to this fate.  You are nothing to me now._


There is no mention of a dwarven deity of Law anywhere in any record that I am familiar with.  Among the dwarven pantheon, Moradin is the sole god of Law.  Now we know why.  I believe that this Wulkas Lawgiver is the entity worshipped by the duergar as Laduger, and the deep dwarves themselves are the descendants of the Houses that supported Hepis Aq Med.  


_To Hepis:  

You are no son to the dwarves.  Your claim to the right of succession was a thing of greed and desire.  You will live as your mother dies.  And only when eternity passes and her bones and spirit are dust will you be released.  Go now and never return.  Live forever in the silence of this moment and let that silence ring loudly with the shame of this blood you brought to your kind.  Know that paradise was ripped from your brothers’ hands by your ambition.  


To all dwarvenkind:  

Kor’En Eamor does not exist.  It is Tell’Aq Med.  Never will one of my subjects enter this place with my sanction. It will stand as a monument to the death and destruction wrought by infidels and idolaters.  It will be an undying prison for all who have fallen here, a never-ending curse that will forever remain a symbol of your shame.  I command you to leave it now and speak no more of it forever._ 

Tell’Aq Med means literally the curse of the Aq Med, or the curse of Hepis’ house.  I have determined that Ceridain Lifegiver put forth the claim of Hepis the Great, last king of Kor’En Eamor, for divinity as per Moradin’s own Rite of Succession.  


_Marpenoth the 7th_

I have discerned the Rite of Succession, as recorded here:  

_“No King shall reign for more than five generations.  No King shall pass the birth of his eldest grandson’s grandson in the lines of succession.  That King will be an unjust and unlawful king.” _

Hepis wrote on his own altar:  _“Here I stand so all may see the God King that I am”,_ and _“The father must make way so his son can be the father—in this, all things must pass. _” 

Hepis invoked Moradin’s own High Holy Law, and hoped to dispose the Father God as ruler of the dwarven spiritual life.  Ceridain supported him, and Wulkas Lawgiver asserted the rightness of his claim under dwarven law. 

They say that history is written by the victors, and in this case it is literally true, but it seems to me that Moradin may well have been in the wrong.  Nonetheless, the civil war that erupted left Him victorious, and these are the curses he leveled on a trio of deities who opposed him, and the dwarves who witnessed it. 


_Marpenoth the 8th  _

The complex surrounding the Room of Golden Writing contains the historical record of this place up to and including the day Hepis ascended to godhood, at which time the sages go silent.  I will attempt to relate it here, in abridged form.  


_Kor’En Eamor and the Making of the Dwarves_

Kor’En Eamor was truly the First Home of the dwarves, and is also accurately called the Throne of All Dwarvenkind.  The whole of this place is deified as Ceridain Lifegiver, a vessel made by Moradin to hold his intention while he crafted the dwarven race. 

Here, the First Dwarf Nur’Thalem Aq Med took the title of king, and the dwarves grew into mastery of their crafts, under the tutelage of their gods.  Nur’Thalem lived for over 600 years, and under his wise rulership, the craftwork of the dwarves was codified and distributed to twenty distinct clans. 

Each clan formed a caste, with the clan of the Aq Med sitting the throne.  Each clan had a representative that attended the Great Clan Council, and Kor’En Eamor grew prosperous.  During this time, the portals were established, and the dwarves explored the countless worlds of the multiverse, establishing new mines and outposts.  Their contact with other races brought trade, but also brought warfare and strife.  Although there were hardships and bloodshed, these things only strengthened the dwarven resolve. 

As trade grew, so did the prominence of the houses that dealt in the most coveted wares.  The house Thrarin, forgers of steel and crafters of weapons in particular grew grand, while other clans, concerned with the more mundane requirements of Kor’En Eamor fell low. 

This shift weakened the monarchy, and the great houses became steadily more autonomous.  A series of weak kings intensified this split, and in time, the Aq Med passed into their twilight as figurehead rulers. 

The crowning of King Adwawn IV changed all of that.  A charismatic and visionary dwarf, Adwawn was hailed as the greatest dwarven king since First Dwarf Nur’Thalem sat the ebony throne.  The power of the Aq Med surged, but their revival was clipped by a great scandal.  


_Ceridain’s Love_

Adwawn’s beauty and majesty attracted the attention of Ceridain Herself, and the Mother-Goddess to the dwarves blessed him with her affections, not as mother to son, but as a lover.  This would have been taboo enough, but Adwawn’s existing marriage to a clan-daughter of the powerful Thrarin clan made it completely unacceptable. 

Yet Adwawn was still king, and no dwarf could move Adwawn’s gaze once he had set it upon such a beautiful creature as Ceridain—his mother, his home and his life. 

Ceridain sought to give Adwawn a son, but unable to carry a true dwarven child herself, the burden was passed, albeit unknowingly and unwillingly to Adwawn’s mortal wife.  The woman died in childbirth, but the infant survived.  On the dwarven High Father’s Day, Hepis the First was born. 

This scandal would have remained a well-kept secret, had not the clan-father of the Bir Qath, a seer and sorcerer, prophesized the demise of Kor’En Eamor through the birth of Hepis Aq Med, of the line of the First Dwarf, son to Ceridain Lifegiver. 

The clan-father Urzulm Thrarin was outraged by the infidelity of Adwawn, and challenged the king to a blood-duel.  Adwawn accepted, and after a great battle between the two clan-fathers, Adwawn lost his life.  With the Thrarin’s honor restored, and the power of the Aq Med diminished, life in Kor’En Eamor returned to a semblance of normalcy for another generation.  


_The Great Fall_

The priests of the Aq Med raised Hepis in relative secrecy, and when the time came for him to take the mantle of rulership, he crowned himself with no ceremony. 

His first action as king was to gather the lowest clans, and elevate them by unifying them behind his rule.  This attracted the immediate attention of the other clans, who had largely ignored the bastard king as an embarrassing figurehead.  Hepis never forgot the enemies of his father, and his agenda was immediately apparent.  A backlash was coming, and the fabric of life in Kor’En Eamor was strained to the point of rupturing. 

It was at this time that Hepis proved his worth as a statesman.  His populist rule transcended clan status, and he was able to find individual supporters even within clans that opposed him.  It is true that his divine Mother guided his reign, and she granted him an aura of authority that few dwarves could disregard.   

Further, Ceridain told him the secrets of her body, and within Kor’En Eamor, Hepis brought knowledge of ores and materials previously unknown.  It was in this fashion that glassteel was discovered, and Hepis rewarded his most loyal clan with the secrets of its working.  Adamantine and mithral were also brought forth by Hepis, and he used this new-found wealth to enact massive public works, and inflate the pride of the dwarves in their wondrous home. 

For two centuries Kor’En Eamor’s treasuries grew richer, their craftsdwarves grew more skilled, the pride of Hepis grew larger, and the envy of his enemies grew deep beyond reckoning. 

Hepis’ last and greatest project was a masterwork temple—a place he dedicated to the Father-King.  It was assumed by all that Moradin was the object of this praise, but Hepis and Ceridain had other plans. 

Upon its unveiling, Hepis ascended the riser, took the chalice of his Mother in his hands, and spoke the words that brought low the dwarven paradise:  “_Here I stand so all may see the God that I am.  The Father must make way so the son can be the Father.  In this All Things Must Pass. _”  

The rest, as they say, was a nightmare.


----------



## blargney

Did the DM come up with all that history, or is it part of a module?  It's very cool!

-blarg


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## blargney

-doubleblarg


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## Derrick Reeves

Very cool stuff.  It seems reasonably apparent where this is going...


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## (contact)

It is unique to this campaign-- this was his backstory for the dungeon.  

You see why someone who put this much thought and energy into a locale/campaign might refuse to let it go when the first band of adventurers run for their lives . . .


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## thatdarncat

hey, look over there!

*steal steal steal*


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## (contact)

_Marpenoth the 9th_

My studies here are complete.  We now know what these ancient dwarves saw fit to record, and now it falls to us to sort out whatever remains.  Winterbeard has spoken:  Ceridain Death-Caller must not stir, for her womb is cursed, and spawns only death.  The dwarf warned Merkatha as much, and we are in a truly horrific peril.

But for the moment, more mundane concerns are at our door.  Two bands of Stoneland goblins have been sent into the Delve, no doubt searching for Ceridain and following the bidding of Ilthais Truesilver.

Both bands of goblins were sent here before their leaders were assassinated, and likely have no knowledge of the Sorcerer Queen’s treachery.  Ashara and Merkatha both believe that if we can make them understand this, they will leave the Delve, saving us the trouble of killing them.

And as the only goblin-speaking member among us, it is I who shall conduct the parley!  I never dreamed of such things sitting beneath a candle in my study!


_Marpenoth the 10th_

The hobgoblin war-chieftain proved remarkably agreeable once his clerics confirmed through _divination _ and _commune_ spells that we had the truth of things.  The Sorcerer Queen’s treachery outraged him, but the reality of Ceridain Death-Caller terrified them all.

These goblins are contesting with one another over an artifact called _the Mantle of Imialbulb_, an ancient garment and artifact that once belonged to their greatest hero.  Merkatha assures me that the _Mantle_ is in possession of Lord Ilthais, which explains his control over the goblins.

We met with the hobgoblin war-chief in the Hanging Gardens, and his priests directed us toward a site nearby—a massacre site, replete with fresh dwarven corpses.  They say that they are terrified of the place, which makes it sound even more appealing (from the perspective of gaining a more firm grasp on the historical record, of course).


_Marpenoth the 10th_

We have conversed with an elder servant of Moradin—a fallen solar celestial, to be precise.  An angel, to use the common parlance.

We found him just as the hobgoblin priests had directed us—in the center of a massive common-hall to the West of the Hanging Gardens.  The radiant being still stands mournfully over the ground where he fulfilled Moradin’s final decree for Kor’En Eamor, and massacred thousands of the Father God’s own worshippers.  The dwarven corpses lie where they fell, as fresh as the day they were slain, many of them killed as they attempted to flee.  The solar responsible kneels unmoving in the center of the corpse-field, his normally radiant skin dulled by the millennia of dust that settled over him as he contemplated his act.

It was in this place that Moradin took his _dak’qis_.  By ancient dwarven custom, the first and best part of all things crafted must be sacrificed to Moradin.  The _dak’qis_ of Kor’En Eamor’s last generation died here, at the hands of this solar.  Perhaps they harbored love for Hepis in their hearts, or perhaps they supported Moradin out of duty rather than belief.  Or, most chilling, perhaps they were simply too loyal—a true _dak’qis_, the first and best of His people.

The immortal has remained here ever since, contemplating the price of obedience, and slipping further into an abyss of regret, abandoned by Moradin even as he fulfilled the Father God’s last command.

Now, the celestial broods over the bodies of the fallen, and has lost his faith.

He has not, however, lost his memory, and was able to reveal more to us about this Uqaraq, the leader of the Hepis worshippers here in Kor’En Eamor.  The Uqaraq is apparently an honorific given to the King’s right-hand dwarf.  Uqaraq Aq Med is his full title, and he is sworn council to the Usurper God, and the temporal head of Hepis’ cult.  Uqaraq is also a lich.


Marpenoth the 10th

The celestial has made a request of us.  In the area to the East of his vigil are the Halls of the Dead.  These were the halls where the deceased were interred, and their names were recorded in a great Book of the Dead.  The celestial has requested that we retrieve this book, and take it from the Delve to some place of safety, in order that the names of the dwarves of Kor’En Eamor not be lost to time, but exist as a record of their lives

We have determined to aid the celestial, and I write this as my group prepares themselves for the expedition.


_Marpenoth the 11th _

If my handwriting has changed, it is because _I_ have changed.  Rather, I was slain and _reincarnated_.  I’m not sure how to put this, and truth be told I am grappling with a profound life-altering event.  I am, in the long and short of it, less long and more short.  Two and one-half feet tall, to be precise.  I am a gnome.

There it is.  

I write it and I don’t even believe it.  But it is true nonetheless, I have _reincarnated_ as a gnome, of middling years.  But on the inside, I have not changed—I remember everything from my former life and retain my skill with Spellcraft.

Ashara called a new body for my departed soul, through the blessing of her god, and now my handwriting is unrecognizable.

It occurs to me that this transformation explains the mystery of the Great Sage of the Deepen Forest, who penned his missives in two distinct hands, a well known matter of some debate amongst the scholars of the Emerald Method, scholars who I am sure any future readers will be well acquainted with.  In particular the treatise _The Seven Tides of the Sea King’s Tablets_ springs to mind.

But my present narrative compels me to return to it, and I shall have to ruminate upon the debates of the Emerald Method school at a later date.

I know you are probably saying to yourself, “_get on with it_, old man, tell us how you died”—but I must council you that in matters of narrative, the Shadowed Sage of Neverwinter Moor put it best, just before he was rended limb from limb by dire rats:  


“_How fitting and purposeful it seems, this world of ours, as my death arrives only just as the last of my life has been told. _”


For my part, I agree with the poet Lifsilven, who interpreted this to mean that time as we experience it (moving only in one direction, etc.) exists to provide us with the maximum amount of surprise, and that all authors of narrative (fictional or no) should contrive to follow the workings of the Gods, and the universe They have made for our edification, if not for our entertainment.

Our journey to the Halls of the Dead was made over water—in this instance long carved passages flooded by an elaborate aqueduct system stood in place of the mythical Fugue River.  Even as I was contemplating the universality of the waterway as a symbol of transition, we were set upon by spirits of the drowned dead!  It seems to me that those undead who die in water harbor an especially wicked hatred for the living.  Certainly, these undead were terribly fierce, and it was only luck that prevented our rafts from capsizing.

My companions wrested the Book of the Dead from a group of undead dwarves beyond the waterway, who seemed to be re-enacting their last living days before the Dwarven Fall.  I say ‘my companions’, because I was slain outright.

When I awoke, it was looking into the eyes of Ashara.  She had _reincarnated_ me, and here I stand, although not so high as I used to.  I shall have to have a new stool, I think.

Nonetheless, the book is ours, and we are quite sure that we can put the thing to a use far closer to that of its original creators’ intent than the living-dead who guarded it. 


_Marpenoth the 16th _

Upon our return to the celestial, we debated the best place of safety for the Book of the Dead.  It was his wish, after all, that the names of Kor’En Eamor never be lost to whatever terrible future he has foreseen for this place.

The thing is a massive tome, and calling it a “book” does not do it justice.  It is the height of a grown dwarf, and nearly twice again as thick.  We are forced to carry it in a litter as one might a wounded companion.

We debated where to take the book, and in the end settled upon placing it within the care of the Lady Tesseril of Eveningstar, and so here we are.  I suggested taking the tome to Candlekeep and the great libraries there, but some of our more militant Cormyrian members carried the argument. 

I can only trust that our Lady Tesseril will take all appropriate care with this ancient and priceless artifact.


_Marpenoth the 18th_

Our journey back to the Delve was primarily uneventful, although our divinations indicated that Lord Ilthais is actively hunting for us.  We have evaded him, and decided to explore the upper levels of the place.

We journeyed upwards to what we believe is the top of Kor’En Eamor, a level dedicated to the unique cold forging techniques that I will leave to more expert voices to detail.

What I will tell you  is that the place is cold—frozen in fact, and occupied by a strange menagerie of bat-riding semi-humans.  These creatures are as blind as their winged steeds and bloodthirsty, led by a terrible sorceress of foul temperament and bestial heritage.  Do you recall the joke about having seen the medusa?  Well, I have now seen one, and it is no laughing matter.

These bat riders made their lair inside the Great Delve, but hunted outside of it—they were masters of one of this place’s many _portals_.

Like all of Kor’En Eamor’s egresses, it gives onto a mountainside at the other end, and wonder of wonders, this portal has a still-extant city of dwarves living at the base of the mountain.  They must be descendants of the First Dwarves.  Tomorrow, we intend to face these dwarves and see what they might be about!


_Marpenoth the 19th_

We have returned from the dwarven city in one piece and somewhat the richer.  They live in a strange world, occupied solely by dwarves, giants and abominations.  They have no knowledge of magic or priest-craft, and behave entirely like a people whose culture is steeped in a deep and abiding shame.

They refer to Kor’En Eamor as “Hell”, and believe that the gods who live within are angry with them for some long forgotten sin.  They have determined to make a show of their architectural abilities in an attempt to win back the lost favor of their gods.  They have set the task for themselves that they will carve the entire mountain face into a great city—a sprawling dwarven place that will act as an offering of penance.  Surely, they reason, their gods cannot but warm their hearts to them once they witness this wonder built of dwarven craft.

They received us well enough, though we seem more strange to them than we can possibly imagine.  Their king took us in state, and once again I was able to play the interpreter.

It is worth noting that the ancient language of the dwarves is a living language amongst these people, and I am chastened to admit that my presupposition about the silibant ‘tsc’ was incorrect.  

I now can state with some authority that rhyming prose was the custom, not the exception amongst these ancient dwarves, and should I live through this adventure, I have a bet to settle with a certain well-educated lady of my acquaintance.


_Marpenoth the 22nd_

I remain in our base camp, hoping to study the mysterious cold-forges, better acquaint myself with my new form, and avoid the necessity of acquiring a third identity! The rest of our group began to work their way back down toward All Roads Meet, exploring as they go.  As of yet I have no word of their progress.


_Marpenoth the 24th_

Solitude plays tricks on my new eyes, else I am stalked by shadows.  It is cold nearly all the time, my fire notwithstanding.  I have no word of my companions.  I only guess at the date, for I am frightened and must remain out of sight of the _portal_.


----------



## Dakkareth

Whoa. That's one heck of a journal. Reincarnation, book of the fallen, a fallen angel. And all that from a scholar's point of view making for great verisimilitude ...

And of course the fallen solar. this sure is a powerful image and it was one of the best installments so far ...

/me bows

-Dakkareth


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## (contact)

_Marpenoth the 26th_

Thank the gods, they have returned for me!   The top levels are all cut from the mountain’s ice cap, they report, and directly beneath the medusa’s lair they found the home of an impressive family of frost giants.  These giants were led by a great shaman, a Dragon-Caller—this mystic hunts through a _portal_ to an ice-world, and brings dragons of the cold under his thumb.

If Merkatha can be believed, she is as crafty as she is suspicious.  The party gave battle to these giants, and several small dragons.  But flush with the victory (and perhaps light-headed from loss of blood), Merkatha ventured deeper into the giant’s lair, searching for their treasure-trove.  

What she found will haunt even one so hard-bitten as herself, I wager.  She wandered into the clutches of a terrible wyrm—a frost-dragon of such great size and majesty that it certainly must be the progenitor of the dragons that fought by the side of the giants.  The creature agreed to let Merkatha go free, provided she surrendered her magic items in supplication, then went to her companions and delivered up their magic and treasure as well!  Merkatha agreed, divested herself of a fortune in hard-won magic, then took her opportunity to flee.

Merkatha fetched me from my hiding place to a hidden passage within the aqueducts that feed water to the Great Delve.  There I was reunited with the band, and heard the whole of it.  Not wanting an angry dragon at our backs (or our fronts, depending on one’s orientation), Ashara determined to summon Celestial help.  She invoked an ancient contract between Lathander and the hosts of Heaven, and before my eyes an angel appeared!  I cannot specify the type with any certainty, I am a Monstrologist, not a Celestialist after all.

The creature agreed to slay this dragon, but exacted a task from us in return—we are to travel directly to Storm’s Rise and kill Lord Ilthais!  We confront him on the morrow.  

Ashara and Selise have formed a daring plan—we will _wind walk_ invisibly to the Lord’s Manor, use stone-shaping magic to enter, and put everyone within to the sword!  It’s terribly frightful, but I am armed with several wands, and I hope to be of some small use.


_Marpenoth the 26th_

Victory is ours!  The Lord’s men were forewarned, undoubtedly through vile blood-divinations made in Cyric’s name.  Ilthais knew that we were the only stumbling block for his wicked hopes, and being an unusually dedicated cleric, he thought his foreknowledge might give him the advantage.  I am glad to report that he was mistaken.

We set upon them, disrupting their formation by attacking from the rear of the building.  As we had planned, we opened a hole in the rear wall of the keep through magical means and achieved complete surprise.  We were able to destroy Ilthais’ reserves before his spell-casters could make themselves ready.  Once the battle was joined in earnest, we attacked each other from range at either end of the long corridor connecting the foyer and the aviary, with a general melee erupting in the center of the hallway.  Our foes seemed unable to respond effectively to the unexpected, and were forced to subject themselves to our superior archers in order to target us with spells.  

Vai was our first and only casualty, and she fell holding the center of the hall, and keeping the Lord’s skirmishers off of our archers and spellcasters.

Lord Ilthais’ blackguard proved a true bully—a mean-spirited paper tiger.  His terrifying aspect brought our combined attentions to bear, and I swear before the Gods that the man died before he was able to cause any harm.  His fall seemed to finish off whatever thin morale the Lord’s henchmen had left.  Soon the Lord was left to face the Gods’ judgement and our wrath alone.  Ilthais was a terrible foe, and he called down death magics in the name of Cyric the way another man might scream curses at his enemies during a tavern-brawl, but we were triumphant.

When the sun set this evening, it set with the Lady Tess on the throne of Storm’s Rise once again!  Praise Oghma, and praise Lathander!

The _Mantle of Imiablulb_ is gone back to the Stonelands, in the possession of the hobgoblins we allied with, and there may it remain. 


Uktar the 3rd

It has been less than a week, and I fear that the taste of our victory has gone to ashes in my mouth.  Ashara, her man Baeren and the wizardess Bitzfit have fallen within the delve.  To compound our trouble, we have had dire tidings of the war—our Southern forces are surrounded by Vesper Hall dwarves, and Cormyr looks soon to fall.  The Hullackswood has fallen, although remnants of the Northern Cormyrian army use it as a base for small-band skirmishing, and Selise means to return to defend her ancestral seat.  The Lady Tess travels with her, over my most stern objections.  She has left me as seneschal and regent, but I administer a thin and sparse winter-town.  We will wait out the snows as free Cormyrians, but I do not know what the Spring might bring.

I for one, will never set foot again within Kor’En Eamor so long as I shall live, so do I swear.

The Delve has destroyed our band, Storm’s Rise has been made a ghost-town, and should Ceredain Deathcaller awaken and turn her gaze to us, there are none left to oppose her.  May Oghma guide my hand, and may He bear witness to the truths I have transcribed herein.


_Thus ends this journal and monster-log, transcribed in its entirety by the Revered Helman Fith of Oghma, in the Year of the Long Night._


----------



## coyote6

Thus endeth the story hour within the story hour, I take it?


----------



## (contact)

Thus it endeth.  Here is a repost of section 73:

-----

*73—Old enemies have new friends, and old friends have none.*


“Alvodar?” Taran says.  “That name is familiar.”

“It must be a coincidence,” Thelbar says.  “We knew of an Alvodar who took the name Cursebreaker, but he was not from this world, nor from this lifetime.  His name was given to us in conjunction with another abandoned dwarven Delve.”

“Really?” Ashnern asks.  “Kor’En Eamor _is_ a portal to many worlds.  Alvodar was the last king of this place, but his appellation was false, I’m sad to say.”

“Wait a minute,” Taran says.  “Are you telling me that this is the same damned delve?”

“I am not telling you anything,” Ashnern begins, taking a sagely breath and raising one finger into the air.  “Rather . . .”

“Our dragon!” Taran interrupts the gnome.  

“Dragon?  What dragon?” Gorquen asks.

“The adventurers that I was advising faced several dragons within the Delve,” Ashnern says.  “There was a nest of frost wyrms, an entire family.  They were under the care of a giant mystic.  I recall it well, though I never saw them.”

Gorquen looks at Taran.  “What dragon?” she asks.

“While you and Indy were helping the druid,” Taran says.  “We let a dragon slip through our fingers.”

“Did you just say ‘Indy’?” Ashnern asks softly.

“You remember the fight differently than I do brother,” Thelbar says.  “We were lucky to escape with our lives.”

“But that dirt worm killed Rex!” Taran protests.  “We hate it, don’t we Thel?”

Thelbar nods.  “We do.”

“Oh, _that_ dragon,” Gorquen says.

Ashnern lights a candle, and leads the group into a large library.  “I have many artifacts and rubbings taken from the Delve.  I have translated them, and compiled them onto scrolls, for ease of reference.  The ancient dwarves kept no tomes, preferring to record anything of importance onto stone.  But Alvodar kept books—a product of his association with humans and elves, I believe.  One in particular you may find illuminating.  I did not recognize your names at first, but now I do.  Here we are,” he says, carefully opening an thick leather-bound book.

The gnome clears his throat and reads aloud.  “The humans Taran and Thelbar defeated Axultur, Scourge of Greshk and Father of a Thousand Burning Nights—and that is where our Lord Alvodar tasted death for a second and final time, praise his name with stone and steel.” Ashnern looks at the stunned adventurers.  “It continues as you might expect . . . his body brought back to the mines by friends, his life story recorded, the usual state burial.  They entomb him with this very book.”  

Ashnern flips forward through the pages.   “Here his eyes open, and he resumes the narrative himself.  He writes, ‘_She is alive, alive beyond death.  The name that Moradin kept from my ears, I have seen her.  Indy swore she died in her struggles, but now she has brought me to her.  I must silence the call.  I must confront her and give her peace.’_”  Ashnern looks at his audience.  “Merkatha found this book—it was in the tomb of Alvodar Cursebreaker, Last King of Kor’En Eamor.”

“Alvodar was from our world!” Gorquen says.  “An outsider like us!  And he _knew_ you.”

“And that bastard dragon is in there,” Taran says.

-----

Thelbar and Gorquen remain with the gnome to look over his scholarly notes, while Taran and Elgin Trezler seek out the sole remaining witness to the Great Delve—a drow woman by the name of Merkatha.  They find her sitting alone with her feet on a table in Storm’s Rise’s only inn.  She is lithe and haggard, her elven features made ugly by the heavy scarring that mars her face and neck.  Several knife handles protrude from her plain clothing and the tops of her filthy boots.  She stares at the two adventurers balefully as they enter.

“Whatever you’re after, you don’t want it.  Go away,” she says in greeting.

Taran removes his swords, and sets them on the table in front of her as he seats himself.  “We are here on the authority of Cormyr, and we’re here to investigate the Great Delve.”

“Well, I didn’t think you were here for the scenery,” she snarls.

“Please, Merkatha, tell us what you know,” Elgin says soothingly as he sits down.

“How many months you got?” she says.

“All of them,” Taran says.

“I’ve seen a half-score of adventurers like you lost in that Delve.  And they all went in bright-eyed and bushy tailed.  They died screaming, or they didn’t see it coming.  But they’re all dead now,”  she puts her feet on the ground.  “So f--k off.”

“We are all hardened adventurers, Merkatha,” Elgin says.

Taran leans toward her.  “He’s right.  You know, I walk around bunched up like a spring all the time.  In a place like the Delve, I kill everything I see, and I get to be free.  Along the way, I do some good for some people, and I get rich.  Whatever’s in that Delve, it oughta be worried about me.”

The drow snorts.  “I’m touched.”

Elgin smiles at her.  “Please, Merkatha, tell us what you know about the Delve.  We are seasoned adventurers, not amateurs new to our weapons and prayer books.”

“That’s what everybody says,” Merkatha growls.

“Oh yeah?” Taran reaches out and unsheathes Arunshee’s Kiss.  The keen sword is so sharp that it whines as he passes it through the air.  “Is this everybody’s sword?”

Merkatha watches him with disdain.  “That is a fine weapon.  Do you mean to torture me with it?”

Taran laughs.  “I don’t torture people, sister.  I kick a$s, and I walk point in the baddest adventuring group you’ve never heard of.”

“Do you know traps?”

“Only the hard way,” Taran smiles.  “I don’t do traps.  I make the bad people wish they weren’t, and I do it with style.”

“You won’t last a single day walking point in the Delve, human.  You should read Fernal’s journal.  I watched him die.”

“It seems the suffering of others is the only thing that loosens your tongue,” Elgin scolds.  “You are forthcoming with dire predictions, yet you will not give aid to those who seek the Good.”

“There’s a whole other world out there, Merkatha,” Taran says.  “Puppies, sunrises and falling in love in springtime.”

“I don’t believe in such a world.”

“You are not wise,” Elgin says.  

“A wise man would be afraid of that Delve,” she replies.

Taran snorts.  “A wise Delve would be afraid of us.”

“Say that to Ceredain when she takes you.”  Merkatha stares at Taran.

“I will.”

“You won’t have the breath.”

“I will.”

“You won’t.”

“Really,” Elgin says, exasperated.  “What can we do to assure your aid?”

Merkatha stares at Taran for a moment, then turns to Elgin.  “Can you raise the dead?”

“I can,” Elgin says.  “But the soul must embrace the _pasoun_.”

Merkatha rolls her eyes.  “Of course they must agree with you.  You are _faithful_, after all.  Myself, I used to worship Kiransalee.”

Taran cocks his head, and places his hands on the table.  “That’s what they call a bad answer, Merkatha.”

“But, the bitch never came through,” she says.  “So now I worship Shelvaras.”

Taran laughs, relaxing.  “That’s an even worse answer.  Gods be good, but you’re dumb as a stone.  Shlevaras hates only one thing more than he hates us, and that’s the drow.”

Merkatha shrugs.

“Your friend,” Elgin says.  “Where is his body?”

“Mixed up with fur and firewine in a pile of gnoll sh-t, I imagine,” Merkatha says.  “He died in the delve.”

-----

Over the next two days, Thelbar pores over the research provided by Ashnern the sage.  Merkatha finally relents, and agrees to accompany the party into the Delve, provided they do what they can to recover and raise the bodies of  her fallen friends.  Taran emerges from his room one sunny morning, and proudly shows Gorquen the drow sign that Merkatha has been teaching him.  _There’s more than 10_, he signs.  _Run for your life_ and _Every man for himself_.  “Isn’t it great?” Taran asks.  “Merkatha says I’ve got the basics.”

Merkatha also produces the journal of “Fearless” ‘Fernal, an adventuring companion of hers that kept a day-to-day account of his experiences within Kor’En Eamor.  The bloodstained and heavily gnawed-upon journal proves light reading, and within a day, all four members of the adventuring party have read through it at least once.

-----

“That Dragon Caller,” Taran says.  “He had several dragons under his control, and you killed all but the big one, right?”  Taran and Merkatha stand on a balcony outside of Ashnern’s study.  Taran paces, but Merkatha leans on the stone rail overlooking the outer pavillion.  Inside, Thelbar and Ashnern are discussing the translation of the Dwarven writings discovered within the Great Delve.

“That’s right,” Merkatha says.  “The big one came after us, and the priest summoned a Celestial to deal with it.  In exchange, we were to get rid of Lord Ilthais, which we did.”

“But you didn’t see it die.”

“I saw an angel swear to kill it, isn’t that enough?”

“Let’s hope not,” Taran grins.  “That bastard dragon owes me blood.”

Merkatha pauses for a moment, and spits into the air over the rail.  “Didn’t say whose blood, dumb f--k.  You know, your accent is familiar.  I couldn’t place it at first, because you’ve always got something big to say about yourself, and you never talk smart.  But I met somebody who sounds just like you and your owl-eyed brother.  T’sdeal, her name was.  We found her where the gnolls got ‘Fernal, and she said she came in a _portal_ from her world.  Maybe you should go have you a look, and then you can shut the f--k up.”  And with that, Merkatha leaps over the edge, and disappears into the night.


----------



## (contact)

*74—Into the Delve, For Once and For All (Part II).*

Elgin Trezler prepares several divinations the morning of the group’s foray.  He secludes himself for several hours, and emerges with little news.  It is true that there is a fallen goddess within the Delve by the name of Ceredain Death-Caller, and it is true that the Delve itself contains _portals_ to every world known to dwarvenkind.  But any questions beyond the surface are turned away—apparently Lathander’s light does not shine in the Delve and its mysteries are unknown even to the God of the Morning.

Elgin suggests to the group that the Delve itself is likely a place between places—a timeless demi-plane of Moradin’s making.  If his assumptions are correct, the group should not expect the laws of physics and magic to necessarily operate as would be expected.  

-----

_Metagame note_:  When thinking about Elgin’s approach to casting divinations, we were discussing the likelihood that he had done some “hardcore adventuring”:

DM:  Elgin _did_ cut his teeth in Myth Drannor.  

Me:  Yeah, the single worst place in Faerun.  

DM: (Pauses) Until now.

-----

The party follows Merkatha’s lead up the mountain pass that terminates at the entrance to Kor’En Eamor.  They pass through the gates, and stare down the length of the Great Highway—a grand passage some twenty feet wide and twice that in height, perfectly level and perfectly straight.  According to ‘Fernal’s maps, the highway is well over a mile long.

Merkatha checks that the mechanisms disabling the trap are activated and the party moves cautiously toward the Great Hall of Kings.  Upon their arrival, the group fans out and begins to inspect the elaborate dwarven mosaics depicting generations of artisans, warriors and sages gravely contemplating the elaborate stone throne that fills the center of the place.  The hall is huge, extending in all directions beyond the party’s _darkvision_, the light from the gigantic dwarven statues reported in ‘Fernal’s diary no longer present.

Taran, for his part, is staring into the air.  “Gods,” he says.  He removes his _goggles of see invisible_ and turns to his brother.  “Thel, did you see that?”

“I did.” Thelbar says, frowning.

“What is the problem?” Elgin asks in a concerned tone as he jogs over to where the brothers are conferring.

“There’s no problem here,” Taran says as he draws his swords.  “But Cyric sends his regards!”

Elgin gasps and stumbles back, his eyes wide and white with fear.  He throws his hands up, prepared to fend off the killing blow or defend himself with a spell, but the attack never comes.  Taran is bent at the waist, choking back tears of laughter.

“Oh Gods, you should have seen your face,” Taran says.  “I’ve been wanting to do that since I met you.  You know how in the songs the good guy always gets into the dungeon before his new friends turn out to be dirty traitors?  Holy sh-t, that was funny.”

“Taran,” Thelbar admonishes.  “Stop it.”

“Well, I fell for it,” Elgin says, his grin returning to his face.

“You’re one of _those_, are you?” Merkatha growls at Taran.  “If Ceredain has any mercy in her, she’ll take you first.  _F-cking amateurs_.”  Merkatha moves away from the group, slipping into a hiding place along the base of one of the massive dwarven statues.

“Seriously, Elgin—put these on.” Taran hands Elgin his _goggles of see invisible_.  “No joke.”

Elgin places the goggles over his head, and his smile fades instantly.  He looks about him, turning his neck rapidly to and fro.  “What are . . . Lathander’s Light . . . these are _souls_,” he says.

“Souls of the dead,” Thelbar says.  “I cannot count them all.”

Dwarves, old and young.  Everywhere dwarves.  Children, women, warriors and priests.  Giants and goblins, a rare few humans and strange nameless abominations from the earth’s depths.  Older souls still are mixed in, unrecognizable and without concrete form as the eons grind all mortal memory away.  Thousands upon thousands of these souls, trapped within the entropic womb of Ceredain Lifegiver, listlessly wandering and searching for release.  They are invisible to the naked eye, but with magical sight they are seen to be everywhere.  There must be tens of thousands of them throuought the Delve.

“If you didn’t know before,” Taran says.  “Now you know.  Don’t die here.”

-----

When Taran retrieves his goggles, Thelbar draws him toward the great throne at the center of the hall.  There, standing behind it are twenty-one dwarven kings.  Majestic and regal, they silently stare at the empty seat, seemingly oblivious to the passage of mortals before their gaze.

“They look like they are expecting someone,” Thelbar says.

“I hate to dissapoint them, but whatever they want, it ain’t gonna happen,” Taran says with a shiver.  “This dungeon is going down.”

-----

Merkatha leads the party through a series of ceremonial chambers and out into a massive underground cavern.  The place is given over to a riot of underdark flora, and she leads them through it , showing them the tracks of the adventuring groups who had gone before, preserved for an eternity in the mausoleum-like space.  She shows them the steps that lead to the halls of the Filas Hali, and where Hepis the Great’s proclamation of Godhood is carved in the altar of mysterious translucent steel.  She takes the group across a shattered bridge spanning a deep chasm and into the tunnels that served as the lair of the gnolls that made a meal of Fearless ‘Fernal, and guarded the portal to T’sdeal’s world.  Thelbar repairs the break in the bridge with a _wall of stone_, and the party is able to walk across.  

The group finds the halls empty save for the corpses of the dead, already half-scavenged by the spores and growths of the Fungal Forest.  They pass through the area, and discover the _portal_ just where Merkatha suggested it would be, a stone double door that stands open to a strange, orange sky.

The air beyond the _portal_ is salty and much warmer than the cool cavern interior.  An unrecognizable and unpleasant odor teases the nose, lurking beneath the common grave-smell of a battlefield.  Immediately beyond the portal’s opening lie the last remnants of what must have been a great army, fallen unremembered into the salted earth.  

The party emerges into the heat and warm orange light, remaining on guard and glancing at one another.  Taran is uncharacteristically silent as he picks his way through the bones and corpses of the field, examining weapons and discarded bits of gear, even prying battle-standards from the fingers of the dead.  He holds up an Ishlokian crescent-moon banner—gold against black, only slightly changed from the ones flown by the Ishlokians near Ratik.  A few minutes later he recovers a second banner, this one depicting a silver dragon rampant against a grey ziggurat.  He exchanges a wordless look with Thelbar, and places the war-standard around his shoulders.  

“_Is this Isk? _” Thelbar thinks to his brother through their telepathic bond.

“_I am sure of it, _” Taran replies.  “_I have been here before_.”

A furtive movement betrays the location of a living man amongst the corpses—ragged and disheveled.  The wretch looks to flee, but Taran springs forward and seizes him.  As he is grabbed, the man falls to his knees.

“Mercy Lord, mercy,” he croaks in a broken and strangely accented Isthenian.  “I was just hungry is all.  I mean no disrespect to the dead.”

“How did you . . . how did this come to be?” Taran asks him, and the man reluctantly begins to answer questions.  He was scavenging for food, he claims, and has broken his people’s taboo against coming near the delve.  The place is a battle site, but greater terrors than mortal combat struck down the men scattered under the sun.

Two armies clashed here, he says, Ishlokains and what he calls “King’s men” like himself—an usurper King had claimed a lineage leading back to the Ishlokian Imperial throne using the name Tar-Ilou, and had fought a long war to impress his claim and seize the throne of the greatest military power of its age.  The Tar-Ilou house was the line of the previous Emperor of Ishlok, a family believed to have been extinguished through murder—wiped out to the last mother and infant when the current Imperial lineage ascended.  

The Ishlokians caught the would-be Emperor here, encamped before the Great Delve, as the King thought to find allies within the dwarven redoubt.  Recent setbacks had caused him to grow desperate, and he was frantically searching for some means to tip the scales back in his favor.  But there were no allies to be had within Kor’En Eamor, and the gates to the Delve would not open through magic or force.  The Ishlokians caught the Tar-Ilou King with his back to the Delve and crushed his forces at its gates, leading the usurper away in chains.

Looking back, the man says, he and the other soldiers believed the worst to be over.  They had been defeated in honorable battle, and hoped to go home.  But such fantasies were not to be.  The Ishlokians put most of the usurper’s soldiers to the sword, conscripts and career soldiers alike.  Those they spared were enslaved and set to work building a siege-camp—the Ishlokians meant to take the Delve themselves.  Days turned into weeks, and still no means to enter Kor’En Eamor could be found.  

Then, one bright morning, the gates opened.

A lone dwarf emerged—even from a great distance his gold and silver raiment could be seen to reflect the sun.  He spoke words, gave some speech that the man could not hear at a distance, and then a great black cloud emerged from the Delve.  It looked like smoke at first, but obeyed no wind.  It rolled out over the Ishlokian camp, covering the ground like water rushing forth from a burst dam.  

The man tells them that he only escaped by being far enough away from the entrance to outrun the cloud.  Other men who were less quick to flee did not survive.  The cloud killed every living thing it touched, man, animal or plant.  Since that day, the bodies do not decompose—the earth will not accept them, and nothing will grow.  The survivors make a meager life for themselves but they are all starving, and their meager numbers decrease every day.

Taran is stunned by the man’s tale.  He wanders away, looking over the bodies of the fallen, pausing to examine this or that trinket.  Thelbar regards the man.  “Your tale is terrible, indeed,” he says.  “But why do you not leave this place?”

The man looks quizzically at Thelbar.  “All places are like this.  Even so far as the Veiled City, no man lives but on what he can take from others, like yourselves.”

“We are not bandits, friend,” Thelbar says.  

“Your weapons tell me otherwise, Lord,” the man replies.

“We are adventurers, from faraway lands,” Gorquen interjects.  “What wealth we have, we have earned rightfully, and the only being with cause to fear us is a wicked being.”

The haggard man regards Gorquen thoughtfully.  “Do you have food?” he asks.

Taran interrupts her and turns the man to face him.  “What is the Veiled City?”

“The City of Mists, sir?” The man replies.  “The Floating Palace?  It is a great sea-port, or it was—three hundred miles to the south and west.  The city is gone now, sir.”

“It is destroyed?”

“No sir, it is not there at all.  Perhaps the Goddess bore it away to safety when she abandoned us. There is nothing here, there or in between.  There is nowhere to go.”

Taran looks at Thelbar.  “_Is this possible? _”  he thinks.  “_Could magic accomplish this much devestation? _”

Gorquen reaches into her pouch and hands the man a silk-wrapped ration of dried fruit and trail-bread.   “This is elven bread, human, and you will never taste its equal.”

“_It is possible._”

The man seems stunned.  He warily tastes the fruit, then begins to wolf the portion down.  

“I have meat for him if he wants it,” Merkatha says, producing skewers of dried jerky with the rat-tail still attached.

“_Then you need to learn that spell, brother. _”

Thelbar watches the haggard man attack his small portion of trail-food, and begins to translate his story for Elgin and Merkatha.

“I am confused,” Elgin says.  “This Tar-Ilou was you?”

“Or my brother,” Thelbar says.  “Or some other Tar-Ilou entirely who happened to adventure with Alvodar Cursebreaker, Last King of Kor’En Eamor.”  Thelbar looks back toward the Great Delve.  “But I suspect it was my brother.  He was always over-confident in his friendships.”


----------



## Joshua Randall

Dag nabbit, (contact), this story rocks. But you already know that.

Am I correct in vaguely remembering an earlier part of the story in which Taran has a dream / flashback / vision about being paraded in chains to his impending execution? I think that's right, and that must be what occurred / will occur / might occur in some other plane of existence to the Tar-Ilou who failed to gather aid from the dwarves of the Delve.

Everybody got that? Okay. Quiz tomorrow.


----------



## (contact)

*75—Joyous and bestial, bloody and free.*


The man leads the group back to his encampment.  To the party’s horror, his small clan of survivors lives within the hollowed out corpse of a silver dragon, a massive beast now reduced to bone and wisps of silver-scaled skin.  He explains that the body shelters them from the biting wind and dust-storms.  He tells them further that the wind seems to harbor a special hatred for anything built by the hands of men. No man-made structure can stand for long, no matter how well built.

“This is Isk?” Taran asks, but it is not a question.

Some double-score of humans huddle within the bones of the dragon, their clothes frayed and filthy.  The pitiful band of refugees are frightened at first, but soon forget to cower as the party passes out the better part of their rations.  One of the refugees recognizes Merkatha’s “Delver Surprise”, and tells her that he has not seen a rat in years.  The ravages of disease have tormented the band, and several members have lost eyes or limbs to a withering, wasting plague.

The worst case is a middle-aged man, father to two of the women present.  The man can no longer stand or even raise his head.  Elgin kneels down next to the man, and invokes Lathander’s light.  In an instant, the man is _healed_ of his afflictions, made strong and well by the dawn’s grace.

The refugees fall to their knees and beg Elgin not to kill them.  When Thelbar translates this, Elgin asks why they show fear.  They explain that their goddess has died, and any cleric of hers must be dead himself.  Elgin begins to explain that he worships an outworlder deity, when Taran interrupts him.

“Elign,” do you have any _cure disease_ spells prepared?” Taran asks.

“I have one today, plus another on scroll,” Elgin replies.   “But let us go and return with proper equipment and clothing for these folk.  I can prepare a _mass heal_ that will serve their need, I think.”

Taran nods and turns toward the prostrate refugees.  “I’ve heard enough,” he says in Isenthanian.  “Stop begging and get off your knees.  Listen close, because I’m telling you the truth.  Our Mother Ishlok died, and now she is reborn to the world as Palatin Eremath.  We are the harbingers of her new way.  In two days time, we will return for you with food and curing for the sick.  The goddess will remove your disease, and lift the weariness from your limbs.  We will take you through a dark place, but your reward shall be a land of plenty where your bellies will always be full, and the light of the morning will fill you with hope . . .”

Taran turns away from the refugees and says in Faerunian common, “And we call that place Sembia.”

Gorquen clucks at him.  “I can’t believe you just said that.” 

Taran scowls back at her, his dark mood plain on his face.  He leads the group back into Kor’En Eamor and through the dwarven complex without saying a thing.  The next morning, Elgin examines the party for signs of disease, and determines to _cure_ Taran and Merkatha as a precaution.  They scour Storm’s Rise for supplies—food, water and warm clothing; boots for the feet and weapons to inspire confidence.  Fortunately, the former Lord Ilthais kept a large contingent of well-supplied soldiers who were killed before they could flee with their gear.  They load the supplies into a pair of mule-pulled handcarts, and Taran gives the silver dragon battle-standard he took from the battle site to the elderly gate guard with instructions to find someone to duplicate this standard onto tabards and a banner.

They are forcing the mules over a stalagmite outcropping in the fungal forest when a deep and velvety voice emerges from the darkness ahead of them.  “Where are such fine, bright souls going on a day like this?”

The party pulls their weapons from scabbards, but do not immediately reply, and the voice continues.  “I’ll give you a choice—which among you do you like the _least_?”

Taran steps forward with a smile, his eyes scanning the darkness ahead of him.  “That would be me.  Nobody likes me, I’m a real bastard.  Even my brother can barely stand me.”

“No, that is not what I meant,” the voice purrs.  “Turn on someone.  Kill them for me.”

Gorquen snorts and lowers her guard.  Taran laughs,  “If you hope to see our skills, you should just keep your eyes open when we kill you.”

“Do you think this is a jest?” the voice growls.

“It is hard to tell when we cannot see you,” Gorquen says.

Suddenly a huge section of the darkness detaches from the surrounding gloom, and hovers toward them in the shape of a massive bat-winged humanoid.  A palpable chill radiates off of the thing, and each member of the party can feel their bile rise up in response to its foul aura.  “I guess I’ll just kill the mouthy one,” it intones, all pretext of a mortal voice stripped away from the hideous scratching sound forming words.

“Sucks to be you, Gorquen,” Taran laughs as he brandishes Arunshee’s Kiss and Little Sister.  His sun blade hums and glows with a warm yellow light, and he readies himself for a charge.  

But Gorquen is faster, and she tears forward into the thing, striking at its legs and hoping to upend it.  But it is stronger than even its huge size might indicate, and the night-thing lashes a tentacle-like arm around the haft of the sword, wresting it from Gorquen’s grasp.  Merkatha fires an arrow, enchanted through the blessing of Lathander, then flees the area as fast as her feet can take her!

The night-thing _seethes_ its amusement, and the vile sensation _curses_ and sickens the souls of the adventurers, leaving Elgin and Gorquen dizzy and unable to concentrate.  The shadow holds Gorquen’s sword above its head, and then snaps the ancient blade of the Ahk-Velar in two.

Taran leaps forward, and lays into the creature, his sun blade and keen sword ripping and slicing the semi-present form of the undead, severing its ties to the physical realm.  In an instant, the two halves of Gorquen’s sword clatter to the ground, and the creature is gone.

Gorquen broods about the destruction of her sword, and glares at Taran.  “Come adventuring, Gorquen,” she says, imitating Taran in a high-pitched voice.  “It’ll be fun.” 

-----

The party is as good as their word, and after gathering themselves and finishing their trek through the massive caverns of Kor’En Eamor, they return to Isk with food, water and supplies for the refugees.  Since Elgin’s display, the group has swollen to sixty members as word of the miracle spread.  Despite their taboo against entering the delve, the refugees become willing to follow the party after watching Elgin Trezler _mass heal_ the diseased.  Taran passes out new clothes, footwear, cold weather gear and weapons.

-----

The group is herding the shambling column of refugees across the broken bridge when it happens.  Gorquen, Merkatha and Elgin have moved completely across and scouted the forward landing, while Taran and Thelbar remain on the Iskian side of the bridge to usher the long train across.  Getting them this far has proved a challenge, with all five adventurers forced to play shepherd, maintaining a nearly constant stream of encouragement, coercion and threats in order to keep the terrified commoners moving.

The bridge crossing is nearly complete when the air pressure suddenly _shifts_, and the back half of the bridge is pelted by an impossibly dense spray of ice, hail and super-frozen air raining down from the yawning darkness overhead.  Refugees fall screaming into the chasm from either end of the bridge, or die where they stand, their bodies torn and their systems shocked.  Taran and Thelbar are spared the worst of the blast, but even still they are knocked from their feet, and their equipment and clothing is covered with a layer of ice.  Both heroes look up into the darkness, but cannot locate the source of the icy burst.  

Merkatha, however, possesses the superior darkvision of her people—she invokes her inborn magical gift and illuminates a massive winged beast with _faerie fire_.  The creature is four-legged, powerfully muscular and long—easily sixty feet from nose to tail, with a wingspan double that length.  Once revealed, the dragon abandons its refuge of darkness and swoops toward Taran and Thelbar.  It crashes onto the _wall of stone_ bridge with a *whump*, crushing frozen and bloody refugees beneath its weight and sweeping more screaming victims into the chasm with a lash of its tail.  The beast is a hoary and ancient frost dragon, its cruel features distorted and shimmering due to the multiple protective spells playing about its body.  It opens its mouth and unleashes a monstrous screech—a sound all the more terrible for having been made in this place of sepulchral quiet.

Taran scrambles to his feet, and begins to move forward as Thelbar raises both arms above his head and invokes a _greater dispelling_.  In that instant, the dragon’s protections are whisked away, and the creature shrieks its displeasure.  Gorquen unfolds her black wings, and after a few jogging steps, she flies along the length of the tail, striking into the dragon’s haunch with her longspear.

Taran closes his eyes and says a quick prayer to Palatin Ermath for Rex’s soul, then murmurs “Arunshee guide my hand,” as he _hastes_ himself.  Elgin Trezler sends a _blade barrier _whistling into existance, the massive whirring plane of edged steel cutting at the dragon’s flanks in a nearly vertical arc.  But the dragon manages to curl up like a snake, and compress itself into the half of the bridge where Taran stands, his swords at the ready.

Thelbar steps up behind his brother, and invokes a _time stop_.  The spell shivers and twists the moment, stretching it into an impossibly long segment that seems to snap back into itself, suddenly producing multiple spell effects.  Four huge _fireballs_ explode in a diamond pattern around the creature as a trio of _lightning bolts_ arc past Taran’s head, lighting up the bridge and the dragon as they play up and down its length.  The air around the beast seems to cave in for a moment, as every drop of moisture is sucked from the suddenly desiccated wyrm.

Thelbar’s skin turns an ashen grey, and a shimmering globe of energy surrounds him in the same instant.  “Damn,” he says to no one in particular.  “My _confusion_ spell failed.”

Refugees scream, Gorquen curses, the dragon shudders, and Taran whoops for joy.  He braces himself against the charge, but the dragon springs forward, spreads his wings and sails _over_ Taran, pouncing squarely on Thelbar with all four claws, beating at the mage with its wings, and crushing him with its mouth.  The dragon’s bulk knocks Taran from his feet as it passes, and one of its wings catches him on the up-stroke, sending him flying across the landing to sprawl in the dust.

Elgin cries, “Lathander!  For the Dawn!” and calls down a pillar of flame onto the ice-dragon, as Gorquen chases after the beast with her spear.  Merkatha, having recovered from her shock has taken cover behind an outcropping of native stone and is firing enchanted arrows at the dragon as fast as she can.

The dragon’s tail strikes Gorquen, knocking her off course and unconscious.  She falls to the ground with a sickening cry, and Elgin dashes forward to assist her.  Taran regains his feet and flies blades-first at the creature.  He strikes it near the front shoulder-joint, and begins to rip and tear with his magical weapons.  The dragon pulls away from Thelbar, giving the mage an opportunity regain his feet.  Taran stands up bravely, but is not so well protected by spells as his brother, and the dragon exacts a terrible price.  Taran is slashed by claws, buffeted by wings and seized in the dragon’s mouth.  The dragon lifts him into the air and exhales pain, its frost breath burning Taran’s skin, and obscuring his form with layers of ice.

Taran cries out, barely alive, and Thelbar responds with a _chain lightning_ that plays around the dragon, piercing its spell resistance, and stunning it momentarily.  Taran falls to the ground, and regains his feet.  Elgin rushes to Gorquen’s side, where he _heals_ her.  The action momentarily distracts the dragon, and Taran is able to finish what he began.  He cuts into the shoulder-joint again, opening the same wound further, and eventually reaching the dragon’s vitals.  The monstrous beast shudders once, and prepares to spring into the air, but its wounded shoulder fails it, and it collapses onto its side, nearly killing Taran as it does so.

Taran does not quit attacking the creature, and a few seconds later has opened one of the creature’s arteries, and is completely awash in dragon blood, a joyous and bestial expression on his face.


----------



## coyote6

Was that _the_ white dragon of the Delve? 

If so, revenge is sweet. How many levels did it take?


----------



## (contact)

Yes it was, and Taran'll punch any man says differ'nt.  It only took us about 13 levels to get to it.  Hey, we was _busy_.  

_edit:  Meta-game wise, there's no way this could be the same dragon.  I imagine that the nasty grew several hundred years while we were adventuring in Faerun, which (considering the Delve's ecology) is entirely possible.

Story-wise, I'll punch any DM says this ain't the same dragon.    Revenge is sweeeeet._


----------



## Zaruthustran

Wow. Just read this whole thing start to finish. Well, actually I'd been reading bits and pieces until I started at 4:00 this afternoon (while at work). It's now 8:00, and I'm still at work. On a friday. During summer.

Damn (contact), you write a story _good_.

Going home now.

-z


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## (contact)

*76—The Cavern of Mists*

Elgin is unable to instantly restore Taran, having cast the last of his _heal_ spells on Gorquen, but after several lesser invocations, Taran reports that he is healed enough to continue.  Merkatha examines the body of the dragon in awe, commenting that this was not the dragon who briefly held her captive—this one is much larger.  Taran is too badly wounded and exhausted to gloat, but he gives her an “I told you so” look and sends her out to round up any refugees who survived the dragon’s assault.

While Taran is exultant over the victory against one of his most hated mortal enemies, his experiences in Isk have sobered him, and gone is the schoolboy-on-a-jaunt persona he had previously applied to the adventure.  In its place, Taran is cheerless and quiet, given to silence and long pauses before answering even the simplest of questions.  Merkatha reacts negatively to this change, keeping herself apart from him wherever possible, and avoiding his company.

“Ceredain’s got her claws in him,” she mutters to no one in particular.

----

All in all, the party finally arrives in Storm’s Rise with only half of the people they started with, and Taran announces that this is unacceptable.  The souls of the slain are trapped within Kor’En Eamor, denied both their afterlife and a chance at resurrection.  A sticky metaphysical wicket, to be sure.

Elgin promises to bring the full power of Lathander and the _pasoun_ to bear for these people, and after several _divinations_, he has discovered a way to call individual souls from the ethers within Kor’En Eamor and place them into gemstones, where they can be physically removed from the Delve and returned to life.  Lathander smiles upon this application of His might, and Elgin is able to accomplish this feat for all twenty of the slain Iskian commoners with a single _miracle_ spell.

The individuals have no memory of the period they spent between lives, and everyone agrees that this is probably a hidden blessing of the Morning Lord—Kor’En Eamor is a tragic and haunted place, and the souls could not have been in good company during their short afterlife.

After Elgin’s _miracle_, the group is able to see to it that the refugees are safely housed in Storm’s Rise, and put to work in this new wonderland of bounty, devoid of rampaging abominations or wide swaths of diseased and scorched earth.  Taran spends some time with each of them, promising them that someday they will return to a healed and welcoming Isk.  Thelbar and Elgin counsel the refugees, and offer each of them an opportunity to re-dedicate themselves to the new Ermathan Pantheon, and embrace the Risen Goddess.

-----

Armed with the knowledge of what follows death in the Great Delve, each of the adventurers are equipped with a gemstone sufficient to contain his or her soul should the unthinkable happen.

They rest for the night, and return to the Great Delve after making morning absolutions and preparing spells.   They travel through the massive Fungal Forest to the area known as All Roads Meet.  Merkatha explains that she has been here before with her previous adventuring companions, and encountered a band of hostile duergar.  She explains that her group came here looking for the lich known as the Uqeraq.  They knew he was somehow connected to the worship of Hepis and the Curse on Kor’En Eamor, and they had hoped that killing the Uqeraq might loosen Ceredain’s grip on the Delve.

“Sounds like an admirable plan,” Taran says.  “Usually, if you kill the right people your problems tend to solve themselves.”

-----

All Roads Meet is a nexus of connecting warrens that form the bulk of Kor’En Eamor’s main level.  Following Merkatha’s lead beyond the nexus, the party enters a large cavern bisected by an underground river.  

“There aren’t many souls here,” Taran says, gazing at the area through his _goggles of stalking_.  “Not like above.”

At the cavern’s mid-point, a stone bridge crosses the river, and here Merkatha signals for a halt.  Her superior darkvision lets her spot a huge, vile-looking earth elemental standing guard on the far side of the bridge, supported by a phalanx of pale-skinned and white-eyed dwarven sentries.  The party _flies_ toward the bridge, and Elgin _dismisses_ the fiendish elemental, while Thelbar destroys the dwarven formation with a well-placed _meteor swarm_.  Taran and Gorquen make quick work of the surviving duergar, and after a moment, only one opponent remains alive.

The dwarf glares at his enemies and sullenly speaks up in a stilted and thickly-accented Chondathan.  “I will not betray my house or my goddess, upon pain of death.”

 “Good to know,” Taran says dismissively, as he ties the dwarf’s hands securely behind his back.  

Merkatha glares at the dwarf for a moment, and runs her fingers lightly across the scars covering her face and neck.  “There are worse things than death,” she observes.

The dwarf spits.  “I look at you and I laugh.  You are all elves and less than elves in my eyes.  You wield death as a tool, but you know nothing of its truth.  I am of Ceredain Mother-to-Death, and you bring me no terror.”

 “Okay,” Taran smiles.  “That’s fine.  Where is the Uqeraq?”

“I will never tell you.  The Uqeraq will give you all to the Goddess.”

“But how can he smite us if we don’t even know where he is?” Taran asks, beaming proudly at his display of debating skills.

“Pathetic elves,” the dwarf sneers.

Taran’s smile fades.  He reaches out, takes the dwarf by his beard, and swiftly wrenches his captive into the _portable hole_.  “Live it love it, f-cker,” Taran mutters in Isenthanian.

Thelbar’s voice whispers in Taran’s head.  “_Brother, there is only enough air in there for ten minutes of breath before he suffocates. _”

“_Yeah, I’ll let him out after each battle,” Taran thinks.  “We’ll let him see first-hand what the ‘pathetic elves’ can accomplish. _” 

-----

The passageway guarded by the dwarves is wide enough to march a phalanx twenty-abreast, and three times as tall. After several hundred feet, the tunnel ends at a stone-and-steel guardhouse that blocks the passage completely, and prevents entrance into the cavern beyond.  The guardhouse has a crenellated walkway which leaves enough head-room for dwarves to rain projectiles down along the length of the passage.

Bypassing the guard post proves easy enough, as the party make themselves _invisible_, and fly into the area beyond.  What they see there is a fully-realized dwarven city—built within a massive stalactite-spackled cavern, its primary concentration of buildings rise around and on top of a trio of mesa-like outgrowths.  A pair of waterfalls bookend the cavern, and they feed into a y-shaped waterway that exits from an unseen passage well beyond Merkatha’s vision.   They both give off sprays of mist that play across the cavern, and coat nearly every surface with a slick wetness.

In the center of the cavern, a huge tower sits on an island of stone separated from its surroundings by a deep moat-like crevice.  The top half of the tower gives off an eerie greenish light that faintly illuminates surrounding buildings and reflects off the mist in the air, creating a foul halo that flickers like candlelight.  A thin walkway runs along its circumference near the top, but no entrances are visible.

The two companions signal to one another, and move unseen thorough the quiet and subdued dwarven city.  Everywhere they go, they see deep-dwarves going about their daily tasks and directing large groups of slaves, who clean, repair and otherwise maintain the city.  The slaves are of all races, including those common to both the surface and the underdeeps.  Humans, dwarves, elves, kuo-toa, orcs, kobold, giants and even stranger creatures shuffle along listlessly at the behest of their masters.

“Hey, Merkatha,” Taran whispers.  “I think I’ve killed at least one of everything here!”

Merkatha sneers at this braggadocio, but she is too well-hidden for Taran to notice.

A second large underground passageway gives an exit from the city to the North and East of the party’s entrance point.  This passage is much larger—a space that would be called a cavern in any lesser complex, and is protected by a heavily manned wall, complete with ballistae and catapults.

They find that the whole city is maybe twice again the size of Mistledale, but more sparsely populated.  The dwarves seem to have fallen into three castes:  Soldiers, who live exclusively within a barracks compound near the entrance where Thelbar, Elgin and Gorquen wait; priests, who make their dwelling within a large low-lying building near the lit tower; and workers, who herd and direct the slave-brigades.

Taran slips behind a group of unattended slaves, and in a flash, grabs an older elf and covers his mouth, pulling him into the shadows.

“Relax, buddy,” he says in the man’s ear.  “I’m here to set you free.  Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

Merkatha repeats this phrase in Undercommon, and the elf nods.

The man does not seem frightened of Merkatha, or rather, not unduly surprised to see a drow, and he tells the group that he was captured by pirates many years ago while sea-fishing in his home-world.  He was sold to “a creature with snakes where its mouth should be,” and taken to a “world of eternal darkness, where no sun ever shines.”  He was eventually stolen from his master by a band of raiding dwarves, and after a grueling force-march, he found himself here.  He confirms that the city is structured around a harsh caste system, and as a slave, he possesses no rights or expectations.  He does know who the Uqeraq is, but informs the group that the name is in fact a title given to the chosen of Ceredain—in this case, a dwarven lich of tremendous power.  He says that the Uqeraq is only seen coming or going from the main temple, and rarely at that.  

When asked what his role is, he says that he is a scribe to King Arduin.

“Ah, ha,” Merkatha says.  “Does this king worship Ceredain as well?”

“Yes,” the elf replies quizically.  “Of course.”

“Have you ever been within the temple?”

“For a slave to enter the temple is death.”

Merkatha nods.  “Does the Uqeraq ever leave the temple?”

“Only on great occasions,” the elf replies.

“What would be a great occasion?” she asks.

“Setting the town on fire,” Taran answers. He pulls Merkatha aside.  “We’ve heard enough, let’s get this poor bastard into the bag.  You talk him into it; you’ve got better people skills.”

The elf begs to be released, promising to tell no one of his encounter, and points out that if he is missed, he will surely be killed.  Taran argues briefly, but decides not to force the man into the dubious company of an aggressive adventuring band, and releases him.

“We should get back,” Merkatha says.  “I think we know what to do.”

“Yeah,” Taran says.  “They’re probably worried about us, anyway.  We’ve been gone . . . oh, crap.”  Taran’s face sinks.  He reaches into his _portable hole_, but the dwarf he removes is lifeless and cold.  “Goddamnit, Merkatha,” Taran curses.  “You forgot to remind me to air out the dwarf!”


----------



## Joshua Randall

Knowing Merkatha, I don't think she actually *forgot*.

You can really turn a phrase, (contact). When do we get a book of pithy wisdom, like _Everything I Need To Know I Learned Adventuring_?


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## (contact)

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> *You can really turn a phrase, (contact). When do we get a book of pithy wisdom, like Everything I Need To Know I Learned Adventuring? *




“_Always go kill the glowing thing first_."


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## (contact)

*77—Sadly, fighting with and fighting alongside do not always mean the same thing.*


The party regroups within the city just out of darkvision range from the guards at the entranceway.  Taran and Merkatha relate their intelligence, and Elgin states the obvious.

“We’re attacking the tower.”

“Yeah,” Taran says.  “Always go kill the glowing thing first is what I always say.  You think these evil priests would get the message eventually.”

Thelbar instructs his companions to hold hands, then _teleports_ them to the walkway surrounding the top of the tower.  The green light is both disorienting as well as sickening, and seems to be _oozing_ from the very stone of the place.  The building seems to vibrate slightly, and a faint howling can be heard, as if a great wind were blowing on the other side of the stone wall.

Elgin reaches out to the unseen dawn many worlds away, and _summons_ a gloriously beautiful winged celestial who greets him affectionately, then _stone shapes_ a hole in the tower wall.  

As soon as the breach is opened, a powerful gust of wind sucks into the tower, and a wide shaft of ghoulish light beams out from the opening.  

As Elgin prepares the group with last-minute protective magic, Thelbar buries the nearby barracks with a series of _rock to mud_ spells.  The luckiest dwarves are able to escape the destruction, but many more are drowned in torrents of clinging mud before they can escape.  Alarm bells begin to ring across the city, and the normally quiet place is soon filled with shouting dwarven voices.

As  Thelbar completes his destruction of the duergar military, the celestial gazes into the glowing interior of the tower with a horrified expression on its face.  To its superior _true seeing_, the tower is seen to be completely hollow, and the whole shaft is given over to a whirling maelstrom of semi-substantial souls.  The wind from their passage gushes out from the opening in rhythmic pulses, whipping the celestial’s robes about haphazardly.

“_The torment_,” the celestial whispers.  A lone tear runs down his cheek, and the party is suddenly struck by waves of a palpable righteous anger that emanates from the holy being and seeps into the adventurers, suffusing them with an unquestioned moral imperative.

A lone dwarf stands at the bottom of the tower, regarding the heroes above with a level stare.  The dwarf clutches a glowing war hammer, and hunkers down within a suit of fantastically carved and decorated plate armor.  He is accompanied by three similarly equipped bodyguards.  Strangely, none of the four are duergar—they are hill, or mountain dwarves by the look of them, although the central figure has unhealthily gaunt features, his skin reflects the light with a slightly reflective patina and is pulled tightly across his bones; flat, black eyes stare out from beneath thin and patchy eyebrows and his beard hangs dull and lifeless across his chest.  


_Metagame note:  My DMs actual description was, “His face is gaunt and pulled tight—like Demi Moore.” _

This is the Uqeraq, servitor and sometime confidant of an ancient fertility goddess driven mad through undeath; that he chose to face his fate within the very receptacle where his most profane harvest is stored seems ominous enough, but if they are frightened, the Champions of the Risen Goddess give no sign.

Merkatha fires an arrow at the staring dwarves, but the shaft is snatched up by the maelstrom, and whirls harmlessly around the inside of the tower.  The rest of the party flies down into the tower, as Thelbar prepares the way with an arc of _chain lighting_, followed by a _fireball_.  The dwarves absorb this barrage stoically, then fan out and form a semi-circular protective perimeter around their gaunt leader.

Her archery useless within the interior of the tower, Merkatha remains on the tower walkway, and begins sniping at important-looking dwarves in the city below, hindering their efforts to rescue drowning soldiers or restore order.  The souls trapped within the tower begin to pour out of the opening, which seems to cause a general panic to rise within the dwarven city.

Taran and Gorquen demonstrate that even such dedicated dwarven defenders as these are no help against a foe who can simply fly over their position, and before the dwarves can respond, they have flanked the Uqeraq in a classic pincer attack.  Elgin is deposited on the floor of the tower by his celestial companion, and the two of them begin laying into their dwarven enemies, preventing them from collapsing upon Taran and Gorquen.  

As Taran expected to recognize the face of his old adventuring companion upon confronting him, he is disappointed.  This dwarf could be anyone—Ishlok’s memory-charm holds fast.  Alvodar Bluebeard, scion of his clan, called the Cursebreaker, former King of Kor’En Eamor and the Dark Ways Beneath Her, one-time high-priest of Moradin and now Child of His Curse regards his former companion.

“I would have thought I killed you when I snuffed the life from our world,” he says.  “But I see that Ishlok has given your soul a new body.  I entreat you—place it within my care.”

“You destroyed my army, you f-cking traitor,” Taran spits as he hacks through the dwarf’s armor.

“No, your ineptitude destroyed your army,” Alvodar says.  “I merely set a plague upon the survivors.  We are all pawns to the gods, _Tar-Ilou_, but we can make choices about whom we serve.  Die with me now, and I shall show you the white joy of the forever-death.”

“You go on without me,” Taran grunts, as he punches Black Lisa through the dwarf’s gilded breastplate.

Alvodar sighs once and collapses into a heap that instantly ages as if dead for hundreds of years.

After several minutes pass, the last of the trapped souls have found their way out of the tower and are streaking around the city, and the party can hear panicked screams coming from without.  Merkatha climbs down and joins the group.

“They’re routed,” she says matter of factly.  “I think we killed most of the soldiers.”

The party searches both the temple and the Uqeraq’s tower, but cannot locate his phylactery.

“Goddamnit,” Taran curses.  “We’re going to fight him again.”

“And again, and on until we are finished here,” Thelbar says.  “Think about it, brother, if you were this lich, where would you place your essence?”

“I would give my essence to my goddess,” Gorquen says.  “Ceredain has it.”

“Ceredain has it,” Elgin agrees.

“Fine, we’ll do this the hard way,” Taran says.  “The way I see it, we need to get his phylactery and see about bringing him back to life.”  When the party looks horrified at the suggestion, he continues.  “Real life, I mean.  We need Alvodar, not this Uqeraq.  If we bring him around, he might know the best way to deal with the bitch.”

-----

The group follows a set of curved stairs into the worked passages beneath the tower, and eventually discover a narrow underground passageway that directly toward the palace.  The passage ascends into a large complex, and the party can see a group of determined-looking dwarves mustering protectively before a grand double-door.

Thelbar invokes a _horrid wilting_ in their midst, and the door is suddenly unguarded.  The party bursts into the room and surprises a dozen heavily-armored dwarves, congregated around what must be their king.  They appear to have been arguing, but they grow silent when they spy the characters, and rasp weapons from their sheathes.  A pair of stone statues on either side of the door animate as well, and within seconds, the party is embroiled within a furious melee.

The dwarves are tough, and Thelbar has exhausted his most potent spells fighting to this point, but in the end, the dwarven King lies dead amidst the bodies of his generals, along with the rubble that was his clan’s most potent constructs just a minute ago.

As the party is looting the bodies, they are confronted by a dwarven woman, whose royal regalia identify her as the queen.  “Take what you like, you filthy ghouls,” she hisses, “and leave my kingdom.”

“_Your_ kingdom, lady?” Thelbar says with a half-smile.  “Here are our terms:  you will release all your slaves, and evacuate the city.  Upon our return tomorrow, any duergar who still remain within the city walls will be slain on sight, with no parley.  We will take your slaves from you, and you will surrender them without a fight, or we will show you no mercy at all.”  Into Taran’s head, he thinks, “_we cannot afford another battle today, brother.  We must bluff from a position of power, and go quickly. _”

The queen glares at Thelbar.  “You threaten me with death?”  she sneers.  “Go then, and return to this place—you shall have the jewel of my crown, and the best part of my self; given you as a gift from my own hands.  I will show you what the duergar are made of.”

Taran regards a pile of dwarven innards lying just outside of their former possessor.  “I can already see what you’re made of,” he says, “and it stinks just like everyone else’s.  Do what you’re told, and flee.”

-----

But the next day, the party sees what the woman meant by her oath.  Every dwarf in the place is dead, either through poison, or strangled by the hands of their fellows.  Most of the slaves have been murdered as well, and the whole city is infused with a charnel stink, felt in the spirit as much as sensed by the body.  The mass suicide lingers palpably in the air; an act of total hatred and defiance.

“My god,” Elgin says.  “Lathander have mercy.”

“Lathander can’t help these people,” Taran says, taking his goggles from his eyes.  “Their souls are everywhere.”


----------



## coyote6

So how many times do y'all have to kill the lich before he stays destroyed?


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## (contact)

I imagine we'll have to keep killing him until we get his phylactery, his Goddess, or both.


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## (contact)

*78—What killers think about in the dead of night.*


As the party regards the physical and spiritual carnage within the duergar city, a bizarre howling begins to rise, coming from the far gates of the City of Mists.  Within moments, the howling is repeated from several more sources, forming an eerie chorus off to the North.

“Dogs of the deeps,” Thelbar says after a moment’s reflection.  “I have learned of them—those are canoloths.”  When it becomes obvious that no one knows what he means, he says, “Fiends.  Soul eaters.”

The party moves toward the sound, and Taran thinks to his brother, “_Now how the hell did you know that_?”

Thelbar replies, “_How did you recognize your army, and how did we know to kill those Ishlokian dogs we met in Ratik?  ‘How’ is a question that impedes understanding. _”

As the party moves toward the Northern gates, they realize that the souls of the dead, as thick in the air as the carrion spiders are on the ground, seem to be flowing in the opposite direction of the party.

“The souls are fleeing,” Taran says.

As the group comes within sight of the walled cavern, they see two dozen and more fiendish creatures bounding over the wall and rampaging just beyond it.  They appear to be a slime-encrusted, horse-sized cross between an unusually ugly bulldog and an exceptionally mean toad—they are definitely of lower-planar origin, and seem to have no trouble locating the fleeing souls with their tiny, close-set eyes.  As they bound about, making leaps of up to fifty feet at a time, they snap the souls into their mouths after seizing them with freakishly long, projectile tongues.  

Emerging over the tip of the wall as the party arrives, a trio of wretched-looking women ride herd over the canoloths.  They are grey-skinned, hideously wrinkled and warty to the last inch of exposed skin—not that there is much of that visible underneath their mastercrafted plate armor.  The hags ride on the back of flying nightmares—smoky black horses formed of dreaming corruption, with glowing coals for eyes, and choking smog for breath.

Thelbar points his finger at the nearest hag, and _feebleminds_ her.  After a moment, where he is locked in a battle of wills with the thing, his spell fizzles, and he is thrust from her mind like a squalling child banished from the adult’s table.  

“_Oh, brother_,” he thinks, although whether this is intended as a call to action or a warning makes little difference to Taran.  The bull-necked ranger is already charging at the lead hag, with Black Lisa and Little Sister free of their scabbards.

Elgin raises his hand, and invokes a _blade barrier_ directly into the path of the onrushing hags.  The withered women themselves disregard the spell entirely—as if the plane of razor-sharp blades were no more than a street-corner phantasm, created by slight of hand and colored smoke.  But the _blade barrier_ is real enough, as one of the nightmares and two canoloths are shivered flesh from bone by contact with the plane of conjured steel.  

As the dying nightmare plummets from the sky, its rider draws a pair of long fighting-knives from her saddle and leaps clear just as the infernal mount crashes into the ground.  She tumbles to her feet, and moves to menace Taran.  The other two ride around and over him, leap to the ground amongst the rest of the party.  The first hag to arrive at Thelbar’s position cuts into him with her own matched set of fighting knives, and the vile things glow with the most powerful of enchantments to Thelbar’s _arcane sight_.  Worse yet, they are certainly blessed by the cruel Lords of the Lower Planes, and they deepen each cut with unholy energy.  Thelbar gasps and pulls back.  His protective _stoneskin_ helps him somewhat, but he is still terribly wounded by the thing.  

Gorquen, however, is not impressed.  She steps into the fray confidently, and while keeping the backup hag at bay, she _sunders_ both of the daggers stained with Thelbar’s blood in a flashing maneuver.  The hag cries out in shock—a piercing screeching that seems to twist perception and carry on for far longer than it actually does.  At this moment, Taran changes direction, and abandoning the hag menacing him, shifts down to flank the armed hag Gorquen is facing.  He cuts the creature twice along its back, but does not kill it.

In response, the hag he abandoned leaps upon his back, wrapping her legs around his thick midsection and slicing him multiple times along his chest and neck, worming her way into whatever holes and gaps his armor allows.  Taran makes a short choking cry, and falls to his knees, a spray of blood gushing forth from a half-dozen wounds.  The hag then kicks him dismissively as she moves past him, and he falls face first into a rapidly spreading pool of his own blood, choking for breath.

Gorquen fares somewhat better, but she fights two of the creatures—the weaponless one proves no less aggressive in melee for it, and attacks Gorquen with fists and teeth while the wounded crone tries to penetrate the elf’s guard with her deceptive knife-work.

Thelbar has recovered himself by this time, and swiftly _domintates_ the hag that just dropped Taran before she can repeat the feat elsewhere.  This time, his spell is up to the task, and he bends the hag’s mind to his own.

Elgin Trezler moves to aid Gorquen, smiting the empty-handed crone with his mace, while Merkatha shoots at her from a safe distance away.

Gorquen strikes her armed opponent a fierce blow about the knees, ripping tendons and knocking the creature to the ground.  She weathers another series of bare-handed blows with her characteristic stoicism, but keeps her eye on the armed foe.  The creature rises, disengages from melee, then _lays hands_ upon itself, closing the wound in her leg enough to support her weight.

“Did I say you could get up?” Gorquen asks, taking a page from Taran’s book.  “The Last of the Ahk-Velar” is no small title, but Gorquen is no small warrior.  In a sudden flurry, Gorquen has wounded the hag’s other leg, deposited her back on the ground, and taken her head off with a stroke.

The _dominated_ hag _lays hands_ on Taran, knitting his flesh and replenishing enough of his lost blood to bring him to consciousness.  Before Taran can attack her, Thelbar speaks into his mind.  “_She is under my control, brother_.”

“_Then you’re a bastard, because that bitch almost killed me_!” Taran replies.

The _dominated_ hag calls the canoloths to her side while the group bears down on her unarmed companion, cutting her down.  As she dies, the hag merely cackles to herself, as if the scene were part of some deeply satisfying joke that only she understood.

As Elgin _heals_ his companions, Thelbar regards the controlled hag, and forces her to lower her spell resistance and open her mind to a _charm monster_ spell. 

Satisfied she has done so, Thelbar asks, “Why do your canoloths eat these souls?”

“They do not eat them,” she replies in a hoarse and rasping whisper.  “These yugoloths are containers and vessels for our prize, no more—no less.”

“So you extract them at a later date?”

“No, I have not the art.  Of our coven, only the Night knows how to extract these souls.”

Taran, who thinks she said “knight”, rubs his wounds and wonders—if these were the commoners, what  would the nobility fight like?  He exchanges a worried glance with Gorquen.

“There are other sisters, yes,” the hag rasps in response to Thelbar’s questioning.  “Two more of the chosen and many younger sisters.  The yugoloths who are masters of these beasts are also in this plane—five nycaloths and two ultraloths.  They are led by the Shiversong, an Arcanaloth.  They are our primary buyers, and have agreed to accompany us to the bonanza that we all might be saved some trouble.  There were more fiends here until that fool glabrezu stirred up the sleeper.”

“A glabrezu, you say?  Where is he?”

“In a low, cruel place in the Abyss, if there is any justice in the multiverse.”  She hisses her cynical amusement between yellowed teeth.  After all, she knows first hand that there is none.  “Most likely he is a manes now.”  The hag laughs out loud at the thought.  “The fool tried to take these halls.  He named himself the King of _Tell AqMed_, heh.  But the old soul woke up and the Dwarven Father struck the fool down for his trouble.  Now we must be careful and make watchful eyes, always watching.”

“The ‘old soul’?  Do you mean Ceredain?”

“We do not speak her name, mortal.”  The hag rolls her eyes back into her head and says, as if chanting a litany, “she is the greatest prize of them all, and the Night will take her when all other bounty has been claimed.”  Returning her gaze to Thelbar, she continues.  “We prepare the way.”

Thelbar regards his _dominated_ foe carefully, looking for signs of deceit.

“How does the Night mean to do this?”

“She is the Night, she does not answer our questions.”

“Hey,” Taran says.  “Is your knight scared of the Uqeraq?  Is that why you waited to raid this place?”

“That trifling lich?” the hag scoffs.  Then after a moment’s thought, she turns to Taran with a scowl.  “I do not approve of your tone—perhaps I should ride your back.”

“You couldn’t stay on me,” Taran says, forgetting for the moment their last encounter.

“Maybe we should just let Ceredain know about these hags,” Merkatha offers.  “Let the death-caller eliminate them.”

“And how would we do that?”  Elgin asks.  “We don’t even know that she’s fully sentient, nonetheless listening to mortals.”

“She would listen to her Uqeraq,” Thelbar says.

“Yeah she would,” Taran says.  “It’s that whole thing about divine slavery.”

Elgin and Thelbar look at him curiously.  

“Well, I’ve been thinking,” he explains.  “Palatin Eremath teaches us that we were slaves to the gods before the _pasoun_—that they kept our souls like herds of livestock to feed their multiverse.  But it seems to me that the _pasoun_ liberates the gods as well.  I mean, they can’t _all_ want to suck up to mortals all the time, making the rain and handing out spells to every faithful a-shole with a holy symbol and a vow of chastity (no offense, Elgin).  Maybe the reason deities keep followers around is that they _need_ them to keep their little corner of infinity from being encroached on.  All warfare is the result of limited resources, or the neurotic perception of scarcity.  Right?”

“Do continue, brother,” Thelbar says, a proud smile turning up the corner of his mouth.

“Well, that’s why every deity in the multiverse has the same damn hierarchy among their priests.  Even the really unstructured f-ckers give _some_ spells to only a chosen few, but other spells to pretty much anyone who asks nicely—and they are pretty consistent across faiths in terms of who gets what.”

“This is borderline blasphemy,” Elgin says behind his hand to Thelbar, who merely smiles and motions him to listen.

“Now if you’re like me, and you can’t sleep that much, it really makes you wonder,” Taran continues.  “What would the gods have to gain by establishing such a limited expression of their might?  Well hell, it’s a chain of command!  It works like this:  if you have every soldier on the battlefield giving you reports, you’re not going to make heads or tails of what’s happening.  But if you have a few individuals, trained in tactics who also understand your strategy reporting to you, suddenly you get a more clear picture of what’s going on.

“That’s why the gods only pick wise people like Elgin here to give the really good spells to.  They don’t want to listen to the rabble—they need people with the ability to see clearly through the “fog of war”—call it the “fog of life”—and tell them what the hell is going on.”

Taran looks at his companions.  “So the whole thing about gods being able to see everything is bullsh-t, I think.  _The gods are just as hooked on mortals as the mortals are on them_, and if Ceredain _doesn’t_ listen to her high priest, she’s the dumbest deity ever.”


----------



## Dakkareth

That intelligence booster really pays off, eh? 

Cool speech.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Is there anything in the rules to prevent a lich from hiding his phylactery somewhere unfindable, like floating in the Astral plane or in a _nondetection_ed cyst under the earth? 'Cause that's what I would do. If I were a lich. Which, y'know, I'm not. Yet.


----------



## (contact)

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> *Is there anything in the rules to prevent a lich from hiding his phylactery somewhere unfindable, like floating in the Astral plane or in a nondetectioned cyst under the earth? 'Cause that's what I would do. If I were a lich. Which, y'know, I'm not. Yet. *




No, nothing at all.  I've always imagined that a Lich re-forms next to the phylactery, so you'd have to have some way to get back to wherever you wanted to be from wherever you stashed it.

Other liches, like Martak from the LoT, might regard their phylactery as a fetish object, and kind of obssess over it like a junkie, keeping it near them all the time.

I think Alvodarlin' kept his phylactery in Ceredain's front pocket.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Hmm. While contemplating my impending lichdom, I had this thought. After I become a lich, I will _clone_ one of my loyal flunkies. We'll pass a few months playing cribbage. My flunky will then hide my phylactery somewhere obscure and protect it with anti-divination magics. Upon his return, I will slay him, and his soul will enter the previously made _clone_. At this point *no one*, including the flunky, knows where my phylactery is located!


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## zoroaster100

*bump*

Can't let this glorious tale of divine revolution get pushed out of the first page, can we?


----------



## (contact)

*79—Lighting strikes twice.*


“Of course, there is also the dragon,” the _charmed_ hag murmurs.  Her lower-planar nature causes her to revel in secrets and the discovery of them—and take an even greater joy in the betrayal of trust.  Her hands flutter over one another as she bobs her head, gazing first left, then right.  “It is a servant and sometimes lover of the Night,” she whispers conspiratorially. 

“What sort of dragon?” Taran asks, not daring to believe his luck.  _Two dragons in one week_?

“The fire breathing kind,” she snarls.  “What other kind is there?”

“Right.  How big, exactly?” Taran asks.

“Big enough to defy easy measure, _mortal_.”  The hag jabs a fiercely arthritic finger at Taran’s face.  “Speak no more to me, _ever_, lest I haunt your dreams until the end of all days.”

Taran laughs bravely, but says no more.

Thelbar attracts the hag’s attention with a hand gesture, and smiles knowingly into her eyes.  “Tell me, revered one, how long are your forging parties usually away from the Night?  When will your absence be missed?”

The hag smirks back at the tall mage, repaying his pretend patience with an insincere smile of her own.  She steeples her clawed and knobby hands into a mockery of a civilized contemplation.  “We are never gone more than a few hours.”

“Then we do not have much time,” Thelbar says.  The group determines that the dragon must be the first target, with the Yugoloths as a second, should they have the means after dispatching the wyrm.  The hag obligingly describes the layout of the Halls of Fire—Kor’En Eamor’s primary forging area and the counterpart to the frozen halls and cold-forges in the upper levels.

Thelbar is able to locate the dragon in his _scrying_ mirror.  It is a huge creature—certainly an adult, although not elderly enough to inspire the sort of awe reserved for the truly terrifying creatures like Klauth, or some of the terrible ancient ones of legend.

“We can take it,” Taran reassures the group.

 A swift raid is planned; Merkatha will lead the hag on foot into the Night’s complex, while the others will _teleport_ in and attack the dragon.  If all goes well, the two groups will meet up outside of the entrance to the Yugoloth’s area, and kill fiends until their sword-arms fall off (or their _curing_ spells run out, whichever comes first).

After preparing spells, the party _teleports_ to the dragon’s side.  The rust-scaled wyrm is curled tightly within a huge chamber.  It lies on an eighty-foot square stone island that rises ten feet above the surface of a blazingly hot lava flow where the cavern’s floor should be.  The platform is connected at the cardinal directions to the exit tunnels by four arching stone bridges.

The beast itself broods over the Southern approach to the platform, watching for the raiding party’s return, and basking in the radiating heat.  As the heroes appear, the thing snakes its head back and upward as if to get a viewpoint above all possible targets.  But Taran and Gorquen are both flying, and before the dragon can rake these suicidal intruders with its deadly breath, they have managed to place themselves on either side of the beast.

Taran lets out an exultant whoop, and carves the dragon solidly along one flank, provoking a rumbling snarl.  But the beast is old and crafty enough to know that the puny humans that hang back are usually the worst of the lot.  It ignores Taran and Gorquen, and bathes Elgin and Thelbar with a stream of white-hot dragonfire, half-hoping that some of their magic items turn out to be hardy enough to survive the blast.

But unfortunately for its retirement plans, Elign’s _protection from fire spell_ absorbs the entire gout of flame—neither victim is singed in the slightest.  Thelbar raises his hands and shrivels the back flank of the dragon with a _horrid withering_ spell, while Elgin invokes the protections of Lathander over the group.  

The dragon slumps backward onto its suddenly weakened haunches, and a nearly comical expression of confusion crosses its lizard-like features.  As it twitches and struggles to stand, both Taran and Gorquen lay into it; Gorquen at the chest, and Taran at its rear-quartered vitals.  Their unison of action confuses the creature, and it seems unable to defend itself as they draw deeply through its scales and skin, piercing and mortally damaging vital organs.

Twelve seconds after their arrival, the dragon lies dead, just as Taran promised.

The party turns to the South, and after crossing the stone bridge and traveling several hundred feet along a wide passage, they spot Merkatha and the hag.  (Well, to be precise, they only spot the hag, but assume that she hasn’t just killed Merkatha and devoured the corpse.)

Taran signals to form up, and the group enters the area that they believe is the lair of the hags’ lower-planar business associates.  Twenty feet into this spider-web of passageways, the party is surprised by the silent appearance of a four-armed dog-headed fiend wielding titanic axes in each hand and brushing its broad shoulders against the lintel of an already oversized doorway.

“You just made a grave mistake, mortals,” it growls in a voice that sounds like a chorus of depraved children speaking simultaneously.  

“Well, I must be in the wrong corridor then,” Gorquen says lightly.  “Because I came here to kill yugoloths!”  She leaps forward on the last syllable, and strikes the thing several times about its broad, furry chest, opening long gashes and spilling a bundle of worm-like and writhing guts onto the floor. 

“That’s my girl,” Taran says proudly to no one in particular.

At just that moment, Merkatha chooses to make her presence known—with a grunt and a sharp snapping sound, she runs her twin shortswords through the back of the thing.  Its four greataxes hit the stone just ahead of the corpse.

Gorquen and Merkatha move past the dead yugoloth, and down another short hallway into a four-way intersection.  Merkatha starts to signal “all clear,” when she is interrupted by a series of soft _poppings_—each one heralding the arrival of another yugoloth.  Three more of the axe-wielding fiends appear, along with two inscrutable looking slate gray humanoids with bug-like multifaceted eyes.  Well away from the brawl, a rangy jackal-headed fiend orchestrates his fellows, his gestures obscured by shadows and an oversized cloak.  

Gorquen and Merkatha charge forward, hoping to establish a forward front.  (Or rather, they charge forward, trusting that their companions will finish the fiends behind them, _making_ their front the forward one.)  As she cuts into an axe wielder, Gorquen feels a sinister and alien presence in her mind, threatening to untangle the web of her intellect and rob her of all higher function in an instant.  She furrows her brow, concentrating on the Seven Holy Names of Ishlok.  Thankfully, she manages to get to all seven, and shrugs off the _feeblemind_ effect.

Down the corridor, Thelbar, Elgin and Taran fan out.  Thelbar _disintegrates_ the nearest grey-hued fiend, while Taran reduces his opponent to significantly larger (but no less dead) component parts.  Elgin moves to a position where he can see Gorquen and Merkatha, and drops a _flame strike_ on the four-armed fiend Gorquen just struck, killing it.

Gorquen seizes this opportunity to leap past the remaining fiend and confront the hooded creature at the end of the corridor.  It recoils from her, drawing its furred maw deeper into the recesses of its cloak, but before it can get away, she sweeps it from its feet and buries her sword six inches into its inch-thick skull.

Both surviving fiends realize that they are leaderless as well as outmatched, and in an instant they are gone—fled back to where they came from (and already planning to demand a refund from the Night!)

“Wait, I see more of them,” Elign says, tuning in to his _true seeing_ spell.  “No, those are hags!  Four of them, and they are approaching through the etheric!”

Following Elgin’s pointing hand, Thelbar and Taran can see them as well.  Thelbar wastes no time, and strikes the nearest with a _magic missile_ followed by a _quickened magic missile_.  For his part, Elgin _summons_ his winged deva associate to his side. 

“Good,” it says, although it is unclear whether it is expressing excitement for the upcoming fight, or simply reiterating its cosmological point-of-view.  Seeing that the rest of the party is intent on the approaching hags, and that no one means to pick up the conversation thread, the Deva continues on with a _holy word_, timed to follow Elgin Trezler’s _blade barrier_, just as the hags are materializing near the group.  Two of the hags are stunned, and left to the tender mercies of the _blade barrier_, but the other two charge on through the spell-effect.  Thelbar speaks a word, and _feebleminds_ the nearest hag, who reels in confusion and is set upon by Taran, Gorquen and Merkatha.

The remaining hag draws two _unholy_ knives, and flipping them into a reverse grip, forces Thelbar against the corridor wall with her elbows and shoulders while she shreds his skin with her blades.  He cries out and slides down the wall, alive but no longer aware.  Taran yells something unintelligible and falls upon the hag, striking her with every ounce of his strength.  After Gorquen also flies to Thelbar’s aid, the hag decides that she’s had enough and returns to the etheric plane.  Her form becomes misty and insubstantial and with a dream-like ease she sails through Thelbar’s bloody form, and into the wall.

Elgin is already by Thelbar’s side, and _heals_ him, bringing the mage out of shock.

“Okay, we got what we wanted,” Taran says.  “The dragon is dead, and the yugoloths are running back to Hell with their tails between their legs.”

“The Grey Waste,” Thelbar corrects him, sipping from a skin of Burduskan frost-wine.

“Whatever,” Taran says.  “The point is, let’s not push our luck.  Let’s get the h . . . get the f-ck out of here.”

------

_Kor’En Eamor_ means “the Throne of All Dwarvenkind.”  Its proper name is so old that it is no longer used by even the keepers of dwarven apocrypha.  If the sages refer to it at all, they call it the First Home, and it is widely believed to be an allegory, a myth, or just a legend, but never is it taken for a real place.  

Amongst those who know the truth, however, it has over the millennia gained the name _Tell Aq Med_, which means “curse of the Aq Med,” in reference to the clan that spawned Hepis, the King who would be God.  The Faerunian humans that live nearby refer to the place simply as the Great Delve.  It seems a fair assumption that the Delve’s other would-be colonists, be they illithid, kuo-toan, orcish, or drow would have their own names for the First Home of the dwarves.

Whichever name they call it by, those in the know agree that Kor’En Eamor is its own plane of existence.  Technically, it is its own non-plane, according to Thelbar, but the distinction is lost on his companions.  The party is therefore able to _teleport_ to the very lintel of the doorway connecting the Great Delve with Faerun, but no further.  Again, the distinction is overly fine, because one step later, Taran is filling his lungs with cold, clean, mountain air, and wondering aloud what will be for dinner.


----------



## coyote6

That went well. Almost too well...


----------



## Zaruthustran

Someone alert B.A.D.D. about that twelve-second catastrophe!

-z


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## (contact)

B.A.D.D., shmad-- somebody alert my DM that dragons are supposed to be guarding some treasure, for crying out loud.

You can't buy a new suit of armor with a sense of triumph.


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> *You can't buy a new suit of armor with a sense of triumph. *




So really, instead of "a fair day's wages for a fair day's work," it becomes "a new suit of magic armor for twelve seconds of hard work." I had a feeling D&D economics were skewed!

Maybe your DM is campaigning on a platform of economic reform.


----------



## (contact)

Taran is a *consultant*.


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## Dakkareth

And an obviously successful one as none of his 'customers' have come back to complain. 

Cool story, keep up the good work


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## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> *B.A.D.D., shmad-- somebody alert my DM that dragons are supposed to be guarding some treasure, for crying out loud.
> 
> You can't buy a new suit of armor with a sense of triumph. *




No treasure? Man, that's low. So what was the big dragon doing there, anyway? Just hanging out?

Also: if Dragons get more powerful as they age, and nothing ages in the Delve... how'd that dragon get so big?

-z


----------



## (contact)

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> *So what was the big dragon doing there, anyway? Just hanging out?*




The dragon was keeping a watch for the hag gathering-party's return.

_“Of course, there is also the dragon,” the charmed hag murmurs. Her lower-planar nature causes her to revel in secrets and the discovery of them—and take an even greater joy in the betrayal of trust. Her hands flutter over one another as she bobs her head, gazing first left, then right. “It is a servant and sometimes lover of the Night,” she whispers conspiratorially._



> *Also: if Dragons get more powerful as they age, and nothing ages in the Delve... how'd that dragon get so big?*




We're not sure that things don't age-- we know that they can't reproduce, and we think that their lifespans are extended greatly.  Other than that, we haven't had a chance to observe any passage of time in the Delve.

Later, we'll find out that time runs on a different track in the Delve than it does in the "real world," particularly when Ceredain is awake.

(contact)


----------



## SpaceBaby Industries

> “Good,” it says, although it is unclear whether it is expressing excitement for the upcoming fight, or simply reiterating its cosmological point-of-view.




Priceless, (contact).  That's why I read this story and the LoT: the wry bits of humour you weave into the narrative.  You seem to do a fine job with Celestials, as I remember some great lines all the way back to RtToEE, such as how a Bureaucracy would actually *work* in Mt. Celestia.  And who can forget the dramatic climax at the end of the Temple and "fight Evil, Crim"?

Looking forward to future installments.


----------



## (contact)

80—Winterbeard


The ancient and hoary dwarven recluse known to the people of Storm’s Rise as Winterbeard the Builder has taken something of a shine to Merkatha.  This is evident by the fact that he speaks to her at all, if not by his incredulous tone of voice.  “Are you stupid, or _have you gone mad down there_?”  

Merkatha has just told him of the party’s plans to confront Ceredain and make her aware of the Night Hag’s presence in the Delve.  “Ceredain could defeat Night,” she asserts.

The dwarf is fuming.  “At what cost!  Would you wake the lion to scatter the mice?  _Do not trifle with her_.  Kill the hag yourself, or have your swaggering friend kill her, but leave the Mother of Suffering be.”

Merkatha slyly says, “If we’re not to trifle with her, how shall we free her?”

But the dwarf will not be baited.  “That is not my concern.  Nothing changes within the Delve, and the sooner you learn this . . .”

“It changes!  Things get worse.”

“Then it is _your_ fault.  Your friends opened that door.  Speak to me no more of such senseless things.  And don’t you slam that . . .”

Merkatha slams the door.

-----

The dominated hag looks about herself with disgust.  As a final insult, she was instructed to _plane shift_ to the Seven Heavens, and on arriving, wonders how she is going to get out of this alive.  She practices her best groveling face, and prepares a speech.

-----

“Winterbeard is key,” Taran says.  He and the party sit around a table in the town’s only inn.  It is still early in the day, and they are the only ones in the place, as all of the customers as well as the proprietors are still in the fields.  Taran serves himself another cup of the innkeeper’s dusty reserve port.  “He’s a player here, I just know it.  Why don’t we _legend lore_ him behind his back?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Thelbar says, “but it is a sticky one.  If he knows anything useful, divining him without his consent will likely shatter any hope that we might win his trust.”

“Leave that to me,” Taran says.  “I have a way with people.”

-----

Taran raps sharply on Winterbeard’s door.

“What price solitude?” the dwarf says wearily as he greets the bull-headed fighter.

“What?” Taran replies.

“What price will you extract to leave me be?” 

“Oh, yeah.  Look, like it or not, you’re here and so are we.  You grow plants, and we intend to fix this dwarven mess before it spills out and makes of Faerun what it made of my home-world,” Taran says.  “We know you won’t talk about the Delve, and believe it or not, we respect that.  But we have other means at our disposal, magical means that would require no action on your part.  We need information, and I’m asking you man to man for your permission to get some answers.”

Winterbeard regards Taran carefully for a long moment, then replies, “I cannot and will not speak of myself or my past.  So I am sworn.  But I will grant you this permission, on one condition.”

“Name it,” Taran says.

“You must swear to seal the Delve.  You must close it off from this world, for now and forever.”

“How?” Taran asks, then adds, “nevermind, I didn’t say that.”  Taran clasps Winterbeard’s shoulder and smiles at the ancient dwarf.  “Okay, deal.”

-----

_Sonora the Wise_.  

An elder of House Thrarin during Kor’En Eamor’s peak of power and grandeur, Sonora had taken a holy vow of silence as a personal _Dak’qis_—the first and best part of his life given in humility to the dwarven Father.  Sonora pleased his god, and for many decades, all was well both within and without. 

During Sonora’s three hundredth year, House Thrarin married a high-born clan-daughter to the King of Kor’En Eamor, Adwan Aq Med, sealing their position as the leading crafts-house of Moradin’s realm.  But when the patriarch of house Thrarin called Adwawn to task, and challenged him to a blood-duel on grounds of  infidelity, adultery and blasphemy, the First Home was polarized.

Adwawn was victorious, but the honor of house Thrarin was too deeply damaged for the issue to be so easily settled.  The beginnings of a war between the two houses was forestalled only when Sonora the Wise broke his vow of silence, and used his mastery of Dwarven tradition-law to convince the two houses to make a stilted peace.  Sonora then spoke prophecies, that fore-warned the fall of Hepis, the child born of blasphemy.  His vow renounced, Sonora left the faith of Moradin, gathered the most pure of the dwarven people, and left Kor’En Eamor for places unknown.

And so it went.  Hepis was born in exile, his shamed mother renounced, and the clan of Ahk-Med fell into the hands of other sons of Adwan.  Each new King was weaker than the last, and the Ahk-Med became figureheads as the craft-clans grew stronger.  In time, Hepis Ahk Med returned from his exile and reclaimed his father’s throne.  Hepis allied himself with the low-crafts and formed a populist coalition that soon challenged the powerful houses and reasserted the majesty of the dwarven monarchy.  There were those dwarves who asserted that Kor’En Eamor had fallen into a new Golden Age. 

Certainly Hepis believed as much.  Satisfied with his clan’s return to power, but driven still by an overweening ambition, Hepis surrendered to the beguiling caress of Ceredain and petitioned Wulkas the Lawgiver to support his claim to the Divine Throne.  As blood of the First Dwarf, and therefore son of the son of Moradin, he sought to apply dwarven succession-law to the Divine Family, and through this application of audacity and precedent raised himself to Godhood through the auspices of his Mother.  Those who would not forsake the Father were killed outright or cast-out and driven into the deep places of a thousand worlds.

Moradin’s wrath was terrible, and celestials from his Mountain Realm descended on the First Home, cursing and slaughtering the dwarves by the thousands.  Hepis led a resistance, but his power, even bolstered by two dwarven deities, was far insufficient to the task.  Moradin seemed bent on destroying his first and best creation—_for if such a betrayal were within the hearts of the dwarven race, could such a flawed invention be called a masterwork?  Should not such an imperfect craft be destroyed that it might bring its Maker no further shame? _

At this time Sonora the Wise was called by the blood back to his home, and at the height of the killing he shamed Moradin in front of His people, recalling to the Father the apocryphal promises he had made when the race was new.  Moradin hid his face and relented, abandoning the field, but Sonora was not finished.  The former priest swore an eternal vigil for all those lost within the halls, and thus refused for all time his place in paradise, a last scolding and the deepest criticism any dwarf could give—a self-imposed eternal exile.

_The wounds given the dwarves by their Creator can never be forgotten so long as Sonora lives and Sonora shall never die. _

-----

“I think Winterbeard may wish to see something,” Thelbar says as the group discusses his divinations.  “Where is the Book of the Dead?”

“We gave it to the Lady at Eveningstar,” Merkatha says.

“Then we shall need to take it back,” Thelbar says.

“A raid?” Taran asks eagerly.

“Lady Tesseril is a friend of mine,” Elign says.  “I saved her life in Myth Drannor, long ago.  I suspect if I ask, she will surrender the book.”

“Oh,” Taran says.  

-----

 “These are the names of power.”  Winterbeard gazes at the Book of the Dead with a mixture of revulsion and attraction.  Uncharacteristically, he fidgets slightly, and refuses to come near the thing.  “Yes, I know them all—they are the names that mark our great and enduring shame.   Have a care; speaking them aloud will attract His attention.”

“Attract his . . .” Thelbar says.  “Alvodar was invoking Moradin!  That is why he drove himself mad memorizing the names.  The fool meant to _summon_ his own god!”

This notion hangs heavy in the room for several moments.  Taran says, “No wonder he went Evil.  The f-cking dumbass.”


----------



## Joshua Randall

Heh, I always knew being a dumbass would turn you evil eventually.

Although didn't Dark Helmet (from Spaceballs) tell us that _good is dumb_? Now I'm confused.


----------



## (contact)

*81—Good night, bad Night*

Elgin Trezler speaks softly with the small and quiet part of himself that lives within the Truth of his god, and holds the knowledge of all beginnings.

Is there anything that this lich Alvodar would be willing to return to life for?  _Yes. _

Would he come back to attempt to complete what he began?  _Yes. _

Can Ceredain Deathstalker be redeemed?  _Yes. _

Does the book of the dead hold the key to granting Ceredain peace?   _Possibly. _

Does the Night intend to use Ceredain to become a deity herself?   _Yes. _

Is the Night close to achieving this aim?  _This is uncertain—her true mind dwells in places the dawn’s light cannot reach. _

Is the Night vulnerable to our spells and weapons?  _Yes and No. _

Is the Night laying a trap for us?  _You will never sleep soundly so long as she lives.  She has learned the true identity of your companions._

-----

“True identity?”  Taran says.  “Like one of those masked aristocrats that knows how to sword-fight and has bandit adventures?”

“You lot would make a worthless bandit gang,” Merkatha laughs.  “You talk too much, and don’t have sh-t for flair.”

“I do not steal in any case,” Gorquen says icily.  “Base thievery is a sign of a flawed character, and worthy of scorn.”

“He does not mean who we are,” Thelbar says.  “That much is well known, and we make no secret of it.  He means who we _were_.  The Night has pierced the memory charm.”

“So she can divine, too.  Big deal,” Taran says dismissively.

“It could be a ‘big deal’,” Thelbar says.  “We do not know.”

“I could divine the truth of you, if you wish it,” Elgin offers.

“Thank you, Elgin,” Thelbar says.  “But no.  When we are ready, we will ask.  Until then, we are all better served divining things that are directly relevant to the dangers that lie ahead.”

-----

Elgin finishes his _commune_.

Can the Night subvert the _pasoun_?   _Yes_.

“Wow, that’s bad-ass,” Taran says.

“Shh!” Gorquen hisses.

Has the Night learned the truth of Taran and Thelbar’s past lives?  _Yes. _

Was it Alvodar who set the plague on Isk?   _Yes._

Does Ceredain have a pre-existing relationship with Ishlok?   _Yes. _

Is the plague an attack on Ishlok by Ceredain?   _Not directly._

Was Ceredain aware at the time that Alvodar was going to release the plague?   _Ceredain is the plague._

Has Ceredain escaped Kor’En Eamor?   _No._

Do we have what the Night needs to complete her ceremony?   _No._

Is the Uqaraq’s phylactery with Ceredain?  _Yes._

Is Ceredain aware of her surroundings?   _At times. _

-----

Elgin finishes his session with a trio of divinations.  In the first, he states the course of attacking the Night immediately, and receives, “_This danger is balanced against gain—she waits patiently, but is no spider; Night will act against you if left be_.”  Next, he offers up Taran’s plan of stealing the Uqaraq’s phylactery from Ceredain; “_Terrible woe and the greatest danger posed in all these halls lies that way_.”

“But it would work, right?” Taran says.

“You’re worse than she is,” Merkatha snorts, jabbing her thumb at Gorquen.  “She’s an idiot, but you’re stupid _and_ crazy.” 

“Crazy like an _ox_,” Taran says cryptically.

Elgin finishes his divinations by offering up the course of leaving the Delve altogether and returning to New Ithor, and receives this reply:  “_Sleep with your swords at hand, and spells on your lips. _”

“I think we should confront the Night,” Elgin says.  “I do not like the tidings I have received about her.  Ceredain is terrible, but Ceredain is not moving against us directly.  This Night has cause to hate us now, and the means to trouble us even should we leave this place.  It seems to me that we have made an enemy that we have good cause to fear.”

“Well,” Taran says philosophically.  “In my experience, it’s hard to really fear things that stay dead when you kill them.  The way I see it, until we waste this hag, we won’t know how scary she really is.”

-----

The central chamber within the Halls of Fire is a huge domed octagon that gives access at its far end to a short stair that seems to run directly into the flow of lava.  As the party descends, they realize that they are walking within a carved tunnel of clear stone—a marvel, and tribute to the dwarven sense of grandeur; in essence, it is a forty foot hallway, not particularly large or ornate.  But it winds through a lava flow, and is crystalline in its clarity.  It is an entirely common passageway rendered in an entirely un-matched fashion; an offhanded reminder that no other people in any other place have equaled the heights of the craftsdwarves of the First Home.

The doorways at the end of the hall are likewise unadorned, but give off a slight chill, and the cause is evident as Taran gently swings the perfectly-balanced steel portals open.  The room beyond is cold.  As the group moves into the space, they see their breath misting in the air.

A coven of familiar outsiders await them within the chamber, frail old women standing at attention with the dignity of a diplomat’s delegation.  Two of the dagger-wielding bodyguards flank a large throne dominated by a massive hag, all wrinkles and shadows with red eyes glaring out from within the disturbing vagueness of her features.  She is clearly a creature made not of flesh and bone, but something greater—greater and far worse.  A dozen other hags stand at attention along the sides of the great chamber, their pose disturbed by the constant wringing of hands and cramped gesturing that marks their race.

The huge hag, in contrast, sits completely still.  Her shadowy and wrinkled skin is marked with ritual scars and tattoos, piled one upon the another, forming layers of mystical markings and vile symbols.  Upon her head, she wears a crown of finger bones, thousands of them strung together with wire and guts, each digit radiating a dim and flickering light.  The lights flicker as if alive, and seem to struggle against their casing.  Underneath this disturbing crown, wispy tendrils of thin hair writhe and blow in an unseen wind.  

A physical aura of power radiates from her, bespeaking her status as an Elder Being, and tickling some deeply buried fear in the mind of each of the heroes.

“I should have suspected I’d see you today,” the hag begins, her voice thin and distant, yet clear within the ear.  “I should have known that such worthies would not stoop to cowardly flight.”

“Do we know one another, lady?” Thelbar asks politely.

“Oh, I make it a point to know all the great butchers,” the hag whispers.  “So many souls . . . can you even hear them?  Can you hear them curse your name?  With each life you take, you add to the refrain.  Can you hear them now?”

And they can.  At first, the sound is like a thin whine—a distant and emaciated call coming from somewhere far away, barely audible over the hag’s whisperings.  But as she speaks, the sound becomes louder, and what started with one voice, becomes a chorus of thousands.  The sound grows in volume until it is a physical thing that blows the heroes back toward the door, and threatens to sweep them off their feet.

The sound fades for a moment, and is gone.  “That is the music you have made with all your precious lives,” the hag sneers.  “Hardly a worthy use for this immortality your goddess would starve the multiverse with.”

Elgin Trezler raises himself to his full height.  “I had come to offer you terms, creature, but now . . .” He removes his holy symbol, and shrugs his shield onto his arm.

“Terms?” The Night laughs.  “You stand among the butchers of the multiverse,” the hag says through a wheezing laugh.  “What can you offer me but the over-rare get of their bloody work?”

Taran is glaring at the creature, and trying to keep a fierce expression on his face.  As he speaks, he slowly moves toward her, “I never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it,” he says, “starting with my first orc, and ending with . . . you.”

“You know so little of your past,” the hag says, a mocking sadness in her voice.

“And you know so little of your future,” he promises.

 “Surrender your souls to the pasoun, and we will show you mercy,” Gorquen says.

“We have no souls,” the hag replies.  “We are eternal beings, and were great before the multiverse was seeded with your kind.   Your “souls” are the collars that mark you as slaves, and we were among those who put them on you.”  The hag smirks, and at a gesture, her lesser attendants slip into the etheric plane.  “Your goddess calls herself a ‘mother’, but deals only destruction,” the hag sneers.  “The teat of oblivion is what she offers the worlds, and you lap at this milk because her skirts are the only place for you to hide.”  She glares directly at Thelbar.  “Well, I have determined that it is time you grew up.  I have sold your names to those who seek you, and the gates of Hell swing wide to swallow you back.”

“Okay, I’ve heard enough,” Taran says, looking around the room.  “Who’s the first to die?”

“I have a suggestion,” the hag drawls, “but you’re not going to like it.”

Elgin Trezler raises his holy symbol and grows to twice his height as he calls into himself Lathander’s righteous might, and with a second gesture the cleric calls down a quickened flame strike upon the throne.  The Elder hag makes no move to evade the burst, and the pillar of holy fire washes over her harmlessly. 

Thelbar enters into a time stop, and after a few flickering moments he emerges, displaced and protected by a shield.  The back of the room is swept by a horrid wilting, and rattled by the multiple explosions of a meteor storm.  None of the spells seem to affect the hag in the slightest, although her two bodyguards are shaken by the assault.

Taran and Gorquen are also quick to act, charging at the throne, and swinging their weapons at the hag seated there, but she easily avoids their blows, moving with a graceful synchronicity that makes the exchange look like a well-rehearsed dance.

From the etheric plane, all ten of the hags stationed there point withered and decrepit limbs at Thelbar and pelt him with a barrage of magic missiles.  Five arcs of light streak from each of the hags, causing a rare panic within the mind of the mage.  His shield spell absorbs the barrage, but he realizes that should the hags target any one of his companions, the victim could not hope to survive for long.

The Night leaps first all the way to the back of the dwarven-carved stone throne, then springs off of it and lashes onto Gorquen’s back, biting her in the wing-joint and licking her neck.  “You taste like . . . failure,” she whispers into Gorquen’s ear.  “Your goddess doesn’t protect the losers.”  

The two greater hags move into the fight, ripping at Taran with their unholy daggers, and forcing him away from the Night.  Fortunately, his displacement ward is able to confuse their assault, and after exhausting their momentum, the hags warily back away.

Elgin calls his deva to his side again, and the radiant embodiment of all that is Right and True places a blade-barrier between his allies and the two greater hag bodyguards.  Both of the wicked creatures are forced back, but they avoid the whirring blades by parrying them with their daggers in a flashing display of superhuman skill.

Gorquen shrugs the Night from her back, and whirls around, her sword flashing low, hoping to trip the creature.  But the Night merely catches the flat of the sword against her leathery calf, and stomping downward, shoves Gorquen fully off balance, dumping the winged elf on her back!  Gorquen rolls and flutters to her feet, her next sword-strike missing far wide.  Taran leaps at the Night, a primal growl in his throat, but she evades his flurry handily.  Taran is one of the best swordsmen in Cormyr, but he cannot land a blow.

“Think, Tar-Ilou, think!” Taran mutters under his breath.

Picking this up through the telepathic bond, Thelbar replies, “Don’t think, Taran—kill!  I will do the thinking!”

“Yeah, I was talking to you.  You’d better come up with something, because I can’t hit this bitch.”

Thelbar uses a limited wish to transport himself into the etheric, and once there, flash-fries half of the hags with a quickened fireball.  

Merkatha, meanwhile, has crept into the room, and silently positioned herself near the lashing hag and her two attendants.  She has used her hat of disguise to take on the form of the dominated hag, and steps forward, delivering a wicked sneak attack on one of the Night’s bodyguards.  This seems to enrage the Night, who speaks a curse against all traitors in her foul abyssal tounge.

The etheric hags are predictably selfish, and focus their attention on the threat at hand—with a perfect conformity ten rays of enfeeblement streak toward the mage, forcing him to scramble out of the way.  Even though he evades the worst, he is still weakened greatly and says a silent prayer.

The Night dances away from Gorquen, and seizes Taran in her jaws, punching through his armor, and staggering the bull-necked fighter.

In the etheric, Thelbar destroys the remaining hags there with a well-placed cone of cold, freezing over the burns his earlier fireball left behind. 

Taran slips into a thoughtless state, and leaves the fighting to his body, as his mind calms itself.  He whirls his twin swords about him in an unconscious fighting-pattern, shifting unpredictably in response to his opponent’s feints and counters  This has some effect, and he is able to cut the Night once, although she doesn’t seem to be overly concerned by the wound.

Elgin Trezler enters the fray, and swings his mace with crushing impact, killing one of the greater hags with three withering blows.  The other “sister” turns to him, and attempts to repay him in kind, drawing blood.  Elgin’s deva follows his summoner into the fighting, and puts his greatsword to use against the remaining bodyguard.  

Both remaining hags screech their displeasure at the presence of a celestial, and slip to either side of the deva, severing his tie to the Prime with a series of crushing blows, bites, and knife-wounds.  Elgin attempts to defend his ally, leveling a destruction spell at the greater hag, and a quickened searing light at the Night.  Both spells fail to take effect, shunted aside by some otherworldy protection.  Overwhelmed by the hags’ assault, the deva disappears with a regretful sigh, sketching a shallow bow to Elgin as he goes.

At this moment, Merkatha puts herself directly behind the Night, hoping to distract the creature, and make her vulnerable.  Thelbar returns to the prime, and his quickened magic missile pierces the remaining bodyguard’s resistance, provoking a weakened cry of pain and terror from the thing.

As the magic missiles streak home, the Night turns on Merkatha and rips into the disguised drow with her claws, screeching something vile in her filthy language.  Merkatha is nimble enough to save her own life, but is still badly hurt.  She backs away from the Night, and at that, the Elder hag realizes the duplicity.

“Clever drow,” she says, her demeoner shifting from rage to bemusement in an instant.  Fortunately for Merkatha, even if the Night intended to pursue, she has her hands full evading a pair of top-notch fighters.  Taran cannot harm her, but after a brief exchange, Gorquen lands a lucky blow.

“I think she’s reading my mind!” Taran thinks.  “That’s why I can’t touch her.”

“Yes,” Thelbar replies, “and I’m tempted to feeblemind you.”

But instead, Thelbar casts his feeblemind at the Night, and through some outrageous luck, the spell takes effect!  Taran, Gorquen and Elgin seize the opening, and lay into the Night with a ferocious assault, but even deprived of her supernatural insight, the Night is still protected by magical wards and an impossibly tough hide. The feebleminded Elder hag lashes out at her mortal tormenters with a furious (if strategically shallow) activity.  Taran is cut again, and Gorquen receives a vicious bite for her troubles.

“Damn, this is just wrong!” Gorquen curses.

“Stop bitching and keep swinging!” Taran shouts.

Elgin backs away from the fray, and heals Merkatha before the beleaguered drow can bleed out onto the cold stone floor.

“Just . . . keep . . . attacking,” Taran cries, and as his weapons are turned aside again and again by the hag’s skin, says, “I told those Thayvians the best possible enchantment!  This is ridiculous!”

“Stop bitching and keep swinging!” Gorquen shouts.

Thelbar has no further luck with any of his spells.  Elgin’s weaponry, while formidable, does not possess the requisite strength behind it to really harm the hag.  Elgin moves away from the fighting, and begins curing Taran and Gorquen, who together slowly weaken the Night.  Even if the rest of the fight is an anti-climax, it is an unusually long one, and by the time the Night is finally destroyed, both warrior’s arms are throbbing and fatigued.  As the Night howls one last time, and collapses to the ground, Taran staggers back, and sits down himself, completely exhausted.

He regards Black Lisa, now called Arunshee’s Kiss, and mutters, “maybe I should ask for my money back.”

Thelbar prods his brother to his feet, and sets him to the task of looting the hag’s bodies, while he and Elgin discuss what should be done with the wretched artifact that decorates her head.

“I am sure they are repositories for souls,” Elgin says.  “But of what sort?”

“Does it matter?” Thelbar asks.  “It is enslavement, pure and simple, and even wicked beings do not deserve such a fate.  When we leave this place, we will see about destroying the thing, and perhaps we can set them loose, for good or ill.”


----------



## Krellic

(contact) said:
			
		

> But instead, Thelbar casts his feeblemind at the Night, and through some outrageous luck, the spell takes effect!




I don't think there's a DM anywhere who hasn't had this sort of thing happen to them.  I recall a Dragonquest game I ran when a kobold mugged a dragon...

Regardless of the curse of the dice, a heck of a fight!


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## (contact)

The dice weren't our enemy-- this ***** had SR of thirty-something, and an AC in the high forties.  Taran was missing with his best attack on 17s and 18s.  It was ridiculous!  Even after the hag was _feebleminded_ (and her +12 insight bonus to AC was ruled no longer applicable), he'd still be lucky to hit her twice in a round!

Factor in her 10 point damage resistance, and it took a loooooooong time to hack the Night into evil little pieces.


----------



## coyote6

So, was that the end of Night?

If so, got her stats handy?


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## (contact)

coyote6 said:
			
		

> So, was that the end of Night?
> 
> If so, got her stats handy?



Your wish is my command.

She's a nasty, allright.  I also added her disgusting bodyguards.  The 12 regular hags caused quite a bit of trouble as well by gang-spelling their victims.


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## coyote6

(Bob goes and looks at the stats.)

Damn. 

Our Heroes got _lucky_.


----------



## Ziggy

(contact) said:
			
		

> Your wish is my command.
> 
> She's a nasty, allright.  I also added her disgusting bodyguards.  The 12 regular hags caused quite a bit of trouble as well by gang-spelling their victims.



That is just *brutal*. Without that feeblemind she would have smoked them. With DR 20/+6 and fast healing 20 you got to do a lot of damage to take her down. 

.Ziggy


----------



## (contact)

Ziggy said:
			
		

> That is just *brutal*. Without that feeblemind she would have smoked them. With DR 20/+6 and fast healing 20 you got to do a lot of damage to take her down.
> 
> .Ziggy




And AC 50 means that she gets hit so few times that her hp total pretty much hovers near max. The party's best attack was +27 (IIRC).  He simply couldn't hit her.  

After the feeblemind (and quite charitably, don't you think,) Chris dropped the insight bonus to AC, reasoning that it was a function of her Intelligence, and we were able to create an aggregate hp reduction each round between Taran and Gorquen (Elgin couldn't penetrate her DR).

She doesn't have an overwhelming offense, and couldn't do damage faster than Elgin could heal it.  Thelbar chipped in with the occasional spell (I think he was somewhere in the neighborhood of needing 12s or higher to affect her), and eventually, it just became a grind-it-out kind of fight.

The first six rounds or so were really frightening, however.


----------



## (contact)

*82—Be it ever so humble . . .* 

The group flees the Delve, and with an unspoken agreement, returns to their home amongst the drow of New Ithor.  But the news upon their arrival is grim.  Obuld Many-Arrows has, as feared, taken the absence of the dwarven hosts as his opportunity to seize territory, and his armies have punched a hole directly through the middle of the Silver Marches, sundering the territories in two.  While Silverymoon and the West are still in contact with the communities of the Evermoors and High Forest, everything east of The Fork is thrown into turmoil.  The Nether Mountains and the river complex called The Talons protect New Ithor and her dark elven populace for now, but nearly everyone expects to see orcish armies by the end of summer.

There is decidedly more celebration in the Far Forest than there was within the Silver Marches at this prospect.  Arunshee’s drow are ready for a good war to help take their minds off the accursed sun, and like the drow, orcs prefer to fight in the dark.







The group rests and recuperates for three days, discussing the Night, and poring over tomes of arcane lore, attempting to find reference to the creature.  What they find chills their souls—there is reference to the “mother of all hags”, or “eldest sister”.  What they just defeated was an immortal being, and almost a goddess.  Night hags as a race, Thelbar comes to believe, are reflections of the Night and those few like her, the true paragons of the lower planes.

“And what about the Night’s threat regarding the Baatezu?” Thelbar asks.  “The threat rang true to me, although I cannot say why.”

“Maybe she’s just good at threatening people,” Taran offers.  “Some of us are.  And even if she did what she said she did, what do the Baatezu care about us?  They can’t be in _that_ big of a hurry to throw away resources and lives trying to stop us.  Besides, how am I supposed to get worked up about orcish armies or devil hordes when I’m already knee-deep in a living-dead goddess?  If Obuld Many-Arrows or Asmodeus show up here, I’ll kill ‘em, but in the meantime we’ve got business to attend to.”

Taran’s boastful pragmatism wins the day, and the group determines that Ceredain escaping into the Realms is a more dire threat than King Obuld’s horde, or vague promises of some devilish retribution.  Taran, Elgin and Thelbar will remain focused on the Great Delve, but Gorquen wishes to form an adventuring party of her own, and investigate rumors that a fire giant war-chief has taken Sundabar, and is using the dwarven redoubt as a staging point for further invasion.  New Ithor’s drow (particularly the refugees from Maermydra) are in no mood to fight giants.  Most likely, their morale, which would remain high against orcs no matter what the odds, would sunder and collapse against a giantish foe.

To ward off this potential threat, Gorquen swears to travel there and smash any giants she finds.  She takes Ilwe and Khuumar along, pointedly leaving Nathe out of the affair.

And Nathe makes Taran pay for Gorquen’s refusal.  During this down time, Taran begins to wish for the false security of the road, in place of the sure danger of his own bed.  He wakes one morning to find that Nathe has sent several items of his furniture “away,” because, “I changed my mind about them.”  When pressed (screamed at, threatened and sufficiently bullied), Nathe admits that she knew they were favorites of Taran’s, and that’s why she gave them out as presents to her other lovers.  This is too much for Taran to bear, and with a rage not seen since . . . well, ever . . . Taran puts Nathe out of his life and out of his quarters, vowing to spill her blood should he ever set eyes upon her again.

Relived, Thelbar points out that not only will Taran be able to stop sleeping with a knife under his pillow, but he should find himself with more free time, and since every day threatens to be the last in Taran’s line of work, at least a small show of hedonism might be in order.  This seems to cheer up the burly fighter, who spends the next several days stumbling drunkenly from place to place, singing dirty sea-chanteys he’d picked up during the long weeks upon _the Marrow Down_, and assuring every drow who will stand still long enough to be slurred at that he is “through with that bitch for good.”

-----

Elgin takes his leave to return to his church in Suzail.  A week passes as Elgin attempts through divinations to secure the goodwill of his god for the next phase of his adventures.  He gladly reports that Lathander is pleased by Elgin’s companionship with the brothers Tar-Ilou, and tells Taran and Thelbar that they have a very high status in the eyes of their goddess and her immortal servitors.  A status that seemingly goes beyond what might be expected even of such powerful adventurers.

This appraisal is highlighted by the arrival of an outsider—a beautiful elven woman who (the gossips and wags say) is going about _atoning_ the dark elves of New Ithor using the name of Ishlok!  That anyone native to Faerun might use that name for Palatin Eremath stretches belief, and the fact that her _atonements_ are said to cure the sick and engender genuine reform in their recipients seems almost too good to be possible.

Taran and Thelbar discuss the matter briefly, and then travel to the woods outside the city where the woman is said to be found.  What they find there is a majestically beautiful and radiant surface-elf, dispensing touches and kind words in Celestial to a crowd of admiring drow.  When the brothers Tar-Ilou approach, the crowd parts respectfully, and the elf-woman regards them.

Thelbar, whose _arcane sight_ reveals that the woman possesses spellcasting skill beyond the mortal pale, suggests that his brother “_tread with care_,” through their _telepathic bond_.  Taran puts on his friendliest smile, and Thelbar cringes at the sight. 

The elf-woman smiles bemusedly at this, a subtle gesture that nonetheless sweeps through the crowd, provoking murmurs and excited whispers in the spidery drow tongue.  “I request your patience,” she says to the brothers, in a tone suggesting that perhaps _she_ is the ruler, and they the subject.  As Taran and Thelbar watch, she _blesses_ and _atones_ several more drow, before finally moving over to join them.

“The Tar-Ilou,” she says by way of greeting.  “It is an honor to meet you.  Many lives have you served my queen, and much has been said about you.” The woman bows deeply, provoking a clumsy attempt at a courtly response from Taran—the first his brother can recall seeing.

“I am mother Talendiira,” the woman says.  “First born of Palatin Eremath, the goddess reborn as Ishlok.  I am her chosen, and her prophet.  I have awakened from a long sleep, and I see that many troubles await us.”

Taran smiles shyly, “Trouble is kind of my specialty,” he admits.  Then bragging, he adds, “starting it and finishing it.”

Thelbar closes his eyes in a brief moment of exasperation, then says, “Allow us to feast and host you, milady.  New Ithor is yours, and here you will be as our queen.”

“I require nothing,” Mother Talendiira replies.  The comforts of the flesh mean nothing to me.  Where there are trees, I have a home.” She smiles then, a radiant and unforgettable thing.

“That’s easy, we’ve got a sh-tl-load of trees,” Taran says.  “Take your pick.”

“Mother,” Thelbar says, anxious to change the subject.  “Do you know what we are about?”

“Of course,” she replies.

“Then tell us about Ceredain—we do not know how to proceed with her.”

A moment passes.  “The _pasoun_ is her only release,” she says.  She regards the brothers for a moment, then touches each of them lightly on the forehead, saying, “You have a great place in hosts of our Mother, the spike in the heart of our enemies.”

Taran seems to perk up at this, and replies in the same ritualistic tone, “May all our enemies tremble before our bootsteps.”  Then he adds, “Well, really these other guys’ bootsteps—I’m silent.”

Mother Talendiira focuses her sight on some undefined space beyond and behind the heads of the Tar-Ilou.  “A cloud hangs over you,” she says.

Thelbar leans toward her.  “Could it be removed?”

“Yes,” she says wistfully.

“Could you remove it?”

“I would not undertake that journey,” she says apologetically.  “The Mother hides you to protect you.  You have been blessed with a unique gift; you are her champions, her living proxies.  But within the _pasoun_, even proxies must have free will.  Our mother seeks nothing, needs nothing—for when you have no home, there is no place to defend, save your own soul.”

“Mother, your words are wise,” Thelbar says.  “Tell me, how might we bring the _pasoun_ to Ceredain?”

“I do not know.”

“We mean to contact the one we knew as Alvodar, her priest.”

“I know this grief,” she admits.  “Alvodar mourns the death of belief, and it drives him to hatred.  Many fiends are made in this way, but if he does not cross over, it is possible that his anger will subside over time.  Beyond that, I cannot give you any insight.  It falls to you to determine how you must proceed.”

Talendiira cocks her head for a moment, as if listening to the wind, then she nods slightly.  “I have something for you,” she says to Thelbar.  “Do you know the name of Almus-Re?  He was a great prophet among the First Gods of our people.  He was widely revered, and spoke true visions.”  The lady hands Thelbar an ancient rough-bound book.  Bound with an unidentifiable bark, the small tome radiates faint abjuration magic.

“In here lies the words that poisoned the hearts of the Elven gods,” she continues.  “Almus Re spoke of our mother’s coming, and where there had been trust, suspicion was sown.  You have wondered why our mother was betrayed by those who should have held her most dear—this is why.”

After thanking the lady, and leaving her to finish her work among the drow of New Ithor, Thelbar and Taran return to their quarters and carefully read the otherworldly tome. It is a religious text describing the mythic life of this prophet to the gods, thick with moral instruction and symbolism.  It describes the creation of the first pantheons, and the eventual division between Good and Evil—the creation of the lower planes is given particularly detailed treatment.  

This religion, while unfamiliar, does seem related to the worship of Palatin Eremath, and much of the book’s content is repeated by the goddess’ holy teachings.  However, to Thelbar’s keen mind,  one passage in particular stands out as having a different (and more ancient) author than the rest of the text.  Nestled within a series of short allegories attributed to Almus Re is the following:


_Almus Re speaks the Unmaking to the Gods_

There is place where no time exists.  Gods to be born, gods to die, all dwell there.  It was our beginning and it will be our end; it is a great and delicate veil, and yet none may pass its touch. 

 But I have seen one there who moves freely through its confines, unfettered and untouched.  She is one who carries Creation and she will rise against those who do not.  When she comes, she will bring with her the end of all gods.  For as she held birth between her legs she will carry death in her hands.  She is great and terrible, our Beloved, our ending.


“Well, well,” Taran says.  “I can see it now—all the gods thinking about dying for the first time, checking out their sisters and wives, wondering if the woman next to them was the one who was going to do them all in!  Funny.”

“It strikes me as tragic,” Thelbar says, closing the book.

“Well, yeah,” Taran admits, “but tragedy is funny.”


----------



## Joshua Randall

"It’s hard enough to write a good drama, it’s much harder to write a good comedy, and it’s hardest of all to write a drama with comedy. Which is what life is." - Jack Lemmon

"Dying is easy - comedy is hard." - attributed variously to Edward Kean, Sir Donald Wolfit, et al.


----------



## (contact)

"Dyin' ain't much of a livin."


----------



## Zaruthustran

So (contact), is Taran going to pick up a few levels in the new Marshal base class? Seems right up his alley. Or Heydricus's alley. One of their alleys.

http://www.wizards.com/default.asp?x=dnd/ex/20030906b

-z


----------



## (contact)

In Taran's next life, I think.


----------



## (contact)

*83—Friends in High Places, part II*



The day after their meeting with Mother Talendiira, the brothers Tar-Ilou welcome Elgin Trezler back into their company.  It is immediately obvious that Elgin is in no mood to celebrate.  He arrives with a stern, grim expression, and tells the brothers that Lathander’s great temple in Suzail has been sacked.

“It was religious rioting,” Elgin says, tears of frustration, anger and grief in his eyes.  “I spoke with the light of the Morning, and he told me that he would not sully his hands with the blood of the people.  He told me that when his death came, he intended to go into the _pasoun_ with his conscience clear.”  Elgin looks at the brothers Tar-Ilou almost pleadingly.  “He ordered his temple guards away, and the rioters tore the building down.”

Taran’s mouth pulls down in a hard scowl as the light in his eyes slowly dims and then disappears.  “Well, that’s an admirable sentiment, but it’s not gonna happen,” he says in a soft voice.  “_I’ll sully my hands_.  That’s my f-cking job.”

Within moments, the trio has _teleported_ to Suzail, outside of Lathander’s temple.  In Suzail it is night, and before the group can get within the building, they are hailed by a passing guard.

“What’re you lot doing out after curfew?” the lead spearman asks, his tone gruff and disrespectful.

“Waitin’ on you,” Taran says, his voice cold and clear.  “We want to be taken to the Steel Regent, and you’re going to do it _right now_.”  Taran’s tone does not brook any disobedience, and the guard, a man who has spent a lifetime responding to such commands, reacts accordingly.  The three adventurers are escorted through the deserted city streets to the Palace, and asked to wait within the regent’s chambers.

Taran spots the guards watching them through concealed doors and hidden spy-holes, and passes this on to Thelbar through the permanent _telepathic bond_ that connects the brothers.  An hour passes, but neither Taran nor Thelbar show any sign of fatigue, and for the benefit of the hidden watchers, remain perfectly still and silent, communicating only through their [i[bond[/i].  At the end of the wait, Caledni enters the room, and the regent’s advisor seems intent on picking up her last conversation with Thelbar in the same acrimonious way she left it.

“We meet again,” she says to Thelbar, in a parody of the popular melodramatic street-plays.

“Yet you have slipped a notch since I left you,” Thelbar replies.  “Your city rebels beneath your thumb, and you lack either the wit or the willingness to stop them.”

Caledni’s eyes narrow.  “Perhaps you can explain to me, from your enlightened position, great mage, why the faiths of Tempus, Illmater, Tyr and Torm have declared you Lathanderites blasphemers?  Perhaps you can _explain_ to me why they have encouraged their followers to drive your kind out of our city?”

“I will answer both the question you asked, as well as the question you _should_ have asked,” Thelbar replies cooly.  “These other faiths are threatened by the _pasoun_.  While most of their leaders lack vision, be assured that the deities in question realize that the freedom we offer all sentience undermines and subverts the order of things; an order upon which the likes of Tempus, Torm and Tyr have grown fat.  They will cast aside their ‘principles’ as easily as any glutton might, should his next meal be threatened.  

Thelbar pauses a moment to gauge her reaction, then says, “_you_ have not acted because you fear their power.  Or rather, _you doubt mine_.”  Thelbar finishes his speech by fixing Caledni with an even gaze, all the more terrible for its calmly implied threat.

“I am not interested in your profanity,” Caledni says flatly.  “I have been preached to enough this week.”

Thelbar scoffs.  “You cover your eyes in the hopes that the smoke will not smell so bad.”

Taran steps forward, near enough to Caledni that he can feel the tension from the guards positioned behind the walls.  “Let me cut to the chase,” he says.  “I’m holding . . . _you_ . . . accountable.”   Taran punctuates his words with finger-tip jabs into Caledni’s chest.  “Do your job _so I don’t have to_.”  Taran glares at her, mentally daring the regent’s closest advisor to say another word.

She does not.

Satisfied, Taran thinks, “_let’s get out of here_.”

-----

“_Well, I don’t know exactly what it is_,” Thelbar thinks on his way out of the audience chamber, “_but that woman exasperates me. _”

“_Yeah, she’s awful good looking_,” Taran thinks.

“_I didn’t say ‘excites’_.”

“_Yeah, I heard you_.”

-----

As the three adventurers step out into the Cormyrian night, intending to walk away from their audience in as dignified a manner as they marched toward it, they hear a strangely familiar voice.

“Well, aren’t you a trio of fetching fellows.”  Emerging from the shadows is Gulthais, the ancient cleric of Iiam last encountered as Elminster and Khelbin Blackstaff’s kidnapper.  Standing next to Gulthais are a disrespectable-looking pair; a hideously pock-marked old beggar woman and a filthy stable-boy. 

Gulthais looks about himself exaggeratedly.  “A real squad of dandies out on the town.” The vampiric priest is pale skinned and wears his hair cut short at the temples, every lock of it pitch-black.  “Don’t look so shocked,” he coos. “The mother is not the only one with many hands.”  Gulthais smiles broadly at Thelbar.  “Now what brings _you_ to Cormyr?”

“We came here for the festivities,” the beggar woman says with a gap-toothed smile.  While outwardly she looks and dresses much like any of Suzail’s street women, Taran’s trained eye spots her nimble agility and ready strength in an instant.

“Beautiful time of year,” Gulthais agrees.  The thin, dark-haired vampire is dressed in antique courtly clothing, as if he is mocking his own undead status.  “And what do you intend to do with this deity of death you’ve dug up?  Wasn’t she the plague of our dear sister?”

Taran looks at the three calmly.  “Life is strange,” he says.  “Just a minute ago, I was threatening the rulers of Cormyr, and now I’m wasting time with scum like you.”

“Perhaps that is why you are so universally disliked,” Gulthais suggests with an ingratiating smile.  “Too much threatening, and not enough time-wasting.”

Taran rolls his eyes, then looks at his brother.

“I hear our poor Mother’s Prime has gone bad,” Gulthais continues.  “Do you think there’s anything _salvageable_?  Or should we just seal the _gates_?”  The vampire’s cloying sneer is nauseating.

At this point, the beggar woman has shambled over to Elgin Trezler, and whispers to him, “I watched your church get sacked last night.”  She leans in close, in an impersonation of a love-struck schoolgirl.  “_It was beautiful_.”

“I have something for you!” Elgin shouts as he removes his mace and lashes the woman with a backhand blow.  The beggar rolls with the strike, and uses her momentum to carry her into the legs of Thelbar, where she palms a hidden blade, and slices at the backs of his knees.

Thelbar cries out and jumps away from her, and just as Taran is freeing Arunshee’s Kiss from its scabbard, Thelbar freezes time.

Things flicker, and Thelbar disappears, as a _prismatic spray_ sweeps over his foes, burning and blasting them.  The _spray_ is instantly followed by a bright blue _chain lighting_ arc that dances between Gulthais, the beggar and the stable-boy, and then a green ray appears from the spot where the mage was standing and strikes the hag in the chest, _disintegrating_ her.  By the time the demonic woman collapses into a pile of dust, Thelbar is seen to be twenty feet away, protected by a _shield_ spell.

The stable boy shakes his head against the smoke rising from his incinerated clothing, and reaches out to strikes at Taran with what appears to be a thin, provincial walking stick.  Taran is knocked backwards by what feels to be a half-ton sledgehammer, and he is sure that ribs have been broken by the blow.

Gulthais moves away from the melee, and sends a _lightning bolt_ towards Thelbar, knocking the wizard to a half-crouch in the dirt of the street.  Taran staggers away from the demonic child, lights flashing before his eyes.  He swings wildly with both Arunshee’s Kiss and Little Sister as he tries to focus his vision, but the child has skipped away from him.  Elgin, noting both his companion’s wounds, arcs a _mass heal_ between them, instantly restoring to Taran his eyesight, and to Thelbar his clarity of thought.  In addition, Elgin includes Gulthais within the spell, guessing correctly about the creature’s undead status.  Gulthais reels backwards, his skin wrinkling and smoking before the party’s eyes.

Taran takes advantage of his reprieve  to dash within the reach of the stable boy, cutting him three times in rapid succession across his chest.  A most un-stableboy-like vapor emerges from the wounds, a sulfuric scent betraying his lower planar origin.

Thelbar sucks the moisture from his enemies with a _horrid wiliting_, which destroys Gulthais outright, and provokes an Abyssal curse from the stableboy.  Elgin sends a _searing light_ into the snarling child, just as he sends Taran reeling with a _power word, stun_.  Thelbar quickly _dispels_ the stunning effect, but as he does so, the boy _stuns_ Taran a second time.

“I can do this all day,” the creature sneers.

Elgin presents his holy symbol and attempts to banish the creature back to its home plane, but his attempt is not strong enough, and the fiendish boy mocks the effort.  “Iiam is greater than . . .,” it begins, but the rest of its boast is lost beneath a _feeblemind_ from Thelbar.  Elgin engages the stupid and feral creature with an exchange of blows, and after a moment, Thelbar is able to dispel the stunning effect on Taran for a second time, and with Taran’s attacks added to the equation, the creature falls away into a sulfurous mist and is gone.

The party looks about them, but with the city-wide curfew in effect, there are no witnesses to their street brawl.  Thelbar says a word, and _teleports_ the trio back to New Ithor.

-----

That night, as he is preparing for his evening studies, Thelbar finds this note within one of his pockets.


_It is a blessing of the Powers that no good deed goes unnoticed in our perfect world.  I had happened upon some old friends of yours who were very eager to pay a visit.  I was happy to oblige, and tell them your whereabouts.  Sleep tight.  

Your dear friend, 

Gulthais_


Disturbingly, the note is written in Infernal, the language of the Nine Hells and its Baatezu masters.

”F-ck the Baatezu,” Taran says.


----------



## (contact)

A double update for the hell of it, and one in which Taran doesn't even curse.
-----

*84— The Anvil and the Hard Place*


Upon their return from Cormyr, Merkatha approaches the Tar-Ilou brothers during the evening meal about going after the mind-flayer complex within the Delve, but is rebuffed.

“Who cares?” Taran asks, his mouth full.  He gulps from a jug of wine.  “Illithid are small fry.  We’re going after Ceredain.”

Enraged, Merkatha sputters and curses, but Thelbar puts his foot down.  “Frankly, we feel that it will be too dangerous for you, Merkatha.  Winterbeard gave you good advice—you should have no further truck with Ceredain or her Delve.  We are compelled by goodwill and by our faith to return, but you have clamed no such service.  We will honor all promises made, and return your friend to life if he is willing, but we can take you with us no further.  Should you wish to remain amongst the drow here, you are welcome, but of course you are a free woman and may do as you see fit;” Thelbar regards her keenly.  “Save for returning to Kor’En Eamor.”

-----

Storm’s Rise in the summertime is a serene and ghostly place.  The air is thin enough to provoke a slight light-headedness upon arrival, and the mountain air is pleasantly crisp, despite the warm sun.  The Southern side of town has an unrivaled view of the downward slope, and Taran fancies that he can see as far as Eveningstar.  Dawn in the mountains is a glorious time, as the warm pink glow strikes the mountainside and washes a reflection across the town.  The sight inspires the hearts of all three of the adventurers, and Elgin Trezler says, “this is why we love Lathander.”  The town is so quiet, it is difficult to believe that a _gate_ to the dwarven Hell is no more than one mile distant.

The brothers arrive with a _portable hole_ filled with the arms and armor taken from the fallen duergar city.  At least the guard, feeble though it may be, will be well-equipped.  Taran is able to find the old man tasked with watching the bridge and giving a first warning against goblin raiders, or prowling hippogriffs-- he shows the man what he has brought, selecting a lavishly enameled and carved helmet for the fellow.

The elderly guardsman tells Taran that since the party’s last visit, Winterbeard has had a visitor.  Another dwarf, he says, and they’ve been locked up in Old Winterbeard’s place for days now.  Taran describes Alvodar, Ceredain’s Ukerak, but the old man says, “No, no.  This was a plain-lookin’ feller.  A working dwarf—I could tell by his hands.”

The party immediately travels to Winterbeard’s home, and they find that there is a strange dwarf sitting in Winterbeard’s parlor, but Winterbeard himself is not present.  Thelbar begins to introduce himself, but the dwarf cuts him off.  “I am Veldegan, and I am here about Moradin’s business.  I know who you are, and I’ve been waiting for you.”

“_This dwarf is not of this world_,” Thelbar thinks to Taran, regarding Veldegan with his _arcane sight_.  “_He is a divine creature, and a powerful one_.”

“At last,” Taran says.  “Somebody who knows what the hell he’s talking about.  We have more questions than answers about Ceredain, and we need some advice.”

“I don’t have any ‘advice’ for you,” Veldegan says.  “In lives past, you have served my god, and been counted as friends to the dwarves.  In memory of this, I have been sent to ask you to leave this place and never return.”

“I see,” Thelbar says.  “And where is Sonora, now?” Thelbar asks, referring to Winterbeard by his ancient name.

“He rests with Moradin,” Veldegan says firmly.  “The soul-forger smiles upon your deeds.  He has worked with your mother, and co-existed with her for a long time.  Her doctrines do not threaten Him, nor do they threaten His people.”  The dwarf leans forward in his seat, and assumes an attitude of grandfatherly patronage.  “There are considerations beyond your faith at work here, and this is a family affair.  Your goddess has made many enemies, and she will need allies in the coming days, and Moradin is prepared to stand by her in this time of trouble.  He will forgive past slights, and will seal the _gate_ to this world, but you must agree to leave Ceredain be.”

Taran frowns.  “We have some unfinished business.  We need to retrieve a teifling’s soul to fulfill a promise, and we want the Ukerak.”

“You may not have the Ukerak.  Alvodar Bluebeard works in the forge he has built, and has earned his fate.”

“Well, we don’t see things that way,” Taran says.

“There are things that are beyond mortal understanding, and Kor’En Eamor is one of them,” the dwarf replies.  “You may not have the Ukerak.  Moradin has spoken.”

“You are succinct,” Thelbar says slowly.  “I am, of course, aware that you are bound by the taboos your god has put upon the dwarven first-home, but without violating those boundaries; what can you tell us about Kor-En Eamor?”

“I can tell you that Ceredain conspired against the Soul-Forger and committed adultery and treason.  She warped heavenly law for a mortal’s ambition, and such a slight may never be forgiven or forgotten.  I am here to offer you an alliance between our faiths, but the other side of the hammer is this:  defy Moradin’s judgment, and your goddess will have an enemy as eternal as a mountain and implacable as true steel.”  The dwarf pauses while the magnitude of his threat settles in.  “A decision has been given into your hands.  You are your goddesses’ representatives in this, and what actions you take will have profound and long-lasting consequences.  Think deeply, and think well.  I will await your answer here.”

-----

“Who is Alvodar to us, really?” Taran asks as the three adventurers convene in the town’s inn.  “I don’t like the idea that we abandon a former companion to this hell, no matter what he has done. We protect our own.”

“The mistakes of a lifetime seem a poor excuse for eternal torment,” Elgin says, “but we are not certain that he would even accept the _pasoun_, should we be able to wrest his phylactery away from Ceredain.”

“He could be an enemy, for all we know,” Thelbar says.  “We knew him, and may have adventured with him, but that alone does not make him a true companion.”

“And the aid of the dwarves could be crucial for us, if it is to be war,” Elgin says.

“What would Ishlok do?” Taran wonders.  “Hell, what would Kyreel say?”

Elgin regards both of his companions, and places an arm on each of their shoulders.  “I am prepared to ask Lathander for a _miracle_, that the Memory Charm might be lifted from you.  I have thought for some time that if you are to understand the role you play, you must have full knowledge of your past.  Will you agree?”

“I do not know, Elgin,” Thelbar says.  “Perhaps some things are best left unknown.”

“But we can’t make a smart choice without all the facts,” Taran says.  “And this isn’t about us anymore.  It’s about the gods-damned dwarves, and the faithful, and maybe it’s about our friends who have fallen by the wayside.”  Taran looks beseechingly at his brother, showing for the first time in Elgin’s experience a pleading glance.  “We need this.  Please.  We need to know.”

That night, as the brothers Tar-Ilou prepare for sleep, Elgin Trezler calls upon Lathander for a _miracle_.


----------



## coyote6

Argh. What a place to end the update.


----------



## (contact)

*85— The Memory Charm, part II*

One night, when half my life behind me lay, 
I wandered from the straight lost path afar. 
Through the great dark was no releasing way; 
Above that dark was no relieving star. 
If yet that terrored night I think or say, 
As death's cold hands its fears resuming are.

--Dante Alleghri, _Inferno_


_Taran_

Taran and Thelbar would keep the names they were born with through all of their incarnations.  The title “Tar-Ilou” would come later—in their first lives, their family was neither wealthy nor important enough to keep a familial name, and the village they were born into was too small to require them.

In his first life, Taran was born a robust and healthy child in a small Prime world insular enough to have no proper name.  As he grew, he became known for his unusual size, and fierce disposition.  He came of age under the watchful eye and instruction of his older brother; a child who possessed a deep cunning beyond his years, and an affinity for learning that eventually brought him to the attention of wizardly tutors.  

Thelbar ruled Taran then—the younger sibling, while physically powerful and possessed of a formidable courage, buckled time and time again under his brother’s will.  Given instruction in the arts of war by a drunken and gregarious friend of the family, a retired mercenary, Taran learned quickly that real men fought for their lving, and took from the cold world what they could.  Taran idolized his “uncle”, and aspired someday to take up his mantle and prove his manhood in the dangerous and fickle world beyond civilization.

As the brothers reached young adulthood, they began to adventure, shunning the company of others and growing steadily more skilled.  Pragmatism and ambition were the cornerstones of their morality, and their growing power served only those ends.  The scheming and bestial gods of this world spurred them on to ever greater heights, testing their will and ability time and time again.  Friend and foe alike were forced to yield to the brother’s purposes, and in a world of city-states and isolated communities the duo began to forge a cult of personality devoted to the adventurer’s credo: If you take it, it is yours.  

Thelbar left the outward trappings of leadership to his brother, but controlled the younger fighter completely, managing all non-military affairs, and applying new uses for his growing magical power within the political sphere.  The cult soon became a bandit-lordship, then a kingdom.  The kingdom grew hungry and became an empire absorbing or conquering all dissenters, be they monstrous, human or deific.  

But the empire was not to last—an economic and political structure built entirely for the purposes of military victory fears only two things: running out of enemies, or bumping into a greater power.  Taran’s empire did the latter, and as it became clear that he had overextended himself and underestimated both the numbers and the capabilities of his enemies, Thelbar came to him with an escape route:  flight from the world.  In his studies, Thelbar had learned the existence of places unimagined by the folk of their world, and unmentioned within their religious and wisdom teachings—places where no enemy could follow.  Taran and Thelbar abandoned their empire then, left their armies to slavery or death, and never looked back.

The multiverse was their playground.



_Thelbar_



It chafed Thelbar that there should be any authority greater than his own will.  That things outside of himself could compel him was repugnant to him, even as a very small child.  He could perceive, and perceive clearly, that the adults around him were far his inferior.  Those he could not manipulate, and these were few in number, he could avoid, intimidate, or blackmail.  In this fashion, he became adept at having his way while ever seeming the beneficiary of charity.  Within his brother, he found a willing and uniquely useful tool.  In his own way, Thelbar loved his brother, but he loved his ambition more.

The empire he built satisfied him for a time, but only briefly.  He supported the endless war of conquest, looking, he would later admit, for some vaguely sensed achievement that might sate his ambition, and grant him release.  When his studies broke through the limitations of his world’s scholarly understanding, he realized that what he required was a larger stage—the _largest_ stage—the only stage that mattered to Thelbar.  Once he realized his intention, it was only a matter of time before a rock sufficiently large to crush his current empire could be found, and dashed against.  With the empire tottering on the verge of collapse, it was a simple matter to convince his brother to follow him into the unknown.



_The Maker and Destroyer_



Taran was surprised and Thelbar was relieved to discover that while the fullness of reality was far larger than they had ever expected, they were still among the top powers in it.  The dragons and godlings of their world were on par with the demon princes and celestial dukes that ruled the wider multiverse.  The de-facto carte blanche that they had grown comfortable with would remain the same—they had little to fear, and there was no authority with the power to enforce their mandates in the face of Taran and Thelbar’s wrath.

For a while, they went their separate ways.  Taran founded a mercenary band, composed primarily of other humans who, like himself, had seen the worst their prime-material worlds could offer, and had come to the planes looking for bigger fights, louder arguments and more passionate love.  In a quest for the latter, Taran fell into the company of a coven that worshipped an unnamed goddess—a temptress who offered her worshippers their heart’s desire.  While Taran had a falling-out with the coven’s leader shortly after the beginning of their ill-fated affair and eventually sacked their temple in the Outlands, the goddess herself paid a call upon Thelbar.

A prime world had fallen from its maker’s graces, and the pantheon of gods and goddesses that ruled it wished for it to be destroyed.  Prevented by ancient covenant from doing so themselves, they had prepared a series of enchantments that would unravel the very fabric of the world’s reality and destroy every sentient being within it.  All they needed was a wizard sufficiently advanced in his understanding to complete the task and sufficiently foolish to accept it.

They found Thelbar.



_Hell_



The seeds of madness were planted within the mage as these invocations were made complete.  The world was gone, and Thelbar had wielded power well beyond the mortal norm.  He had been privy to the councils of these gods, had tasted the power and majesty _due_ a god, but he had also glimpsed the inherent fragility and currency of godhood—indebtedness to mortal worshippers.  This compelling need for ever greater power, combined with Thelbar’s life-long affinity for domination and control led him to an unusual conclusion:  There were god-like entities who did not require worshippers the way the gods did—the devil princes known as the Lords of the Nine.  By all measurements, they were as powerful as the gods, but owed allegiance to no one.  Within their layer, their will was supreme.

Thelbar set out then to steal a layer of Hell.  To make himself a Lord would be to seize what he wished, and put himself in a position to truly be counted a player on the largest stage there was.  His target was Belial, Lord of the Fourth.  It was not an overt coup, but rather a subtly and deftly played transfer of power and betrayal that left Belial alive, humiliated, and displaced.  Thelbar had succeeded, but with his greatest accomplishment,  he had finally overreached.  This was Hell, after all, and Hell is the place where all grand dreams turn to ash.

Taran, meanwhile, had found contentment.  His true loves were the physical things—carousing, fighting, wine, women and song.  His mercenaries loved him, and he discovered in his brother’s absence, a genuine aptitude for winning and holding the loyalty of fighting men.  If he tended to overspend, well, more treasure could be won.  If his strategies left him in a poor position, his own sword-arm could extricate himself. 

But this rough-and-tumble idyll was interrupted when a young human paladin calling himself Kyreel Silverstone found Taran and told him what his brother had done.  Kyreel meant to throw down this new Lord of hell, and could he count on Taran’s support?

Trapped by his own maneuvering, Thelbar found himself unable to fully understand the Baatezu mind—he could nudge but not control, and in a place where the only currency of any value is fear, he simply could not force these immortals to obey.  He was a ruler in Hell for a day, and its victim thereafter.

When Taran and Kyreel hacked their way into Hell, blood in their eyes, and an adventurer’s fire in their hearts, they discovered that Belial was back on his throne, and he had made of Thelbar a broken and fragile plaything.  Taran killed Belial’s strongest lieutenants, and meant to kill Belial himself-- but the Lord of the Third did not stay to fight.  Taran and Kyreel gathered Thelbar up, and fled for the celestial planes, where they were able to rest and assess the magnitude of what they had done.

The Baatezu were eternal creatures, and they had long memories.  Thelbar had doomed the duo—doomed them to a damnation that no amount of prayer or “old adventurer’s piety” could forestall.   While they still lived, at least they would be able to defend themselves.  Once they died, the Baatezu would spare no expense to attain their souls, and drag them to the lowest places to be kept in torment for all eternity.

Thelbar’s escapade had soured even the more beatific gods on his cause.  He had shown the expanse of his ambition, and there were no masters willing to take the brothers under their wing.  They were to be left alone until they died, and they could find no patron.  

But again, Kyreel came to the rescue.  He had a goddess, he told them, unlike any other.


----------



## blargney

Awesome update, (contact)!

I really love the morality plays that go on in this story - they smack of actual humanity.  I've never been able to tell what alignment your characters are, and ignorance is bliss! 

-blarg


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## (contact)

We generally keep alignments on the record sheets for purposes of spell-effects only.  In other words, if alignment can be targeted by spells and smiting in D&D, then it is an actual physical (or metaphysical) component of a person, observable (with the right magic) and concrete.

So we use alignment in the literal sense of the word-- "What side are you on?" as opposed to a description of personality/behavior/morals.

Because is Taran really good?  Is it good to just go put your sword through the head of whoever pushes your friends around?


----------



## (contact)

*86—The Memory Charm, part III*


_Ishlok_

She was a deity with no following in the planes, one of the rare creatures who kept her realm within the prime material plane—a world called Isk.  She explained that she had no need for followers, but those souls under her care were placed within a cycle of life-and-rebirth culminating in an enlightened state.  This deity contended that Good was the inevitable result of freedom, and her _pasoun_ had been built to prove it.  But more to the point, Ishlok would hide the brothers—change them enough to render them immune to divination and location.  The souls who usurped a Lord of the Nine and embarrassed the entire Baatezu race would, as a point of technicality, be gone.  After all, the Baatezu had been using technicalities against the mortals for so long, it seemed only fair that their own weapon be turned against them.  

In this way, Taran and Thelbar submitted to Ishlok’s protection, and came into the service of the Mother.


_Isk_

The duo did not see much of Kyreel once they were established in his home world.  He had his duties, and they had their own.  Ishlok’s pantheon consisted of herself and her three children:  Isk, the world itself, Hustaiir, a goddess of magic and neutrality, and Iiam, the last-born and most wicked of the three.  

The brothers settled in the grand city of Isenthal, a complex of small islands connected to a larger mass on a pennensula.  Thelbar became enamored with the place, and began to put his intellect and magical capabilities to work building the city into a military and trade power.  Despising autocracy (a reaction from his recent experiences in the Lower Planes), he put forward a new form of government—a system whereby influential guilds and merchant houses could form a parliamentary body that would both advise, and if necessary, overrule the hereditary King.  To ensure that his new system would last, he saw to it that the monarch was a like-thinking half-elf.  This new king could be expected to rule long enough for several human generations to be born and die.  By the time a more willful king might ascend to the throne, this new government would be firmly established and well-rooted in precedent.

Taran used his new-found sanctuary to chase after the simple pleasures of his recent past.  But in the wake of his adventures in Hell, and the toll their terrors took on his psyche, he was unable to find contentment.  He fell into a cycle of drunken debauchery, and grew ever more debased.  His prized mercenary company was usurped from his control by his trusted second, and Taran was gradually removed from day-to-day operations.  Eventually, the mercenary band left Isk altogether, and left their founder behind.

Occasionally, Taran would emerge from his stupor and make loud noises about “taking up the adventuring life,” but the local tavern (built with his fortunes, and owned by him) always proved closer than the nearest rampaging dragon, and the one enemy Taran could not defeat was himself.  Reduced to an ineffectual state by his own willfulness, but granted an unnaturally long life-span through Thelbar’s magic, Taran faded from the halls of the powerful, and found his own personal Hell—a hell from which no crusading paladin might rescue him.  He fathered many children, but raised none of them.  He was as useless a family man as he had been effective as an adventurer.  

Thelbar came into the direct service of the goddess Hustaire, and took the title of “Balancer.”  He used his other-worldly knowledge to place himself above the other wizards of Isk, and organize them into a grand council at the goddess’ disposal.  With no formal priesthood, Hustaire had previously had no active role in the lives of the Mother’s Children.  Isk was a magic-poor world, and by submitting to Thelbar’s divinely-sanctioned “guidance,” these other wizards were able to plumb the secrets of what the multiverse at large knew as the heights of spell-casting.  Thelbar built for himself a wizard’s tower that floated on a cloud above the Ishlokain peninsula—it soon became a symbol of the city as well as of the power of its primary protector.

At this time, Isenthal‘s rise brought the city-state into conflict with the Empire of Ishlok—the continent’s great sea-faring imperial power.  The Holy Ishlokian Empire was a theocracy devoted to the goddess in name only; its rulers had long since fallen from grace, and declared all forms of magic “demonic,” as well as removing through state-sponsored genocidal pogroms and purges all demi-human inhabitants of their expansive realm.  The Ishlokians had maintained their hegemony through military force, and responded to the Isenthanian upstarts in a predicatble fashion.  What no one could predict, however, was the effect that Thelbar’s outworld knowledge would have on the face of armed conflict for the world.

Isk had always been an isolated place—its magic was only one facet of its larger culture that was to prove ineffective in the face of  Thelbar’s imported thinking.  The smaller Isenthanian army was able to use unconventional tactics to win victory after victory, seizing shipping lanes and severely restricting the Ishlokain’s control over the more far-flung elements of their empire.

This was all well and good, but despite his lofty title, Thelbar the Balancer could not leave well enough alone.  Believing himself divinely-inspired, and perhaps still a little mad, he once again overstepped himself by moving against the machinations of the world’s sole deity of Evil.  Iiam did not take favorably to this challenge, and as a jealous sibling, he resented Hustaire’s new proxy and her increasing power within the mortal sphere.  Iiam confronted Thelbar, and mocking him, stripped from Thelbar the one thing that had always put him above other mortals—his spell-casting abilities.  Iiam personally tore from Thelbar’s mind all knowledge of wizard-craft, and cruelly, left the former mage to live the rest of his natural life without any extra-normal gift.

What transpired then is unclear, but Thelbar found himself entirely unable to live a commoner’s life.  Ashamed of his weakness, he fled from civilization, eventually finding solace (and perhaps a bit of wisdom) in the hermit’s life.

Deprived of Thelbar’s _longevity_ magics, Taran also grew old and weak.  He put his drinking behind him, but the damage had been done—his health destroyed, his fame nonexistent, the bullish fighter found that he too had outlived his bravado.  None remained who remembered the man he was, and few could respect the man he had become.

At this point, Ishlok herself intervened.  Their mortal lives had played to their ends, she told the brothers, and should they wish to remain within her protective graces, they must enter fully into her _pasoun_ and become true natives of her realm.  Faced with unimaginable torment, the brothers had no real choice.  They submitted to a ritual death, and were reborn as true Children of Isk.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Holy crap, (contact), this is great stuff. It's like reading years and years of D&D playing condensed into legendary history. This is what players (and DMs) dream of: to have their stories be remembered, to have had an influence on entire worlds.

Two thumbs way, way up.


----------



## Zaruthustran

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> Holy crap, (contact), this is great stuff. It's like reading years and years of D&D playing condensed into legendary history. This is what players (and DMs) dream of: to have their stories be remembered, to have had an influence on entire worlds.
> 
> Two thumbs way, way up.




Aye, this tall tale be sending shivers down me spine. It's a hard thing to make history gleam like gold, but you be doin' it. 

-zaaaaaarrrrrrruthustran


----------



## (contact)

*87—The Memory Charm, part IV*


_The Second Life_

Born of a refined but common mother, Taran and Thelbar were again brothers.  Again, Thelbar was the elder, and in many ways the strength of their previous lives was imparted into this new one.  Taran took up the adventurer’s sword, and Thelbar excelled in magic (although he would never again attain the heights of his former life—the knowledge of the Balancer had become the jealously guarded secrets of Isk’s new premier wizards—Thelbar’s former apprentices.

They were born into the wild North—an area separated from the Ishlokain Empire by a mountain range, and from Isenthal (by now the great Southern power) by a vast distance of small city-states, barren plains and impassable forest expanses.  The North was a dynamic and unforgiving place—populated by rampaging monsters, aggressive orcish and goblinoid clans and few civilized communities.

In this life, as in the last, they rose to great personal power, playing at politics among the small human settlements, and through their efforts were able to tame a small section of this land and establish a kingdom there.  Rethmiir was its name, and while it was humble by the standards of the Isenthanian South, it possessed the hallmarks of the brother’s hands:  Rethmiir was aggressive and militant, and desired expansion above all.  The other Northern human settlements were eventually absorbed, either through diplomacy or war, depending on the pride and tenacity of their rulers.

Thelbar fell in love with the daughter of one of his most bitter political rivals at this time, and eventually married her.  The beautiful lass proved more than his equal in matters of statescraft, and bore him two children—twins, a boy and a girl.  These twins seemed destined to follow in their father’s footsteps, and had a magical quality about them that was evident from birth.  Their uncle Taran was disappointed, however, as neither of them were the sorts of rough-and-ready children he might have enjoyed playing with.  

As Rethmiir was established and its most pressing enemies quelled, the brothers were reunited with an old friend.  Kyreel again joined with them, like the brothers continuing on where he had left off in his former life, as a paladin to Ishlok.  As he had in the past, Kyreel arrived with a mission—in this case, he was interested in the machinations of an aggressive band of giants discovered in the deep earth beneath the Northern realm.  Fearing for their fledgling kingdom’s safety, the brothers set out with Kyreel to punish and destroy these giants.  They learned that the creatures were allied with a large network of drow living within the deeps beneath the North.  Pressing onwards (and downwards), the three adventurers eventually confronted the manifestation of the demon-goddess Lolth herself.  In the ensuing battle, Kyreel was the only member of the three that proved resistant to her magics, and Lolth’s avatar was destroyed, banishing her from Isk.  

As would prove to be her practice, Ishlok responded to Lolth’s divine intrusion by sending mortal worshippers into the face of a goddess’ wrath.  No doubt, many failed, but as of yet, these three Rethmiirians had never done so.


_Kor’En Eamor and its Champions_

Indianichus Silverleaf was an Isenthanian scholar specializing in Dwarven Lore, and it was in Isenthal that he first learned of the existence of a great Dwarven Delve believed lost to time.  He used his contacts to gather the funding for an exploration, and convinced (among others) a stout cleric of Moradin, young scion of the well-respected Bluebeard Clan, to join him.  They plumbed the depths of the First Home, and after finally defeating a balor and its demonic allies who wished to draw the place into the Abyss, Alvodar was seated as its king, and the First Home was joyfully resettled.

Kor’En Eamor was within the mountain ranges between the Empire of Ishlok and the Rethmiirian North, and what began as a diplomatic envoy soon blossomed into an adventuring friendship.  Alvodar joined Taran and Thelbar for a time, as did Indianichus.

Indy, in particular, proved very helpful in assisting Taran on a foray into the very place between lives—the realm visited by Iskian souls as they awaited their rebirth.  In that strange and mystical place, Taran and Indianichus were able to secure the soul of Galathonriel—a silver dragon that had found a strange half-life as the animus within a bane weapon.  Taran’s weapon, as it happened.  Once back within the mortal realm, Indianichus and Taran used an artifact to create a new body for Galathonriel.  What had been an intelligent sword was revealed in his full grandeur, and the Silver Dragon was taken as the state symbol.  Galathonriel himself became a staunch ally and close friend to Taran, helping him administer his Kingdom, and acting as a powerful visual reminder of the young King’s personal power.

Alvodar returned to his Kingdom, and Indianichus to his studies.  Kyreel had taken a position overseeing Rethmiir’s diplomatic corps, and so Taran and Thelbar were often left to adventure alone.  Their adventures took them out into the wider multiverse, and ignorant of their former lives, they re-made many of the same enemies, smiting demons and devils in their home planes, and finding tutelage or allies amongst the great powers of the planes.  

At this time, Taran discovered an unsettling truth—he and his brother had believed themselves commoners, but in fact, they were descended from the line Tar-Ilou.  The name “Tar-Ilou” is an Ishlokain phrase than literally translates into “Goddess’ Hand,” and was none other than the family of the former imperial line!  While it was widely believed that the Tar-Ilou line had been wiped out in a murderous coup, Taran soon began to claim that one true Tar-Ilou heir survived the massacre—his mother.  Taran’s gaze wandered to the East—to Ishlok, and to the empire that he came to believe should be his.


_War_

As the cruelest histories are often unknown and unexamined, it becomes an axiom of life that the greatest mistakes are made to be made again.  Against the anvil of Kor-En Eamor, the Ishlokians crushed Taran’s army, ended his dreams, robbed him of his dignity and sent him back into the _pasoun_ with a message for his goddess: “_not in our world_”.


----------



## coyote6

This would be a bump, cleverly disguised as a "when is the next update" message.


----------



## (contact)

*88—Hard Choices*

Taran is thankful that he awakens alone—he is too proud to cry in front of the people that he believes need to see him as strong, competent and confident.  He mourns for Galathonriel, for his followers, for all those who have time and again placed themselves within his care only to face eventual terror and death.  He weeps for his own self-image, shattered by a night of True Dreaming.

Gathering himself, he reaches for his bedside flask, then thinks again, and splashes his face with water, instead.  He uses stealth to reach Thelbar’s chambers unseen, and asks his brother, “Is it true?”

Thelbar is more composed than Taran, but no less haunted.  The mage looks as if he is panicking somewhere deep beneath the surface.  They compare their dreams, perhaps looking for inaccuracies or some discrepancy that might suggest a falsehood—but there are none.

-----

That morning, the brothers Tar-Ilou admit Elgin Trezler, and Taran asks to be _atoned_.  Elgin casts the spell, and then the three adventurers discuss their response to Moradin’s ultimatum.

“But are we overreaching again?” Taran wants to know.  “What we’ve done in the past—every life we’ve lived—is dare too much.  The stakes get raised, and we bull forward until we find the conflict that we can’t win, and then what?”

Elgin Trezler nods sagely.  “Wisdom is learned through hardship,” he offers.  “And this is no longer a matter of personal ambition, but a divinely-sanctioned role we play.  By the workings of our gods we have been given this choice to make, and I don’t believe that we would be here if our powers did not trust us with this responsibility.”

“You’re wrong, Elgin,” Taran says darkly.  “We’re only here because we’re the a-sholes the other a-sholes can’t kill.”

“Elgin speaks the truth, Taran,” Thelbar says.  “And I’m not sure that I agree with your sense of desperation.  Ishlok is like no other, and the _pasoun_ places her followers beyond the grasp of these jealous gods, despite their threats.”

“So the religious guys have their souls covered.  Great.  But what about our responsibility to their mortal lives?” Taran persists.  “Who is looking out for their here-and-now?  If it is to be war, and it seems like war is inevitable, people will suffer, and we may be the cause.”

“Ceredain suffers as well,” Elgin points out.  “And the _pasoun_ is meaningless if it is not offered freely.”

“Alvodar was a friend,” Thebar muses.  “We know that now.”

“Well, religion be damned,” Taran says.  “We don’t leave friends behind.”

“No we do not,” Thelbar agrees.  “And what would Ishlok have of us right now, were she to speak?”

Taran scowls.  “She would say to hell with Moradin and his bullying.”  Taran is pacing.  “She would say, ‘I left this up to you because I know you’re stupid enough to tell that bearded bastard what we think of his ‘justice’.”  Taran looks at his friends and smirks darkly.  “We’re stupid, stupid, stupid.  But we’re going to spit in his eye.”  

The three men ponder this statement in silence for several moments.  Then Thelbar leans back and says, “Well, I guess we won’t be hiring any dwarves to help build New Ithor.”

Taran snorts.  “Aw hell, we’ve already got a city full of evil elves—why not build it with evil dwarves?”

-----

Veldegan is silent for a long time after the brothers Tar-Ilou and Elgin Trezler announce their decision to offer the _pasoun_ to Ceredain.  Finally, he says, “Your goddess’ faith in her mortal servants is misplaced.  This is an infamous thing you do.”  He regards the trio sternly, his face set into a mask of cold detachment.  “So be it,” he says.  And with that, Veldegan disappears.

“Huh,” Taran says.  “I thought for sure we were going to have to pound on that dwarf.”

-----

The three adventurers return to Kor’En Eamor, and _discern_ the location of a bit of Fearless ‘Fernal’s body—a gobbet of dried flesh apparently overlooked by the gnolls who made a meal of the rest of him.  Returning to Storm’s Rise, Elgin prepares the ritual for _true resurrection_, and receives an enthusiastic new convert to the _pasoun_.  ‘Fernal was godless, and as such, had no patron power to vouchsafe for his otherworldly existence.  Dying in Kor’En Eamor, where no soul can escape, was a blessing in disguise for the ambitious tiefling—for it spared him from the Baatezu that harvest unclaimed souls in Faerun’s afterlife.

‘Fernal thanks his saviors somewhat bewilderedly, and learns that Merkatha is the companion responsible for his return to life.  Elgin tells ‘Fernal that he may express his gratitude to her in person—the Champions of the Risen Goddess _teleport_ their newly-reborn charge to her side in Myth Ithor, and leave them both with another stern admonishment to stay away from the Great Delve.

-----

“Okay,” Taran sighs.  The group sits in their accustomed spot in Storms Rise’s unnamed inn.  “First up is Ceredain . . . and Alvodar.  We need to get the dwarf’s phylactery if were to have any chance of talking sense into the evil bastard, and to do that we have to stand face-to-face with the goddess.  Then, we have a mini-pantheon of enemy faiths lining up against us and encouraging their worshippers to act against us.  In response to this organization, our pantheon has . . . well, us.”

“I suspect we will prove to be more than our enemies have bargained for,” Thelbar says without a trace of boastfulness.

“We are not alone in this cause,” Elgin reminds the brothers.  “And there is also a genuine threat from Obuld and his orcish horde that may demand our efforts.  Let that not be forgotten.”

“Well, I don’t know if I’m so worried about that,” Taran says.

“Gorquen has agreed to see to this task,” Thelbar adds.  “She will determine which of our foes to the North require her intervention, if in fact any do.”

“Hey, Gorquen’s boyfriend is no slouch either,” Taran continues, “plus she has Khuumar with her . . . and he’s a _bad man_.  But in a good way . . . good meaning on our side, of course, ‘cause he’s probably not, you know, _Elgin_ good.”  Taran smiles at the priest.  “They’ll manhandle this Obuld, I think.  He picked the wrong damn region to invade.  He shoulda gone West.”

“I would like to also add the cult of Iiam here in Faerun to our list of enemies,” Thelbar says.  “While Iiam is a child of Ishlok, and of our pantheon, we should expect nothing but sabotage from him.  No doubt he is already working closely with our enemies.”

“And finally, there’s Isk.” Taran says quietly.  “Someday, I’d really like to find out what happened to Isk.”

------

Merkatha is growing furious with ‘Fernal.  The teifling rogue has been expressing his eagerness to return to the cursed Delve.

“It is _our_ adventure, Merkatha, and we should see it through to its end.”

“You already did, dumb f-ck,” Merkatha says.

“Now, Merkatha.  That is just a _mean_ thing to say.”  Fernal is drinking from Thelbar’s wine reserve, leaving sloppy IOUs for each bottle he takes.  Two days past, Elgin Trezler honored his promise to Merkatha and returned ‘Fernal to life.  The rogue has since spent most of this time drunk.  “Drow frighten me,” he says, “present company excluded, and I should like to get back into the adventuring life.”  

‘Fernal regales his companion with promises that upon their return to the Delve they will immediately go after the mind-flayers for whom Merkatha reserves the best and deepest portion of her formidable hatred.  With the prospect of revenge dangled before her like a proverbial carrot before the mule, Merkatha slowly comes to see the “other side of the coin,” as ‘Fernal puts it.

“There _is_ monetary gain to be had, which is grand; and then there is glory, which is greater still,” he says.  “But revenge, ah . . . _revenge_ is the best treasure of all . . . and you have _so many_ of those hoards to loot, my dear.”


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> *88—Hard Choices*
> Two days past, Elgin Trezler honored his promise to Merkatha and returned ‘Fernal to life.  The rogue has since spent most of this time drunk.
> 
> “There _is_ monetary gain to be had, which is grand; and then there is glory, which is greater still,” he says.  “But revenge, ah . . . _revenge_ is the best treasure of all . . . and you have _so many_ of those hoards to loot, my dear.”




I love this guy. Now that Lucius is a semi-PC, 'Fernal gets the award of Best NPC.

-z


----------



## coyote6

So, Kill Bill starts tomorrow. 

This is an off-topic post, not a lame bump. Really. Morgan Fairchild told me so.


----------



## (contact)

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> I love this guy. Now that Lucius is a semi-PC, 'Fernal gets the award of Best NPC.
> 
> -z




PC.  Sorry.  

Since 'Fernal and Merkatha are back in the saddle every Friday night, you may very well see a Great Delve II story hour sometime this fall.


----------



## (contact)

*89—Ceredain Death-Caller, Mother of Entropy, Cursed of Moradin and Least In His Favor. * 

A mad goddess only semi-aware of anything beyond her own torment; Ceredain’s agonies breed physical terrors and hauntings, and slowly pollute the souls of all who manage to survive within her realm; the weak are slain, and the strong corrupted, but none emerged unscathed.  Ceredain is bound within Kor’En Eamor, but she _is_ Kor’En Eamor, and within this self-absorbed and barren womb, no life may take seed.  In fact, the natural process of life—birth, aging, death—is subverted altogether.  Creatures within the Delve may kill, but they may not create.  They do not age, and even time itself seems to have no true dominion here.  After all, forever is all that is left when there is no tomorrow.

-----

To mortal eyes, Ceredain appears to be a gigantic spirit or shade—faintly luminescent, but radiating a foul light that obscures where it should illuminate.  She is found where Merkatha indicated she might be—at the statue of Hepis' father, King Adwawn, in Kor’En Eamor’s top level.   The statue is likewise oversized, a monument intended to preserve for eternity a sense of the grandeur and majesty of the dwarven throne.  Ceredain whirls around this stonework like a night-mist, caressing the statue, and weeping to herself in an ancient dwarven tongue; a wretched mumbling, unintelligible yet unspeakably terrifying.

When the Champions of the Risen Goddess first gain sight of her, Taran is instantly struck senseless by the sheer _terror_ radiating off of the dead goddess in waves.  His objective intellectual knowledge that he has never encountered a greater personification for all of humanity’s deepest fears does not prepare his unreasoning self for the raw shock of confronting her.  While Elgin and Thelbar stand fast, perhaps protected by the mental disciplines demanded by their professions, Taran makes an unintelligible noise deep in his throat, and turns to flee.

Thelbar _holds_ his brother fast, binding him with an enchantment as the Death-Caller regards the three mortals who have come to pay her a visit.  She peers at them from behind the statue, hiding there like a playful child, and her beautiful face shows at first an expression of beatific bliss, which shifts instantly to one of terror and rage before disregarding the mortals altogether, and returning to her examination of the statue.

Elgin and Thelbar look at one another quizzically.  Thelbar shrugs and motions the priest forward.

“Ceredain, first among the dwarven gods and mother to the race,” Elgin Trezler booms in his most stately voice.  “We have come to you in the name of Palatin Eremath, Lathander of the Dawn, and the Free Gods of the Ermathan Pantheon.  As anointed representatives of these immortals, we bring you true knowledge of self; liberation from your curse in the form of the divine_pasoun_.  Will you hear our plea?”

Thelbar and Elgin fidget nervously as the moment lengthens without a reply.  Then, caressing the statue, Ceredain groans in either pleasure or pain and her eyes roll back in her head.  The sound is low and penetrating—felt as much through vibrations in the dwarven-cut stone as it is heard by the ear.  As she moans, a thin black smoke begins to emerge from beneath the etheric dress of the writhing goddess.  This smoke slowly detaches from her, coalescing into three distinct humanoid shapes—each one four times as tall as a man and utterly without light or depth—holes in the vision rather than _things_ that can be seen.  

The three creatures outstretch long arms of nothingness and drift toward the two men—but Elgin Trezler does not wait for the inevitable result.  “These are undead,” he shouts, “beware!”  Elgin invokes a quickened _divine favor_, and as he grows to half of the creatures’ size, he attempts to drive them away by calling upon Lathander’s Dawn.

In the presence of Ceredain Deathcaller, even the might of Lathander is suspect.  The anti-things turn their intention toward Elgin—they have no visible means of sight, yet their gaze is as clearly felt as if they had struck him with a lance of pure cold.  Elgin’s brow furrows, and he clutches the space between his eyes and collapses to the ground, dead.

Thelbar enters into a _time stop_, and emerges instantly next to the body of Elgin Trezler, protected by a _stoneskin_ spell.  From the spot he just left, a _prismatic spray_ cascades toward the nightwalkers, banishing one from the Delve instantly.  The two others are lashed with the electrical band of the _spray_, and even as the bright colors fade, a low thrumming and *whomp* fill the air, as the undead anti-things are struck first with a sonic-substitued _chain lightning_, and then a sonic _fireball_.  A second nightwalker falls, and Thelbar smiles with a grim satisfaction.

The remaining creature brings both of its long, whiplike arms to bear on the mage, buffeting him backward, and nearly breaking ribs despite Thelbar’s _stoneskin_.  The foul grave-chill of the thing seeps into Thelbar’s skin, and he feels faint for a moment, before composing himself.  He strikes the remaining monstrosity with a sonic-substituted _cone of cold_, and as it is blown into thin wisps, Thelbar pulls his _portable hole_ over Elgin’s corpse and dashes to Taran’s side, where he _teleports_ the two of them to the Delve’s portal to Isk without risking even a parting glance at Ceredain.

-----

Thelbar regards the barren waste that was once his home-world through the Iskian _gate_ while he waits for Taran to recover from his _fear_.  He had meant perhaps to flee out into Isk, but now, facing the truth of what it was, and what it has become, he finds that he cannot bring himself to set foot in the place.  It is too . . . sacred, perhaps.  Or simply no longer bearable.  Thelbar observes his own reluctance coolly, analytically; systematically categorizing his responses and slowly subjecting his larger self to the iron rule of his mind.  Absorbed in his reverie, he does not notice that Taran has moved to stand by his side, and  joins his brother in looking out into the last world that they failed.

“You know, we could go back to Ratik and kill Ishlokians until we felt better.”  Taran laughs, but he is not joking.

“No, our business is here,” Thelbar says curtly.  

Taran’s eyes narrow as he watches his brother for some trace of . . . _something_.  Thelbar, however, is not in a giving mood.  He impassively kneels over the body of Elgin Trezler and prepares to cast a _true resurrection_ from a scroll.  While his initiation into the priestly arts is barely better than that of an acolyte, his personal knowledge of spellcraft is unrivalled, and he is confident that he can cast even the most complex divine spell if given enough time.

And so he does.  There, just within the border of Kor’En Eamor, within feet of the killing sands that represented the end of his last life’s hopes, Thelbar, three feet away from safety, invokes the greatest life-giving magic known to mortal man within the womb of a dead goddess.

And Ceredain does not appreciate the gesture.

Stone shatters, and even as Elgin’s eyes flutter open, a piercing screech of rage and accusation flies through the Delve, carried on a strong wind that knocks Thelbar back toward the Iskian _gate_, and nearly upends Taran as well.  In the center of the chamber, a massive black obelisk shoves its way up from the floor—shattering the paving stones and rising all the way to the ceiling.  Reflected within the high-gloss surface of the stone, the heroes can see themselves as well as the face of Ceredain Death-Caller—fully awakened now and regarding the blaspheming mortals who would dare disrespect her here within the one place where she is still remembered--her self.

“I’m holding for spell,” Taran stammers to Thelbar as he regards the horrific sight.

Thelbar’s face pulls down in to a frown, and he sends a _disintegrate_ beam at the obelisk.  But, predictably, his ray has no effect, and Thelbar shouts, “run!”

Taran takes his brother in one large hand, Elgin in the other, and activates a _teleport_ spell stored in an enchanted mantle he wears over his armor.  The trio appear just outside of the Faerunian _gate_, and run out into the mountain air, casting worried backward glances over their shoulders. 

Elgin Trezler, struck by inspiration, _discerns_ the location of the one person that he believes can penetrate Ceredain’s blind rage and self-absorption.  As Elgin explains what he has learned, Thelbar is able to open a _gate_ into the plane of Concordant Opposition; within seconds of fleeing Kor’En Eamor, the party is standing before the one dwarf who might be able to save it.  Forge-fires crackle and spit warmly against their skin—but the three adventurers fled the Realms before the chill mountain air could even cause it to blush.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Allow me to be the first to say this this rocks harder than any Jack Black movie ever made or yet to be made.

Question: why did the RG'ers have to _teleport_ through the _gate_ to Ishlok instead of just walking through?


----------



## Seule

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> Allow me to be the first to say this this rocks harder than any Jack Black movie ever made or yet to be made.
> 
> Question: why did the RG'ers have to _teleport_ through the _gate_ to Ishlok instead of just walking through?



Because you can't teleport across planar boundaries.

  --Seule


----------



## (contact)

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> Question: why did the RG'ers have to _teleport_ through the _gate_ to Ishlok instead of just walking through?




You mean Isk?  They didn't actually enter Isk this adventure.  Because the teleport spell doesn't allow extra-planar travel, and Kor'En Eamor is its own demi-plane/being, they can teleport to the permanent gates leading out into Faerun, or Isk, or the Moon Lands, what have you.  So one step away from one of Kor'En Eamor's gates was the safest place Thelbar could think to flee to.

And if you're going to be chased through a gate by a pissed off goddess, Isk seemed like less of a risk for innocent lives to be lost than Faerun.


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> *89—Ceredain Death-Caller, Mother of Entropy, Cursed of Moradin and Least In His Favor. *
> 
> A mad goddess only semi-aware of anything beyond her own torment; Ceredain’s agonies breed physical terrors and hauntings, and slowly pollute the souls of all who manage to survive within her realm; the weak are slain, and the strong corrupted, but none emerged unscathed.  Ceredain is bound within Kor’En Eamor, but she _is_ Kor’En Eamor, and within this self-absorbed and barren womb, no life may take seed.  In fact, the natural process of life—birth, aging, death—is subverted altogether.  Creatures within the Delve may kill, but they may not create.  They do not age, and even time itself seems to have no true dominion here.  After all, forever is all that is left when there is no tomorrow.
> 
> -----




 

-z


----------



## (contact)

*90—A Lover’s Reunion, Terrible and Final.*

Adwawn, the last true king of Kor’En Eamor, and father to Hepis the God looks rather ordinary.  He is small, even as dwarves go, blind in one eye, and wearing the simple work-dress of his people.  In fact, the only thing that might give away his true age or legendary role in the dwarven apocrypha is his utter lack of surprise at seeing the three bedraggled adventurers stepping through a _gate_ into his modest forge.

“You are Adwawn Aq Med, King of the Aq Med, first house of the dwarves?” Elgin Trezler asks.

“Was,” the dwarf says with a frown.  “Law of succession, you know.  The stone-folk have no true king anymore.”

“Here,” Taran says, approaching the dwarf gingerly.  He holds out a hand—within it is a small amount of dirt.  “This is from your home,” he says.

Adwawn takes the dirt from Taran’s hand, and looks him squarely in the eye.  “A favor unasked makes for no debt, boy,” he scolds.

“Fair enough,” Taran smiles.  “Then she won’t owe you one either.  We’re here about the mother of your son.”

“We are here to beg for your help,” Elgin says, nudging Taran aside.  “We want you to help us to help Ceredain.”  Elgin explains the _pasoun_ to Adwawn, passionately describing its power over gods and men—and the liberation that transcends even the ill-will of the most powerful celestial hosts.

“Free your goddess, and take back your kingship,” Taran urges him.

“King Aq Med,” the dwarf mulls the name over, letting it roll around in his mouth as he says it.  “Do you really know what Aq Med means?”  He cocks his head, and fixes the group with his good eye.  “Aq Med is a curse-mark.  It isn’t our name in glory; it is the name that marks our shame.  Those of us who had a hand in this are exiled and eternal—cursed to forever be without those things that make life worth living, and yet forever alive.”

“She loves you still,” Thelbar says.  “That much is clear.  If we take you to her, you can make her hear the wisdom in our offer—my goddess _wants_ Ceredain to be free.  She will lead Ceredain into the _pasoun_, and bring her back into the cycle of life.  Yourself as well, Adwawn, king or no—you may die and live again, a whole man.”

“Moradin’s curse . . .” the dwarf begins.

“Has no more relevance within the _pasoun_ than one of my own utterance,” Thelbar finishes.

Adwawn thinks deeply on the offer, looking at each of the Champions as if to determine the righteousness of their intent.  Finally, he clears his throat, and says, “If I do this, I can only take one of you to stand as my second.  That is the old way, and anything else might seem like a threat.”

“Hell, no,” Taran starts to say, but Thelbar interrupts him.

“Of course, Adwawn, it shall be as you wish.”  He bows to the dwarf.  

“Then I’m the one to go,” Taran says stubbornly.  He adjusts his sword-belt.  “I’m ready right now.”

-----

Ceredain flutters around the statue of Adwawn in an agitated frenzy.  Alvodar the Ukerak stands at the feet of the statue, speaking soothingly to his goddess.  As the _gate_ appears, he turns and regards Taran coolly, and says, “Here now, see what you have done, you fool?  You have disturbed her rest!  And for your treachery, I will instruct her to extract a great vengance from . . .”

But before the undead dwarf can finish his threat, Ceredain has spied Adwawn, and in the blink of an eye, she descends upon him and takes the dwarf into her misty body.  Taran is washed with a terrible burning pain as Ceredain oozes over him, and by the time he is able to open his e_Yes_, he sees that both he and Alvodar stand on barren plains of Isk—just outside of the Delve.  As they gain their bearings, a thick stone slab emerges from the ground, and with a booming crash, seals the _gate_.  All over the multiverse, Kor’En Eamor’s portals are heard closing behind the dead goddess and her mortal love.

Alvodar cries out with a wordless fury and anguish, then turns to Taran with a burning hatred in his e_Yes_.  
”You seduced her with the one thing that will enrapture her!” he shouts.  “Cursed be your name forever!”

“Alvodar,” Taran begins warily, careful to show no signs of hostility.  “We were companions once, and could be again.  Come with me—Ceredain is gone, and I have not forgotten you.  You could live again.”

“I am finished with your honeyed words, and the lies of your goddess!” Alvodar yells in reply.  “Twice now you have tricked and betrayed me, and there shall be no third!”  With that, Alvodar clutches an amulet about his neck, and is gone.

Taran sits and broods alone for some time before his friends are able to make their way to his side.

“Let’s go home,” Taran says wearily, clasping his brother’s hand.  “Or whatever it is we have now.”

-----

Upon their return to New Ithor, the Champions of the Risen Goddess learn that sixty days have elapsed since their last visit—the presence of Ceredain has warped time for those who have regarded her, and what seemed like days was in fact months.

Merkatha and ‘Fernal are gone as well, although they did not leave any message, or share their plans with any of New Ithor’s drow.

Gorquen has returned from her journeys in the north and left again.  She leaves the following terse note behind (sic):


_Hope you are all alive and well.  Fought giants, smashed them. Obuld small threat.  Brought drow refugees from beneath Sundabar.  Found out Scaladar liberate elven souls from Lower Planes—probably demons now.  Am after great artifact with intent to return it to Larethian, will explain upon return.  Blessings.

Gorquen_


“All righty, then,” Taran says.  “At least she’s keeping busy.”

-----

After a long night’s sleep, Elgin Trezler _communes_ with his god:

“Are the souls within Kor’En Eamor trapped?”  _Yes_.

“Is the threat to Faerun posed by Ceredain diminished?”  _Yes_

“Is this threat negated?”  _No_.

“Has Ceredain made her choice regarding the _pasoun_?”  _No_.

“Had Adwawn gone mad?”  _No_.

“Will Adwawn offer Ceredain the _pasoun_?”  _Yes_.

“Does Adwawn have any influence over Ceredain’s decision beyond his opinion?”  _No_.

“Is Alvodar jealous of Adwawn?”  _Yes_.

“Will Alvodar work against us directly?”  _Yes_.

“Does Alvodar understand that he could take the _pasoun_?”  _No, his corrupted mind does not accept that option_.

“Will Moradin attempt to influence Ceredain’s choice?”  _Yes_.

“Will Moradin attempt to compel Ceredain’s choice?”  _Yes_.

“Will Moradin attempt to do so personally?”  _Yes_.

“Has Moradin sent agents against us already?”  _No_.

“Is there a cult of Iiam active in Faerun?”  _Yes, and has been for a long time.  My eyes have been opened to his eternal presence._

“Does Iiam’s cult predate the arrival of Palatin Eremath?”  _Yes.  He is as she is._

“Does the sealing of Kor’En Eamor free Isk?”  _Isk must be reclaimed and healed.  She is not dead, but gravely wounded._

“Are your followers in Cormyr in grave danger?”  _Life is a step toward death, and death a step toward life._

-----

“So what exactly did we accomplish?” Taran asks.  “We might have saved some lives, but we might not have, and we’ve also made a big enemy.  After all that trouble, Ceredain probably stays dead anyway.  Blood and fire, we’ve got to be the worst Champions a goddess ever had.”

“And there has been great trouble in the South while we were gone,” Elgin says.  He has been speaking with members of his faith, and their appraisal of the political situation in Cormyr is grim:  

The borders of Cormyr have been redrawn—the Sembians have placed a stranglehold on their conquest of Eastern Cormyr, going so far as to rename the area New Sembia, and establish a capitol in Wheloon.  Arabel held against the Sembians, but has seceded from Cormyr in the wake of religious rioting.  What remains of the beleaguered nation is deeply fractured as the churches of Helm, Moradin, Torm, Tyr, Illmater, Tymora and Waukeen have formalized an alliance against the Ermathan Pantheon, and instructed their followers to abandon Cormyr.

To her credit, the Steel Regent of Cormyr refused the allied faiths’ demand to ban the faith of Lathander, and has sworn to resist to the end.  Unfortunately, that end seems to be near, as Arabel’s House Truesilver, a powerful Cormyrian noble house dedicated to Torm has stated their intent to raise an army of conquest to “retake Cormyr from the blaspheming false-crown.”

“Well that’s just stupid,” Taran observes.  “Once they march on Suzail, the Sembians are going to snap up whichever side is the victor.”

“Never underestimate the ignorance of the faithful,” Thelbar quips.

“Tell me about it,” Taran mutters.  “I mean, sometimes I think we’re living it.”

As a result of the religious tension, waves of refugees are moving in both directions from Cormyr—Lathanderites to Suzail, and followers of the new alliance away from it.  Sembia has agreed to honor the alliance’s demand to expel all followers of the Morning Lord, and religious violence has become commonplace.  

“They’re flooding Cormyr with refugees!”  Taran exclaims.  “That’s just low.  They’ll force Cormyr to spend itself out paying for the added burden while they build an army!”

Mother Talendiira has responded to this crisis by traveling to Suzail, in order to proselytize in the capital of the shattered Cormyrian nation, and build an understanding of the new Ermathan pantheon among the worshippers of Lathander squatting amongst the overflowing refugee camps.

As Cormyr unravels, Sembia’s former dwarven allies have reached the gate of Kor’En Eamor, “For all the good it’ll do ‘em,” Taran says.  “Here’s hoping that the bastards are locked in there.”

The Northern dwarves are also at the gates, and the two forces are said to be in council.  They effectively have placed what was Northern Cormyr under their military control, but as of yet have announced no clear intention.

“I . . . I do not know how to react to all this,” Elgin finishes.  “I am truly overwhelmed.”

“It is a wicked thing indeed when religious dogma ursurps the dignity and rights of the individual,” Thelbar agrees.

“Well, I know what I want to do,” Taran says, “but I bet it won’t help.  Still, we’ve got to do _something_, and I’m really only good at one thing.”

None of the companions need to ask what that thing is.  With a grim expression, Thelbar says, “We leave in the morning.”


----------



## dpdx

> As a result of the religious tension, waves of refugees are moving in both directions from Cormyr—Lathanderites to Suzail, and followers of the new alliance away from it. Sembia has agreed to honor the alliance’s demand to expel all followers of the Morning Lord, and religious violence has become commonplace.



Does this remind anyone of the formation of Pakistan in _Gandhi_?


----------



## Joshua Randall

(contact) said:
			
		

> “Well, I know what I want to do,” Taran says, “but I bet it won’t help. Still, we’ve got to do _something_, and I’m really only good at one thing.”



I cannot express my admiration for Taran often enough. He takes the "kick in the door" style of gaming to sublime new levels.


----------



## (contact)

dpdx said:
			
		

> Does this remind anyone of the formation of Pakistan in _Gandhi_?




Yes, my DM.    At the gaming table, he used Pakistan-India as a real-world example of this sort of political struggle forming around religious lines.

Of course, Pakistan and India didn't have 20th-level adventurers and demi-gods to sic on one another . . . more's the pity.


----------



## (contact)

*91—Gods and Men, Men Who Are Gods*

The three adventurers teleport to Arabel, and keeping a low profile, gather information on the Truesilver’s attempt to re-unify Cormyr.  As feared, the great-house is preparing an army.  Conscripts have been levied from the ranks of the new alliance’s worshippers, and are being trained and armed for a spring-time assault.  The Truesilvers are led by their matriarch—a powerful priestess of Torm named Valeria Truesilver—possibly the most powerful cleric of the faith.  Local rumor has it that Valeria has gone to the side of her god, and returned with a powerful ally—her own great-grandfather, Hereson Truesilver, a legendary Champion of Torm who ascended to Torm’s realm after his mortal life and has since become a saint to the faithful—a demi-power said to be able to grant miracles to those who revere his memory.  It was Hereson’s legendary life that set the Truesilver name high amongst the other luminous families of Cormyr, his deeds as a mortal paladin that forever enshrined the clan with glory and established their reputations as careful protectors of the common good.

Now, during this crisis, the people of Arabel have turned to the Truesilvers and the faith of Torm, and the streets are clogged with wandering prophets, holy men and stump-speakers that deliver fiery speeches rousing the populace against Lathander and their former Cormyrian brothers and sisters.  War-fever is in the air.

“You know,” Taran offers, “we could just start killing these rabble rousers.  It would send a strong message, and probably draw this Hereson and his granddaughter out for a fight.”

“No,” Elgin says, shocked at the proposition.  “We will do no such thing.”

“We can find them ourselves, brother,” Thelbar says.  “This small-god, as the people call him, is often seen dispensing blessings among the crowds in the city center.  I suggest we wait there, and when he emerges, perhaps we can show him the error of his ways.”

“Yeah, permanently,” Taran laughs.  “And then we’re going to _acid storm_ the remains.”

-----

Injunctions against Lathander hang thick in the Arabel air.  Numerous speakers rail against the Dawn Lord, calling him traitor, and setting the blame for Cormy’s troubles squarely on the shoulders of his “wicked priests.”  If these injunctions and curses are difficult to hear for Taran and Thelbar, they are doubly so for Elgin.  The kind-hearted cleric nearly flinches each time a passing merchant curses his god, or a child spits at the mention of Lathander’s name.  Elgin’s sorrow is as clear on his face as his determination.

After a half-day of waiting, their vigil is rewarded, as Hereson Truesilver appears among the crowd, smiling and _blessing_ the onlookers with gentle touches of his gauntleted hands.  He is a tall and powerfully-built man, elaborately armored as befits a Champion of Torm.  He is perfect and beautiful in a rugged and fatherly way, and he literally _glows_; a shimmering yellow light that washes over all those in contact with him.

According to Thelbar’s _arcane sight_, the older woman by his side is a powerful spellcaster—the equal of Elgin Trezler in skill, and her arms and armor radiate strong magical auras.  Although she appears to be several years Hereson’s elder, this must be Valeria, his descendant and, prior to his return to the mortal plane, heir to his lineage.

Behind the two holy people, a tall and blindingly radiant celestial keeps watch.  This creature possesses the body of a man, but also the head of a dog—a breed well known in Cormyr for its loyalty and faithfulness.  Thus, it is this angelic watch-dog that spots the three adventurers as they stand directly within the path of the Truesilvers.  With a soft touch, it alerts its companions, and all three sets of eyes reach across the gathered crowds to fix on the Champions of the Risen Goddess.

“This godling possesses no magic to speak of,” Thelbar says softly as the crowd between them begins to part.  “Only his sword and . . .” the mage pauses, “a ring.”

“Huh,” Taran says, feigning interest.  “That’s unusual.”

As Hereson moves toward the trio, he does so with an otherworldly grace, unrivalled in all the adventurers’ long years of experience.  He does not smile, but maintains an outwardly neutral expression, betrayed only by the righteous fire in his eyes.

“I knew it would come to this,” he says softly, although his voice carries clearly throughout the crowded market.  “Cormyrians true, regard with your own eyes the assassins of Lathander, come to do what their treacherous god could not; silence the truth.”

“This is the famous Elgin Trezler,” the woman says in a loud voice, motioning  to the crowd.  “The most high cleric of the Betrayer, and where is his flag of truce?  Why has he arrived so armed, and why has he brought these foreign mercenaries?”

“Traitor!  Foreign scum!”  Members of the crowd begin shouting curses and epithets at Elgin and the brothers Tar-Ilou.

“This city is infected with hatred,” Elgin says pleadingly.  “For the love you bear these people, will you not be at peace with us?”

Hereson’s impassive expression does not flinch.  “For the love I bear these people, I stand against you _and_ your god, Elgin Trezler.  If you doubt my authority,” he says with a mocking smile, as if such a thing could hardly be believed, “look to your own.  Almus-Re has spoken against you; your way will be the destruction of us all!”

As Hereson locks eyes with Elgin, the hound archon begins to nudge the crowd aside and away, clearing room for what must come.

“_So who draws first? _” Taran thinks to Thelbar through their _telepathic bond_.  Stepping forward, Taran speaks directly to Hereson.  “Now, listen here,” he begins in his thickly accented Chondathan.  Taran lifts his hands palm-out in front of his chest, but the deified paladin ignores the fighter as if Elgin Trezler were the only foe worthy of notice.  Hereson begins to harangue Elgin, his words thick with accusation.

“Hey, hello there?” Taran says, still with no result.  When it becomes clear that he is beneath Hereson’s notice, Taran’s face sets into a scowl.  “Oh, you shoulda looked at me,” he growls under his breath and begins walking toward Hereson and his associates.

“_Brother_,” Thelbar warns, but it is no good.  Taran is marching toward the godling with that peculiar gait well familiar to both Thelbar and Elgin.

But the glowing man does not seem to notice.  He is continuing his lecture of Elgin Trezler in a steadily rising tone of voice.  “. . . upon that dubious authority?  Let me correct you, sir.  Your souls will be cast into the Nine Hells!  Do not think that your usurper goddess—well known to be Lathander’s string-pulling mistress—will save you from that fate.  There is a heavenly judgment against you, Elgin Trezler, and against your lackeys as well.  For this, I have been called back to take my place among the true faithful of the realm!”  Hereson is nearly shouting.  “_For this I have been called back to mortal life_!”

“Well, I got the fix for that,” Taran says to no one in particular as he pushes through the rapidly thinning crowd.  Taran moves directly in front of Hereson, his bulk preventing the paladin from looking at Elgin Trezler.  “Personally, I could give two f-cks about you _and_ Cormyr,” he says in Isenthanian.  “You’re all just a bunch of self-important condescending bastards, but Elgin’s my _friend_, so I’m going to make you wish you’d been nice.”  By this point, Taran is nearly within arm’s reach of the paladin.

Hereson looks down his nose at the thick-necked fighter muttering gibberish and says with a thin sneer, “One step closer and I attack.”

Taran steps closer.


----------



## Joshua Randall

[cue pulse-pounding techno music]

Kick... in... the... *DOOR!*


In case you couldn't tell, I am pumped for this fight.


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> *91—Gods and Men, Men Who Are Gods*
> 
> Hereson looks down his nose at the thick-necked fighter muttering gibberish and says with a thin sneer, “One step closer and I attack.”
> 
> Taran steps closer.




.... AND?!  ....STEPS CLOSER AND?! AND THEN WHAT HAPPENS?!

-z

!?


----------



## (contact)

Well . . . and then nothing.  Hereson and Taran both have a good laugh, give each other a big hug and everybody goes home with a souvineir tabard.

"My adventuring companions sacked Cormyr and all I got was this stupid tabard."

Taran and Thelbar retire and blow their adventurer's gold on shady real-estate transactions.


----------



## ThoughtBubble

(contact) said:
			
		

> Well . . . and then nothing.  Hereson and Taran both have a good laugh, give each other a big hug and everybody goes home with a souvineir tabard.
> transactions.




Wow. That's going out with a bang.


----------



## (contact)

*92—‘Sblood*

Hereson is without question the swiftest swordsman Taran has ever had the misfortune of being cut by.  More nimble and honed of reflex than even Dantrak, the matron-mother Banare’s First Sword, Hereson is able to close the intervening distance and freeze Taran in place with a solid blow from a thick broad-sword that snaps into his right hand so fast it looks like magic.  Before Taran is even able to fully shift his weight onto his lead foot, Hereson has stopped Taran’s forward motion, and put him on his heels, drawing blood and tearing skin even through Taran’s enchanted mail.

Taran responds in kind, drawing his own swords and attempting to end the fight right there, but Hereson is entirely too quick to be struck—each of Taran’s sledgehammer blows are turned aside by the paladin’s blade, or simply evaded.

The dog-headed celestial ignores the fighter harassing his master and charges for what he has sized up as the real threat:  the wizard remaining silent in the back.  Before he can reach Thelbar, the mage has slipped out of, and back into, the time stream, and forces the celestial to shrug off a _dominate monster_, even as he leeches moisture from him with a _horrid wilting_, compresses his flesh with a _sonic-substituted_ fireball[/i] and sends a _prismatic spray_ across the battlefield.  Hereson ignores all of these spell effects, but his granddaughter cannot, and she is killed before she can even realize that the quiet one in the back has gone _invisible_.

Elgin Trezler sends a _dimensional anchor_ ray at Hereson, hoping to prevent any flight, and follows it for good measure with a second, _quickened dimensional anchor_.  Both rays fizzle and are broken against the paladin’s holy nimbus of light.  Hereson fends Taran away from him with the tip of his sword and spares a glance for his dead granddaughter.  “You have just made a grave mistake,” he promises the adventurers.

“You know what, a-shole,” Taran says, “you just promised to send me to Hell, what more can you do?”

In reply, Hereson unleashes an unbelievable flurry of blows, each one striking true against Taran’s most vulnerable points.  Hereson is nearly finished with his elaborate maneuver before the blood even begins to gush from the opened arteries and severed tendons.  In an instant, Hereson has removed himself from the bloodspray (cleanliness is next to godliness, after all, and he is both of those things) and returns to a neutral posture.

Taran hits the cobblestones where Hereson was standing just a moment before with a thick crunch, his torn throat unable to offer any more to the exchange than a wet bubbling sound that might have meant, “Help me.”

“It is one for one now,” Hereson says coolly, counting coup on the back of Taran’s head with the flat of his sword.  He surveys the battlefield intently, as unconcerned with Elgin during the fighting as he was intent on him before it.  “You cannot hide from me forever, mage.”

Unseen, Thelbar places a _forcecage_ around the divine warrior.  With a gesture, Elgin grows to twice his size, and uses a _mass heal_ to knit Taran’s wounds before the fighter can expire from them.  Taran scrambles to his feet, and regards Hereson, admiration in his eyes.

“That was amazing,” he says.  “Wait there.”  And as Hereson attempts to _dispel_ the cage, with no success, Taran rushes to where Hereson’s celestial companion is attempting to recover from the spell-barrage it just suffered.  Taran proves a capable mimic, and while unable to evade the ensuing bloodspray (or perhaps unwilling), he shows Hereson that two can play at that gore.  Elgin joins his side, and together they force the archon back, and spill its blood onto the streets.

 “I admire your loyalty and courage,” Elgin says.  “I hope for your sake that you are _summoned_ and not _called_.  Because this must end with your death.”

“It is an honor to die for my Lord,” the archon replies humbly.

“You’re welcome,” Taran says, shattering bones with an impaling strike.

Sadly, the body does not disappear.  “Called,” Elgin mourns.  “A light has left the multiverse.”

Thelbar’s second _sonic fireball_ and subsequent _chain lighting_ spells fail to affect Hereson, and he is beginning to believe that no spell at all could harm the man.  Hereson is rooting through his granddaughter’s equipment, looking no doubt for some magic with which to destroy the force barrier imprisoning him.  Finding no aid, he begins to pray to Torm.

“Somebody shut him up,” Taran warns.

Thelbar attempts to oblige with a _disintegrate_ beam, but there is no effect.

Elgin sends a pair of _searing light_ rays through the bars of the cage as well, but they might as well be warm afternoon sunshine for all the effect they have.  Taran notices that Hereson cannot see his brother (who is still hidden by a _greater invisibility_), and makes himself _invisible_ as well.  

“If you can’t beat ‘em,” he says, “cheat.”

Elgin and Thelbar pour on the spell power, wasting sonic _cones of cold, searing lights, magic missiles_ and _flame strikes_, but for all the sound and fury, none of it seems to work.

After a moment, Hereson stops praying and looks at Elgin with a calm sneer.  “I see your mercenary friends have left you, Trezler.  Perhaps they know something you don’t.”  

Elgin looks at the arrogant paladin, and realizes in that moment that his _dimensional anchor_ spells were as unnecessary as they were useless.  This celestial and shining entity would no sooner have it said that he fled from Elgin Trezler than he would speak against the wishes of his god, however cruel they might be.

As Hereson finishes his taunt, a shimmering envelops the air of the city-square and coalesces into the form of a glorious angel.  Feathery winged and wielding a flaming greatsword, the deva’s warm topaz skin and golden eyes reflect the day’s light, and seem to make it even more grand.  “I _wish_,” the creature says in a melodic and resonant vibrato, “that this cage of force were not here.”

Just in time for Taran to leap on Hereson.

Despite his gruff rumblings, Taran is generally not the sort of man who fights with his heart leading the way.  He has long since learned that cool pragmatism and level-headed ruthlessness provide more victories than high-strung emotions and histrionics.  Brave speeches and high-blooded exhortations may be fine prods for the poor peasant conscripts on the pike-line, but in the adventurer’s line of work?  He has seen time and time again that when all is said and done, the emotional man is generally the one left bleeding out on the dungeon stone.  So even as he chides himself for earlier allowing his wounded pride to put him under the sword of a superior fighter, he suppresses the tiny glimmer of joy that threatens to bubble up when he realizes—_a man can’t dodge what a man can’t see_.

Standing up to Hereson, as the only visible target, Elgin bravely sacrifices himself in a battle he cannot win.  Even filled with Lathander’s _righteous might_ and _divine power_, the giant-sized cleric can do little except soak up punishment, and occupy the attention of the far superior swordsman.  Careful to _heal_ himself before growing too wounded, Elgin plays the decoy, as his _invisible_ companion remains at Hereson’s back, cleaving huge chunks out of his decorative armor. 

Surely, Taran thinks, no man who believed that a mortal sword could ever touch him would put on a suit of plate meant to be more impressive at a distance than in a fight.  Hereson must be facing what, to him, is the unthinkable, as Taran’s sword slams home time and time again.

There are cries and shouts from the crowd at this—they cannot see Taran, but they see something bludgeoning their beloved saint—perhaps it is stubbornness that keeps Taran from simply finishing the fight by slipping Arunshee’s Kiss between the plates, or perhaps it is a mean-spirit born of humiliation, but whatever drives him, he is battering at the man—breaking him.

And while occupied evading Elgin’s hulking form, Hereson simply cannot defend himself.

The solar, however, has no trouble spotting his _invisible_ foes, and after wasting a flurry of attacks against Elgin Trezler, it soon realizes that Taran is the true threat to his charge, and moves over to engage him.  After a first blow is struck, the solar releases his sword—the blade dances in the air as if fighting of its own volition.  Taran curses when he realizes that the blade is as good in a fight as its bearer.

Even before the deva’s arrival, Thelbar had wasted the best part of his spell-power against the invisible armor of Hereson’s divinity.  In desperation, he allowed himself to pour his entire offensive repertoire into a futile attempt to make . . . _something_ . . . happen.  Left without an option, he uses wands that he hasn’t touched in months, striking the solar with _magic missiles_ and _lightning bolts_, few of which are able to harm the powerful angel.

Elgin uses a second _mass heal_, his last spell of that caliber, to return the advantage to himself and Taran.  Invigorated and instantly well, Taran redoubles his efforts, grunting with a sort of visceral satisfaction as his swords pierce metal and cut into the flesh of a god.  Hereson wobbles on suddenly unsteady legs—as Taran’s blows begin to dismantle the heavily enameled gorget that is the only thing keeping Hereson’s head and body acquainted—Taran is suddenly struck with the notion that the gods bleed after all; and here is the proof, warming his face and arms.  If they bleed, what other mortal functions must they keep?  His mind rolls over these nearly blasphemous images despite itself—as he bludgeons the life out of the best fighter he has ever encountered, he lapses into a sort of drunkedness, the godling-blood seeming to seep into his skin and warm something inside of him; some part of his soul perhaps that has been long dormant.  The sensation is dizzying, but Taran does not stop.  Blood follows blood, and soon Torm’s greatest champion is no more.

As Hereson dies, the solar deva seems to shrink somewhat, and its color passes from a deep yellow to a pale, almost translucent white.  It manages a last pair of half-hearted swings, but it is clearly fighting in a lost cause.  If Torm has already lost his greatest champion this day, there is no call for Him to sacrifice the first among his hosts.  The deva retrieves its sword and creates a _gate_ for himself.  As the Deva moves toward its _gate_, the adventurers realize its intent is to flee, and at Elgin’s signal, they break off combat.  

But the deva is not done, and as it steps through the _gate_, it fixes Elgin with an icy stare and pronounces a heavenly judgment; “Cidhi qurlhuhu,” it says.  _Traitor to the good_.

Cobblestones shiver and tear as this word is pronounced, bits of stone exploding skyward as a huge crack opens in the ground beneath Elgin Trezler’s feet.  Before Taran can regain his balance, Elgin has fallen within the crack in the earth, and is gone.  As Taran moves to investigate, he is fully knocked from his feet as the crack seals shut with a shuddering roar.


----------



## dpdx

Pardon me for this stupid question, but where the hell was Lathander during all of this? And I hope they don't forget the acid storm.


----------



## thatdarncat

(contact) said:
			
		

> But the deva is not done, and as it steps through the _gate_, it fixes Elgin with an icy stare and pronounces a heavenly judgment; “Cidhi qurlhuhu,” it says.  _Traitor to the good_.
> 
> Cobblestones shiver and tear as this word is pronounced, bits of stone exploding skyward as a huge crack opens in the ground beneath Elgin Trezler’s feet.  Before Taran can regain his balance, Elgin has fallen within the crack in the earth, and is gone.  As Taran moves to investigate, he is fully knocked from his feet as the crack seals shut with a shuddering roar.




daaaammmn what a bastard. Not that Taran and Thelbar would have done any less had the situation been reversed.


----------



## Joshua Randall

*WOO-HOO!* I'd say the door has been approrpriately blown off its hinges.

*does his bloodthirtsy happy dance*


----------



## (contact)

*93—Another year older, another year wiser*

The brothers Tar-Ilou return home without Elgin.  While they both know that this should be a mournful thing, neither of them can bring themselves to grieve.  They are both filled with a giddy light-headedness, and describe to one another a sense of pervasive warmth—although it doesn’t seem to be related to temperature; their skin grows cold upon their return to the North, but no matter what their nerves tell them, they can’t shake the _belief_ that there is this great warmness spreading throughout them.

Taran starts to call his commanders together to double the watch assignments, fearing reprisal from Torm’s hosts, but as he does so, he has the strangest sensation that he can smell Kyreel.  As if she were standing just over his shoulder.  The small hairs on the back of his neck hop to attention, and he hears Kyreel’s voice, as clear as day:  “Rest easy, I will take this watch.”

Without questioning the event, Taran retires to his chamber, and takes his former companion’s advice, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

-----

Two days after their fight in the marketplace, Thelbar has discovered Elgin’s whereabouts—he has been _imprisoned_ deep beneath the earth.  Thelbar has researched the necessary counter-spell, and is ready to free his companion.  While Thelbar was lost in research, Taran has compiled the intelligence he gathered on the Truesilvers’ military preparations, and drawn up a plan of attack.

The brothers Tar-Ilou return to Arabel, and finish what they started two days before:  Elgin is recovered from his magical _imprisonment_, and both he and Thelbar direct their spells at the apparatus of the Truesilver military machine:  _fireballs, lightning bolts, acid storms_ and _fire storms; storm of vengeance, elemental swarm_ and _acid fog; earthquakes, transmute rock to mud_ and _disintegrate_; all these spells and more are used at Taran’s direction, and by the time the city grows quiet again, the adventurers are gone, and House Truesilver is utterly de-fanged as a military entity.  They estimate that they have set Arabel’s rulers back by at least a year, possibly two—a fact that will probably be music to Sembian ears.

“See how _you_ like getting sacked, f-ckers,” Taran mutters as they leave Arabel, intending never to return.

-----

Over the next several weeks, Elgin and Thelbar work closely together and establish a workshop for their magical-craft hidden within the Astral plane, accessed by permanent _gates_ leading to the Tar-Ilou’s home in New Ithor.  Putting their workshop to use, Elgin enlists Taran’s help to craft a new suit of armor—the most elaborate, functional and flatly powerful Taran has ever possessed.  It is mastercrafted plate, enchanted to be as light as mail, and imbued with a strong alteration that makes its wearer both difficult for the eye to fix on as well as nearly soundless.  Wearing his new armor, Taran looks and feels like a great and shining champion, and some of his melancholy begins to leave him.

-----

Weeks pass, and months fall away.  Just before winter arrives, Thelbar announces that he will be sequestering himself for the season in magical study, learning new spells and crafting items, most notably a _mirror of mental prowess_.  Elgin also spends the majority of his time working on projects, and traveling to and from Suzail, assisting with the affairs of his church.  He is pleased to report that the situation there has stabilized somewhat.  As the remaining population are primarily Lathanderites, religious tension in what remains of Cormyr is relatively low, and as the leaves turn and the first crisp wind whips through closed shutters, the nation grows stable, if not well.

The brothers Tar-Ilou make large amounts of adventurer’s gold available for the Church of Lathander, and ensure that the populace of New West Cormyr, as it is coming to be called, are at least fed and housed.  Taran spends some time meeting with the Red Wizards of Thay, hoping to ensure that a quiet flow of arms and armor will reach the nation as well.

Arabel, as expected, is unable to press an attack, and they also grow quiet at the approach of winter.  The new Truesilver patriarch signs a formal recognition pact with Sembia, however, and the two “nations” exchange “ministers.”  The Steel Regent bitterly calls these Sembians “string-pullers,” and the “mutual admiration and defense pact” is widely viewed as a bloodless conquest of Old Cormyr’s South.

Despite this acrimony, Cormyr signs a formal peace treaty with Sembia, signing away their former territory in exchange for a promise that the sliver of land remaining to the nation will be held, “As a sovereign and separate state, for now and for evermore.”  

Mother Talendiira leaves Cormyr, and returns to her accustomed haunts among the drow of New Ithor, alternately blessing and teaching the drow, and gone entirely.  The drow call her, “the forest mother,” and a small cult of rangers devoted to the sight of her forms among the recent Ermathan converts.

As the gods feud, Bane looks to benefit most of all.  Scardale and Harrowdale in the Dalelands fall to his Zhentarim, . 

The dwarves surrounding Kor’En Eamor come to a sort of blustery peace, marked by occasional mass-brawls and some bloodshed, but after three or more months of futile waiting, they set out to return home as the first snows begin to fall in the lowlands.

The Southern dwarves move into what was Northern Cormyr, and begin to make what seems like a half-hearted military occupation of the land.  The Northern band, however, is facing bleak times—their homes in the Silver Marches have been overrun in their absence by Obuld Many-Arrows.  Unlike the human and elven settlements, the dwarves of the North were by and large unable to flee before the overwhelming horde.  Orcs poured into their caverns and underground halls, and Obuld’s Legions do not take prisoners.

Left homeless and bereaved, Moradin’s faithful grimly march through the first snows of the year, intending to either rip the throat from Obuld’s force, or throw their lives away in the effort.

The Orcish king, growing fat on the plunder of last spring, is more than willing to accommodate them.  As a canny tactician who knows all to well how difficult it can be to assault a well-defended dwarven burrow, Obuld has cruelly sworn to fight to the last dwarf.

Taran begins a plan of organization for his drow forces.  Beset by raiding orcs to the North, and this new prospect of dwarven fighters to the East, the drow begin to learn the subtle art of the ambush, and practice guerilla tactics, taking a cue from their surface-world kin.  The priesthood of Solonor Thelandir aids in this task, teaching traditional elven archery and forest-craft to the drow.

The worship and lessons of Sharlaquannan, formerly Lolth, begins to coalesce into something resembling a religion, and her first true clerics emerge, preaching the faith on the unsteady legs of a new-born colt.  But New Ithor is a safe place for religions to grow—the _pasoun_ asserts its inevitability but does not dictate paths.


----------



## Joshua Randall

I realize I should post something meaningful about the sweeping sociopolitical changes overtaking Faerun, but all I can think of to say is this:

If you thought Thelbar was powerful before, just wait until he completes his _mirror of mental prowess_ - and (contact), I know you know what I'm talking about!


----------



## coyote6

(contact) said:
			
		

> As the gods feud, Bane looks to benefit most of all.  Scardale and Harrowdale in the Dalelands fall to his Zhentarim, .




Was there something missing here, that went after the comma?

Bets on whether this quiet fast-forwarded interlude is the typical calm before the storm?


----------



## (contact)

coyote6 said:
			
		

> Was there something missing here, that went after the comma?
> 
> Bets on whether this quiet fast-forwarded interlude is the typical calm before the storm?



 Good eye.  It should be ". . . fall to his Zhentarim, and the rest of the Dalelands brace for war, their patrons' attention elsewhere."

And that is what we call a sucker bet.


----------



## (contact)

*94—The Divine Champion of Palatin Eremath*


During the long respite, Elgin Trezler goes to his god several times asking about Gorquen’s well being, and each time is assured that she is well.  Winter turns to Spring, and Spring to fall.  Nearly a full year after they left, Gorquen, Ilwe and Khuumar return with a fabulous tale:

Beginning at the beginning, Gorquen states that Obuld-Many-Arrows does have fire giants in his army.  

“Did have,” Ilwe corrects her.  

“Did have,” she says.  

These fire-giants were led by a foul priest of Tenebrous (the deity known to the Ermathan Pantheon as Scaladar, and to the rest of the multiverse as Orcus), and after killing all of the demon-worshippers among them, she was able to persuade the surviving giants to leave the Silver Marches and trouble civilization no more.

As she adventured against these giants, she encountered a strange being—a titan who claimed to have been rescued from a long imprisonment in the penal-plane Carceri by followers of Scaladar.  The giants were raiding the plane to rescue elven souls; souls that had been cast into torment by Corellon Larethian for the crime of remaining loyal to Palatin Eremath, and her “Eternal Champion” Scaladar.  Apparently, the demon-god had been conspiring to free them for many millennia, and used the recent deific upheaval to make his move.

What exactly happened to the liberated souls was unclear to her, but she assumes that they are somehow in the service of their fallen lord.

She returned to New Ithor with drow refugees that had been abandoned in the cities beneath Sundabar and the Moon Pass.  Lost without the withering guidance of Lolth’s church, these drow had responded to a prophet’s call to make for the surface, where they found themselves trapped by the fire-giants squatting in the caverns above.  Gorquen’s arrival broke the détente, and she led two thousand of the willing to a new life in the new drow-home to the south.

After that adventure, she might have thought she was done, but the Ermathan Pantheon was not done with her.  Solonor Thelandir sent a dream to Ilwe instructing him to travel South and East—to old Cormanthyr and Myth Drannor.  There, he and Gorquen were to find a holy artifact:  a wedding present given Solonor by the elven father-god when Solonor married Corellon’s champion Palatin Eremath!  Ilwe was to take this gift, and return it to Corellon Larethian’s high priests on the elven isle of Evermeet.

“Holy sh-t,” Taran says, more impressed with someone going willingly to Myth Drannor than with all this talk of gods and their artifacts.

Ilwe, Gorquen and Khuumar set out for the fabled city (and Second Worst Place in Faerun) and upon their arrival discover three things of note:  first among them, and most surprising, Gorquen herself lived one of her past-lives here during the era of Myth Drannor’s fall!  

In this life, she was eldest sister to Clan Alushair, the very same family of high-elves who kept and tended Corellon Larethian’s wedding gift to Solonor Talendiira and Palatin Eremath—a single, perfect and unique flower, as immortal as its giver.  Along with the bride-gift, they also kept the most crucial knowledge of all; of the existence of Palatin Eremath.  That there should be at least one person alive who could recall her name, Gorquen (in her past life) was sent from the city just prior to its downfall, and lived the rest of that existence ashamed that she had abandoned her loved ones in the time of need.

“Well, that really explains a lot about you, Gorqie,” Taran says.

Gorquen sniffs disdainfully, and Ilwe picks up the tale.

After learning about her past life, the group made for the artifact chamber (which, armed with her knew knowledge, Gorquen could access), but were confronted by a band of Tenebrous followers led by Nathe.  

“Yes,” Khuumar says with a sneer, “_Your_ Nathè, Taran.”

“We had to fight her, Taran,” Ilwe says, gently placing a comforting arm on Taran’s shoulder.

“You killed her, did you?” Taran asks evenly.

“I had that honor,” Gorquen replies coolly.  The two warriors stare at one another for a long moment.

“Get my jewelry back, then?” Taran asks.

-----

During her fight with the Tenebrous followers, Gorquen was struck by a _prismatic spray_, and plane-shifted against her will to the border-town of Plague-Mort, in Concordant opposition.  Her companions were able to join her, and had some predictably violent interactions with the locals.

Shortly after their arrival, they were contacted by a craven and cringing necromancer of a uniquely loathsome disposition by the name of Skleeve who claimed that he was “waiting” for Gorquen.  Apparently he had been on something of a sightseeing trip to the corpse of a god floating in the Void when he lingered too long—he was snared by residual deific power, and had since become something of an unwilling prophet.  Mostly he had been prophesying this meeting, he told her, clearly glad to be finally free of his charge.

Skleeve explains to Gorquen that he belongs to a great and wide-reaching organization; one that holds the gods themselves to be frauds and charlatans.  So is it any wonder, that of all the vacation sites in the universe, Skleeve wanted to visit the corpse of the goddess who agrees with him?

He led Gorquen to the corpse of Palatin Eremath, and there within the goddess’ body was the blade _Soludrun_, the legendary weapon of Corellon Larethian—the very blade that refused his hand once he struck down his kin.  

Gorquen communicated with this blade, and was able to remove it from Palatin Eremath’s corpse.  The bastard sword is magnificent—a powerfully enchanted weapon in its own right, but even more impressively _Solodrun_ is intelligent!  _Solodrun_ agrees with Skleeve on only one topic;  it too has been waiting for Gorquen’s arrival.

Ilwe and Khuumar arrive via plane shift fairly shortly after Gorquen does, and the three adventurers spend several days grilling Skleeve and meditating on the meaning of recent events.  Rested, and somewhat overwhelmed, they returne to house Alushair in Myth Drannor only to find that their experience with the body of Palatin Eremath cost them almost a year of Prime-Material time!

They were able to recover the artifact, despite the best attempts of several foul servants of Tenebrous who stood in their way.  Artifact in hand, they journeyed to the Elven Retreat of Evermeet to return the gift to the priesthood of the elven father-god.

“And you should’ve seen those day-elves giving me the up and down,” Khuumar laughs.  “But hey, at least I wasn’t the _only_ drow on the isle.”  Khuumar smirks.  “Just the second.”

Nearly the entire community was on hand to receive the three adventurers, and despite their misgivings they were warmly embraced by the elves of Evermeet.  The flower was taken into the care of Corellon Larethian’s high priests, and Queen Almuriel gave the following address:



“_Welcome, brothers and sisters.  I have waited long for this meeting.  I honor your quest, as does my master.  You may believe differently, but we are not enemies--your cause is not so distant from our own.  We elves know of grief unlike any other; but our suffering is a shallow and transient thing compared to the pain of those who give us life.  My Master’s sorrow is deep.  

I have_ communed _with him and have seen the history that was withheld from us.  How I wish that we need not feel the loss of our mother.  A hollow place in our soul has been made, to honor her memory; in her name we mean to plant this flower in the center of our greatest shrine where it will mark our grief and our hope.  May her memory live there always._”



During the group’s stay, Almuriel approached Gorquen alone, and told her that she had “seen a great battle that will tear apart everything you have built.  The heavens will part and the anger of the gods drive their celestial hordes forth.  She will die again, and you will be left godless, abandoned.”  Almuriel begged Gorquen to rethink her cause, and “stay with your people, leaving the humans and dark ones to their own paths.”

Gorquen bristled at this proclamation, but Almuriel took pains to assure Gorquen that while she has been given visions of this great conflict to come, “no elf who loves Corellon Larethian or his kin will draw blood in this battle.”

The queen made it clear to Gorquen that while she accepted the reality that Palatin Eremath was the mother-goddess of the elven race, and was killed by Corellon Larethian’s hand no less, she holds the act to be just, if tragic.  She told Gorquen that despite the hidden history of the elven race, the goddess Ishlok is no longer a true elven goddess.  Ishlok’s _pasoun_, she contended, robs the elves of those things that make them a people—their culture, identity and racial integrity.  Almuriel encouraged Gorquen to leave the service of Ishlok and “the base races”, to “rejoin her family,” and remain on the isle.

Gorquen refused, but nonetheless, Almuriel gave the winged elf her blessings, and presented Gorquen with a family heirloom, a magical scabbard “worthy of Soludrun.”

-----

“It is a grand gift,” Gorquen says, slightly embarrassed.

“My family has left the isle,” Ilwe adds.  “They accepted the _pasoun_, I am proud to say, and have done me the honor of accepting Gorquen.”  He is blushing with pride, and he takes Gorquen’s hand.

“And then we came here,” Khuumar says.  “We went to Evermeet to slap a god, but got a hero’s welcome!”  He is obviously pleased with himself.  In fact, gone is his former hang-dog bearing—the mark of Arunshee is fully on him now, and he no longer has the vaguely terrified and cowed look that he’d possessed while adventuring with Taran and Thelbar.

Gorquen and Ilwe are likewise strengthened by their recent exploits—Gorquen in particular looks majestic.  Truly, _Soludrun_ is a legendary weapon, and Gorquen appears every inch the swordswoman worthy of it.

“Gave you a magical scabbard, huh,” Taran says suspiciously.  “Did you tell them who gave you your wings?”


----------



## (contact)

My DM:  “We’ll pick the story up with the characters waking up on the morning of the blood solstice”

Me: “ _Blood solstice_?  Is that a day of note?”

My DM: (Evil grin) “It is now."


----------



## (contact)

*95—The Blood Solstice*


It has been fully three years since Taran, Thelbar and Gorquen first set foot in Faerun.  Since their arrival, they have acted as instruments for their Goddess, taking on the role of her champions, and in Gorquen’s case, formalizing the title with her clergy.  They have gained many things, greatest perhaps of these is a deeper knowledge of her teachings, embodied in the _pasoun_.  They have lost things as well; innocence, some measure of confidence, and the easy-living that comes from carrying no burden.  They have also lost the goodwill of many of the land’s faiths, or perhaps it could be said that they gained them as enemies.

Khuumar makes his home away from the adventurers, among his people, and finds a leadership among them in many ways deeper than any of his companions.  As non-spellcasters, Taran and Gorquen have more time on their hands than their companions, and take to spending long evenings together in Taran’s suite, drinking and brooding over their failures and triumphs.  

“It’s coming, Gorquen, an ugly thing.  And what are we going to do?” Taran asks.  He sits at the foot of his bed, a half-filled goblet in his hand.  Gorquen reclines above him, her ebony wings stretched out to their full length.

“Ishlok is greater than her enemies,” Gorquen replies distantly.

“Ishlok doesn’t involve herself in brawls,” Taran reminds her.  “She counts on us.”

Gorquen sighs.

“Well, exactly.” Taran stands and regards her evenly.  “Look, I’m not sure I want to die and do this all over again.”

“I would do things better had I a second chance,” Gorquen muses sadly.  She flutters her wings, and pulls herself upright.  “I have made grave mistakes.”

“Yeah, that’s what you think you’d do,” Taran mutters, sitting down next to her.  “But I’ve seen the _pasoun_.  It always works out the same.  You don’t know why—each time it looks different, but it isn’t.”

“That sounds like the talk of a defeated man,” Gorquen chides.

“Feh,” Taran says.  “That’s the talk of a man who doesn’t know what a victory _is_ anymore.  We kill and kill and we win, but what good do we do?  Whose life is better because of us?  Who have we made _safe_?” 

Gorquen mulls this over, and the two warriors grow silent, and spend several minutes pitching knives into Taran’s furniture.  After a moment, Taran leans close.  “Just between you and me?”  he begins, “Ishlok needs more armies and less generals.” 

-----

Summer in the High Forest is a pleasant and bountiful time.  The Champions of the Risen Goddess find rest and peace there among their drow brothers and sisters, and come to know one another in peace nearly as well as they do in war.  For several months it looks like the upheaval and turmoil of recent years is finally over.  The Summer Solstice arrives, quietly and without fanfare.

-----

Much later, when the wounds of that day have had time to heal, the survivors would all admit to waking on the morning of the solstice with a terrible feeling.  They would talk about a dark mood that persisted long after whatever dreams that might have created it fled the sunshine.  Each of them felt privately that companionship would deepen rather than banish this sense of dread, and so it was that when the first news arrived, the Champions of the Risen Goddess were all far from one another, each grieving in their own way for something that had not yet taken place.

Toward the end of the day, Elgin calls the Champions together; Taran, Thelbar, Gorquen, Ilwe and Khuumar join him in the group’s accustomed meeting-hall.   Elgin has obviously been crying, and his face is set in a determination made all the more disturbing by his kind and gentle eyes.

“Today is a day of reckoning,” he says.  “I have felt terrible things in my soul.  I confess that I did not have the wisdom at first to realize what it was that I was sensing, but now I am sure.  Our brethren are dying, all over the world.”  At this, the first glimmer of panic enters into his eyes.  It will not be the last that his companions see before the day is over.


----------



## Zaruthustran

Scary! Nice work ratcheting up the spookifier.

-z


----------



## Kradge

*dangit*

Let's see..... work on huge Grid Computing project for the last two days, or read the Risen Goddess start to present.........

Man this is great stuff. Serious props to you and the DM (contact). These are characters that you just have to pull for. At first I thought it wouldn't like Taran, I figured he was Matt from the Wheel of Time, all military genius because of memories from a past life, but not much else. Boy was I wrong. Indy is great too, and I think it's about time to bring him back. If he hasnt cured his lady love yet I dont think it's going to happen. 

Hmmm I think you, Piratecat, Wizardru, Sepulchrave, and Sagiro need to get on some sort of updating schedule so I can have something new to read everyday. Anyway, keep up the great work. I think I'll go ahead and make my first 100 pathetic pleas for an update now. 

for (int i = 0; i <= 99; i++)
{
writeln(" Update time! ");
}

( That was just to get me in a programming mood really. Im not that big a nerd.)


----------



## (contact)

Kradge said:
			
		

> Let's see..... work on huge Grid Computing project for the last two days, or read the Risen Goddess start to present.........
> 
> Man this is great stuff. Serious props to you and the DM (contact).




Thanks, Kradge!  If you haven't, check out the Twenty Years After / Liberation of Tenh SH.

Start here:  Twenty Years After (DM'ed by the same fellow who is currently running the Risen Goddess).

Then, go here:  Liberation of Tenh  (DM'ed by yours truly).

And I'll update soon.  

edit-- Updated URLs.  Thanks, Joshua!


----------



## Joshua Randall

Or if you want the most up-to-date URLs for those threads, they are:

Twenty Years After (RttToEE)
http://www.enworld.org/forums/showthread.php?t=25093

Liberation of Tenh
http://www.enworld.org/forums/showthread.php?t=31153


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> Thanks, Kradge!  If you haven't, check out the Twenty Years After / Liberation of Tenh SH.
> 
> Start here:  Twenty Years After (DM'ed by the same fellow who is currently running the Risen Goddess).
> 
> Then, go here:  Liberation of Tenh  (DM'ed by yours truly).
> 
> And I'll update soon.




Oh yes. Do read Return to the Temple of Elemental Evil. Great stuff with a bit more humor and a bit less cosmic mindbenders. 

-z


----------



## (contact)

“On the evening before a battle one thinks of a thousand things forgotten till then; those who are indifferent to one another become friends and those who are friends become brothers. It need not be said that if in the depths of the heart there is a sentiment more tender, it reaches then, quite naturally, the highest exaltation of which it is capable.”

Alexandre Dumas, _Twenty Years After_.



*96—Mortal fear and Holy Terror; not the same thing at all.*


In the years to come, the massacre of the Blood Solstice would be seen not just as a conflict between ideologies made brutally manifest, but also a great tactical mistake by the forces of good; an opening that allowed the evil faiths and cults of Faerun to gain a more tenacious stronghold in the wake of the uprising.  Alliances that had been strong became subject to doubt—with each act of destruction, suspicions were sown, and despite pledges of allegiance and friendship, each member of the alliance was left to wonder, _could we be next_?

-----

In Waterdeep, Baldur’s Gate, and Suzail the children of the Ermathan Pantheon die in heated and chaotic house-to-house fighting; individuals run from, stand up to, or throw themselves at the mercy of the mobs, but the outcome is the same.  In the Dalelands and other small communities across the Heartlands, Lathander’s faithful are accosted one family at a time—pulled from their hearth-fires and beaten, sent into exile _en masse_.

The mobs are composed of a motley smattering of the most hardcore followers of Faerun’s good-aligned faiths.  The hard-charging crusaders and paladins of Helm, Tempus, Tyr and Torm lead the way, but are followed by a surprisingly blood-thirsty assemblage of clerics and lay-followers representing Illmater, Waukeen and Kelemvor.  Many of the evil faiths also participate in the rioting, although most are careful to disguise their true motivations.

Elgin Trezler is openly weeping as he relates the news, and the Champions of the Risen Goddess race to Thelbar’s study where they gather around his newly-crafted _mirror of mental prowess_ and scan the communities of the Ermathan faithful one by one.  Lathander’s temples at Myth Drannor and Suzail are spared.  The former due (presumably) to its isolation, and the latter to the fact that the recent upheaval in Cormyr meant that few non-Lathenderites remained. 

As they watch the events unfold, Elgin’s tears are shared by Ilwe and Gorquen.  Khuumar nods to himself, as if he had been expecting this sort of thing all along (and as a drow, he probably was).  Thelbar is quiet and composed, and Taran’s expression slowly changes from grimly determined, to frantic.

 “Well,” Thelbar turns to his companions.  “What do we do?”  He seems not to be asking so much as testing his companions.

“We get in there, and we save those people.” Taran says without hesitation.  “We split up and do what we can for as many of them as possible—then we bring them here.”

“No,” Elgin says.  “We find the leaders responsible for this horror, and we kill them.”

“Yes,” Gorquen says.  “We take vengeance.”

“I agree,” Ilwe says.

Khuumar says, “We must kill them all, Tar-Ilou, lest we be seen as weak.”  

Taran begins to argue, then trails off as he considers his companion’s words.  “This is like some kind of freaky mirror-reality,” he mutters.  “Fine, we fight.  We _scry_ and raid, one after the other, until we’ve killed them all.”

-----

As the companions scramble to their quarters and prepare themselves for the assault, each one of them becomes aware that the disturbing sensation felt upon awakening is beginning to intensify.  At first, it might be confused for battle-fear, or perhaps the numbness and shock of the day’s events wearing thin, but over time it becomes clear—a supernatural force of fury and overwhelming power is directed at each one of them.  The growing clouds that hang over New Ithor block the sun, but do nothing against this heavenly radiance.

Taran and Gorquen exchange worried glances as they meet in the hall outside her room.  She starts to move toward Thelbar’s quarters, but Taran shakes his head no, and motions upward.  The burly fighter leads the way to the large open-air arboretum kept on the roof, where they join their companions.  The day is unseasonably hot and humid, and the thick, clinging heat is carried upon the eerie yellow-tinged air.  The sky is completely overcast, but to human eyes, the day is as bright as any other; floating in the sky directly above the citadel is the holy symbol of Tyr—a golden shield, hundreds of feet across, and blazing like the sun.

“_Now that . . . _” Taran thinks through the group’s _telepathic bond_.

“Yeah,” Gorquen agrees out loud.  “We’re f-cked.”

“It’s just like my last life,” Taran moans.  “But _more_.”

As the radiance from the holy symbol increases to a point where none of the assembled heroes can look upon it, a divine voice is heard from the skies.  “Heretics of New Ithor,” it booms, “your judgment is upon you.  Curse your tongue for its blasphemies, and denounce your wicked gods, for this day you die.”

As the pronouncement echoes and fades away, the clouds above part, as if fleeing from some unseen presence. A blinding wedge of light arcs earthward from the opening, terminating just yards away from the Champions of the Risen Goddess.  As the light bloom fades, the heroes can see that a trio of angels have appeared, each one writhed in white-hot flames and fanning huge wings.  Directly behind them, a massive brass dragon winds about in a tight spiral, keeping one baleful eye upon the Champions the whole while.  Directly in front of the angels is a giant-sized man dressed head to toe in ceremonial armor, brandishing a monstrous greatsword.  It doesn’t take an expert in religion to recognize the avatar—merely being near it imparts the knowledge of its identity.  Helm.

 “Helm!”  Taran says, in case no one was paying attention.

“No, no.  Helm and Tyr are not allies!” Elgin cries.  A small part of his mind simply refuses to believe that this day is happening—slowly but surely, Elgin is checking out.

“_Look friendly enough to me_,” Gorquen thinks.  “_Now what_?”  The swordswoman may be at a loss, but her sword is not.  As the avatar of Helm is stiffly raising a mailed fist in preparation for a speech, _Solodrun_ activates a _dimension door_, and places Gorquen directly behind the dragon!  Gorquen rises to the moment in spectacular fashion, cleaving scale from flesh with Corellon Larethian’s former sword, and provoking a surprised bellow of pain from the creature.

Thelbar shimmers and is gone, returning to normal-time on the far side of the rooftop, leaving behind him a deafening symphony that marks a barrage of withering sonic spell effects*: a sonic-substituted _meteor swarm_,  a _horrid wilting_, and a pair of _prismatic sprays_, along with several quickened spells; sonic-substituted _fireballs, cone of cold_ and _chain lightning_.  The moaning projectiles of the _meteor swarm_ impact with a roar directly into the chest of one of the angels, blowing chunks of desiccated flesh from the entity as the _horrid wilting_ tears the moisture from its skin, and wave after wave of sonic force shred what remains into several pieces.  A second angel is petrified outright, and the third, nearly crushed by the deafening assault, stumbles away bleeding profusely from the face, unable to press the fight.  The dragon, gravely weakened by Gorquen’s surprise assault, is large enough to extend fully into the ranges of all of Thelbar’s spells—the top half of the creature along with one wing are completely destroyed, and the dragon plummets to earth, smashing a hole into the roof of the stronghold, then slipping partially within.

 “Curse Mystra,” the avatar of Helm blasphemes, as he charges at Thelbar, swinging his glowing two-handed sword in a crushing overhand arc.  But Mystra’s gift will foil Helm twice this day, as Thelbar’s abjurations are just sufficient to keep him alive as the sledgehammer blow shudders home.

Taran shouts in fear and rage, and leaps at the avatar, but for all his fury, his strikes cannot be made to count; the avatar is too strong, too fast, and too well armored.  Khuumar cunningly uses Taran’s attack as an opening to slip around behind Helm, but even from this advantageous position, he cannot pierce the avatar’s otherworldly protections.  Elgin notes this and looks inward for a brief moment, before growing to nearly twice his normal height as a vessel for the might of Lathander.  He charges forward and strikes Helm squarely in the chest with his mace—a trifling blow to a god, but a success nonetheless!

Helm’s hollow voice rings in Elgin’s mind.  “You are the most disappointing, Trezler.  These outworlders are capable of little better, but you?  You and your god are the _traitors_.”

As Helm castigates the gigantic priest, Ilwe casts a quickened _true strike_, and uses it to place a single arrow between the slits of Helm’s visor, where it sinks home with an audible clang.  Helm brushes at the missile, and shatters the shaft with the back of his mailed hand.

As Helm is swarmed by adventurers, the symbol of Tyr above the fight begins to flare and then fade.  As it fades, a vast whirlwind-like cloud formation appears in its center and grows, the overcast clouds parting before the front ranks of an angelic host; hundreds of angels and celestial knights fly in orderly ranks through the newly-made _gate_ and begin to form battle-lines in the sky above New Ithor.  On the ground, there is surprisingly little panic—drow rarely look up.  Possessed of a deep and abiding fear of the sky, the drow of New Ithor react to strange weather phenomena by getting inside and staying there.  Thus, by and large, they do not see the armies massing against them.

“_Now would be a good time to run_,” Taran thinks to his companions, trying without success to keep his mind on the fight at hand.

“If we flee, everyone will die!” Gorquen shouts.

“And that would be different, how?” Taran shouts back.  “We can’t win here, Gorquen.  We should cut our losses.”

“Where is Mother Talendiira?” Gorquen demands. 

Taran shakes his head.  “She’s a prophet—_she can see the f-cking future_!  Of course she isn’t here!”

Gorquen is not given to panic, and she resolutely places herself in front of the divine juggernaut.  She feints at his legs, but reverses direction, and brings _Soludrun_ up in a scything arc directly into the base of Helm’s blade, just above the hilt.  There is a resounding crash, and a bright shivering sound that lingers long after Helm’s sword falls into two pieces.

“You!  You . . .” the avatar of Helm finishes his sentence with a low, throaty growl.  Gorquen exults, but is not so naïve to believe that she has won.  In an instant the armored knight has shifted his sundered blade to one hand and charged for Gorquen.  Helm ignores the fruitless attacks made by her companions as he seizes her by the neck, and prepares to saw her head off with his jagged and broken edge.

“Enough.”  The voice is low and calm, but it is easily the loudest sound on the battlefield.  As the combatants turn one by one to investigate, they notice that Elgin has spontaneously grown another three feet!  The cause for this must be the proximity to his god; Lathander has taken the field.  The god is seen to mortal eyes as a tall, long-bearded human male clutching an unassuming walking-stick, his face lined with an ancient wisdom.  His simply-cut robes are a riot of color:  the dawn sky made cloth

“_That is not an avatar_.” Elgin whispers through the telepathic bond.

“You are a coward and a fool,” Lathander addresses Helm.  “And I will not fight a figment.”  There is a moment of divine communication, an exchange of unknown length taking place beyond time, then Helm speaks.

“You have made a fatal mistake, Sun-Prince.”  Helm’s sword has replaced itself.  Somehow, even with  ten pairs of mortal eyes upon him, Helm has changed without anyone noticing how.  He has grown larger, and more radiant; more . . . _real_.

Lathander regards Helm coolly.  “You have made the mistake,” he replies, “and _the sorrow you thought to inflict upon my followers will be upon you threefold_.  This day, you face oblivion.”

It was only much later that Thelbar, alone among his companions, came to realize that this conversation and the ensuing struggle were entirely for the benefit of the mortals present.  What was to be had in fact already _been_ in whatever timeless space exists between the gods.  The event that followed in the mortal-realm was a shadow; a figment, indicating the real thing, but only imperfectly.


-----
*_Meta-game note_:  This fight took place immediately prior to our 3.5 conversion, and was Thelbar’s “last hurrah” _time stop_.  Fittingly, it was also his most devastating.  In one round, he single-handedly destroyed an encounter meant to punish a group of 19th and 20th level PCs.  My DM had that, “_are you sure? _” look on his face as the damage was calculated—and so did I.  When the 3.5 change to the spell’s effect was made, we were glad to see it—this encounter in particular made us feel downright dirty.  So. Much.  Damage.


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## coyote6

I can't post from work, so I didn't have a chance to say this yesterday.

Holy crap!

No pun intended.


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## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> “Curse Mystra,” the avatar of Helm blasphemes, as he charges at Thelbar, swinging his glowing two-handed sword in a crushing overhand arc.




I started cursing Mystra when I was a wee lad reading Forgotten Realms stuff for the first time, and I still do it today.


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## Kradge

*bump*

Great post (contact). I loved the conversation between the gods. Keep up the good work.


Oh yeah *bump* (Off of the 4th page even)

Kradge


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## (contact)

*97—“Yet they, in the gentle war-dance, / One by one escape their fetters”
Goethe, The Magic Net*


The spell-assault of New Ithor has already begun; _earthquakes_ and _storms of vengeance_ rock the landscape, shattering stone and burying the drow where they seek to hide.  Helm charges at Lathander just as several bolts of lightning arc down from the skies to sweep the rooftop of the Champion’s stronghold, sending fragments of stone bursting in all directions.  The party finds themselves unhurt; sheltered by a mothers’ touch. Without realizing it, the Champions of the Risen Goddess have been gathered within a protective sphere of divine goodwill.  The sheltering force protects them from the terrible energies playing across the sky over New Ithor.

 Lathander strikes Helm once down the center of his being, and the armored knight crumbles beneath the Dawn Lord’s staff, impossibly crushed from such a light blow.  In an instant—or perhaps an eternity—Helm is destroyed, removed from this and all worlds of which he is a part.

In the skies above, at the vanguard of the Celestial Hosts, more Faerunian gods are making their presence felt.  The Red Knight raises her sword, gesturing nobly to hearten her allies.  In a return gesture, Torm and Tyr salute from the flanks.  Illmater and Kelemvor are seen standing plainly at the front of huge columns of angels.  

As the angelic horns signal the charge, the heroes’ unseen protectors reveal themselves.  Arunshee stands next to Gorquen, absentmindedly stroking the fighter’s ebony wings as she coolly stares skyward at the assembled host.  On Gorquen’s other side, Ilwe has come into the presence of his god without even realizing it.  Arunshee points, and Solonor Thelandira fires three arrows in a blink of an eye.  

Three angelic generals die.

Lathander is regarding the two elven deities with a warm and radiant smile.  After a moment, he bows his head, and his gesture is repeated by both Arunshee and Solonor Thelandira.  A slight and wispish dark-elven woman has appeared—she is here and not here at the same time; ghostlike and translucent.  Ishlok has arrived. 

-----

There are times, usually just before or just after sleep, where Taran fancies that he was chosen to fight for the cause of Ishlok because, at the core of Herself, she is just like him; that despite the high philosophy and grand experiment of the _pasoun_, the former war-goddess of the elven pantheon_ is only good at one thing_.

He might be right.

The Champions of the Risen Goddess witness the immortal struggle within the sanctuary of the force-bubble.  As their perceptual reality begins to shudder and fail due to the combined presence of so many points of divine power, they make out only flashes of the battle.  But this much is clear—Ishlok can kill with a glance.

Illmater is the first to fall before her gaze.  The Suffering God is compressed and broken under her will, and quietly plummets to the ground below.  There is no fanfare, no corresponding flash of light or sound, but all the same, the god is gone.  In the killing, Ishlok has grown more solid—more present, and Illmatter’s death focuses his allies’ attention fully upon the Risen Goddess.

The angelic army dives on New Ithor, but their deific leaders go for the assembled divinity standing next to the heroes.  Lathander and Arunshee move forward, giving battle to angels and near-gods alike as Solonor fires volley after volley into his enemies with deadly effect.

“The sorrow you thought to inflict upon my followers will be upon you threefold,” Ishlok whispers, and as she does so, Tempus is turned inside-out.

With the act, Ishlok has become fully solid, and the remaining gods fall upon her, a general melee erupting just outside of the force-bubble protecting the Champions.  Gorquen cries out, and makes to charge into the fray, but she is restrained by Taran.

“Don’t be f-cking stupid,” he growls into her ear.  “I mean, stupider than usual,” he adds.  “We’re worthless here.”

Below, sun and moon devas are among the drow, killing those that muster to give battle with flaming swords and lances of light and love.  A day passes, perhaps more—the drow rally around Mother Talendiira, but are defeated.  The prophetess is killed, and her drow scattered.  A lucky few escape the town and make for the safety of the nearest Underdark bolt-hole.

Atop the stronghold at New Ithor, the assembled Faerunian gods have struck a blow—Ishlok is wounded, gravely hurt to mortal perception, and the goddess falls to one knee before her enemies.  The Red Knight, Torm, Tyr and Kelemvor stand before her, and the Red Knight demands her surrender.

Taran regards the event with a crazed and thoroughly unsettled look in his eye.  He has long since passed from disturbed to terrified, through terror to become overwhelmed and then through that to a state that feels like . . . clarity.  He does not know the will of his ghostly goddess, but he knows what _he_ would want.

“Gorquen, you have the sword,” he says.  “And you’ve been to her corpse—you’ve seen the wound.  Now you finish her.”

Gorquen is stunned.  “But she can . . .”

“No,” Taran interrupts.  “Better by your hand than theirs.  No surrender.”  Taran wraps his hands over Gorquen’s around the hilt of _Soludrun_, and begins to pull her toward her goddess.

Ishlok gazes into Gorquen then, and Gorquen suddenly _knows_.  “_Show them our will_.”

With Taran’s hands around her own, Gorquen returns _Soludrun_ to its home—the wound in Palatin Eremath’s side, the brother’s blow, still open after all this time.

Run through by her Divine Champion, Ishlok stiffens, smiles and dies— her corpse turns instantly to stone.  Arunshee, Lathander and Solonor stop fighting for a moment, and all is still.  Taran strikes a lock of hair from Ishlok’s corpse with the hilt of Arunshee’s Kiss, and places it within a hidden pocket.  

Arunshee disappears, and after a moment, Solonor and Lathander follow suit.

 “_To me_!” Thelbar cries through the _telepathic bond_.  He has opened a _gate_, and one by one the Champions of a dead goddess flee through it.  From Faerun they fly to a ring of standing stones on the outer plane of Concordant Opposition, and from there through a portal to safety—the multiverse’s lone refuge against the vengeance of angry gods, Sigil.


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## coyote6

Another change of scenery, I see. Is this going to be a Planescape campaign now, or is Sigil just the refuge from which the Champions of the (soon to be re-?) Risen Goddess will strike at their myriad enemies?


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## (contact)

In good news, Gorquen's player had her baby this morning about 2 a.m.  In a one hour (!) labor, nonetheless.  (Obligitory D&D joke regarding _haste _ inserted here)  By the time the midwife arrived, Angie was already holding her second daughter, Emily Rose.


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## (contact)

*Interlude—Home and hope, one letter apart.*

The center of all that is, Sigil is a spatial quandary—a city within a ring that floats at the apex of an infinite spire, a spire which itself rises from the center of an infinite space.  Within Sigil, what might be expected is not,  what could be usually is, and there is only one Will within that is of any consequence.

The heroes arrive beneath an awning covering the entrance to a busy marketplace.  Planar creatures and prime beings of all sorts gather, jostling the newcomers aside as they pursue their business.  Sigil is built within the inner face of a massive ring—the structures of the opposite side can be seen through the fog above, and the air is filled with a thick and vaguely chemical scent.  Humans, gith and goat-men surround the heroes, and here and there a true celestial or demon can be seen.  Spikes and blades protrude from nearby buildings at random angles, and the architecture seems sharp, cold and unforgiving.  A bladed twining vine covers nearly every surface untrod by the feet of Sigil’s citizens.

Upon their arrival, three tall brown-skinned humanoids appear from thin air before them.  The entities do not speak, but they silently lead the group across the marketplace which has grown silent and still.  Standing as motionless as a statue, a lone figure regards them.  A woman, she appears to be wearing a mask wrought of some strange metal—a number of bladed protrusions radiate out from the mask like the spokes of a wheel, or the rays of some unimagined sun.  The Lady of Pain, mistress of Sigil is before them.  This is her place, it is known.  And none remain save by her consent.

The crowd parts like the ripples on a pond, hastily backing away from Sigil’s enigmatic mistress.  The Lady beckons and the bewildered Champions follow.  She leads them to a small dwelling, well off the beaten path, its doorway difficult to notice among the spiked and flanged architecture of its façade.  Once there, she is gone as suddenly as she arrived.  One of the tall creatures places an ornate brass key into Thelbar’s hand, and then they too silently disappear.

It won’t take long for word to spread—these powerful primes saw the Lady and lived. 

“She spoke to me,” Elgin says, “in my mind.  She said, ‘_You cannot loose what you have never had_.’”

Thelbar sinks to the ground, there in the doorway of his new home.  He is crying, although no tears emerge.  Gorquen looks around at her companions, hoping perhaps to find some comfort, but there is none to be had.

“My spells are _gone_,” Ilwe says to himself.  “How is this possible?”

“As are my own,” Elgin replies.  He absentmindedly takes the key from Thelbar’s unfeeling hand and opens the doorway.  One by one, the heroes stagger in, close the door behind themselves, and find whatever solitude they can.  Some cry, others pray, but none of them are able to sleep.  

-----

Across Faerun, clerics of all the faiths involved in the Blood Solstice loose contact with their deities for the span of two weeks.  It is a dark and fearsome time, and many conflicts that had been bubbling erupt into full bloom.  The evil faiths make use of the opportunity, and sack many churches of Good—the priesthoods of Illmater, Helm and Tempus are shattered, their remnants finding sanctuary with allies, or simply fleeing civilization altogether.

For those two weeks, the Champions of the Risen Goddess lurk within their new home, too frightened to leave, and too traumatized to really rest.  Elgin and Ilwe are the hardest hit—neither of them are willing to discuss their experience.  Thelbar and Gorquen likewise lock themselves away, struggling to grasp those things that can not be accepted—and bury them deep.  Khuumar announces that his place is alongside the drow of New Ithor.  Whatever may come, they are his people, and he intends to return.  

Only Taran is present to see him off.  Khuumar has come a long way since they first met; gone is the cringing drow traitor following the brothers Tar-Ilou with a deific axe over his head.  In his place, a committed and focused divine champion to a goddess newly reborn.  Taran smiles and clasps Khuumar’s hand.  “You’re still pretty much worthless,” he says, “but you were right about Nathè, and I’ll miss you.”

Alone among his friends, Taran is at ease.  While his companions mourn, he practices his swordsmanship and fantasizes about revenge.  For he knows one small truth—_this time_, he tells himself, _I survived_.  The _pasoun_ is an echo, lives repeating lives, but so long as life remains, so lives hope.


----------



## Joshua Randall

Wow - Angie gives birth at the same time that the campaign is re-born.

Coincidence? Or... *conspiracy*?!


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## (contact)

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> Wow - Angie gives birth at the same time that the campaign is re-born.
> 
> Coincidence? Or... *conspiracy*?!




Well, these logs are about 1 1/2 months behind the game . . . Angie gave birth just after the Risen Goddess story arc was concluding, and it was a conspiracy.


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## (contact)

*98—No enemies arrive without also bearing allies.*

Two weeks pass, and finally Elgin and Ilwe report that their spells have returned.  Over the interim, the Champions slowly come back to themselves, gathering together and finding some solace in companionship.  None of them have yet been able to assimilate what they witnessed, and with the exception of Taran, the mood is quiet and morose.

 Thelbar determines to _scry_ Faerun and see what has become of their former home.  His findings are grim; New Ithor is crushed, the surviving drow scattered into the deeps beneath the surface.  Khuumar has held to his word—he is working to gather the survivors together, and help them find a suitable home within the Underdark.  True to drow tradition, this likely means displacing someone else in a violent struggle.  Tragically, these elven survivors of the Blood Solstice are pitiful few.  Ilwe’s family are not among these refugees, and cannot be _scried_.

Mother Talendiira is likewise gone, although whether she was truly killed in the fighting, or has simply fled beyond the reach of divination is unclear.  Thelbar believes that he has seen a spectral visage haunting the ruins of New Ithor that could be her, but direct _scrying_ is ineffective.  New Ithor as it was is nearly gone as well.  The templars of the allied faiths have disposed of the drow within mass graves, and begun the process of destroying what had been so laboriously built.  Stone by stone, New Ithor is being dismantled.  

“I am so _sick_ of these as-holes wrecking my homes,” Taran says.  “No offense Elgin,” he adds sheepishly.

“_Scry_ the Sage Tree,” Ilwe suggests, in a cool and distant voice.

Thelbar shakes his head.  The Sage Tree is gone, destroyed by the conquerors.

 “They will pay, by my life,” Gorquen swears.  “And Almuriel—I want her blood as well.  Corellon knew this was coming, yet he did nothing—that makes him doubly our enemy!”  The winged fighter is enraged.  She has spent most of her time in this state since the Solstice, and her companions have grown used to it.

“Bulls-it,” Taran counters.  “Corellon did no wrong in my book—not now, and not then.  Having walked a mile in his shoes, you should know better.”  Taran smiles darkly.  “See, I’ve put a sword in her, too, so I’m in a unique position to appreciate what he did for us.  Goddamnit, Gorquen, _there is no killing what isn’t alive_.”

-----

Months pass, and the group settles into an uneasy routine.  Skleeve, the misbegotten necromancer first encountered by Gorquen and Ilwe on the body of Palatin Eremath, arrives unannounced one afternoon.  After questioning, Skleeve is taken on by the group as a retainer of sorts, and assigned to manage the household.  In exchange for this service, Skleeve receives tutoring in spellcraft, arcana and the adventurer’s life.

Despite their desire for retribution, the Champions of the Risen Goddess know that they are marked beings, and do not return to Faerun.  Instead, Thelbar immerses himself in research, looking for information about the Ermathan city of Myth Iskok.  Gorquen had first learned of the lost city during her earlier adventures apart from the brothers Tar-Ilou, and the group believes that Myth Iskok is the lone place where the original elven followers of Palatin Ermath were not eradicated.  According to Gorquen, Myth Iskok was sealed away by Corellon Larethian, but never taken, and the souls of her last faithful followers sealed within.  A great knowledge of the goddess is there, she asserts, and should be brought back into the world.

Despite her conviction, information about Myth Iskok is difficult to obtain.  The elven pantheon obliterated all reference to Palatin Eremath millennia ago, and there are no readily available sources of lore.

To counter this, Thelbar makes use of Sigil’s impressive libraries and depositories of knowledge.  While Thelbar studies and the others craft magic or immerse themselves in prayer, Taran spends his time carousing and telling tall tales in Sigil’s many fest-halls.  He befriends a local bard, who chronicles his life story in a series of cheaply produced “tales of high adventeur (sic).”  The books prove popular in the City of Doors, and Taran becomes something of a folk hero, the archetypal Powerful Prime; fantastically skilled and legendarily tough, fighting and loving his way through the strange and confusing worlds of the prime material.  Of course, in the stories, it is always Taran who manages to uncover foul plots, triumph against all odds, and win the hearts of the ever-present breathless and heaving maidens.  The other Champions of the Risen Goddess are rarely mentioned in these stories, much to their amusement.

Taran also takes up the practice of playing dark-spirited practical jokes on his companions, at one point hiring a planar shapeshifter to impersonate Mother Talendiira and join the group for dinner.  These jokes are generally not well received.

Along with his buffoonery, Taran also engages the services of several planar adventuring groups, sending them through portals to Faerun to keep an eye on New Ithor, the Dalelands and Cormyr.  Most of them never return.

Skleeve tells the group that there is a “powerful man” who wants to meet with them—the individual who leads the planar faction that Skleeve belongs to.  They call themselves the Athar, are known colloquially as “the faithless” and by their enemies as “the lost.”  Their doctrine is simple:  the gods are frauds.  The Athar hold that religion in the multiverse is a cosmic shell-game, with true believers chasing after illusions and false promises held out by the powers that be.  While the Champions do not fully share this belief, some of the implications of Ishlok’s _pasoun_ support the contentions of the Athar—Thelbar’s earlier statement that the gods are “vampires and thieves” springs to mind.  The group agrees to a meeting, and Skleeve leads them to the Athar’s headquarters within a blasted and abandoned former temple to a dead god.

“This was once the home of a foolish few,” Skleeve wheezes as they make their way into the ruin.  “The Pretender crossed the Lady, yes he did, and look what he received for his trouble.”  Skleeve hisses a laugh.  “The gods are mortal, yes they are, and they die, too, yes they do.”

Skleeve is recognized (although clearly not well liked) by the Athar guardsmen, but after a few insults are passed back and forth, the group is led to a simply appointed chamber, where a meal has been set.  At the table is a small human, brown-skinned, wrinkled, and heavily tattooed.

“I am honored, truly.” the man says.  “I am Factol Terrance of the Athar, and I welcome you to my home.  I have something to show you that might be of interest,” he says, pulling back the sleeves of his robes to reveal a pair of matching tattoos on his forearms.

Elgin sucks in a breath, and Thelbar nods appreciatively.  “We attend you, sir,” he says.

“Wait a minute,” Taran interrupts with a smile.  “Gorquen can tell you that I’m the dumb one of the group, so I’m going to need it plainer than that.  What am I supposed to notice, here?”

“You are rock-headed,” Gorquen says.  “And it’s not funny.”

“Those are symbols of the Risen Goddess,” Elgin explains.  “And very, very old ones, unless I miss my guess.”

“You do not,” Thelbar says.

“Ah,” Taran says sagely.  “So?”

“You are not in Sigil by accident,” Factol Terrance explains.  “You have been expected, and you have found the allies that you seek.  I know of your goddess, and I have long admired her courage.  She alone amongst the powers has dared to break the silence, and expose the multiverse’s greatest truth.”

“Yeah, and we’re the ones who take the heat for it,” Taran mutters.

“Shut up and listen, bonehead,” Gorquen whispers, elbowing his ribs.

Terrance continues.  “As a young man, I wandered many worlds, looking for answers to questions that plagued my mind.  Along my journeys I came across a small faith—a religion, true, but like no other.  I have never had the temperament to accept blindly, so I wished to see for myself this living-dead goddess.  It was there that I took these symbols as my own, that I might never forget the lessons won there, on her corpse.

“Ishlok,” Gorquen says.  

“Yes,” he nods slowly.  “She gave me many visions, among them knowledge of some power—a word, when spoken able to slay even the gods.”

“We have seen such a power,” Thelbar agrees.

“Did you take the _pasoun_?” Gorquen asks.

“I do not call it that, but if you ask me was I liberated from the oppression of the gods, the answer is yes.”  He pauses while this sinks in, politely waiting for Taran to grasp his meaning.  “I intend to unveil this doctrine,” he adds, “and make it available to my followers.”

“It is not an easy path, or one to be undertaken lightly,” Elgin says sadly.

“I do not speak of it lightly,” Factol Terrance replies.  “In fact, until your arrival, I have not spoken of it at all.”

“Our freedom has not come without a price,” Gorquen muses.  “We have seen our works destroyed, and our loved ones killed,” she gestures toward her companions, “save for a few.”

“Did you just say you loved me?” Taran asks, nudging her arm.

Gorquen blushes.  “Not like _that_,” she snaps.

“Well, I didn’t mean it like that,” he replies.

“Well, of course I do,” she whispers.  “Is that so strange?”

“You’ve never said it before,” Taran laughs.  

“Of course I have,” she sniffs.  “You are simply too dense to recall.”

Taran taps his _headband of intellect_.  “Maybe this thing is broken,” he muses.  

“Your goddess gave me many visions regarding this power,” Terrance continues.  “I followed them to a terrible place—a prime world, ravaged by war, destroyed through magic, and finally pulled whole into the Abyss.  Is this familiar to you?”

When told that it is not, he nods and continues.  “This world was the site of a great conflict between two factions of fey creatures—her servants were in revolt against Arvandor, and the elves fought with one another in a bitter and hateful war.”

“Her servants,” Elgin muses.  “Do you refer to Scaladar?”

“I do not know their names,” Terrance says.  “I do know that this revolt was finally put down, the world destroyed sometime thereafter, and the remains damned.  In this world, I came across a fearsom place—a tomb for some of her followers, entities of great power; I believe they were demigods.”

“Did you go in?” Taran asks.

“No,” he says.  “I am deeply curious, but I am not mad.”

“Where in the abyss is this place?” Thelbar asks.

“It is the 313th layer, called Thanatos by its inhabitants,” Terrance replies.  

“That is Orcus’ realm,” Elign says.  

Terrance nods.  “The tomb is near the undead city of Nar Tyr.”

“It _was_ Scaladar!” Gorquen says.  “Tar-Elentyr told me of that war!  After his defeat, Scaladar became Orcus!”

Terrance shrugs.  “I do not know much of demonology.  But I do believe that many answers could be found there.  The tomb itself is proscribed—even the fiends and undead of that layer will not go near it.  I believe they are terrified of the place.”

“Sounds like a bad place, allright,” Taran says to his companions.  “You know, I like this guy,” he gestures toward Terrance.  “He’s so helpful.  And direct.”

“Is this unusual?” Terrance asks politely.

“You’d be surprised,” Taran says.  “Hardly anyone tells me sh-t without me threatening them first.”

“You’re such a savage,” Gorquen says.

“But I appreciate your attitude,” Taran continues.  “Really I do.  This conversation never would have happened in Cormyr.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Gorquen says.  “Things won’t be so easy in Myth Iskok.”

“Well, you can tell me all about it when you get back,” Taran replies.

Gorquen frowns.  “You’re going, Taran.”

“The hell I am.  I don’t adventure anywhere with ‘Myth’ in its name.”  Taran crosses his arms.

“You’re going if I have to drag you.”

Thelbar interrupts the bickering fighters.  “I too, appreciate your candor,” he says to Terrance.  “But if I may pry, I have a question regarding your Athar.”

“By all means,” the Factol says.  “I would keep no secrets from you.”

“Your followers are faithless,” Thelbar says, “yet your home here is warded by spells that arcane wizardry cannot reproduce.  How is this possible?”

Terrance nods and smiles.  “Divine magic is not the sole province of the faithful.  My faithless are capable of many miracles, and none of them made through bargains with the pretenders.”

“Well, if you get in a fight, could Elgin heal you, then?” Taran asks.

“I would not accept such aid,” Terrance replies.  “Nor would I require it.  The power of a priest is one of belief, and the gods are not the only ideas held dear that defy direct examination.  On the planes, you will find that belief comes in many shapes and forms, and all are powerful in their own way, although not all equally true.”

Taran scowls.  “Metaphysics,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“Well, I have proof of my goddess,” Gorquen states haughtily.  “I am the divine champion of Ishlok; I _am_ the proof.”

“Are you?” Terrance smiles.  “Do you believe then, that a dead goddess is really granting your power?”


----------



## Piratecat

My group is headed back to Sigil soon. I am SO stealing ideas from you!


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> * “I do not call it that, but if you ask me was I liberated from the oppression of the gods, the answer is yes.”  He pauses while this sinks in, politely waiting for Taran to grasp his meaning.  *



*

Er, I left my Headband of Intellect at home, and my skull is impermeable to subtlety. What is his meaning?

-z

PS: I see Skleeve, but where's Aahz?*


----------



## Joshua Randall

Bah. Planescape. I never liked that setting. 

But now's your chance to pull out all the stops, (contact), and wow me into admitting that I've been wrong about it all these years.

A question - what level is everyone at by now? I don't require full statblocks, but a simple run-down would be nice.


----------



## (contact)

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> Er, I left my Headband of Intellect at home, and my skull is impermeable to subtlety. What is his meaning?




The _pasoun_ is the doctrine that souls of the Ermathan pantheon reincarnate rather than travel to the outer planes when they die.  

Factol Terrance is saying that while he doesn't hold to any of the religious overtones, he's field stripping the _pasoun_ and making it avaliable to his followers as "liberation" from the default D&D cosmology and its cycle of life --> death --> petitioner --> subsumption.

(The Athar hold that the gods are corrupt charlatans who are leeching the souls of mortal-kind for their own benefit.  The _pasoun_ will starve these vampire gods, which in the big picture is really what all the dieties in question are fighting about.)

As we'll see soon, Taran and Thelbar keep telling themselves that it says "NG" on the character sheet, but they aren't making friends with any good guys.  

-----

Joshua, the adventure won't be in Sigil much longer-- the rest of the story takes place in the abyss.  At this point, Taran, Thelbar and Elgin are 21st level, Gorquen is 19th, and Ilwe is 17th.


----------



## ThoughtBubble

(contact) said:
			
		

> “I followed them to a terrible place—a prime world, ravaged by war, destroyed through magic, and finally pulled whole into the Abyss.”
> ....
> "In this world, I came across a fearsom place—a tomb for some of her followers, entities of great power; I believe they were demigods.”
> 
> ....
> Terrance nods.  “The tomb is near the undead city of Nar Tyr.”
> 
> “It _was_ Scaladar!” Gorquen says.  “Tar-Elentyr told me of that war!  After his defeat, Scaladar became Orcus!”
> 
> Terrance shrugs.  “I do not know much of demonology.  But I do believe that many answers could be found there.  The tomb itself is proscribed—even the fiends and undead of that layer will not go near it.  I believe they are terrified of the place.”
> 
> “Sounds like a bad place, allright,” Taran says to his companions.  “You know, I like this guy,” he gestures toward Terrance.  “He’s so helpful.  And direct.”




Hm. So right when start wondering what's going to happen next, we've got a new, even more evil dungeon to hack to bits. Excellent. Now if we can just pull Orcus into the pantheon...

So, I'm guessing that the devine casters all lost their abilities as the gods of the PE pantheon got killed, and later regained them as they were re-born? That's got to suck for their opponents. "They keep coming back! How do you stop them?"

So, how come our heroes and their gods kick so much ass?


----------



## Joshua Randall

(contact) said:
			
		

> the adventure won't be in Sigil much longer-- the rest of the story takes place in the abyss.



Whew. For a minute there, I was worried that I'd have to cough up five bucks for the Planescape ESD so I could follow the story.



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> At this point, Taran, Thelbar and Elgin are 21st level



So what nifty Epic feats do these three have? Superior Two-Booted Ass-Kicking?


----------



## (contact)

ThoughtBubble said:
			
		

> So, I'm guessing that the devine casters all lost their abilities as the gods of the PE pantheon got killed, and later regained them as they were re-born? That's got to suck for their opponents. "They keep coming back! How do you stop them?"




As far as we know, all the Ermathan gods but Ishlok escaped without being killed (although our PCs were running away as fast as they could _gate_ so we may have missed something).  The lack of spells was probably due to some kind of feedback or divine funkiness emanating from the death of several gods.  I also got the impression that watching Ishlok die was traumatic enough to really send the two clerics into a psychic tail-spin.



			
				JERandall said:
			
		

> Whew. For a minute there, I was worried that I'd have to cough up five bucks for the Planescape ESD so I could follow the story.




You should cough up five bucks.  The original Planescape boxed set is an awesome product, a fantastic book and the only D&D book that I’ve ever bought on looks alone.  Dawn Murin + Tony DiTerlizzi = my D&D dream-team.  My #2 reccomendation is the Planewalker’s Handbook, although the Planes of Chaos, Planes of Law and Planes of  Conflict sets kick hiney, too.



			
				JERandall said:
			
		

> So what nifty Epic feats do these three have? Superior Two-Booted Ass-Kicking?




Yeah, basically.  Taran has the Two Weapon Rend feat (gives him a rend attack if he hits with both hands), Elgin took Epic Tougness (+20 hp) and Thelbar took the feat that lets him cast 2 quickened spells in a round.  

I was open to the uber-high-level experience, but grew disenchanted with our particular setup-- the weaknesses of Taran's multi-class approach was dramatically exposed at this point; between Gorquen's holy/evil outsider bane weapon, the fact that she won the dice roll and got the Strength enhancing tome (from a treasure haul that hasn’t yet made it into the narrative) and the fact that she didn't give up 4 points of BAB through multiclassing, suddenly there was a serious gap between her best attack bonus and Taran's.

It was enough of a gap that Taran just couldn't hit ACs that challenged her--and the amount of damage she was doing with a holy bane weapon was off the chain.  Suddenly Taran was more or less a useless appendage in a fight.  Against a big baddie, Gorquen would wail on it for 100+ hp, and Taran would hit for 22 (if he rolled well) or nothing at all.

Had Taran been adventuring with only Thelbar, or only Thel and Elgin, it would have been a lot easier for Chris to design these encounters.  As it was, if something was built to give Gorquen trouble, it was going to completely frustrate Taran.  Chris had to eventually change his encounter design approach and make sure that there were always some second-tier bad guys to chop into pieces.  *coughninthlevelmarilithfighterscough*

This growing disparity (as Gorquen starts to equal, then surpass Taran in ass-kicking mojo) fuels their "rivalry."  It's pretty funny to watch, at least it was funny for us to play.

But overall, I think you'll find that the storyline is damn cool, the interactions between Taran/Gorqeun/The Rest of the World are damn funny, and the risks get ratcheted up as the tale of the Risen Goddess is played to its bittersweet end.


----------



## (contact)

*99—Love never dies.*


While knowledge of Myth Iskok has been hidden from the multiverse by a god’s hand, knowledge of Nar Tyr has not.  Orcus’ realm is detailed in many treatises, most of them dubious, but nonetheless, three days after their meeting with Factol Terrance, Thelbar reports that he has made a significant discovery.

“I met a lore-mistress,” he says, “a bardic nymph from Mount Olympus; the abyssal realms are her specialty.  She was able to reveal many things to me that I should have known, in all candor.  Orcus’ realm must be littered with the detritus of his life as Scaladar—it is, after all, a reflection of his own self.”

“Uh,” Taran says.  “Right.”

“Myth Iskok is within the Abyss.  The signs are there, if one knows how to read them, although I doubt many others in the multiverse do.  Myth Iskok is associated with the city of Nar Tyr, which should be familiar to you all as the place Factol Terrance spoke of.  This is no coincidence.”

“Nar Tyr means literally the ‘Home of the Dead,’” Thelbar says, “and it is the heart of Orcus’ realm.  If I am correct . . .”

“And I’m sure you are,” Taran says.

“. . . Myth Iskok is a temple near the city.   Or rather Myth Iskok is a temple that itself had an existence in many prime worlds, before the death of Palatin Eremath destroyed her worship.”

“So, it exists all over the place, but we’re going to get there through the Abyss?” Taran asks.  “Isn’t this ELS?”

“There is no other route,” Thelbar says.

“ELS?” Gorquen whispers.

“Extinction-Level Stupid,” Taran clarifies.

“Myth Iskok is difficult to find _because it no longer exists_.  Yet, it can be reached through Orcus’ realm, specifically Nar Tyr.”

“I know I’m not the only one lost here,” Taran says defensively.

“I suspect it is the will of the demon-prince that keeps Myth Iskok within his realm—it is the literal representation of his memory.”  

“The home of the dead,” Elgin muses.

“There are three direct routes to Nar Tyr,” Thelbar continues, “And none of them easily trod.  There are two planar routes to the heart of Orcus’ realm.  The first is a _gate_ from the first layer of the Abyss, watched over by an entire legion of vrocks.  The second path is unguarded, but involves a long overland trek across a frozen abyssal sea.”

“Hell, no,” Taran says.  “That sounds worse.”

“The third is a portal found within Faerun, on the very spot where I believe Myth Iskok had its existence prior to the schism.”

 “This portal is sealed?”  Elgin asks.  “It must be.”

“And well-protected,” Thelbar says.

“By Corellon Larethian?” 

“By his angels, yes.  And the celestials do have a purpose there, beyond simply maintaining Corellon Larethian’s proscription.  The Abyssal side of the portal is home to uncountable hungry undead.  Breaching the _gate’s_ seal could have disastrous consequences.”

“Well, if we have to kill our way in, better vrocks than angels,” Taran says.

-----

The Champions of the Risen Goddess have gathered in the common-room to pack gear and prepare for their journey.  Despite the grim nature of their quest, their spirits are high.   As the group finalizes their plans, Taran and Gorquen argue playfully about who might beat who in a sword-fight.

“I would sunder both of your swords,” Gorquen asserts.

“Go ahead,” Taran counters.  “I wouldn’t even need them.  I could kill you with a sharpened stick.”

Elgin laughs and Gorquen rolls her eyes.

Skleeve interrupts with a rasping cough, meant (no doubt) to be decorous.  “Pardons, gentle-beings, but there is a visitor for you, yes there is.”

“Tell him go away,” Taran says without looking up.  “We’re busy.  And go get me a sharpened stick.”

“Oh, I think you should see this one,” Skleeve replies.  “Yes, I do.”  Skleeve is so seldom assertive that every eye in the room turns to the cringing necromancer.

Thelbar nods his permission. Skleeve bows and scrapes his way out of the room, and after a moment,  a new figure darkens the heroes’ door.  The creature was human once, when it was alive, although how long ago that was cannot be readily determined.  The thing is dressed in finery, and sports several potent magical charms and portents, baubles that hang from spell-component pouches.

“I have come to speak with you regarding Nar Tyr,” the creature whispers, its voice a throaty hiss.  “What humble knowledge I may possess, I place before you.  Your success is our success.”

“Our?” Thelbar says.

“I represent a coven of liches that live within the City of the Dead, and we know what you would be about.”

“Let’s take him outside and kill him,” Gorquen says.

Taran squints at the lich, sizing him up.  “He won’t bleed—we can kill him here.”

The lich keeps his gaze upon Thelbar.  “I did not come to speak with your dull-witted chattel,” it says.  “Dismiss them, so we may converse as entities among equals.”

Taran laughs.  “He’s talking about you, Gorquen.”

“He is not,” she snaps.

“Begin with Nar Tyr,” Thelbar suggests.  “My companions shall remain.”

The lich bows slightly—a gesture that produces a slight trickle of sand from one eye-socket.  “Nar Tyr is the unfortunate capitol of Orcus’ realm within in the abyssal plane of never-life,” the lich rasps.  “Our city is built on three tiers carved from a mountain face. The least sentient populate the lowest tier, the free-willed undead the second, and the city’s crown is Nixel-Rel, the center for arcane study within the entire plane, and my cherished home.  Nixel-Rel is also the place where Kiransalee sat her throne while she was our mistress.  Orcus’ mysterious return from the dead has disposed Kiransalee, and not all are pleased.   I am here to tell you that we support your intent, although we cannot offer any _palpable_ assistance at this time.”

“Our intent?” Thelbar asks.  “We pursue many goals.  Perhaps you could clarify your comment.”  There is a subtle exchange between the two wizards, an unseen but tremendous battle of wills.

“We agree that Myth Iskok and the other . . . _examples_ of our current ruler’s scandalous past have no place in the Abyss.”

“Other examples?”  Thelbar looks strained, his lips taut and thin.

“There is a burial mound near the city, a place strong with souls who do not belong with us.  Orcus is himself terrified of the place, and will not face it.  The corpulent demon-prince also scuttles on his belly to another location within his realm.  We have not observed him there, for he permits no company, but curses and cries have been heard—nearly all who live within Nixel-Rel have been forced to endure his begging and tears.”

“Begging?” Taran says.

“You can see where this might impact the confidence of his so-called servitors,” the lich finishes.

“What does he beg for?” Thelbar asks.

The lich clacks his teeth sharply in a gesture meant to replace a smile.  “I am sure I would not wish to know.”  The creature gathers his robes about him, and backs away from the door.  “May fortune smile upon you.  We shall never see one another again.”

Gorquen stands and places her hand upon her sword-hilt  “Well that’s a shame, dick.  Sorry you couldn’t stay.”

Taran laughs as the lich fades away and dissapears.

“Call _me_ stupid,” Gorquen mutters to herself.

“We are stupid,” Taran says.  “Lighten up.  He was terrified of you.”

-----

The Champions of the Risen goddess thread their way through Sigil’s wretched Hive ward, searching for a portal rumored to lead to the first layer of the Abyss.  Skleeve’s directions were vague at best, and Thelbar and Elgin are off by themselves halfway down a wide but barren alley, counting paces and searching for the portal.  Taran, Gorquen and Ilwe hang back, talking among themselves.  Taran has purchased rat-on-a-skewer (a ward delicacy), discarded the rat, and is menacing Gorquen with the skewer.  To her feigned disgust, he adopts the game of using stealth to disappear into the shadows, then “sneak attack” the winged elf.

“Oh, this is _priceless_.  Have you taken up with the day-elf slut now?”

Taran looks toward the voice and notices a familiar shape half-hidden within a nearby archway—directly in-between the group and its destination.  Nathè emerges fully into the ubiquitous misty half-light of Sigil’s day and sighs heavily.  “A fickle cuckold?  Will wonders never cease.”  The drow has seen better days; her head sits on her neck at a strange angle, and a long cut runs from cheek to exposed cleavage, and oozes a thin, grey pus.  She is armed with her customary pair of short swords, and wears elven-craft chain mail underneath a cloak woven of some unrecognizable metallic fabric.

“I thought you said you killed her,” Taran whispers.

“I did!” Gorquen whispers back.

“What’s the matter, Tar-Ilou?  Don’t you like what you see?”  Nathe is stalking toward the group.  Thelbar backs away from her, and Elgin clutches his holy symbol.

“You ain’t nothin’ but walking treasure to me,” Taran says.  “Now you better get along, unless you want to die again.”

“You found me beautiful once,” she says with a mocking drawl.

Behind Nathe, a second drow woman emerges from the doorway.  Another fighter-type, this one is armed with a long, wickedly serrated bardiche, and wears a suit of rune-carved half-plate armor.  Like Nathe, she bears the marks of her first-death.

“Hale!” Ilwe says.  “She commanded the giants at Sudabar!”

“I thought we _blessed_ the bodies!” Gorquen complains as she regards her foes.

“This is your sloppy work, Gorquen!” Taran hisses.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.” Irae T’ssarion stands at the opposite end of the alleyway, her pale skin a perfect match for her cloak and tunic of purest white.  Her dead eyes are twin pools of menacing black within an anti-silhouette.

Gorquen rasps _Solodrun_ from its scabbard.  “Put the stick away, Taran.”


----------



## Barastrondo

(contact) said:
			
		

> The lich bows slightly—a gesture that produces a slight trickle of sand from one eye-socket.




That sound you just heard was a "yoink."



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> The drow has seen better days; her head sits on her neck at a strange angle, and a long cut runs from cheek to exposed cleavage, and oozes a thin, grey pus.  She is armed with her customary pair of short swords, and wears elven-craft chain mail underneath a cloak woven of some unrecognizable metallic fabric.




Aha! Now we finally have a word for armor that would rather show a bit of skin than protect the vital organs of the wearer. "Elven-craft."

Maybe she should trade up for dwarven-craft armor. This whole "If I show some cleavage, they won't hit me there" tactic apparently failed her pretty bad.


----------



## Vurt

(contact) said:
			
		

> “You found me beautiful once,” she says with a mocking drawl.




BWA!  I'm surprised Ash-I-mean-Taran didn't reply with the mandatory "Baby, you got real ugly..."

Sounds like you're all having a lot of fun.  Good stuff!

Cheers,
Vurt


----------



## (contact)

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> Aha! Now we finally have a word for armor that would rather show a bit of skin than protect the vital organs of the wearer. "Elven-craft."




Well, Nathe's not the sharpest stick in the punji pit.  But in her defense, all her vital organs are likely in a jar in Orcus' stronghold.



> Maybe she should trade up for dwarven-craft armor. This whole "If I show some cleavage, they won't hit me there" tactic apparently failed her pretty bad.




Yeah, Gorquen doesn't play that.  

-----

Vurt-- I'm just not that quick.  I didn't even think of it until I read your post.


----------



## Joshua Randall

(contact) said:
			
		

> “You ain’t nothin’ but walking treasure to me,” Taran says.



I think this pretty much sums up the entire D&D experience.

Oh, and BUMP!


----------



## (contact)

*100—Dead women tell no lies.*

Thelbar lashes a sonic-substituted _chain lighting_ spell through the alleyway.  It roars and arcs from wall to woman to ground and back to woman again; Hale ignores the spell, her inherent drow resistance to magic protecting her from the waves of sound.  But she cannot evade the two sonic _fireballs_ that rattle flesh from bone.

Nathè is also slammed by the waves of crushing sound, as she and Hale stand near to one another at the back end of the alleyway.  They menace Taran, Gorquen, and Ilwe, and as the echoes fade, weapons are leveled, and a general melee erupts.  Gorquen and Taran fight back to back, swords whirling (the sharpened stick having been tucked away for the moment), while Ilwe moves behind them and sends arrows whirring into the brawl.  

Elgin and Thelbar are further away from the fighting, closer to the mid-point of the alley, and as Elgin begins to move toward the dilapidated warehouse that forms the alley’s terminus and Irae T’sarrion’s cover, the cruel priestess is joined by four foul giants that emerge from behind her and form a skirmish-line.  The creatures are nine foot tall walking corpses, patchwork creatures built with crudely stitched gangrenous body parts, mouths and eyes permanently closed with looping bands of metal wire that pierce the skin.  Piecemeal armor is likewise stitched and bolted onto bare skin, giving the foul things a martial aspect.

Elgin calls to the dawn, and with a gesture, has _mass healed_ the entire battle.  While the wounds of his friends are yet minor, the effect on his undead opponents is not.   The giants shudder and wither, the drow women likewise scalded by the positive energy burst.

Taran and Gorquen respond to this development by charging in unison, as if through some unspoken agreement, to fly into the faces of these giants menacing the spellcasters.  The creatures are large, and undoubtedly strong, but they are too slow to evade the frenetic swordsmen.  In a matter of seconds, all four of the creatures are rendered into piles of inanimate flesh.

Irae T’sarrion scowls at this development and raises her hands above her head.  She intones a spell, and suddenly, the perpetual half-light of Sigil’s “day” is gone.  Within the alleyway, all good creatures are blinded by an impeneatrable darkness—entities of wicked intent retain their sight, allowing the three drow an advantage.  Hale cuts Ilwe with her polearm, and Nathè finally gives her emotional relationship with Taran its physical expression, point-first into his chest.

“Submerse your souls within the truth of my words!”  A new voice is heard, feminine and bold, speaking common with a drowish accent.  “Your goddess is gone, slain by our mutual enemies.  Give over to reason now, reckless slayers, you beautiful givers of death.  A corpse can have no champion in life; Her memory demands _revenge_!  Join with Tenebrous, and let us show you what grace lives on when life is purged.  Together we will destroy those who have opposed us, and lay their souls at the feet of our Lord!”

Elgin’s response to this speech is to invoke a _greater dispelling_, and remove the _utterdark_ surrounding the Champions.  As his vision returns, he sees a dark-elf woman levitating thirty feet in the air almost directly above him.  Taran and Thelbar recognize her as the eldest daughter of Mother Banare—the wizardess Bladen Kurst.

Thelbar replies to her entreaty with a _prismatic spray_, followed by a quickened _disintegrate_.  Bladen Kurst disappears in a puff of dust, her unfinished _curse_ fading into nothing.  Ilwe speaks a _holy word_ of his own, blinding Nathè, and heartening his allies.  Gorquen seizes the opening and takes Nathè behind the knees with a scything strike.  Nathè strikes the ground hard, the back of her head impacting into the alleyway with an audible crack, followed instantly by a series of sharp popping sounds as Taran runs both of his weapons through her chain shirt, provoking a cry born more of frustration than pain.

Under cover of darkness, Hale had maneuvered to a position behind Ilwe, and even as Nathè is cursing her former lover, she strikes Ilwe three times about the shoulders and back, staggering the elven priest and opening mortal wounds.  But he does not die—as Ilwe’s arterial blood sprays across the alley, Elgin Trezler sends another _mass heal_ through the fight.  The energy knits bones and closes cuts-- Ilwe’s wounds disappear, and his foe shudders and gasps.  Hale is gravely hurt, but Nathè cannot survive the spell—her undead body collapses upon itself, and her swords fall from her limp hands.

Gorquen turns to charge Irae T'ssarion, only to find that the spectral cleric has appeared right by her side!  Gorquen swings from her heels and sends a crushing blow shuddering home into the drow’s torso.  Irae takes the shot and places her palm on Gorquen’s chest, just above her heart.  Gorquen gasps and becomes semi-translucent for a moment, her blood vessels visible beneath her skin.   She feels a section of her soul torn from her body, and cast into the ethers.

“Does my Master’s kiss please you, _Alushair?_” Irae T’ssarion whispers.  “Would you like me to take you home to him?”

“I’ll send you home,” Gorquen replies, her bravado masking the sudden weariness that overcomes her.  Taran whirls on Irae T’ssarion, and backs her away with his weapons.

Hale considers her position, perhaps reasoning that as goes Nathè, so goes the fight—she has avoided the worst of the spell-barrage, but is still grievously hurt.  She has nearly killed a foe only to see him restored by the same spell that nearly kills her—Hale is no fanatic.  Reasoning that ‘she who runs away stays dead another day.’  Hale takes to the air, abandoning the fight.

Irae T’ssarion _is_ a fanatic however, and has clearly sacrificed herself for the chance to kill a part of Gorquen’s soul, and send a message.  Staring down the blood-groove of no less than three expertly wielded swords, Irae says a quick prayer, and smiles knowingly.  Gorquen strikes low, and Taran hesitates, timing his own maneuvers to begin as soon as Gorquen’s end.  Taran lashes Irae across the torso and face, sinking Arunshee’s Kiss into her chest then releasing it, drawing the skewer from his belt with the same movement, and finally burying it in the undead cleric’s eye with a laugh.

As Irae T’ssarion collapses to the ground, Taran turns to Gorquen with a mischievous glint in his eye.  He seems about so say something clever (as far as Taran’s wit goes, of course, likely involving violence or sex), but his expression turns grave when he sees the pallor of Gorquen’s skin, and he reaches out his empty hand to steady his wobbling companion.

Elgin Trezeler points his hands at Hale, and before she can fly over the nearby rooftops and away, he sends a pair of _searing light_ rays into her back.  Hale bursts into flame, and with a screech, she spins to the ground and is still. 

As soon as Hale strikes the cobblestone, Ilwe is by Gorquen’s side.  He takes her hands in his own and kisses them tenderly.  “Foul necromancy,” he states.  “I can recover what is lost, my love, but it will take time.”  

“Yeah,” Taran says, nudging Nathè’s body with his boot.  “I don’t feel like going to the Abyss today anyway.”


----------



## Schmoe

(contact) said:
			
		

> *100—Dead women tell no lies.*
> 
> Thelbar lashes a sonic-substituted _chain lighting_ spell through the alleyway.  It roars and arcs from wall to woman to ground and back to woman again; Hale ignores the spell, her inherent drow resistance to magic protecting her from the waves of sound.  But she cannot evade the two sonic _fireballs_ that rattle flesh from bone.




Quick question.  Do you use energy substitution as written?  Personally, I think that being able to substitute sonic for no level adjustment is a little unbalanced, but I'm interested in hearing your opinion.



> “Submerse your souls within the truth of my words!”  A new voice is heard, feminine and bold, speaking common with a drowish accent.  “Your goddess is gone, slain by our mutual enemies.  Give over to reason now, reckless slayers, you beautiful givers of death.  A corpse can have no champion in life; Her memory demands _revenge_!  Join with Tenebrous, and let us show you what grace lives on when life is purged.  Together we will destroy those who have opposed us, and lay their souls at the feet of our Lord!”
> 
> Elgin’s response to this speech is to invoke a _greater dispelling_, and remove the _utterdark_ surrounding the Champions.  As his vision returns, he sees a dark-elf woman levitating thirty feet in the air almost directly above him.  Taran and Thelbar recognize her as the eldest daughter of Mother Banare—the wizardess Bladen Kurst.
> 
> Thelbar replies to her entreaty with a _prismatic spray_, followed by a quickened _disintegrate_.  Bladen Kurst disappears in a puff of dust, her unfinished _curse_ fading into nothing.




Gosh.  You would think that high level mages would try to protect themselves from pesky Disintegrate spells prior to showing up and making Dramatic Speeches.




> Gorquen turns to charge Irae T'ssarion, only to find that the spectral cleric has appeared right by her side!  Gorquen swings from her heels and sends a crushing blow shuddering home into the drow’s torso.  Irae takes the shot and places her palm on Gorquen’s chest, just above her heart.  Gorquen gasps and becomes semi-translucent for a moment, her blood vessels visible beneath her skin.   She feels a section of her soul torn from her body, and cast into the ethers.
> 
> “Does my Master’s kiss please you, _Alushair?_” Irae T’ssarion whispers.  “Would you like me to take you home to him?”




What is this?  I don't recognize the spell.  Whatever it is, it sounds nasty.


----------



## (contact)

Schmoe said:
			
		

> Quick question.  Do you use energy substitution as written?  Personally, I think that being able to substitute sonic for no level adjustment is a little unbalanced, but I'm interested in hearing your opinion.




Yes.  And reading carefully, you'll notice that Thel has never used it to substitute anything other than sonic.



			
				Schmoe said:
			
		

> Gosh.  You would think that high level mages would try to protect themselves from pesky Disintegrate spells prior to showing up and making Dramatic Speeches.




I'm sure she thought her thirty-something SR was equal to the challenge.  But if you're a lich, you really can't be *that* concerned about getting blasted.  I had the impression that this little undead drow hit-squad was Scaladar's (Orcus) way of reaching out the hand of friendship.



			
				Schmoe said:
			
		

> What is this?  I don't recognize the spell.  Whatever it is, it sounds nasty.




That would be energy drain, an all around naaasty spell.


----------



## Despaxas

/stumbles out of the lurk-shadows and wipes the blood off his face

WOW! What a ride. Simply amazing story. This is one of those moments when I wish I didn't live in Holland but near wherever you guys live so I could come worship at your front door.  Keep it up.

/Fades back into the lurk-shadows


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact), do you read Sepulchrave's story hour? It'd be fun to read a conversation on the nature of divinity between Thelbar, Taran, Nwm, and Eadric. Both adventuring parties could conceivably run into each other in Sigil...

-z, crossover crazy


----------



## Barastrondo

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> (contact), do you read Sepulchrave's story hour? It'd be fun to read a conversation on the nature of divinity between Thelbar, Taran, Nwm, and Eadric. Both adventuring parties could conceivably run into each other in Sigil...




Heads would explode.

Actually, I dunno if it _would_ be conceivable; I get the impression that the nature of divinity is, behind the scenes, very different in Sepulchrave's campaign than it is in the average D&D world. The conspicuous lack of celestials in alignments other than LG already kind of hints at a place where the Great Wheel is missing a few spokes. Sigil isn't quite a neutral ground in that respect; its very existence is already kind of tilting the idea of the multiverse farther back toward D&D standard than I get the impression is the case in Sepulchrave's game, and therefore it would give Eadric and Nwm quite the handicap in that debate.

And even if there were/is a Sigil in Sepulchrave's campaign, how would you propose to get Nwm there without eating _flame strike_?


----------



## (contact)

Barastrondo said:
			
		

> And even if there were/is a Sigil in Sepulchrave's campaign, how would you propose to get Nwm there without eating _flame strike_?




(Tips back hat) Scry, buff, teleport.  Same as usual.


----------



## (contact)

*101—Introduction to Ancient History*

The party returns to their home, and Gorquen is closely tended by both Ilwe and Elgin Trezler.  They chant prayers and make offerings, and over the next day help Gorquen’s soul-fragments return to their host.  By the time twenty-four hours have elapsed since Irae T’ssarion’s attack, Gorquen is feeling nearly whole.

That afternoon, as the Champions of the Risen Goddess divide the spoils of the previous day’s fighting and Taran and Gorquen work through their daily argument, there is a sharp rap at the door.  Skleeve is nowhere to be found, and Taran reluctantly trudges over to answer the door, talking to Gorquen over his shoulder.

“F-ck that,” he observes with his usual dignified reserve.  ” I wouldn’t even need a sharpened stick—a splintery stick would work!”  Taran opens the door, and sees a stranger’s face.  An elven man, smaller and more slender than most, he is dressed plainly, and carries only a simple traveller's staff.  Of course, most humanoids seem small when standing next to Taran, and the adventurer’s gaudy jewelry and ornate magic items could cause even remarkable clothing to seem plain.

“Which one of you is Gorquen?” the elf asks softly, perhaps recognizing what little use civility might have in the face of a half-drunk Tar-Ilou.

Taran places himself more squarely in the doorway, and towers over the small man with a threatening frown.  “Me,” he says with a glare.  “Who are you?”

“I am Almus Re.”

Taran’s face goes blank for a moment, and then he stands aside, pointing at Gorquen.  “That’s her,” he says as he walks away from the door, and toward the back of the house.  

“Where are you going?” Elgin asks.

“I don’t want to know,” Taran explains as he leaves the room.  “Whatever it is, I don’t want to know.”

Thelbar and Ilwe rush to the man’s side, and take his cloak and walking stick.  “Be welcomed within our home, revered sage,” Thelbar says.  “We have, of course, heard of you,” he continues, “although I speak for my companions when I say that meeting you is an unexpected honor.”

Elgin pours the wine, and even Gorquen gets in on the act, fussing over Almus Re’s chair, and asking him several times if he requires a cushion (and despite his insistence that he does not, brings him one anyway).

Almus Re is a legendary figure among the followers of the Ermathan Pantheon.  As the seer who first prophesied the elven schism and rebirth of Palatin Eremath, he is technically the first being to recognize the Risen Goddess, and therefore a saint by default.  But the moral most commonly associated with his legend is simply this: too much knowledge is worse than none at all.

It has been said about him that the gods themselves refused to allow him to die; that until all of his prophecies came to pass, he should be forced to wait—his soul made to witness those things his words have promised.

“You treat me like an honored guest,” Almus Re complains.  “But I have come before you as a beggar.”  The elf stands up, pushing the untouched wine glass away from him.  “I will take a knee and entreat you—_do not go into the realm of the undead_.”

There is a long pause, as the Champions look at one another, at a loss for words.

“I spoke prophecies, yes, at the time many of us did.  Such things were closer to the minds of the elves, and the future seemed more knowable than it does today.  But unlike my peers, I spoke Elder prophecies.  I told the gods themselves what might be, and in some cases what must be.  For this I was cursed, and for years uncountable I have borne the weight of the thing that I made.”

Almus Re regards Gorquen.  “But I did not speak them all.  Some words I have kept to myself, that no ear might be burdened with them.  There is a fifth prophecy that I alone carry.  And when you broke the sword of Helm, you made it true.  I ask you now, I beg you:  abandon your quest—walk away.”

Gorquen shifts uncomfortably under his gaze, her wings opening and closing.

“Will you tell us then, what you have seen?” Thelbar asks, his eyes glinting.

“I will not,” Almus Re says.  “I have sworn an oath never to reveal it, and will not break my word.”

“Then you ask too much,” Thelbar says.  “I am moved by your entreaty, sir, but I am not convinced.  You must forgive me, for were I to be swayed by nebulous promises of doom, I think I should not have come to where I find myself, nor ever dared what I have done.”

“For myself, my faith guides me,” Elgin says.  “And I am also convinced that we are about the right.”

Almus Re bows his head, and without another word, stands and leaves the Champion’s home.

“_Taran, return to us, please,_” Thelbar thinks through his telepathic bond.

“Almus Re has reminded me of something,” Thelbar says, when Taran has taken his seat.  “I had meant to speak with each of you privately, although this moment seems the better time.  What we are about in the Abyss will, I believe, result in an upsetting of the natural order; we intend to set the _pasoun_ above the gods, and in so doing reclaim something believed lost forever.  There are souls in Myth Iskok—followers of the goddess, banished to the Abyss in a time before our goddess liberated us from such a fate.  It is unjust, it is wrong, and if we are strong enough, we will set it to rights.”

“Yes, that is what I also believe,” Gorquen says.

“But have you considered the implications?” Thelbar asks.  “If you have not, do so now, for I assure you that our enemies have.  We can expect to be opposed by all who hold to the rightness of things as they are.  We intend to usurp the justice of the gods themselves, and if we are successful, expose their will as a finite and temporal thing.  You see that this will not endear us among those who distrust our doctrines.”

“What else is new?” Taran says.  “As far as I’m concerned they can all bring it.  It’s not like we aren’t already hated by the big kids on the block—we might as well be hated by the rest of them.”

“That is my opinion, yes,” Thelbar replies.  “But I would know that we are all equally committed.  This is no thing to be undertaken lightly.”

“Danger means nothing to me,” Gorquen says.  “My duty is clear.”

Elgin sighs.  “This conflict pains me greatly.  But our _pasoun_ threatens these gods—and why should it not?  The worshippers they loose are lost to the outer planes forever.”

“So?” Taran says.

“After death, the souls of the Prime Material travel to the outer planes, and eventually merge with a plane—this process is how the planes grow and sustain themselves.”

“Yet, aren’t the planes infinite?” Ilwe asks.

“So we are led to believe,” Elgin says.  “But unending does not mean infinitely populated.”

“So what?” Taran says.

 “If there were an unlimited amount of souls, there would be an unlimited amount for everyone.  If that were true, the _pasoun_ would not threaten these deities.”

“Yeah, I get all that.  I meant, ‘who cares.’  Any god sends his proxies against us, well, he must not have wanted them, because we will kill them dead.”

“You do understand that if the multiverse is not, in fact, infinite, then the _pasoun_ will eventually consume it?”

“Didn’t I say ‘so what’ already?” Taran asks.  Thelbar stifles a smile.

“I don’t understand,” Gorquen says.  “Since souls gravitate toward the good over many lifetimes, how could the _pasoun_ be bad?”

“It is not ‘bad,’” Elgin says.  “We are discussing why others may be threatened by it.”

Ilwe continues.  “By passing souls through the veil, Ishlok is removing spiritual energy from the multiverse.  The resistance we have faced so far indicates that these gods do not believe that it will be replaced.  From their point of view, they are fighting for their home.”

“Maybe the bath-water’s cold, and it’s time to pull the plug,” Taran says.

“Or maybe you just like killing things, and don’t really care one way or the other,” Gorquen says prickly.

Taran smiles and shrugs.

Elgin raises his hands.  “Philosophy aside, I would have it said of us that we held to our truth, and that faith was our guide.  As Lathander is with our cause, so am I.  To answer your original question, Thelbar, I believe we have all considered what we are about; I believe we can all rely on one another.”

Thelbar nods.  “There is one other thing.  I have not shared it with you until now, but if we are to travel within the lower realms, it could prove crucial; my brother and I are marked souls.”

“Marked?” Ilwe asks.

“We have a devil-mark upon us—we are hated, for the folly of our past lives, hated beyond all measure by the Infernal princes, and our souls have become objects of great desire among them.  The demons of the Abyss are likely to recognize this, and we should not expect an easy time.”

Gorquen scoffs.  “I had never imagined we would find anything less than hostility in Orcus’ realm.  Devils or demons, it matters little.”  After a moment, she adds, “And _Solodrun_ agrees with me.”

The group returns to their activities, the priests go to prayer, and Thelbar (as is his habit when distressed) excuses himself to study alone.  Taran and Gorquen sit drinking, their conversation muted and without any trace of its former playfulness.

“You know what,” Gorquen says.  “If this turns out to be another bad idea, I hope everyone remembers your name for a change—I’m sick and tired of everyone saying ‘Hey, there’s Gorquen; we’ve been waiting for her to come and f-ck things up.’”


----------



## Derrick Reeves

So, Mr. (contact)... are you up to date with the Risen Goddess as well as the Liberation of Tenh?  I only regularly check the Story Hour forum for updates on these two SHs... and I know I could become addicted to someone else's tale, and I've tried... but it's just not the same.


(Other, less civilised souls might have just writted "BUMP", but I would never make a post purely for the purpose of dragging a thread up to the front page.  Honest.)


----------



## thatdarncat

You can ask him in person (well.... sorta) if you come to the Storyhour writer's chat on February 18 in the chat room.


----------



## (contact)

*102—A frozen place where deeper dreams fester and burn.*


 “I’ve got it all figured,” Taran is whispering conspiratorially to Gorquen as the group marches through the streets of Sigil, back to the portal to the Abyss.  “I took my _headband_ off last night—don’t tell Thel.”

“You have what figured?” Gorquen asks wearily.

“Why Ishlok picked losers like me and you to go to Faerun and f-ck everything up.”

“No way, Taran.  I’m not taking religious advice from you.”  

“See, Ishlok chooses her Champions based on merit and past service—she has to know that they can take the heat; but she doesn’t guide them _at all_, once they are in the fire.”

“Well, that’s not true.”

“It isn’t?”  Taran scowls at Gorquen.  “The hell it isn’t!  When was the last time she answered a divination for us?  Why are we stuck asking _Lathander_ for directions all the time?”

Gorquen scowls.  

Taran continues.  “By leaving us out in the cold, she is demonstrating the _pasoun_ in action—self determination in all things, even for her direct mortal representatives.  It shows her commitment to her values.”

Gorquen is laughing.  “Did your familiar help you come up with that stupid theory?  Ishlok is a goddess, Taran.  You’d think she could have picked better Champions than us.”

 “Well, I don’t know about Trezler, but I figured out about us three:  I think Ishlok picked us because she _knew_ we’d piss everybody off.  All the friendly stuff?  That’s just a smokescreen.  We’re not diplomats—we’re the tip of the spear.  If you want to start a fight with a whole world, send Gorquen and Taran.”

-----

The party has travels through the Hive-ward _portal_, and after a brief trek across the abyssal plain, stands before a second _portal_ that leads directly to the realm of Orcus (called Tenebrous by his Faerunian worshippers).

Thelbar prepares a unique spell;  he discovered this powerful summoning in a lost Sigilian library—a former celestial redoubt, now buried under centuries of city-growth in the Foundry Ward of Sigil.  After painstakingly transcribing the spell from shattered parchment fragments, Thelbar was able to copy it into his spellbook, and prepare it against this journey.  The spell is nothing less than the most puissant summoning Thelbar is aware of—it calls forth a small parcel of the very Light that serves as a sun in Mount Celestia.  

As Taran says, “If you have to go to Hell, go big.”

As Thelbar finishes his spell, a tremendous glow emerges from a point in space just above his head, illuminating the Abyss as far as the eye can see, and piercing the plane’s aura of terror and inscrutability.  Within this light, wicked creatures are revealed for what they are—terrified entities without realization at the core of themselves.  This  exposure manifests physically in their utter blindness.  From horizon to horizon, the demons of the Abyss cannot see.

Basking in the light, Elgin Trelzer _summons_ an elder earth elemental from the crust of the plane, and shields the party with a _holy aura_.  Thelbar casts a series of _protection from spells_ abjurations upon his friends, and Ilwe likewise prepares, rendering the group immune to flame and electricity.  

Taran stands regarding the Abyssal terrain—viewed in the blinding light of Thelbar’s spell, it seems smaller somehow, safer.  “Gorquen and I will need to be deaf,” he says flatly to his brother.  “Hundreds of vrocks make some kind of fearful racket, I imagine, and it’s better safe than sorry.”  Elgin Trezler casts a pair of _deafness_ spells, and thus shielded from the terrors of Nar Tyr, the Champions of the Risen goddess step through the portal and into a massacre.

Of course, it was not a massacre prior to their arrival.

-----

The other side of the _portal_ is the absolute low-point of an Abyssal valley; a narrow, miserly rivulet cutting an impossibly vertical chasm through craggy and dense-packed bands of black and grey stone.  Stunted trees thrust scrawny trunks up through cracks in  the valley walls, and as far as the eye can see, filthy vulture-headed vrocks sit and befoul their perches, calling raucously to one another across the narrow span.  

“One hundred vrocks,” Thelbar has decided, was probably a scholar’s euphemism for “too many to count.”   And the countless vrocks do in fact create a world-sundering screech at the first appearance of the celestial sun bursting into their reality and undermining everything they are.

Elgin Trezler calls an _elemental swarm_ upon the scene, and follows it with an _earthquake_ that rattles vrocks from their perches, and creates fissures in the earth that swallow them whole.  Thelbar eradicates demons with sonic substituted _meteor swarms_ and _chain lightings_.  

Truth be told, few enough enemies even reach the characters to justify the protective spells spent warding Taran or Gorquen, but hindsight is always the father of economy.  Taran spends a half-minute taking half-hearted swings at blinded and panicking demons, but there is really no need.  Before a full minute has elapsed, the vrocks that survived the onslaught have fled, and the Champions hold the filth-encrusted field.

Thelbar allows the _blinding glory_ spell to elapse, and suggests that the party may want to be gone before the layer’s rulers arrive to investigate the unannounced intrusion of Mount Celestia into the 313th layer of the Abyss.  Thelbar _teleports_ the group to the horizon, and after consulting their maps, they begin their _overland flight_ to Nar Tyr.

-----

To say that Tenebrous’ realm is _cold_ would be true, but it would not do the sensation justice.  Certainly, there are places in the mortal realms that are colder; a strong adult human could survive this Abyssal chill.  But there are no places common to mankind that can freeze a _soul_ as quickly as Orcus’ meat-locker.  Here, a traveler’s generous qualities become slow and languid in the chill, while the secret passions and hidden lusts of the heart flare up and nag at the mind.  It is a confusing sensation, at once diminishing and aggrandizing; within this place, each being is encouraged by the very frost condensing from his breath to place himself first, foremost, and always.

“_If it comes down to it, I say we eat Gorquen first_,” Taran thinks to Thelbar.

“_It would be better to starve than take such a meal here_,” Thelbar snaps back.  “_Keep yourself focused, and keep your gallows humor to yourself_.”

The landscape of this layer seems very familiar to Thelbar’s eyes; tightfisted rivers trickle between rolling hills, black water struggling forward beneath a thin layer of ice.  There is no animal life to be seen, and a thin layer of frost sits on the landscape like dust in a neglected home.  It could all pass for a particularly bad winter in a particularly bad part of a bad world, but here there is no potential for anything else—and this lack is so common, so pervasive, that it takes hours to notice.  

The trees, the rock, even the sky itself is miserly and drab; this land will never know spring.  There is no life waiting its turn, incubating under a blanket of snow.  Here, the frost reaches icy tendrils deep within anything that does not move, and strangles it dead.

“If it comes down to it, I say we eat Gorquen first,” Taran says out loud, determining to try his joke on the rest of the party.

“F-ck you, Tar Ilou,” she replies distractedly, by rote.  Elgin does not respond.

The hills slowly give way to another arm of the mountain-range that they just left, forming a horizon-to-horizon horseshoe, with Nar Tyr nestled into the concave section of its apex.  Thelbar motions the party to land, and they consult an ancient map, purchased from a market-ward demonologist.  That way lies the Home of the Dead.


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> The landscape of this layer seems very familiar to Thelbar’s eyes; tightfisted rivers trickle between rolling hills, black water struggling forward beneath a thin layer of ice.  There is no animal life to be seen, and a thin layer of frost sits on the landscape like dust in a neglected home.  It could all pass for a particularly bad winter in a particularly bad part of a bad world, but here there is no potential for anything else—and this lack is so common, so pervasive, that it takes hours to notice.




This is good stuff.

-z


----------



## daoloth

bump


----------



## (contact)

Sorry about the long delay updating this SH.  As usual, I blame society.  If you've lost the story thread, our PCs are pursuing a cryptic lead about some sort of tomb within the realm of Orcus/Scaladar.  Whatever this place is, even the fiends of the layer will not go there.  the party has recieved intelligence about this location from both the Factol of the Athar (the sigilian faction who claim the gods are all frauds), and the liches residing within Orcus' realm themselves!

Scaladar is/was a fallen angel-- Palatin Eremath's right-hand entity, who turned to evil in the wake of her death, and waged a war against the elven court, and Corellon Larethian in particular.  For his trouble, the elven high-god banished him to the Abyss, where over time he became the demon-prince Orcus.

Orcus was killed by the elven goddess Kiransalee in her bid to consolidate the portfolio of the undead.  He then returned to the multiverse as Tenebrous.

Scaladorcubrous is a bad dude, but according to his liches, he's frightened of this tomb.


----------



## (contact)

*103—Around and Again, Our Pasoun* 


“They love not poison that do poison need, nor do I thee: though I did wish him dead, I hate the murderer, love him murdered.”
-- Shakespeare, _King Richard II_


The city of Nar-Tyr itself resembles a bee-hive left unattended too long in the sun; vaguely spherical constructions melt and ooze over one another alongside a riverbank that has long since left its best days behind it.  The cacophony of structures have overgrown a sharply-sloping rise to the North, and larger, more impressive structures dot the rise.  These structures are lit by _continual flames_ that glitter alluringly, whispering false promises of warmth and safety.

The group descends to the frozen earth and makes the final approach to Nar-Tyr’s lower region on foot.  According to their lich visitor, free-willed undead occupy the slopes and ridge; the riverbank is left for the legions of mindless undead.  The group spots few corpses walking amongst the ruined structures, and discovers a suitable building to rest within.

A few moments after bedrolls have been placed down and the night’s watch order is being discussed, there is a faint scratching at the door.  Taran signals for silence, and places his left hand on his hips in the casual manner that his companions recognize as the preamble to a lightning sword draw.  He opens the door with a friendly smile, transformed into a dangerous lie by the look in his eyes.  His calculated expression quickly turns to curiosity as he regards the long-dead body of a human male, so old as to have almost entirely stopped stinking.

Taran looks over the thing’s shoulders for the rest of the horde, but there is nothing there.

“Kiiiiiing,” the zombie wheezes.  “Myyyyy houuuuse.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Taran says, laughing.  “F-ck your house.  This is my sword,” Taran snaps Arunshee’s Kiss from its scabbard and levels it directly between the zombie’s eyes.  “So this is my house.”

Taran is about to slam the door on the creature, when it says, “Thhhousssands . . .”

“What did you say?”

“. . . of . . . ussss . . .”

Taran looks back at Thelbar who only smiles and shrugs.

“. . . five . . . of you.”

“Allright,” Taran sighs.  “You’re the king, and you’ve got us outnumbered.  Fine.  What do you want?”

“Rrrespect.”

Taran cocks his head for an instant, then straightens up and sheathes his sword, even as he renders a deep bow.  “Your majesty.  We humbly request your permission to camp in this domicile for the evening, and you have our assurances that we will depart at first light.”

That settled, the zombie shuffles away without a further word.

Taran shuts the door.  “Do you think that, you know, since Orcus is the god of the undead?  Do you think we just met _the_ zombie king?” 

-----

Elgin Trezler _discerns_ the location of the mysterious burial mounds that had so perplexed Factol Terrance and terrified the denizens of Orcus’ layer.  They are only a few short miles from Nar-Tyr along the river’s path.  As the Champions travel, they are ambushed by a strange demonic river-spirit, half snake with multicolored fish-like fins, and terrible rending claws.  The creature emerges enshrouded in a mystical fire, but Thelbar dispels its protections without much trouble, and Gorquen does the rest, transforming herself into a blur of steel and black feathers.

“_Sort of makes you wonder why I’m even here, doesn’t it,_” Taran thinks to his brother, his tone a mixture of wonder, pride and jealousy.

Thelbar does not reply.

-----

The tombs are slight structures—three cairns no taller than Gorquen’s wing-span, each roughly hemispherical and joined to its partners approximately half-way to its top.  No sculpture or relief-work decorates or marks the place, save for a half-circle of simple runes over the nearest face.  No entryway is visible.  There is no feeling of menace about the place, no terrifying spirits whirling about.  Taran looks around and shrugs his shoulders, but Thelbar has a different response.

“Elgin, please _detect magic_.”

_Detect magic_ is a simple spell, one of the most basic, and under normal circumstances it reveals the location and relative strength of magical auras within a short distance from the spell-caster.  In this case, however, it reveals the three cairns as a single magical item of great potency—covered along every surface with a mosaic of interlocking runic wards in an alien and mysterious script.

“This is . . .” Elgin says.  “This is an artifact.”

“Yes,” Thelbar is examining the short passage of physical runes.  “These say, ‘_I await my master’s hand_.’”

“You shall not pass into this place of wickedness.” The voice is clear, and the words are delivered in a deep and authoritative tone.  A figure emerges from a small dug-out behind the cairns and casts off a cloak.  The dusty garment strikes the ground and underneath it, the adventurers see a broad-shouldered man dressed in fantastically wrought plate armor, enameled with liquid silver and chased with citurines marking holy runes sacred to the Seven Heavens.

The man draws a glittering _holy sword_ from his side, and levels it at Thelbar.  “You other two, I do not know you.  You may leave this place upon your oaths never to return.  But the Tar-Ilou may not.  In the name of the Seven Holy Truths of Celestia, I judge you.  In the name of all those you have slain, I sentence you to death.” 

Elgin makes a gesture of benediction.  “Friend.  Our eyes are glad to behold a servant of weal in such a fearsome place, but come—you cannot mean what you say.  These men are good, and true.  We are humble servants of the gods, and seek no quarrel with those who bear no evil intent.”

“You have been misled, priest.”  The man does not look away from Thelbar.

“No, you’ve been misled,” Taran growls, sliding toward the man, “whoever told you that you were pointing your sword at the right Tar-Ilou.  Now, I’m not the patient one here, so you better have yourself a little epiphany real quick and _sheathe that weapon_.”

“You are the worst of them all, Taran,” the man says without moving an inch.  “You _know_ what he did, yet here you are, at your master’s heels.”

“Well, now you hurt my feelings,” Taran says, and then lashes Arunshee’s Kiss from its scabbard, and slaps the man’s blade off line before he can react.  In a blur, Little Sister slides between the plates in his armor with a pop, and by the time the paladin can disengage and assess the damage, Gorquen is on him.  

Taran cleans his swords on the man’s cloak and winks at Gorquen.

“That man knew you?” Elgin says, moving toward the fallen knight.

“Let us speak with him,” Thelbar suggests, and Elgin bends over the body with a brief prayer.  A mote of light appears at the man’s brow, and his corpse takes a deep breath.

“How do you know the brothers Tar-Ilou?”

The corpse exhales, “_We were adventuring partners once.  They betrayed me_.”

Taran shrugs and laughs.  “Looks like you shoulda just let it go, buddy.”

“How were you betrayed?”

“_I was lured into Hell, and abandoned there that the Tar-Ilou might escape_.”

Thelbar nods.  “That is enough.  I know this man.”

“I can ask more questions,” Elgin says gently.  

“No.  _Ressurect_ him, and we can send him on his way.  He deserves better than a cold grave in the Abyss.”

“Hey, he started it,” Taran protests.

Elgin pauses for a moment, and says, “It may draw attention to us, using that sort of magic here.”

“This layer has no worse attention to give us than what is within that tomb,” Thelbar says.  “The master of this realm knows we are here, I am sure of it.”

Elgin removes a gem from his pouch, an unusually brilliant star sapphire.  “Sapphires are sacred to Palatin Eremath,” he says with a smile.  “I thought you might enjoy it if I used these for _ressurections_.”

“Hey, that’s great,” Gorquen says.  “You’re so thoughtful.”

Taran rolls his eyes.

Elgin places the gem in the body’s mouth, and begins to chant and pray over him.  He makes the mark of the rising sun on the man’s brow with his own blood, combined with dirt from the ground where he died.  Ilwe and Gorquen watch the ritual intently, while Thelbar takes Taran aside.

“What do you remember about our journeys in Hell?” he asks.

“I dunno, Thel, I don’t think about it.  It just doesn’t seem important.”

“We have made many enemies, and _we deserve them all_, do you understand?”

“F-ck ‘em.  Can’t bring justice to sh-t you can’t kill, Thel.”

Thelbar smiles briefly and clasps his brother’s shoulder.  “Whatever transpires, you know that I do love you.”

Taran frowns and regards his boots.  “Well, yeah.  Hell yeah.  What’s gotten in to you?”

Thelbar looks deeply into his brothers eyes.  “If I explained, you would not understand.”

Taran nods, resigned and slightly ashamed.  “Can you give me the dumbass summary?”

“What we are about in the Abyss is more audacious than anything we have done before.”

“Ah,” Taran furrows his brows.  “What does that mean?”

The paladin sits up and clutches his chest.  “Lathander!” he gasps looking into Elgin’s eyes.

“Yes,” Elgin smiles.  “We bear you no ill-will, Sir Knight.”

“Unless you mouth off again.”  Taran is walking toward the man, wearing the paladin’s sword in his belt.  Thelbar remains behind, just at the rim of the party’s light.  Beyond the small, thin circle of a _continual flame_, night has begun to emerge from its hiding place deep within the world, suffusing earth and sky with impenetrable mystery, and granting succor to those things that fear the sun.

“Goddamnit, Taran, shut up already,” Gorquen says.  She gives the knight her hand and pulls him to his feet.  “I’m sorry I killed you,” she says sheepishly.  “I thought you were a demon in disguise.”

The man is watching Taran’s approach with tears welling in his eyes.  “I have failed,” he says to no one in particular.

“If you think of getting brought back from the dead by the guys who just ran you through as failure, then yeah,” Taran says.  

“You cannot kill me.  I am already long-since dead.”

“I kill dead stuff all the f-cking time.”  Taran is nose-to-nose with the man.

“Taran,” Gorquen complains.

“He didn’t call _you_ out, did he?” Taran growls, still staring into the man’s face.  After a moment, he nods and hands the man his sword back.  “You got a name, f-cker?”

“My name is Kyreel.”

“Hey, no sh-t,” Taran smiles.  “I knew a Kyreel.”

“Yes, you did.” The man says.

“This is the Kyreel that accompanied you into Hell,” Thelbar says.  “To rescue me.”

“And thrice-cursed am I for the deed,” the man says.

“But Kyreel got reincarnated with us,” Taran says.

“Yes, she did.” Thelbar says.

Taran winces then finally shakes his head.  “F-ck this,” he says, walking away.  “Wake me up when something attacks us.”

“Why are you here, Sir Knight?” Elign asks.

“I have stood an epoch vigil over this place to prevent the Tar-Ilou from entering.  Such was the price of my redemption.”

“And why do you wish to prevent this?” Thelbar asks softly.  

The man ignores him.  “I am yours, Lathanderite,” he says to Elgin.  “You have my oath now.”  

“Your oath is your own,” Elgin says.  “You are clearly a child of the _pasoun_, can you not accept that these souls are not the same as the ones you recall?”

“I have broken from Ishlok,” he says coldly.  “I serve a greater justice now, and these are tainted souls.  There is no redemption possible for monsters such as these.”

“If that is your belief, Sir Knight, then we must remain at odds.  I can return you to the Seven Heavens if that is your wish.”

“And I would thank you for it,” he says.  “I must report my failure.”


----------



## Zaruthustran

(contact) said:
			
		

> “If that is your belief, Sir Knight, then we must remain at odds.  I can return you to the
> 
> Seven Heavens if that is your wish.”
> 
> “And I would thank you for it,” he says.  “I must report my failure.”




Wow. This guy has _issues_.

-z


----------



## GreyShadow

Thanks for the update (contact).

So they go from dungeon delving in a goddess, to dungeon delving in an artifact?


----------



## blargney the second

GreyShadow said:
			
		

> dungeon delving in a goddess




Woah!  Sounds like you're baiting Eric's Grandmother! 

-blarg

ps - Still loving every minute of this story, (contact)!


----------



## (contact)

Whoops!  I realized that my synopsis above implied that Tenebrous/Orcus/Scaladar has taken the pasoun.  This is not the case at all.  Scaladar's relationship with his former goddess (Palatin Eremath/Ishlok) is still unclear . . .


----------



## (contact)

Zaruthustran said:
			
		

> Wow. This guy has _issues_.
> 
> -z




Yeah, watching your home world get wasted by 



Spoiler



will do that to you.


----------



## Joshua Randall

_Yeah, watching your home world get wasted by *corrupted half-golem spellstiched giant snails* will do that to you._


----------



## skullsmurfer

i can't wait for more.  i love the writing and the humor behind it, please keep it up.
thanks


----------



## Circle of Crows

(contact), las preguntas, por favor.

1) What happened to Ceredain? Is The Great Delve over?

2) What, if any, connection is there between the Champions current mission in Hel...uh, I mean The Abyss, and the "Terrible Guardian" who recognized the bros. Tar-Ilou in Chapter 42.

3) When is the next update?


----------



## (contact)

*1) What happened to Ceredain? Is The Great Delve over?*

We don't know.  Ceredain sealed Kor'En Eamor from all mortal (and I suppose Immortal) access.  She's been given knowledge of the _pasoun_, and has her beloved to talk some sense into her.  We'll see.  But yes, the Great Delve is over.

*2) What, if any, connection is there between the Champions current mission in Hel...uh, I mean The Abyss, and the "Terrible Guardian" who recognized the bros. Tar-Ilou in Chapter 42.*

There is no direct connection, save that their mission in the Abyss and the Terrible Guardian are both related to their past-lives.

*3) When is the next update?*

Only Ishlok knows for sure, and she's dead (again).  I'll get on it soon.


----------



## Graywolf-ELM

(contact) I finally found this story hour and have enjoyed the perspective your game/story has taken.  I just finished your last entry.  Thank you for the enjoyable read.

GW


----------



## drunkadelic

(contact)

the words fail me - i read the old meat grinder of the ToEE a long time ago, re-read it, caught up on the LoT, and finished this thread this week. You sir, are the reason that we still keep playing, I feel. I am truly sincere when I say that your accomplishments, on either side of the DM Screen are the kind of goals I think we have in our hearts when we gather our legal pads, our crown royal bags full of dice, our pencils, and our imaginations.

Thank you for playing D&D, and most importantly, thank you for sharing it with us.

/salute

That being said. Update, man!


----------



## (contact)

Wow, thank you.  I think the best part of the story hour forum is finding inspiration from (and ripping off) other great games.  I know a couple of our LoT characters have seen time in other people's games (either as PCs or NPCs), and I've robbed several story hours wholesale, myself.  I'll hop on an update, we promises precious.


----------



## coyote6

Say, our heroes are about to hit the "five months without an update" mark. It's like they've been gone for years . . .


----------



## Dakkareth

There are still people out here waiting patiently, you know ...


----------



## blargney the second

I really hope someone hasn't killed the sh*t out of this story hour.  I'd love to see it live again! 

-blarg


----------



## Dakkareth

Indeed, there still are many fans out there!

Right?

Ahem, two of them at least


----------



## thatdarncat

hey, I'm still here


----------



## Vargo

LoT.fans++;


----------



## Look_a_Unicorn

Patiently waiting for next update

(while inside a little boy jumps up and down screaming But I Wants It Now!!)


----------



## coyote6

13 more days, and it will be eight months since the champions of the formerly Risen Goddess walked up to an artifact in the Abyss . . . 

Must've been the World's Largest Dungeon.


----------



## daoloth

*Bump?*

When will we see the quest completed?


----------



## Hammerhead

*The Ending For the Champions of the Risen Goddess*

A big meteor fell on them, and life on Toril is wiped out. The only survivor is the piimpin' halfling Indi, who stayed on Oerth.


----------



## Richard Rawen

*Ode to the bump*

well... ok, it's not an Ode.
More of a furtive, hopeful casting about...


----------



## Zaruthustran

Hopefully (contact)'s delay in a Risen Goddess update is due to his spending time on a stunning conclusion to The Liberators of Tenh.

-z


----------



## Dakkareth

Is it just me or does something go _bump_ around here?


----------



## blargney the second

I would *love* to see an update in here!


----------



## coyote6

One year and two days. 

That's a long time in the Abyss.


----------



## Richard Rawen

**Sigh**

It would seem that (contact) has lost his Muse...


----------



## Dakkareth

I really *bump*ed into something on the way here, I did ...


----------



## Dakkareth

Another re-read and the _Risen Goddess_ is still as awe-inspiring as it was the past times. Here's hoping that we might see a continuing one day ...


----------



## Laman Stahros

Hello, is there anyone out there? (contact) where are you?


----------



## Lazybones

Casting _resurrection_ on this thread, as I DLed it and a bunch of other SH threads to text files to read at work recently. I'm about halfway through the file, and I'm sad to see that it comes to an end in mid 2004. 

Enjoying the story a lot, especially the characters. They start out pretty one-dimensional, but grow on you in time.    I did have one question for the author, however, if he is still around. The early plotlines with the statue of the Risen Goddess implied some sort of conversion effect associated with it. The dramatic change in the priest of Bane, for example. Yet this isn't revisited (at least as far as I have gotten).  Assuming that this property did not go away, did it not occur to the heroes to begin a campaign of assimilating people wholesale to the True Faith, using the power of the statue? When the three drow visit the PCs and deliver their ultimatum in Mistledale, for example, I kept thinking, _Heh, they should ask the drow to, 'come inside this temple, and look at this statue, and you'll have your answer.'_ Just something I was thinking about while reading. 

LB


----------



## recentcoin

I was hoping to see how this turned out....

*Sigh*


----------



## Joshua Randall

/threadromancy...

A little birdie told me that T&T shall ride again, eventually, once 4e hits. Yet another  reason to be counting down the days!


----------



## (contact)

Joshua Randall said:
			
		

> /threadromancy...




The thread groans and sits up, looking about itself, remembering nothing of its passage through the _pasoun_.


----------



## (contact)

*The Multiverse's Most Incomplete Story Recap*

*Dramatis Personae*

*Taran* is a thick-headed belligerent fighter/sorcerer/spell-sword who believes that the killing blow is any argument’s most relevant (and frankly, inevitable) counter-point.  
*Thelbar* is Taran’s older brother, a genius archmage with a long, multi-life history of Trifling Where Wise Entities Fear to Tread.
*Gorquen*, a champion of Arunshee (formerly Lolth, dead and reborn).  Gorquen has risen from humble 1st level beginnings to become one of the multiverse’s most deadly swordwomen, and she fights with none other than Corellean Larethian’s sword—the weapon that killed Palatin Eremath (see below.)
*Elgin Trezler* rounds out the group. He is the current High Priest of Lathander.


*The Ermathan Pantheon, and Deific Happenings of Interest*

*Palatin Eremath* is the lost Elven co-creator (and goddess of Champions, Honor and Swordsmanship) who died at the hands of Corellon Larethian in a family feud during the misty pre-history of the elven race that saw the night elves (drow) banished.  
Palatin Eremath rose from the dead under the name of Ishlok, and established a new metaphysical order for the universe; the _pasoun_.
Palatin Eremath died again at the hands of her own champion – Taran (Chapter 97).
Palatin Eremath is joined by the elven deities *Arunshee* (Lolth), and *Solonor Thalendiira*.  Of late, *Lathander* has taken the pasoun as well, sparking quite the tussle in poor, beleagured Faerun:
Gods have died, Cormyr is now spelled “New Sembia,” the Silver Marches and the dwarven homes therein belong to King Obuld Many-Arrows, and Lathanderites have been drug from their home and massacred all over the planet by good-aligned priests.
Taran doesn’t care.

Taran _does_ care about the Divine A-s Whooping he’s liable to take if he ever shows his face in Faerun again, so the quartet of adventurers are currently hiding in Sigil from the wrath of the Faerunian pantheon.  During recent Apoclyptic events, Illmater and Tempus were slain, with their suddenly spell-less priesthoods set upon and destroyed by opportunistic evil cults.  For some reason the other gods just can’t let this go.

Of course, the real reason for their epic enmity boils down to the human (demi-human and divine) constant; self-interest.

The metaphysical bone of contention is Ishlok’s pasoun, an alternate afterlife granted to any who will accept it (including deities) wherein a soul does not migrate to the Outer Planes when it dies, but reincarnates again and again until it has reached the full knowledge of self that will allow it to migrate out of the multiverse and in to some mysterious Great Beyond.

This would be fine, save for the fact that the existing D&D cosmology supposes that the End State for all mortal souls is either to merge with a deity, or with one of the outer planes themselves.  The _pasoun_ will slowly starve both gods and the multiverse, if left unchecked.

The Champions of the Risen Goddess call this starvation “freedom from the tyranny of the Gods.”  

Their enemies call it “the soul-death of the multiverse.” 

I like to think of it as, “The Second Law of Spiritual-dynamics.”


----------



## (contact)

*The Crux of the Matter*

From Chapter 102:

“I’ve got it all figured,” Taran is whispering conspiratorially to Gorquen as the group marches through the streets of Sigil, back to the portal to the Abyss.  “I took my headband off last night—don’t tell Thel.”

“You have what figured?” Gorquen asks wearily.

“Why Ishlok picked losers like me and you to go to Faerun and f-ck everything up.”

“No way, Taran.  I’m not taking religious advice from you.” 

“See, Ishlok chooses her Champions based on merit and past service—she has to know that they can take the heat; but she doesn’t guide them at all, once they are in the fire.”

“Well, that’s not true.”

“It isn’t?” Taran scowls at Gorquen.  “The hell it isn’t!  When was the last time she answered a divination for us?  Why are we stuck asking Lathander for directions all the time?”

Gorquen scowls.  

Taran continues.  “By leaving us out in the cold, she is demonstrating the pasoun in action—self determination in all things, even for her direct mortal representatives.  It shows her commitment to her values.”

Gorquen is laughing.  “Did your familiar help you come up with that stupid theory?  Ishlok is a goddess, Taran.  You’d think she could have picked better Champions than us.”

“Well, I don’t know about Trezler, but I figured out about us three: I think Ishlok picked us because she knew we’d piss everybody off.  All the friendly stuff?  That’s just a smokescreen.  We’re not diplomats—we’re the tip of the spear.  If you want to start a fight with a whole world, send Gorquen and Taran.”


----------



## (contact)

*Current Adventure Arc*

In the dim and misty 2nd edition past, Orcus (you might have heard of him; fat, hairy and evil.  No, Joshua, not Ron Jeremy) was killed by the dark elven goddess Kiransalee in her bid to consolidate the portfolio of the undead. Orcus then returned to the multiverse as Tenebrous, hid out for a while, revealed himself again as Orcus in time for 3e, and thanks to the history dug up by our heroes has finally been given his true identity: 

Orcus is *Scaladar*; one of the “first made,” the immortal race which was the precursor to elves in the service of the elven pantheon.  

Scaladar had been Palatin Eremath’s right-hand-entity, and when Corellian Larethian cut down his sister/baby mama, Scaladar was driven mad, spending an eon in anguish and torment at the very ass-bottom of the multiverse before re-emerging as a fallen Godling; the Demon Prince of the Undead.  

The group believes that Orcus the Demon-Prince came about as a result of a deific curse from Corellian Larethian, and if he received the _pasoun_, Orcus might yet be restored to if not sanity, at least a process that might have sanity as an end state.

Further more (and perhaps more justly), the innocent proto-elven souls that were banished along with Orcus ought to be freed from eternal torment.

Therefore, the Champions of the Risen Goddess have determined to travel to Orcus’ layer within the Abyss.  Despite the sensible advice of an entity no less august than the first and greatest Elven prophet (as in, _evar_).  They have determined to kick the Demon Prince between the danglies and see what falls out.  They have had some assistance from one of his high-ranking liches, who reports that Orcus has been . . . well, acting a bit like a bitch.



			
				From Chapter 99 said:
			
		

> “I have come to speak with you regarding Nar Tyr,” the creature whispers, its voice a throaty hiss.  “What humble knowledge I may possess, I place before you.  Your success is our success.”
> 
> “Our?” Thelbar says.
> 
> “I represent a coven of liches that live within the City of the Dead, and we know what you would be about.”
> 
> “Let’s take him outside and kill him,” Gorquen says.
> 
> Taran squints at the lich, sizing him up.  “He won’t bleed—we can kill him here.”
> 
> The lich keeps his gaze upon Thelbar.  “I did not come to speak with your dull-witted chattel,” it says.  “Dismiss them, so we may converse as entities among equals.”
> 
> Taran laughs.  “He’s talking about you, Gorquen.”
> 
> “He is not,” she snaps.
> 
> “Begin with Nar Tyr,” Thelbar suggests.  “My companions shall remain.”
> 
> The lich bows slightly—a gesture that produces a slight trickle of sand from one eye-socket.  “Nar Tyr is the unfortunate capitol of Orcus’ realm within in the abyssal plane of never-life,” the lich rasps.  “Our city is built on three tiers carved from a mountain face.  The least sentient populate the lowest tier, the free-willed undead the second, and the city’s crown is Nixel-Rel, the center for arcane study within the entire plane, and my cherished home.  Nixel-Rel is also the place where Kiransalee sat her throne while she was our mistress.  Orcus’ mysterious return from the dead has disposed Kiransalee, and not all are pleased.   I am here to tell you that we support your intent, although we cannot offer any palpable assistance at this time.”
> 
> “Our intent?” Thelbar asks.  “We pursue many goals.  Perhaps you could clarify your comment.” There is a subtle exchange between the two wizards, an unseen but tremendous battle of wills.
> 
> “We agree that Myth Iskok and the other . . .  examples of our current ruler’s scandalous past have no place in the Abyss.”
> 
> “Other examples?” Thelbar looks strained, his lips taut and thin.
> 
> “There is a burial mound near the city, a place strong with souls who do not belong with us.  Orcus is himself terrified of the place, and will not face it.  The corpulent demon-prince also scuttles on his belly to another location within his realm.  We have not observed him there, for he permits no company, but curses and cries have been heard—nearly all who live within Nixel-Rel have been forced to endure his begging and tears.”
> 
> “Begging?” Taran says.
> 
> “You can see where this might impact the confidence of his so-called servitors,” the lich finishes.
> 
> “What does he beg for?” Thelbar asks.
> 
> The lich clacks his teeth sharply in a gesture meant to replace a smile.  “I am sure I would not wish to know.” The creature gathers his robes about him, and backs away from the door.  “May fortune smile upon you.  We shall never see one another again.”
> 
> Gorquen stands and places her hand upon her sword-hilt “Well that’s a shame, dick.  Sorry you couldn’t stay.”
> 
> Taran laughs as the lich fades away and disappears.
> 
> “Call me stupid,” Gorquen mutters to herself.
> 
> “We are stupid,” Taran says.  “Lighten up.  He was terrified of you.”






The group, somewhat predictably, is most intrigued by the burial mound.  Orcus is a divine presence, but according to his liches, he's frightened of this tomb.  Upon their arrival, the tomb itself proves to be an artifact!  An object of unimaginable power, the thing is covered with runes, most notably: “_I await my master’s hand._”

Before they can enter the tomb, the group encounters a paladin who has sat a vigil upon the spot.  The paladin claims to be none other than one of Kyreel’s previous incarnations!  Betrayed and abandoned in Hell by an earlier Thelbar and Taran, this Kyreel has remained by this tomb with one purpose and one purpose only; to prevent the brothers Tar-Ilou from entering.

And then Taran kills him.


----------



## (contact)

*104—Reflections*

The low burial mound has stately and ornate doors; they are marked with a series of runes that form a complex pattern.  Not a language, Thelbar tells the group, so much as a series of impressions—meant to convey the maker’s psychic state at the time of the writing.  It is, he assures them, a communiqué meant only for the rarified few in the multiverse possessed of the native intelligence to decipher it.

“Or,” he adds wryly, “those of us sufficiently magically enhanced.”

“So you can read it?” Taran asks, squinting.  “I hate abstract art.”

“It is a warning,” Thelbar says.

“Well f-ck, I could have told you that,” Taran replies.

“Really?” Elgin asks.

“Sure—there’s always a warning on dusty old tombs, especially ones important enough to be guarded by dead paladins.  It goes to show how being so damn smart doesn’t make you smart, you know?  Like after all we’ve been through, a warning is going to stop us.”

“He has a point,” Thelbar says.  “Perhaps it is better if I do not translate this passage.  Suffice it to say, it concerns immortality and terror.  The two concepts were vitally linked in the scriber’s mind.”

“Heh.  I am a terror,” Taran says, drawing his sword.  “And there ain’t no such thing as live forever.  Open the door, Thel, if you can, and let’s finish this thing.”

“_Brother_,” Thelbar thinks.  “_You are named here, as am I. _”

Taran looks up at Thelbar, and they lock eyes for several moments.  Finally, Taran shrugs.  “F-ck it,” he says.  Thelbar nods.

The door swings open at Thelbar’s gentle touch; as if it were made for his hand.  The smallish exterior contains a much larger interior space; a long hall, some twenty feet in width and three times that in length.  The interior is shockingly mundane—scented torches provide a mellow illumination, and several dozen luxurious carpets cover the floor.  Comfortable-looking human-sized furniture is scattered throughout, including bookshelves and a long table filled with all manner of appetizing food and drink.  A heavily armored squat and burly human man stands at the table with his back to the adventurers, casually picking through the carcasses of several small birds, pulling the choice morsels from them, and discarding the rest.  At the other end of the hall, a well-dressed man reclines against a bookshelf.  He is slender and tall, dark-haired and olive-skinned, possessed of delicate features set around a prominent aquiline nose.  His eyes are his most striking feature—afterwards, none could agree as to their color or shape, although all admitted being unable to hold their gaze.

As the party steps into the room, the thin man carefully closes the book he was holding and sets it aside.  “Brother,” he says mildly.

“Yes, I am _aware_,” the man at the table replies.  He turns toward the party.  Despite his formidable size, his features bear a strong resemblance to the other; while squat where this brother is long, they carry the same turn of the mouth, the same nose, and same frown-lines surrounding the mouth and eyes.  This one’s face and neck, however, are covered in a tangle of long scars.  His armor is elaborately made, and marked with a runic inscription that strikes both Taran and Thelbar as familiar.  He swaggers forward, his lone weapon, a bastard sword, slapping against his mailed thigh.  He pauses a few steps from Taran.

Finally, he speaks.  “Well, I’ve seen better days.” 

 “What?” Taran opens and closes his mouth, his insult dying before it is fully formed.

“Welcome, finally,” the tall man begins, addressing Thelbar.  “You are the last, and I assume you are prepared.”  He gestures to Gorquen and Elgin.  “I do not know you.  Leave now.  Your journeys with these two are over.”

“I go as I am guided, stranger,” Elgin says, “not as I am bid.”

“Should I kill him for that, Taran?” the burly man asks with a smirk.  “What would _you_ do?”

“F-cking try it,” Taran warns.

“I’m twice the swordsman you are,” the man promises.

“I’ve got twice the friends,” Taran replies.

“You’ve only got half the friends you’d need.”

Thelbar steps toward the thin man and asks, “How can this be?”

“The _pasoun_ has many mysteries,” the tall man says, “and, tragically, few answers.  I, however, possess one of them.  And you are here to share it.”

“I will not,” Thelbar says.  “Not with you.  You are no more.”

“Have I grown so insipid?  Have I become a milk-fed child, sucking at that goddess’ teat and listening wide-eyed to her cronies and lickspittle priests?  Her _pasoun_ is a sham, a siphon, but like all things it serves the will of those able to master it.  There are many of us, you fool, but _I am the prime_.  I instigated you; I am the maker and destroyer; I am the hell-prince, the eater of souls!  I am the grey, the lost and the chosen.  You are a facet of your own self; I am its sum!”

“I think perhaps you are mad,” Elgin says.

The thin man shrugs.  “You lack the capacity to judge me,” he sneers.  “Show some care with your tone, you address an ascendant.”

“You died,” Thelbar says.  “I died.  I’ve recalled it all.”

The man shakes his head.  “I entered the pasoun.  This is a critical distinction.”

The burly man smirks at Taran—he has not taken his eyes from him.  “They get like this when they get together,” he says.  “Most of us fight, but most of the Thelbars just talk.”

“What do the Gorquens do?” Taran asks.

“The what?” the burly man says, a split second before Gorquen leaps at him.  

She smashes into him, and forces him  backwards.  He draws his sword, knocking Gorquen’s weapon off-line and cutting her twice before she can finalize her attack.  Taran, no gentleman, leaps into the fray, but his angle of approach is deftly turned aside with clever footwork and precise parries.  The burly man is smiling pleasantly, his former scowl giving way to a sneering delight. 

“Brother!” the other-Taran yells.  “Disintegrate this bitch and I’ll do the priest!”

But his brother cannot comply.  Thelbar points a finger at his predecessor “I wish,” he begins, “that the pain of your folly in the Hells, the crushing truth of your failure comes fully to your mind.  Relive the torments of the damned!”

The thin man cries out and stumbles forward, gasping in shock.

“Gorquen!” Thelbar cries, but she is already in motion.  She disengages from the burly warrior and flies to the side of the reeling mage.  Taran slides into the space she just left, preventing his predecessor from intervening.  As the Thelbar-Prime stares drooling at the boots of his spiritual successor, Gorquen leaps upon him, seizing him by the hair.  With an apologetic glance, she severs his head from his neck.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“I’m not,” Thelbar whispers back.

-----

In his first life, Taran was considered by many knowledgeable entities to be one of, if not the most skilled swordsman in the multiverse.  The gulf between legendary hero and demi-power is vast, but before surrendering his will to debauchery, this man had nearly crossed it.

Presumably, he has had several millennia here inside this artifact to work the love of drink out of his system, waiting for each Taran and Thelbar that was or would be to arrive at this destination; to embrace the destiny penned ages ago by Thelbar-Prime.  Waiting to be made complete.

The current Thelbar understood the opportunity, and recognized it for what it is; a power-mad former self’s bid for godhood.  Audacious in its scope, certainly, but no less possible for it.

Taran, on the other hand would, require a baker’s dozen headbands of intellect to grasp the magnitude of this meeting.  To him, he is simply facing the last in a very short line of fighters that have outclassed him: Mishkal and Hamm on the Marrow Down, Gulthais in Nightfang Spire, Dantrak, the Matron Mother’s First Sword, Hereson Truesliver, godling of Tyr.  Gorquen.

And now, himself.

But he smiles as he regards his own murderous demiurge reflected in this ancient face, because like it did with all the rest, Taran knows that four-on-one beats superior bladework any day.

The Taran-Prime takes longer to behead than his brother, and the protracted act is one of a dozen cuts, but its result is just as final, and its leaving even more bloody.

Remembering the rush that accompanied the death of Hereson Truesilver, Taran turns expectantly to Thelbar when his simulacrum falls, but nothing happens.

“Aw, I wanted to get some power,” he whines.

“No, brother,” Thelbar says with a relieved smile.  “No you didn’t.”


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## spunky_mutters

Just wanted to say I love your story hours. I'm sure you've got the record for time between updates, but please, don't try and beat it.


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## thatdarncat

seconded.

Welcome back


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## blargney the second

Awesome!  So glad to read your stuff again, contact!  Thank you.
-blarg


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## Villanelle

(contact) said:
			
		

> Taran, on the other hand would, require a baker’s dozen headbands of intellect to grasp the magnitude of this meeting.  To him, he is simply facing the last in a very short line of fighters that have outclassed him: Mishkal and Hamm on the Marrow Down, Gulthais in Nightfang Spire, Dantrak, the Matron Mother’s First Sword, Hereson Truesliver, godling of Tyr.  Gorquen.
> 
> And now, himself.




Love it.  I've got a baker's dozen reasons why I married you.  Your storyhours are just icing on the ck-ake.  You rock.


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## GoodKingJayIII

So...

Just finished reading this for the first time the other day.

Wow.

This is a wonderful story hour.  I don't know what happened during the 4 years to keep you from writing, but I hope everything's ok and that you're back in for the long haul!

I have to confess, I'm a little confused about the player setup.  At one point I thought it was just you and your DM switching off and playing 2-4 characters at a time.  Do you have a more traditional gaming group now, or is/was it still just the two of you running through the stories?


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## Rackhir

Glad to see you posting again (contact). 

Been liking what I've read of the SH so far. Just sorry it took me so long to get around to reading it.


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## (contact)

Heya, Rackhir!  



			
				GoodKingJayIII said:
			
		

> I have to confess, I'm a little confused about the player setup.  At one point I thought it was just you and your DM switching off and playing 2-4 characters at a time.  Do you have a more traditional gaming group now, or is/was it still just the two of you running through the stories?




The story has been over for 4 years.  This latest post is me picking back up my notes and taking a stab at finishing it up, in a sort of anticipation of reincarnating these characters for 4e.

It was a 2-person game, with Thelbar's player (Chris) and I alternating DMing roles until about the time when the PCs go into the Underdark and get involved with the drow city.  My last adventure in this storyline was when the players had to go rescue Elminster and Khelben.

When you see Gorquen make an appearance, it means Chris' wife Angie sat in for a story-line.  She and he also ran one-on-one adventures that are summarized in this narrative when Gorquen updates the group on her doings.  Gorquen did most of the elven-pantheon storylines, with Taran and Thelbar dealing with (coughpissingoffcough) the Faerunian Pantheon.


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## Joshua Randall

Well well well... I venture into the Story Hour for the first time in weeks, and find a very pleasant surprise!



			
				(contact) said:
			
		

> In the dim and misty 2nd edition past, Orcus (you might have heard of him; fat, hairy and evil.  No, Joshua, not Ron Jeremy)



 Now why would you caution *me* against thinking of something like that? Like I'm some sort of sex-and-violence obsessed pervert who...

[long pause]

Dag nabbit! *shakes fist in impotent rage*



			
				Villanelle said:
			
		

> Love it. I've got a baker's dozen reasons why I married you. Your storyhours are just icing on the ck-ake. You rock.



And what's this? (contact)'s better half is now posting? *And* named herself after a specific form of poetry?

Interesting... Exciting!


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## GoodKingJayIII

(contact) said:
			
		

> It was a 2-person game, with Thelbar's player (Chris) and I alternating DMing roles until about the time when the PCs go into the Underdark and get involved with the drow city.  My last adventure in this storyline was when the players had to go rescue Elminster and Khelben.
> 
> When you see Gorquen make an appearance, it means Chris' wife Angie sat in for a story-line.  She and he also ran one-on-one adventures that are summarized in this narrative when Gorquen updates the group on her doings.  Gorquen did most of the elven-pantheon storylines, with Taran and Thelbar dealing with (coughpissingoffcough) the Faerunian Pantheon.




Cool.  Well, can't wait to read the rest!


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